Chasing Boys (5 page)

Desi is still gushing about the movie, when I excuse myself and slip into the bathrooms just to get some breathing space. A couple of people are staring into the large mirror above the sinks, applying makeup or fussing with their hair. I squirt some liquid soap into my palm and start washing my hands.

“Oh, hi!”

I look to my right to see Angelique. She’s wearing her new blue top. She must have noticed me looking at it, because she picks at the fabric and says, “Eric likes it. I’m glad I chose the blue.”

I murmur something but wonder if she is happy she chose the blue top because she loves it or because Eric does.

“I’m Angelique,” she says, like it’s some incredible revelation.

“I know,” is all I say.

Then one of her friends joins her at the sink. As I slip away Angelique calls after me, “See ya.”

But I just keep going.

In the lobby, Desi is still talking and Margot is checking out the movie posters on the wall.

“Are we going to eat?” says Margot, interrupting Desi.

We make our way upstairs to the food court. I order my budget hot chocolate, Desi has ice cream, and Margot has a bowl of french fries, coffee, and a slice of mud cake. Between mouthfuls, Margot points out the inconsistencies with the movie’s plotline, the lead actor’s lack of talent, and the uninspiring music, which belonged more in a Disney movie than a suspense film.

I’m only half listening to her.

Two tables away is a group from school. This is the jock group—the ones who play sports on Friday nights. They must have had an early game.

In the center of the group, Angelique is laughing and leaning into Eric’s shoulder. He has that expression he often wears—the one that makes him look like he doesn’t know what’s going on.

And then I get a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I look around and finally locate the source. Dylan is staring at me from the snack bar. He has seen me watching the golden couple and he gives me a little salute. This is the second time he’s caught me watching Eric. I give Dylan my noncommittal stare, but I’m feeling a little sick at being caught. His artwork still sits like a dirty secret in my underwear drawer at home.

Desi grabs my arm and gives me a little shake.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look weird.”

Margot tilts her head back as Dylan approaches. He’s swapped the jeans he was wearing at school for a newer-looking pair. He doesn’t so much stop at our table as slide slowly past.

I sense Desi go into flirt mode as she sits up straighter in her seat and pushes her hair away from her neck.

“Hello, Ariel Ariel,” he says.

Then he disappears into the movie theater.

“Who was that?” demands Margot.

“Hmmm?” I’m carefully using my index finger to wipe out the hot chocolate froth in the bottom of my cup.

“That guy. That gorgeous guy.”

“He’s not gorgeous,” I snap.

“He’s in detention with El and me. And he’s in our geography class. His name’s Dylan. Dylan Shepherd,” says Desi.

“So what’s his story?” asks Margot.

“Story? I don’t really know him. Hey, does anyone else want another drink?” I ask.

“And now El and Dylan have to work together for the geography field trip project.”

“And Sarah,” I add quickly.

“I think he’s interested in El—,” says Desi.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just because he wasn’t interested in you, doesn’t mean he’s interested in me.”

“Ouch! That’s a bit low, El,” says Margot.

“Well I think he’s hot,” says Desi, tapping her fingernails on the tabletop.

“If he’s so hot, what’s he doing going to the movies by himself?” I demand.

“Maybe he’s meeting someone inside?” says Margot.

“Psh.” The thought of someone waiting for Dylan, the thought of someone sitting next to Dylan in the dark, possibly holding his hand, makes me want to laugh wildly. In fact, I feel quite hysterical.

“You’re so grouchy lately, El. You’re just going to have to get over the fact that Eric isn’t your property anymore. In fact, he never was,” says Margot.

Eric? I thought we were talking about Dylan.

I try to stand up but I’m stuck on the bench seat behind the table.

“This has nothing to do with . . . you know who. You’re both ridiculous, getting excited about some dropout from another school who just happens to look good in jeans—”

Margot gives me a look that says I’m making a fool of myself.

“Is he a dropout?” she asks with an interested gleam in her eye.

Trust her to pick on something I made up.

“I never mentioned his jeans,” says Desi.

I pick up my bag.

“Did I mention his jeans?” repeats Desi.

“Drop dead,” I say to no one in particular as I finally get out from behind the table.

“Now, what movie does this remind you of?” I hear Margot ask Desi as I stumble down the food court stairs.

18.

M
om picks us up. On the drive home, Desi and Margot act like nothing has happened, but I spend my time in the front seat feeling stupid and annoyed.

Sometime during the night—make that early morning—my sister, Bella, stumbles into our room and falls into bed. She smells like grease and french fries from her job at the fried chicken place. Sometime later she starts to snore softly. By then I’m awake and thinking about the mess that is currently my life.

The sight of Dylan catching me watching Eric and Angelique is on an endless loop in my brain. I finally get up and push my sister onto her side to stop her snoring.

“Night night,” she mumbles.

I shove my feet into my fluffy slippers and go to the kitchen. In the fridge I find milk, moldy cheese, leftover green things, leftover brown things, and a chocolate bar wrapper—no chocolate. I tip the carton to my lips and let the cold milk trickle down my throat. The pink glow of the streetlight filters through the slats of the vertical blinds that are slightly open. It throws a barred pattern onto the spice rack wall.

The spice rack looks so huge here, yet it was just another kitchen thing in our Big, Big House. All the spices are in alphabetical order. I know this without looking. Just as I know that the books in Mom’s bedroom are in order by author. Her wardrobe is color-coded—blue clothes together, pinks, whites—but mostly there are dull grays and browns. These are the things she can control. She used to have a little cupboard just for her shoes, but she’s thrown out or given away most of them now. “Where would I wear them?” she answered when I asked why one day.

Mom spends her days making life better for “people in our community.” That’s how she describes her job. Sometimes I just wish she would spend time making our little community happier. I guess looking after Bella and me doesn’t pay the bills. It’s all about money. Mom likes to shop late at night to get the specials. I wonder if it’s also so she doesn’t meet up with anyone from our old life.

Outside, someone is kicking the mailboxes while they sing something that might be a song if it were in tune. The fridge motor starts up and joins in.

I sit on the counter and swing my legs, like I used to in our old house. The big house. The one with the Jacuzzi and the TV room. When we moved here, Mom said we were Downsizing. We’d gone from Big, Big House to Big House to apartment in three years.

You might think I’d hate living in a small apartment. But it’s not all bad. We aren’t going to be here long. Mom says this is a Minor Setback. I like that I can leave my bedroom door open and hear Mom breathing in her sleep in the next room. If I needed to get to her in the middle of the night it would only take ten big steps.

Not that I would.

I don’t like living so close to other people, though. People I don’t know. Don’t even want to know. Cat Lady next door is always trying to talk to me. The guy upstairs sings in the shower before the sun is even thinking of coming up. Sometimes there’s shouting, people racing up and down the stairs, people banging on doors late at night. I’m not used to so much noise.

Sometimes I wake at night and wonder where I am. The angles of the room are different. The ceiling is lower. There is a slight smell of mold underlying the smell of new carpet. Sometimes I wake to hear someone breathing near me and my heart races as I consider the possibilities. An intruder? A wild animal? Then I remember where I am. Sharing a room with Bella. Bella, who seems to have poured into this new life like liquid pours into a container. She has taken the shape of it without question.

Mom said we could paint our bedroom to brighten it up, but I wasn’t really interested. It’s just a room. We’re not going to be here for that long.

Most of the kids at school have divorced parents, or mixed families, or single mothers, single fathers, so my fractured life is no big deal to everyone else. But it’s a big deal to me. It’s a nightmare that started almost two years ago when Dad walked out the door one day.

My best friend in elementary school was Sasha. In first grade I heard a teacher say that Sasha came from a broken home. And I felt so sad. I could just see her home, broken in two. The word “broken”—how weird. Like someone was careless. I guess people are.

I haven’t talked to Dad since he left. Not much, anyway. The last time I did I said that I hated him, hated that he was the reason I had to move out of my home. Hated that since he’d left I’d lost the mother I used to know. That she’d been replaced by someone whose tired eyes creased at the edges like a crumpled envelope.

We never hug anymore.

The mailbox kicker is closer now. The song has changed to something less cheerful.

I ease myself slowly off the counter, put the milk in the fridge, and creep back to bed.

I listen for Mom’s steady breathing down the hallway.

I wonder how I ended up in this life.

19.

T
he good thing about Fridays is that the next two days are days without school. No detention. No Ms. Clooney. No stupid rules.

The bad thing about Fridays is that the next two days are days without school. Days without Eric.

My life is an out-of-date gift card.

20.

A
t Monday detention I hand my essay to Ms. Clooney. I’ve made sure it’s 520 words, just to be safe. She doesn’t even look at the pages and I’m free to go. As I leave Dylan and Desi behind, I can feel Dylan’s eyes boring into my back.

It only takes Desi one more day to get out of detention. It only takes me two whole days to get back into trouble.

Margot and I are waiting in the cafeteria line on Wednesday when someone pushes in front of a seventh-grade kid. This is normal and I would have let it go, but the little kid doesn’t understand the rules. Maybe he’s a bit slow or something. He tries to push his way forward again and gets a knock on the head for his troubles. I’m standing right behind him and he falls back onto me, totally humiliated.

“Hey, careful,” I say to the guy who pushed in front.

He’s as tall as a house and he’s sporting long, fuzzy sideburns.

While I’m checking out his sideburns, he shoves his face into mine, and then pushes me.

Margot is hanging on to my arm.

“Forget it,” she says. “Let’s go.”

I shake her off and shove him back. I’m not sure who’s more surprised—him or me. But suddenly I can’t take it anymore. It’s like a sleeping monster has awakened in the pit of my stomach. Adrenaline rushes through my arms, sings in my ears. I’m sick of dodging and weaving and keeping out of trouble’s way. I want to take it on.

I want someone to pay.

As I raise my hand again, a teacher shows up and tells us both to go to the office.

Ms. Clooney finds me, alone, outside the staff room. The bully wasn’t so dumb after all, and he’s escaped to push another day. Ms. Clooney doesn’t ask me why I’m there. For once, she seems pleased to see me. She loads me up with a pile of colored paper sheets and leads me to the announcement booth.

The announcement booth is just a little room with a table, a chair, some shelves, a bench, a board with switches, a microphone, and a little window that looks out onto the main hall. It’s a place that I’d mostly ignored until now.

“Our Wednesday announcer has left,” she explains. “We’re running a little late. Just get through what you can.”

She shoves me down into a swivel seat behind a microphone. She says something about switches and pink forms and blue forms and school stamps for authenticity. Then she leaves the booth in a whirl of efficiency and I’m left with a pair of headphones in my hands.

The adrenaline rush from the cafeteria encounter has gone, and I’m left feeling slightly sick.

A sheet of paper on the bulletin board in front of me says “Welcome to SRN—Student Radio News.” Someone has added “where no news is good news.”

The vice principal comes in.

“You’re late,” she says, before flicking a switch.

I don’t bother to tell her I’m not the regular Wednesday announcer. I guess we all look the same in our school uniform. But then, how hard can it be? I lean in to the microphone.

“Umm, good afternoon, everyone. This is Radio—”

The vice principal sticks her head in and hisses, “There’s no need to yell—that’s what the microphone is for.”

“Radio SRN,” I continue, a little quieter. “And today’s notices are . . .”

I read through a list of notices that have been duly authorized by the official school stamp. I announce missing textbooks, blazers, and sports uniforms. I advise that the auditions for the school play will be held next week; that the chocolate drive chocolates and money are due back the next day; that someone called Suzy loves someone called Muffy. (Too late, I realize that last page did not sport the official school stamp.) I move on to the upcoming dance and calls for volunteers.

All in all I do a pretty good job. I can’t resist inserting my own notice into the mix. The notice that says people caught pushing in the cafeteria line will be put on yard duty for a week.

Then the bell rings. I flick a switch and poke my head out of the booth looking for a quick getaway. Ms. Clooney appears from nowhere.

“You’ve got Wednesdays,” is all she says.