Bounce (7 page)

We've been parent-free for five days now, and the house looks like a war zone. There are clothes and pizza boxes and crusty dishes everywhere, and even Thalia has given up trying to clean.

At breakfast, one of the sweater twins opens a Cheerios box, and all that's left is dust.

“Thanks a lot, you guys,” she says.

The other one shrugs. “You snooze, you lose.”

“Shut up, Cassi. What am I supposed to eat now?”

“I'll make you some toast if you want,” Thalia says, opening the fridge. “Oh. We're out of bread.”

“Great. That's just great.”

Phoebe holds up a spoon, dripping milk everywhere. “Want some? I'll share.”

“Yeah. I really want your backwash for breakfast.”

“Don't be a pita, Clio. It's not Phoebe's fault.”

There it is again, that word. The sweater twins know everything. I bet if they were in my class they would fit right in at Andrea's table.

“Shut up, Cassi.”

Oh, they are so obnoxious, and one of these days I'm going to tell them off, but not today. Today I need them.

“Did you guys ever go to one of those social things?” I ask.

“Oh my God,” they say. “Remember
socials
?”

Like they were in eighth grade twenty years ago.

“Is it tonight? What's the theme? Who are you going with? Are you crushing on anyone? What are you
wearing
?”

“I don't know,” I say. “If you have any…um…fashion advice, I'd be open to—”

The sweater twins look at each other and flip out. “Makeover? Makeover? Makeover!”

“Well,” I say. “If you want.”

The school day crawls by. A girl named Clara Bing is my math partner. Clara Bing is short and has allergies like you wouldn't believe. On the rare day that she can breathe through her nose, she sounds like a train whistle. And her eyes are always watering. I know for a fact that the It Girls call her “Sneezy Dwarf” behind her back.

“Do you remember how to convert this?” she asks in her froggy voice. “I always forget what to divide by.”

“Me, too,” I say. “I stink at math.”

She wipes her nose with a tissue and smiles. “Me, too.”

After a while I say, “Are you going to the social tonight?”

She shakes her head. “I don't go to those things.”

“Why not?”

“I just don't.”

“Why?” I keep on her. “Did you ever go to one?”

“Once. Last year. It was like…I don't know. All the guys
on one side of the room, all the girls on the other. Nobody really dancing, except for slow songs when it's like
couples only.
It just wasn't that fun.”

“Oh,” I say. “I see.”

And I do. Clara Bing is not the kind of girl who gets asked to dance. She doesn't know what it's like to have your stomach pressed up against someone else's. Or to smell his smell. Or to feel his hand, warm against your back. She doesn't know what she's missing.

“If you want,” she says now, “you can come to my house tonight.”

I look at her. “Why?”

“Every Friday, we rotate. Tonight's my night to have the girls over. The Four-Foot-Two Crew.” She smiles. “Because, you know, we're all short? Anyway, we watch movies. Eat crap. Engage in actual dance moves. If you want to come…”

“Oh.”

I picture a room full of midgets with watery eyes.

“No,” I say. “Thanks. I'm going to the social.”

Clara Bing nods and pulls out another tissue. “Okay. Well, the offer stands.”

“Sure.”

When the bell rings, she says, “Have fun tonight, Evyn.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You, too.”

Makeover? Makeover? Makeover!

I barely recognize myself. I have on two colors of eye
shadow. I'm wearing leather pants. I don't know what kind of goop they put in my hair, but it actually looks good for once—like something out of a magazine.
Punky,
Clio called it. They covered up my bruises and made my nose look halfway normal. And I have on Stella's necklace, for luck. So, although I'm not getting my hopes up, I have to say it. Tonight I feel the tiniest bit like Cinderella.

Even Cleanser Boy notices. “Hey,” he says on our way to the car. “You clean up nice.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You, too.”

He does. In a preppy, jock-boy sort of way. But whatever he put on for cologne is horrifying. Especially in an enclosed space. As soon as we get in the car, I open my window.

Thalia is driving. She is in full substitute-parent form—tossing out little public service announcements the entire ride.

Remember, kids, you don't have to be high to have a high old time. And Cigarettes won't make you look any cooler.

Ajax laughs. “Our teachers are going. You really think they'll be serving up martinis and matches?”

“I was in eighth grade once,” Thalia says. “I know what happens at these things. I just don't want you to do anything stupid.”

She looks at us in the rearview mirror. “Got it?”

Ajax raises one fist in the air. “Take a Stand for a Drug-Free Land.”

I place a hand over my heart. “Count on Me to Be Drug-Free.”

“Good,” Thalia says. She pulls up to the curb and says she'll be back to get us at ten.

Ajax lets out a groan. “Ten? Come on. It ends at eleven.”

Thalia turns around and smiles. “Sisters: The Anti-Drug.”

The Thorne School for Boys looks exactly like the March School for Girls. Only the smell is different, like mayonnaise and feet.

About fifty people are gathered in the gym, and I can see that Clara Bing was right. Nobody's dancing. All the girls are standing in little clumps against one wall, whispering to one another, while the boys are on the other side, stuffing chips into their mouths.

One look around and you can tell the decorating committee didn't exactly break a sweat. There aren't any streamers or balloons or anything, just a couple of lame signs.

THORNE FALL SOCIAL: PLAY THE ARCADE, DRINK LEMONADE.

HEY MARCH GIRLS, DANCE YOUR SOCKS OFF, BRING YOUR XBOX.

Xbox.

A video-game theme. This is how they impress us.

Mackey would be thrilled.

In the bathroom, Andrea is surrounded by the usual
headbands. But there seems to be a new fashion trend tonight: braids. Also, tennis dresses.

They're all staring at themselves in the mirror. When they put on mascara, their mouths make little pink O's of concentration.

Andrea sees me. “Hi, Evelyn,” she says, but she doesn't turn away from her reflection.

“Hi,” I say.

“Is Ajax here?”

“Yeah.” My tongue feels like sandpaper.

“In the gym?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.” Andrea smoothes on some lip gloss and smacks her lips together. She hands her purse to a girl in a pink tennis dress and spins around. “Ladies?”

She says this and everyone snaps to attention. She walks out the door and everyone follows.

By the time we get to the gym, music is blaring. But still no one is dancing.

The boys have migrated from the snack table to the “arcade” at the far end of the gym. It is a sad sight—only three games, and one of them is pinball.

On the bleachers, most of the boys are playing handhelds by themselves, which they could be doing in their own living rooms. I notice that Ajax isn't playing anything. He's standing
in center court with a bunch of other eighth-grade boys, doing what they do best: stealing one another's hats, punching one another's shoulders, burping. I watch them for a while, sickly fascinated. They can't stop moving for a second. They have to be hitting one another, or dodging out of the way, or grabbing their crotches at all times.

One of them has his hands down his pants at this very moment, making
adjustments.

Eighth-grade boys are gross. It's a wonder girls want anything to do with them.

Was Linus like this when he was their age? I can't imagine it. He's so much cooler than they are. Not to mention more civilized and a better dresser. He's someone who understands not to use an entire bottle of cologne in one sitting.

Next to Linus, these guys are babies. I can't believe I wasted my makeover on them.

Over by the DJ booth, Andrea and her friends are crowded around, and I know exactly what they're requesting.

Can you, like, play something slow?

And the DJ nods and fiddles with his headphones and presses a few buttons, and something slow and cheesy comes on and every air molecule in the gym shifts.

You don't just feel the energy mutation; you can see it.

Slow song…

One by one, the boys put down their video games.

Slow song…

They remove their fingers from their noses and wipe them on their jeans and begin the painful shuffle across the gym floor to where the girls are waiting.

I don't know if anyone's planning to ask me to dance, and I don't care. Right now I have bigger things to worry about. Like which girl Cleanser Boy is walking toward.

I can't look.

I make a beeline for the pinball machine, which has been deserted.

I yank the spring loader and watch as my little silver ball flies up the chute.

Whizzzz!

I don't see Ajax walk over to a clump of girls.

Ping!

A clump of girls who are definitely not wearing tennis dresses.

Ping! Ping!

Or braids.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

I don't see him stop in front of Maya Glassman, who is on the soccer team and pretty—in a freckly, girl-next-door sort of way—but definitely not in Andrea's league.

Ping! Ping! Pingpingping!

My ball bounces around like crazy, and I am flipping the little flippers, trying desperately to keep it from falling into the ditch. So I don't see Ajax lead Maya out onto the dance floor and put his hands on her shoulders and steer her around in the slow box that seems to be the signature dance move of all eighth-grade boys.

Pingpingpingpingping!…Pingpingpingpingping!

Ten thousand points! Bonus round!

For the first time ever, I understand why Mackey is addicted
to video games. Even though pinball isn't exactly a video game, and there aren't any dragons involved, I get it.

As long as you're playing, you can pretend that whatever's going on in the world around you…isn't.

I'm in the hall, getting a drink at the water fountain, when I find out what happened on the dance floor.

“Maya
Glassman?
What the hell? She's not even hot.” The voice is Andrea's. There's no mistaking it.

I am frozen in place, water dripping down my chin, while the It Girls around the corner get louder.

“You're way hotter than Maya
Glassman,
Drey.”

“Way hotter.”

“Way.”

“I can't believe he slipped her the
tongue.
”

“Right there in front of, like, the entire
universe.
”

“That lying little wench.”

Andrea again. And this time I know she's not talking about Maya Glassman.

Let the slaughter begin.

On a bench outside the Thorne School, I call Jules.

One thing I can be thankful for tonight: Thalia gave us a cell phone,
for emergencies.

Well, this is an emergency.

“Mrs. Anthony?” I say. “It's Evyn.”

“Evyn Linney. What a nice surprise. We miss you, sweetheart. How's everything? How's Boston?”

Normally, I would take the time to chitchat. But tonight is not normal. Tonight, I need my best friend.

“It's okay. Can I talk to Jules?”

“Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. She's not home. She's at a party.”

“A party?”

“Mmmhmm. At Jordan Meyerhoff's house. You remember Jordan. From the football team?”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Mrs. Anthony makes a cooing noise. “Such a handsome young man. And so polite. He seems to have taken quite a shine to Julia…”

I think about telling her the truth about Jordan Meyerhoff—that he's the biggest tool in the toolshed, and she'd better go pick up her daughter right now, before something bad happens.

But somehow I don't have the energy. Somehow, all I want to do is collapse on this bench and cry.

Stella? It's me, Evyn.

Did you hear what they were saying about me? Do you know what they're going to do to me?

Now the tears are flowing.

Oh, honey,
Stella says.
Don't cry.

For the first time ever, I get mad at her.
That's all you can
come up with? “Don't cry”? That's the best you can do? You can't do any better than that? Thanks, Stella. Thanks a whole lot.

Stella shakes her head.
You can't let those girls get to you.

Right,
I say.

She ignores my sarcasm and keeps going.
Whatever they call you, just tell yourself, “I'm rubber, you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”

I stare at her.
What is this, first grade?

Stella smiles.
Hey, it works.

Right.

Let's try one,
she says.
Call me something.

What?

Call me something. Something mean.

I roll my eyes.

Humor me, honey.

Fine,
I say.
You're a horrible mother.

Again, she smiles.
Bounce!

Your advice is for crap.

She smiles wider.
Bounce!

And I'm glad you're up there instead of down here because if you were here I would hate you…I DO hate you.

Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!…See?
Stella says.
Not a dent.

She looks down at me, and her eyes are warm and soft, even though the things I said to her were beyond harsh.