Are You Still There (14 page)

They're gone for less than ten minutes. When they sit back down, I dare to look up. Mom's lips have disappeared. I think she's swallowed them. Apparently she will not be the one talking. I shift my focus to Dad.

“Gabi,” he starts out, stern but quiet. “Your mother and I agree that you're a good kid. All honors and AP classes, all A's, volunteer obligations several days a week. We understand that you will make mistakes from time to time. And that you
will
learn from them.” Big emphasis on “will.” “You
have
learned from this mistake, haven't you?”

I nod rapidly, trying not to look as eager as I feel.

“And you won't be making the same mistake again, will you?”

Quick shift to head shaking.

“Okay, then. Grounded for two weeks, except for your volunteer obligations.”

Mom looks like she's trying to hold in a flood of words. I hightail it up to my room before the flood has a chance to break loose.

Chloe is waiting on my bed, wide spanking awake. Wired, in fact. Grinning from ear to ear like a freaking Cheshire cat.

“Welcome,” she greets me, spreading her arms wide.

“God, Chloe, I'm not in the mood. I almost just got both our butts shipped off to private school.”

“Welcome,” she says again, smirking, like she's been planning her comeback for hours, “to the club.”

“What club?”

“Teenagehood. You are now officially a real teenager. You had your first ‘We are disappointed in you' lecture.”

“It sucked.” I sink down on the bed next to her.

“They generally do,” she agrees. “Still,
I'm
proud of you.”

“Well, that makes one of us.” I slip off my shoes.

“Oh, come on. You can't tell me you aren't just a tiny bit proud. Did you get drunk?”

“No.” I rub my feet.

“Smoke weed?”

“God, Chloe. No.”

“Stick your tongue down some guy's throat?”

“No.” Well, yes, but I'm not ready to tell her about Miguel. And I may never have a chance to stick my tongue down his throat again.

“Down some girl's throat?”

“No!”
Now I am getting irritated. It's late. I'm tired. “You're having way too much fun with this. But I'm exhausted. I'm not used to being a delinquent. I'm going to bed.”

“Okay, fine. But first tell me what you did.”

“Just went to a party.”

“That's it?” She sounds disappointed.

“A party that got broken up by the cops.”

“Oh.” She still sounds disappointed.

“Come on, Chloe. You haven't done much worse yourself.” I almost smile. Wouldn't Mom be proud? Here we are competing against each other. I think she'd always hoped we'd compete over grades or looks or anything really. Instead, Chloe opted out of the competition. Forged her own mold. Now we're competing over who's more of a rebel.

“I haven't been
caught
doing much worse. That doesn't mean I haven't
done
worse.”

I consider her. This is the sister-to-sister connection we need. Finally I can talk to her about how she's really doing, only I'm not sure where to start. I pull my legs in toward myself and shift to face her. “Don't tell me you're smoking weed.”

“I tried it.”

“Chloe …” I sigh. She's so sassy that it's hard to read her true feelings. “You're too much. You're not on the brink of some kind of hormonal teenage breakdown, are you?” I pause. “Are you okay?”

She smirks. “We covered this already. I'm not just okay, I'm
fine
. Fine boobs, fine ass, fine—”

And then I feel the need to shut her up. So I tell her, “Well, I got escorted home in a cop car.”

“Really?” Her face lights up like I just bought her a bag of clothes from Hot Topic.

“Really. And I did kiss a hot guy. In front of about thirty people.”

“No
way!
Maybe we have more in common than I thought!”

And then I decide I am just a teeny, tiny bit proud. And a whole hell-of-a-lot confused.

I am dead asleep when my cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. At first I'm not sure whether it's real or a part of my dream. I try to wake up, and it feels like I'm pulling myself through water.

My eyes are bleary but I recognize the number right away. Janae. I pick up the phone to read her text.
Wonder when Garth will check pockets and find bra?

I don't have the energy to think about this, even though I know she's trying to cheer me up.
What if his mom finds it? In hamper?

She texts back right away.
LOL.
Then a few minutes later she texts again.
You okay?

I respond.
Been better.

The phone buzzes again, and I expect to see Janae's number. But it's Miguel.
I'm sorry.
The text reads.
Lo siento.

I don't text back, even though my fingers are itching to reach for the keys. Instead I lie there in the dark with my comforter wrapped around me like a cocoon, feeling the tightness in my throat that means I want to cry, but somehow I can't.

And then I get pissed. Royally pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? He probably broke Eric's nose. I don't even really know him. Who knows what else he's done. What else he
could
do.

I'm an idiot
. Blinded by him because he's a good kisser? I mean, come
on
. Am I really that stupid? It's over. I should've known this wouldn't last. I should've known better than to let myself get sucked into high school drama.
Sheesh
. I pull the comforter over my head and hate my life.

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 13

Ever been to a party?

A high school rager? A kegger?

It shouldn't surprise you that

I don't get invited formally.

My only invitation is

The pounding of the bass from down the street,

The smell of beer and puke in the air.

Sometimes I go anyway

To try to pretend I fit in.

I time my arrival for after

People are sufficiently drunk,

Plastered enough to think I belong.

And before the

Wailing of police sirens

Breaks the whole thing up.

Crazy things happen at parties.

The regular rules of the world

Don't apply.

21

When I get home from clinic the next night, Mom is grating squash for some kind of casserole. I can tell she's pissed by the rate of her grating. I know this because I stood outside the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to get the guts to walk in. The grating was slow, tired.
Grate … grate … grate
. Like that. But now I'm in the kitchen, avoiding eye contact, opening the fridge to study its contents. And she's grating faster, probably because she knows I'm there and she has a zillion things she'd like to say, but she won't break down and say them.
Grate-grate-grate-grate-grate
.

I grab something so she doesn't bark at me for standing there with the fridge door open, wasting energy.
We all have to do our part to be green, don't we, Gabi?
she'll say. I shut the door and sit at our distressed kitchen table, feeling more than a little distressed myself. I open the blueberry container and eat one at a time, wishing I'd picked something else. They've been in the fridge for a few days and the skin is soft, so when they burst in my mouth it's a slow, leaky kind of thing instead of a strong, big burst like it's supposed to be. I chew slowly. I think antioxidants.

Mom's back is turned, hunched a little, although she's always after us to stand up straight.

“I really am sorry about last night, Mom,” I say. “I messed up.”

Now the grating is supercharged.
GrateGrateGrateGrateGrate
.

“People are allowed to make mistakes, Mom. That's part of growing up, isn't it?”

When she spins toward me, I automatically shrink back, like she's gonna throw the grater at me or something, although she's never done such a thing and I doubt she ever would. What I see etched in her face surprises me. It is not anger and disappointment, like I'd thought it would be. It's something else. Sadness maybe. Regret?

“Someday, when you're a parent, you'll understand,” she says. She sets the grater on the kitchen table too hard, and little flakes of grated squash rain down. Her tone hardens. “You're just like any other teenager, Gabi. You'll think you're invincible until you find out you're not.”

“God, Mom. You act like I'm going to run out and do something irreversible or something. I'm a pretty good kid. Nothing I do is going to be irreversible.”

“Nobody ever thinks it will be. That's the whole untouchable fallacy of youth.”

Whatever. “Look. I'm sorry, Mom. I'll be more careful, okay?”

Suddenly her hand is gripping my wrist. Hard. “You are the only Gabi I have. I've centered my whole life around you two. Given up the things I wanted for me.”

No one asked you to
, I want to whisper.
We're big now
—
you can go back to school. Or back to work
. But I don't say a word.

“You better be careful. The world is full of invisible booby traps.”

I want to laugh at the word “booby.” It sounds so foreign coming from her mouth. I don't though. Not even a giggle.

I get seventy-three texts today. All with the words,
I'm sorry
. I don't answer a single one.

“He hasn't said anything about the bra.” Janae whispers to me the next day at lunch. “Not a word. Maybe they just found it in the wash and thought it was his sister's.”

“Possibly,” I tell her, focusing on peeling my orange and specifically trying not to look toward where I know Miguel is sitting. The lunchroom feels like a battlefield with land mines everywhere. I don't want to accidentally make eye contact with bruised-up Eric either. Although I rarely see him in the cafeteria. He's probably one of those guys who eats lunch in the debate room. Maybe Beth's eating there too. She's clearly avoiding me. Except for in class, when she keeps her nose in a book, I haven't seen her at all. Life is getting complicated.

“But what a waste!” Janae complains. “That had the potential to be one of the best pranks I've ever pulled.” She grabs my hands, orange and all, and turns me toward her. “Plus that was an expensive bra!”

I nod blankly.

“Oh, come on, Gabi! Snap out of it.” She waves her hand in front of my eyes. “Just go talk to Miguel.”

I shake my head.

“You're being a total bitch. No offense.” She takes the orange out of my hands and sets it on the table. “So he screwed up. Aren't you the one who told me that we're
all
screwed up?”

I nod again, but she's not convincing me.

“So Miguel's got a temper. So he's a fighter. You got to be if you grow up in the barrio. But he was defending you, right? What did you want him to do, let some guy attack you and just stand there like a lump? I'm telling you this as a friend, so hear it. Get over yourself, or you're gonna miss out.”

“I think we might be too different,” I tell Janae. “We come from totally different worlds.”

“Opposites attract.” Janae picks the orange back up and breaks it into pieces for me. “Besides, look at him. He's pining over you.” I glance up and see him, all puppy-dogish, and then I look back down. “You've got to share a shift with him anyway. Have you thought of that?”

“You'll come with me, won't you?” I ask.

“I'm probably enabling, but what the hell. Yes, I'll go with you.” She sighs, like I'm impossible. “Here, eat this orange. You've got to keep up your strength.”

We dump our stuff in the trash and head out of the cafeteria, only to come face-to-face with our school mascot, the statue of a bare-chested warrior, wearing a lacy white bra. Janae's bra.

Janae squeals and hugs me. Despite my mood, I can't help but laugh.

22

Every time I see Eric, he pretends the night at the party never happened.

At first I think he doesn't remember. That the whole thing was one big, drunken blur.

That he doesn't know how his nose got bloodied and his face bruised.

But he doesn't ask me to study anymore.

He doesn't stand next to my desk and offer me tips.

And he doesn't look me in the eye.

Ever.

“Helpline, this is Torrie.” I'm experimenting with new aliases. I glance at Miguel to see what he thinks, but he keeps reading his magazine. After a total of 233
I'm sorry
texts, he stopped trying. Suddenly there's this coolness about him, like there's some kind of on-off button to his heart, and all he had to do was flip the switch to disengage from me forever. Now I am rethinking my decision not to respond to any of his texts.

My thoughts are flying so it takes me a while to realize no one is talking. I say again, “Helpline, this is …” I forget my pseudonym. Janae leaps over to the pad of paper and writes
Torrie
with an exclamation point. I've got to start writing my name down when I say it. “This is Torrie.”

Silence on the other end.

I have less patience than I used to. In my six weeks on the Line, I've had my share of crank callers. “Hello? Anyone there?” I am just about to hang up, when I hear something that stops me. Sounds like sniffling.

“Sorry. I'm here.” The voice is soft.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“What does it matter?” I recognize her voice. I probably have a class with her. I hope she doesn't recognize mine.

“It matters,” I insist, even though I know how hokey that sounds.

“That's a load of crap. Nothing matters, but some people matter even less than others. I am one of those special someones who doesn't matter to anyone.” There's sarcasm there in an ugly kind of way.