Chasing Boys (6 page)
J
ust tell her you can’t do it,” whispers Margot from behind her science textbook. “Get a note from your mom. Tell her you get claustrophobic.”
“She can’t make you miss out on lunch. It’s a student’s right,” says Desi.
Margot and Desi are devastated. I will now not be available for Wednesday lunch library sessions. I’m not sure how I feel. I want to ask them if they heard me. How I sounded.
Meg Piper slips me a note about the next student council meeting. Something about extra court time for the girl’s basketball team during the next month. I check my day planner and realize that there is a council meeting the next day.
“Just tell her,” says Desi.
I find myself agreeing that I’ll get out of Radio SRN somehow.
W
ednesday is Leonard’s day. I go there straight after school, hang around a bit, then go home. On Wednesdays Mom works late, so Bella and I usually have something like noodles or eggs for dinner. I’m thinking whether I will have eggs or noodles, or maybe both, when I cruise into Leonard’s office.
When I get to Leonard’s I usually go straight into his office, which is upstairs. This day, however, the door’s closed, so I sit in the waiting room and check out the posters on the walls. There’s a cute kitten clinging to a tree branch. “Hang in there” it says underneath.
Hmmm.
On another poster there is a chimpanzee that looks remarkably like Leonard. I wonder if it is one of his children.
The door to Leonard’s office opens and a woman and child look my way then scuttle downstairs. Leonard ushers me inside and I take a seat and notice an umbrella leaning up against it.
“Damn,” says Leonard. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He grabs the umbrella and hurries downstairs.
Leonard’s office is neat. He has a desk with a family photo, a phone, a jar of pens, and an unused writing pad. Over near the window is where we sit—on old leather armchairs that look like he picked them up in a secondhand shop. There’s another armchair, unmatching, against the wall. We sit opposite each other like we’re friends about to have a chat. To the side of our chairs is a coffee table with a box of tissues on it, and a clock that faces Leonard. There is a garbage can next to me for the tissues—for all the crying I’m not doing when I don’t talk to Leonard.
In the corner of the room is a large box of toys and a two-story doll’s house. The house even has a garage with a cute pink car inside. There’s paper and crayons and even a toy gun. Now I knew what Leonard did in his spare time.
“The toys are for my younger clients,” he says, appearing out of nowhere, a little out of breath.
I raise my eyebrows—as if I cared.
Leonard looks a little hassled today. Usually he makes me feel like I should clean my shoes. But today his hair—what’s left of it—is standing up like he’s run his fingers through it. His shirt is looking twisted and untidy.
He tidies the toys. By the time he sits opposite me he has used up ten minutes of my time, which is great. He is still holding on to the pink car from the doll’s house and absentmindedly rolling the car wheels over his palm.
“How are you, Ariel?” he asks.
I ignore him and look out the window. A drizzle of rain makes things smudgy, like a watercolor painting that hasn’t yet dried. The last of the trees’ brown leaves are turning mushy. I try not to think of anything, just in case he can read my mind. We sit like this for some time, until Leonard feels the need to talk. He always has to spoil things. I try to ignore him but something he says ricochets off the back of my skull.
“I know it’s hard for you . . . ,” he says. His lips are turned down in an expression of grief.
“I beg your pardon?” I say in my best Margot voice.
Leonard looks pleased. I have broken my silence again. Something to report back to my mother.
“. . . hard for you—,” he repeats.
I cut him off midsentence.
“Leonard, you don’t know me. Just ’cause my mom tells you stuff, you think you know me? Well, you don’t. You don’t know what it feels like to be me.”
Leonard loses his undertaker’s down-turned lips. He replaces it with a blank face.
I bet your kids play violin and speak five languages and never have to tidy their bedrooms because you have a cleaning lady.
Am I right, Leonard?
I bet your wife plays tennis and drives a sports car and has her own personal hairdresser.
I bet she feels bad about the poor people and always makes a donation when the Salvation Army volunteers ring their bells at the traffic lights, because it makes her feel better.
I bet you’re thinking about getting a personal trainer now that you’re not getting younger or—let’s face it, Leonard—skinnier.
I bet you have a new Mercedes and you pay someone else to wash it.
I bet you’ve wondered if those hair replacement centers could do something about your balding head.
I bet the closest you get to feeling sad is when your football team loses.
Of course, I don’t say any of these things.
My volcano of anger suddenly stops erupting. In its place is nothing and it’s pure and clean and right. I push myself out of the chair and lean closer.
Leonard’s eyes widen slightly, like he thinks maybe I’m going to hit him. He reminds me of the cafeteria sideburns guy and for a moment I’m tempted to. Instead I grab the pink car from him, set it on the windowsill, and give it a big push. I hear it fall onto the polished floorboards as I make my way to the door with forty-five minutes of my session still left to go.
S
ometime later that night I call Leonard’s answering machine. I wait for his recorded message to finish and then listen to the silence waiting for me to fill it up.
I
t’s the last Thursday of the month, which means student council meeting time. A wasted lunchtime. In the morning I have geography and Mr. Ray reminds everyone to bring back their parent approval forms for next Tuesday’s field trip. I’m too busy thinking about the student council meeting and wishing it was over.
I am our class rep for student council because of bad timing. On the day of the election I was home with a bad case of hating-schoolitis. When I complained to Bella later, she told me that that’s what I got for staying home from school. Now that she’s at college, she’s obviously forgotten that you need days off from school sometimes. Desi said that it wasn’t fair because I didn’t have a chance to reject the nomination, but our homeroom teacher, Ms. Diamond, dismissed that idea outright. All she wanted was to check the class rep election off her to-do list.
The position of class rep is usually reserved for the most serious or boring or loudest student in class.
So what does that make me?
Most of the time it’s just me and Desi and Margot hanging out, but for the couple of days a month before the meeting I become the most sought-after girl in my class.
“Tell them about the heating,” says Henry. This is always his problem. Henry Loudner has a constant runny nose and wears a scarf every day—even in summer. “It needs turning up. They’ll pay for the bills if I end up with pneumonia.”
He pronounces pneumonia with a “p,” but I don’t correct him. He has never taken a sick day in his life.
“Can you mention the cafeteria prices?” asks Jess. “I mean, the cafeteria is supposed to be a student service, isn’t it? Not some rip-off joint.”
“We need more access to the gym,” says Emmett.
I want to say to them, “You’ve got a voice. You tell them.”
But I’m their voice at student council. So I turn up once a month to Room 124D and battle for them—each and every ungrateful one of them. Sometimes what they want is so ridiculous I wonder if they’re joking.
Like the time Desi wanted hair dryers in the girls’ bathrooms. Hair dryers! Like it’s some beauty salon or something. Or the time Chris asked for healthy food to be served at the cafeteria.
I mean, are these people kidding or what?
Whatever they ask for, I take their messages and sit around one lunchtime a month and argue that it’s a perfectly reasonable request to have a hair dryer in the girls’ bathroom and argue and argue until we come to an agreement that maybe a request for hair dryers in just the locker rooms in the gym would be okay. Or that something should be done about the rip-off prices at the cafeteria that only sells crap.
And most times I get somewhere. Which is just as well, because if I didn’t I would keep arguing until everyone else around the council table got so sick of me that they would agree to anything just to shut me up.
Margot says that maybe I could get a job as an ambassador at the United Nations one day. She got Desi to look it up in the career guide in the library, and Desi came back to tell us it wasn’t listed. She’s so naive sometimes but that’s what I love about her.
Anyway, it’s the last Thursday of the month and I’m heading to the meeting when I see Eric coming my way up the hall. His hair is doing that flopping-into-his-face kind of thing and I want to reach up and smooth it away when something incredible happens. He stops right in front of me.
“Hey,” he says.
I turn to look behind me, but there’s no one else around.
“El?” he asks.
I look back at him and nod, unable to speak.
“You’re in Meg Piper’s class, right?”
I nod again. Eric leans against the wall next to my head. This means I have to look up at him a little less. If I stood on tiptoe I could plant a kiss on his perfect lips. I can feel the heat coming off his body in waves and his Eric smell, which is a mixture of mothballs, just-baked bread, and peppermint gum.
“You’re Meg’s class rep for student council?”
“Yep.” I figure I have to say something. It’s the best I can do.
Eric is looking serious and I’m wondering what the problem is. Perhaps he wants to solve world poverty. Or discuss the finer points of Math 2. Maybe Meg’s in trouble?
While my mind has been conjuring possibilities, Eric has been talking. I finally tune in to hear, “. . . can see our problem. I mean, I’m all for girls’ sports, but the next game is really important for us.”
“Finals?” I repeat.
“The basketball finals,” he says earnestly, sweeping hair out of his eyes.
“And you want me to . . .”
“I know Meg’s asking for equal practice time on the court. It’s just that the boys need it more. We’re prepared to give them two after-school nights and we’ll take three. Not Fridays, because that’s when we play. That’s reasonable, don’t you think?”
I find myself agreeing with him that it’s perfectly reasonable and he leans in and squeezes my shoulder.
“I knew you’d be okay with this. Dylan said—”
“Dylan?”
Suddenly Eric looks troubled and he squeezes my shoulder again. It’s hot where he’s touching me and I don’t want him to stop.
“He thought you wouldn’t go for it. So we’re all good?” he asks.
I agree. We’re all good.
And later, when I’m asked at student council whether I have any business this month, I say, “No, we’re all good.”
A
fter lunch, when Meg asks me how student council went, I shake my head.
“Crap! Maybe we can find some court time somewhere else,” she says.
“Maybe I could go to the principal,” I suggest lamely. “I mean, there’s probably an equal opportunity issue here.”
Meg shakes her head. “Don’t worry. I know you tried your best. Thanks anyway.”
And that’s when I get mad. And strangely, the person I’m angry with isn’t Eric. Dylan said? Who did he think he was? He’d only known me for two minutes and . . . why was he talking to Eric about me? The thought of Dylan’s eyes on me as I drooled over Eric made my heart thud in my chest.
Dylan had to be stopped before he got completely out of control.
A
t the end of the day, I hang around the lockers and try to work out which is Dylan’s. After fifteen minutes the hallway is practically empty and no Dylan has emerged. It’s only later that I wonder if I should have checked the coffin room.
At home I uncover the hidden treasure that is Dylan’s artwork and lock myself in the bathroom with my cell phone. I punch in Dylan’s number carefully from the page and wait. The phone rings and then Dylan’s voice cuts in.
“Hello?” he says.
“Dylan, it’s Ariel. El Marini.”
But it’s just his voice mail.
“Ah, yeah, you’ve called Dylan. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.”
I can’t think of anything to say so I hang up and add Dylan’s number to my contact list. Then Bella pounds on the door and asks me what the hell I’m doing, so I stuff the artwork and my phone under my sweater and flush the toilet. I spray the air freshener for effect.
When I emerge, she sniffs the air and asks if I was reading on the toilet.
I roll my eyes and push past her. “Don’t be disgusting,” I say.
“Margot called,” she says, before slamming the bathroom door in my face.
But when I dial Margot’s number, she’s busy.
T
he thought of Eric pitying me is more than I can bear. I have this scenario going on in my head where Dylan has a deep and meaningful talk with Eric about how I have the hots for him. For Eric, that is. The whole thing is making me sick.
I don’t see either of them first thing Friday morning; though at one stage I think I see the back of Dylan’s head. I grab his arm. He turns around and it’s not Dylan at all.
I finally see Dylan at lunchtime. I am sitting in the library with Margot and Desi and we’re talking. Rather, Margot is talking. She’s doing a perfect imitation of Mr. Isolde, our English teacher, and I’m trying not to laugh too loud. Desi wipes tears from her eyes, while begging Margot to stop, but this just makes Margot exaggerate even more.
I volunteer to grab some tissues from the librarian’s desk (hasn’t Desi heard of waterproof mascara?) and when I’m there I notice Dylan outside the library window.
I drop a tissue into Desi’s lap, mumble a lie about the bathroom, then disappear outside.