Chasing Boys (2 page)

Of course, none of this makes sense to anyone else, so I just grunt like I agree.

“Best-case movie scenario?” asks Margot, sitting next to me.

This is one of our favorite games. Margot is convinced there is a movie scenario that fits every aspect of our lives.

We shuffle through the possibilities. I end up choosing
The Breakfast Club
, a favorite of Mom’s. The story is about five high school students who meet one Saturday for detention. “A day that will change their lives forever.”

“So you and Eric will hook up in detention one day, and he will finally see what he’s been missing out on all this time . . . and he’s gonna dump Angelique for you?” says Margot.

“Of course.”

“I see a major problem with this plot.”

“You do?”

“Eric Callahan will never get detention,” Margot says. “So you’re gonna have to find a different movie.”

“That’s all I’ve got,” I say.

“Maybe you could get Eric to tutor you in math?” suggests Margot.

“We can’t afford it,” I say. “Besides, I don’t want him knowing how stupid I am.”

Margot gives me a little push. “You are stupid, El Marini. Stupid for wasting your time. You spend your whole life dreaming. Maybe you should wake up.”

Margot’s tough love is not what I need right now, so I pick up a book.

Muted laughter rings out from the glassed-in meeting room.

“Maybe you should talk to Leonard about this?” says Margot, more gently.

I snort. Margot knows everything about me. Sometimes I wish she didn’t.

7.

L
eonard is a person I don’t talk to once a week.

I see Leonard once a week because of my father. My sister, Bella, says I have issues, but I don’t think so. I just hate my father. Bella says Leonard’s technically not a shrink, just some kind of “ologist,” as if that makes a difference.

I spend my time in Leonard’s office not talking to Leonard.

“Hello, Ariel,” he begins.

When I don’t answer, he writes down a few sentences in his notebook, then he spends the rest of the time sitting, looking out the window. I wonder what he’s written, what he could write—
Ariel Marini, still not talking
.

Leonard lives in a part of town that used to be rich. All the two-story row houses look tired and dirty. The things that made them beautiful are falling off, or fading, or have gone. The street is narrow, built in a time where they could never have imagined the number of cars that would clog up the landscape.

It is the strangest thing, not talking to Leonard. Most of the time it is nearly peaceful. But sometimes he does something really stupid, and I just want to be at home under my comforter.

Two weeks ago, Leonard stopped looking out the window and leaned forward in his chair. “How do you feel, Ariel?” he asked.

How do I feel?

I’ll tell you how I feel, Leonard.

I feel angry.

I feel hurt.

How do I feel?

I feel like someone has zipped me open and grabbed out my heart and said, Well you won’t need that anymore.

I feel like I can’t feel anymore. Like I’m walking and talking and sometimes even laughing, but inside I’m still and watching to see if I’m fooling anyone. Like I’m shoving food down my throat, but there’s no taste. Like I’m screaming, but there is no sound.

Of course I didn’t tell Leonard this. I just leaned forward and looked deep into his eyes.

“So, tell me, Leonard,” I said. “How do you feel?”

He called Mom that night to say that we’d made progress. What a faker.

I pretend going to Leonard’s is a game. I’m making up the rules as I go along. I am only seeing Leonard for now because Mom’s been grouchy lately and this keeps her happy.

“Hello, Ariel,” Leonard repeats.

I give him a short nod. Then I bang my school backpack—the one that Desi has graffitied all over with the name of our favorite band, Scheme—on the floor. Mom had freaked when she saw my schoolbag covered in writing. She didn’t understand when I explained that Desi was just expressing herself.

“Maybe she could express herself on her own bag” was Mom’s reply. “That bag cost me fifty dollars.”

But I like my bag. Scheme is awesome. They can be really loud and crazy, but their lyrics are amazing. They really get to where you live. I look down at my bag and wonder if I could sneak my earbuds in while Leonard isn’t looking, but figure I can’t.

I flop down on my seat near the window and sigh.

Leonard’s office is opposite a park. Through the window, the trees wave their little leaves at me but I don’t wave back. The best thing about Leonard’s office is the view of the trees. I love the way they are there. Whether I visit Leonard or not, the trees are there. They were there before I knew them, and they’ll be there long after I stop seeing Leonard.

The heat purrs through an open vent. It’s hypnotic. For a moment I imagine it’s gas seeping into the room. Any moment now I will sink to the ground, never to wake again . . .

I should be so lucky.

Leonard sits opposite me, smoothing his pants and crossing his ankles. Then he clears his throat in a way that always drives me crazy. It’s like he’s just about to say something, but he never does.

Can I go home now?

I don’t say this out loud, because I don’t want to start talking to Leonard. Once I start talking, he’ll start asking questions. I’ve seen it before in the movies. One minute the doc is asking you about the weather, the next he’s asking you why you hate your father.

I pull my cell phone out and check the time. I have been here three minutes and forty-eight seconds.

I must really love my mother.

8.

M
y dream has just come true.

9.

E
ric Callahan has ended up in detention. Just three days after Eric and Angelique became the school’s hottest couple, Eric was caught cheating in the half-year math exam. The half-year math exam is where ninety students get to sit together in the gym and worry about what will become of the rest of their lives.

Of course, it was a mistake. Eric is good at math. It’s just that Desi, who had been advised for the past four months that she could take a cheat sheet into her math exam, blew it. She’d taken the wrong page with her.

Desi was sitting, silently crying in the exam, her tears smudging the ink on her wrong cheat sheet (a page of scribbles she’d been working on just before the exam to figure out how much allowance she’d get over the next two years), when Eric handed her his sheet. Ms. Clooney caught him and sent him out of the room, along with Desi.

That’s where my “knight in shining armor syndrome” (Margot’s words, not mine) kicked in.

When Eric and Desi were kicked out of the math exam, I stood up and tried to explain the situation to Loony. (“Ms. Clooney” rhymes with “loony.” It’s such an obvious link that only the seventh graders call her this. Sometimes I resort to this because I never got to use it back then. Regis had its own special teachers.)

She told me to sit down and finish my exam. I kept standing and tried again. Then she offered me a chance to explain in detention the next day. Did I mention that Ms. Clooney was on my case? She was always going on about me not “achieving my fullest potential,” so I’m sure I made her day.

That’s how I ended up in the coffin room for detention with Eric Callahan.

It’s called the coffin room because it has no windows—none that you can see through. At some point someone slapped chalky white paint over the glass. Apparently they used to show movies here, before our super-expensive (joke) school auditorium was built. Now it is just the coffin room—a dead end.

I’m sure Mom would be Very Disappointed if she found out I was in detention. Luckily there was no need for her to know. If there were a subject called Forgery One, I’d get an A.

Desi and I go to detention early, just to get a good seat. Also, I hate being late. Each desk has only one chair, so Desi takes the desk closest to me on my right.

My daydream about Eric is that it will be just like
The Breakfast Club
. Eric and I will spend an amazing long lunchtime in detention, where we’ll get to know each other. Angelique is history.

Then Ms. Clooney walks in with a clipboard and a stack of folders and the daydream evaporates. She nods in my direction and sits at the desk at the front. A couple of other people shuffle in and sit down. Eric comes in and takes a seat by a white-painted window. He looks pretty relaxed. I peek at him from under my bangs, but he doesn’t notice me.

Ms. Clooney takes attendance and notes that someone called Dylan is missing. I’m just wondering who this Dylan person is when a guy turns up, looks around, then heads to the back of the room.

“Up at the front please, Dylan,” says Ms. Clooney. She sounds like she’s just invited him over for coffee, but there is an edge to her voice that means business. She points to the desk next to mine.

Dylan slumps in the seat and glances at me. I realize he’s the newest new guy at school and I give him my catatonic stare—the one I use when I want the other person to look away. It’s usually pretty effective. He has a thin white scar, almost invisible, that travels from his bottom lip and disappears under his chin, and just for a moment I wonder how it got there. His lips curl into a sneer and I look straight ahead.

“Okay, everyone seems to be here,” says Ms. Clooney. “Welcome to detention. I’m your hostess for this trip. There are no emergency exits. You will write me a five-hundred-word essay on a subject of your choice and hand it to me by the end of detention.”

There are groans all around. Ms. Clooney is hilarious. She is a dried-up husk of a woman who hates her job and doesn’t care if everyone knows. I wonder if she has ever laughed in her life.

“If you like, I can make that a thousand words.”

Then she gets a tiny dark-haired girl to hand out paper. Most people have brought their pencils, but Dylan has nothing to write with. He stares at the blank paper until Ms. Clooney asks people without writing instruments—her words not mine—to get a pen.

Dylan strolls to the front desk and takes his time choosing a pen. Then he strolls back.

Desi gets straight to it. She writes like it’s a race and she wants to be first over the finish line.

On my left, Dylan is balancing the pen on his index finger. I know his type. Bored. Macho. Thick. He looks at me like he’s just read my mind and I hunch over my paper. But I don’t write. I can’t think of anything to write about.

I look over at Eric. His pen flows evenly over the paper and a lock of hair falls down over one eye.

My heart does its little Eric-melting thing.

Ms. Clooney is at the front, marking papers. A chair scrapes across the floor and it sounds like a fart. Someone snorts with amusement. Kids in the tiny yard outside our window are shouting and laughing. The clacking of high heels disappears down the hall. A door slams with a hollow thud. Someone calls out for Em, Em, to get back here.

I make a few doodles on the page, then write a heading—“My Vacation.” I cross it out. Then I write, “An Injustice” and start to explain the injustice of Eric, Desi, and myself being in detention. I count my explanation and it only adds up to 167 words. With ten minutes of detention still left, Desi gets up and marches over to Ms. Clooney. She slaps the paper down in front of the teacher, then moves back to grab her coat. As she makes for the door, Ms. Clooney says, “Where are you going, Desiree?”

Desi points to her essay.

“I’ve finished,” she says.

“Really?” Ms. Clooney scans the page in front of her while Desi shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “This is excellent,” says Ms. Clooney.

This is not good.

“Excellent? Really?” echoes Desi.

This is one of Ms. Clooney’s favorite games. I’m surprised that Desi doesn’t recognize it. I call it the cat-and-mouse game.

Ms. Clooney is the cat. She raises her paw and Desi is surprised at her freedom. But Desi’s freedom is an illusion.

I clear my throat loudly and raise my hand to distract the cat, but Ms. Clooney ignores me.

“Yes. It’s a perfect description of last night’s movie,” continues Ms. Clooney. “I’m sorry, Desiree. I thought you understood. This is to be your own work.” Then Ms. Clooney rips the page in half and throws both pieces into the garbage can next to her. You can tell she enjoys it.

My hand wavers in the air, then sinks like a slowly deflating balloon.

Desi stands in front of Ms. Clooney’s desk with her coat. She still doesn’t get it. She looks at Ms. Clooney, who has gone back to marking papers. Dylan continues to balance his pencil. Desi looks desperately at me. I jerk my head to the right, back toward her desk. Her shoulders droop slowly as understanding clicks in. She shuffles back. I hand her a spare piece of paper and she sits and doodles.

I can’t get my injustice explanation to pad out to 500 words. It only takes a few paragraphs. That’s the trouble with the world’s injustices. They aren’t that difficult to explain.

I decide to write a story instead. Each time I start, I cross it out. There is really no such thing as a new story. Finally the end-of-lunch bell rings and Ms. Clooney asks us to hand in our essays. Most students, including Eric, hand her something and leave. Eric passes Dylan’s desk and they raise fists and knock knuckles.

“Hey,” says Dylan.

“Hey,” says Eric.

Eric gives me his Eric smile as he strolls out the door. I know he uses it on all the girls, but I can’t keep my heart from tripping over itself.

Eric Callahan has noticed me. I must still be alive.

Eric probably has no idea he’s the reason I’m here. I realize I’m staring at him and turn to find Dylan watching me watching Eric. I make a big deal about packing up my bag so I don’t have to look at him.

There are only three people left who don’t hand anything in. Dylan, Desi, and I are left without 500 words to show between us.

“Well,” says Ms. Clooney, gathering her things together, “looks like I’ll be seeing you three tomorrow. Same time. Same room.”

She leaves and Dylan snorts.