Chasing Boys (7 page)

It takes me a couple of minutes to find Dylan. He’s sitting alone on a seat in the shaded area and it looks like he’s been waiting for me.

“Hello, Ariel Ariel,” he says, shifting along the seat in invitation.

I sit down abruptly.

“My name’s El,” I say. “Why are you so annoying?”

Dylan shrugs but looks pleased, like I’ve paid him a compliment.

“What are you doing outside, Ariel? Don’t you usually hang out in the library?”

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

“So talk,” says Dylan.

“It’s about Eric,” I begin.

Dylan looks at me blankly.

“Eric Callahan.”

Dylan looks blank again.

“Eric Callahan,” I repeat. “He’s your friend, isn’t he? You seemed to know each other in detention.”

“So?” says Dylan. He looks a little annoyed now.

“So, what did you say to him?”

“About . . . ?”

“About me!” I say, annoyed that I have to say it aloud.

Dylan leans back, resting his arms across the top of the seat. “Why would I be saying anything?”

“Eric mentioned you’d been talking about me.”

I lean back into the seat, then jerk forward again when I touch Dylan’s arm.

Dylan frowns. “I don’t think so,” he says.

“Yes,” I insist. “Extra time on the basketball court. Student council. You said I’d make a fuss.”

Dylan shrugs. “Oh, that.”

He says it like it’s not worth discussing but there’s something in his eyes that dismisses me as a loser.

“What?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“What?”

“Eric just ran the idea past me. About asking you not to mention the extra court time for the girls’ basketball team. I told him you’d never go for it.”

“Oh.” I stand up to leave. “Well, I guess you don’t know everything,” I say.

“Guess not,” he says.

The way he says it makes me feel like I’ve been judged. As if I’ve let him and myself down.

28.

L
eonard. Leonard, Leonard, Leonard.

I’m so tired, Leonard. Some nights I just can’t sleep. If you were around then, Leonard, we’d definitely have a nice little talk. But Wednesdays come and it’s daytime and I don’t need to talk to you then.

Mom thinks I have nightmares, Leonard, but I don’t. It’s worse than that. I have nice dreams. I dream that everything is back to normal. That my family is all together and back in our real home and life is good.

It’s when I wake from these dreams, a smile still curling up my mouth, that the truth hurts. And that’s when I cry, Leonard.

Margot says I’m a dreamer, but she’s wrong.

I’m living in reality. It’s just that I don’t want to be here.

29.

O
n Friday afternoon I pretend to have a cold so I don’t have to go to the movies with Margot and Desi. It’s true, kind of. My nose is stuffy.

Margot and Desi sit together all day, which is fine by me. At lunchtime we still hang out in the library and I don’t need to say much because Desi’s doing all the talking. She’s having one of her up days. Angelique swans by and says, “Hi!”

Desi stops midsentence and calls out loudly, “Hi, Angelique,” as if she wants the whole world to know that Angelique has spoken to her. I grunt a reply but Margot just stares at me, her eyes trying to uncover my secrets.

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I spend the rest of lunchtime in the last stall on the left, sitting on the lid of the seat and reading the graffiti on the walls. I’m always interested to see the latest gossip.

When I get home from school, I set myself up to veg out on the couch. But Mom has other ideas.

“School shoes,” she says, holding out one of my shoes like it’s diseased.

It’s true; my shoes have taken on a life of their own. The straps broke ages ago and I cut them off to avoid the flapping. The sole of one has lifted away from the top of the shoe and now gapes, smiling to the world whenever it takes a step. I’d never get away with it at my old school.

“They’re comfortable,” I complain.

But we are going to the mall for a quick shopping trip.

I hate shopping with Mom. The only way she shops is quick. I like to browse and check out what’s on sale. Bella is working, so she misses out.

The trip starts badly. We are just walking through the main doors, when Mom spies one of my old school friends nearby.

“Oh, look,” she says. “Isn’t that Melanie? From Regis?”

It is Melanie—Mel Furlong, a girl I used to hang around with in my other life. I shake my head and try to drag Mom the other way. Of course, she has other ideas.

“Mel-an-ee,” calls out Mom, waving to get her attention.

Could this woman be any more embarrassing?

I consider creeping away, but Mel is coming over. She looks nervous and I don’t blame her.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hi,” I say, checking out the mall’s floor pattern.

“I haven’t seen you for ages,” says Mel. “How is . . . how are things?”

I don’t answer, so Mom kicks in and blabs on about our new life and really Melanie should come and visit one day and hasn’t-it-been-ages and my-hasn’t-Melanie-grown. Like Mel’s some magical bean in a fairy story.

Finally Mom stops and Mel promises to drop by one day. Then she leaves and I realize that she hasn’t bothered to find out our address and I know that there isn’t a single moment that any of us have believed that she will visit. And it feels kind of sad that Mel, a girl I used to have sleepovers with, sat next to at school, and swapped lunches with is now just someone I used to know.

“You should contact Those Girls,” says Mom, for what must be the thousandth time.

Mom doesn’t understand I can’t. It would be like having one foot in my old life and one foot in the new. I had to choose, and for now I’m hanging out with Margot and Desi. When I go back to Regis High School, things will change again.

Margot and Desi are always ready to put down Regis. I think of my life without them and my mind shuts down. It just doesn’t want to go there.

At the shoe store, I’m sitting on a large overstuffed seat—one sock on, one sock off—when someone bumps me from behind.

“Sorry.”

I turn around to see Angelique. She is trying on an athletic shoe and giggles when the sales assistant arrives with a black leather shoe for me.

“School shoes,” we say as one.

“You’d think they could come up with something that actually looks okay to wear,” she says.

I shake my head. “I think that’s against the law of school uniform design,” I say. I hold up two different shoes. “So you choose between Chunky Prom Queen and Pretty Preschooler.”

Angelique just shakes her head.

Mom’s giving me that “determined to be introduced stare,” but I’m ignoring her. Finally she says, “El, won’t you introduce me to Your Friend?”

Now Angelique definitely knows my name.

Somehow it was better when she didn’t.

I introduce Mom to Angelique, who of course is very polite in return.

“You should drop by one day,” I hear Mom say, as I fumble with the buckle on my shoe. The blood is rushing in my ears loudly as Mom gives Angelique our address. A look that I don’t understand flashes over Angelique’s face.

“She’s a Nice Girl,” says Mom as Angelique leaves the store with a wave.

“I think this is the wrong size,” I say loudly.

When I get home, I call Margot’s cell phone. She picks up but can’t hear me because there’s too much noise in the background. She asks if I’m feeling better, then promises to call me over the weekend. There’s laughter in the background and she says she’s got to go. I hang up, wishing I’d never called.

30.

I
t’s Saturday and Mom is grocery shopping. Bella has planned to visit Dad and asks me for the third time whether I’d like to tag along. I’m sitting in the room that is our kitchen and dining and living room all in one, watching Saturday morning kids’ shows because I can. The couch I’m sitting on—way too big for this unit, but we can’t afford a new one—is littered with used tissues, the plate that my toast was on, and remote controls, because I can never figure out which is which. My pretend cold has taken on a life of its own. I’ve stemmed the dripping of my nose by shoving a tissue up each nostril.

“No thanks,” I say, though it sounds like, “Dough tanks.”

Bella taps her foot like I’m letting her down. I don’t know why she still bothers asking me. “Any message?” she asks finally.

I shake my head and turn up the volume. A cartoon character has been sliced and diced then miraculously re-formed. I hear the door slam as Bella leaves. A minute later I’ve thought of a message for Dad so I drag myself off the couch, rush to the door, and poke my head outside. But Bella has gone. Instead I see Angelique slouching past.

“Angelique?” I say.

Her eyes meet mine for the briefest of split seconds, and then she is gone—disappearing up the side steps in a blur of red jacket. I go back inside and doze on the couch. When I wake, I wonder if I have dreamed the whole thing. This seems the most likely. That I have dreamed Angelique Mendez would be walking past my door in my grungy neighborhood on a Saturday morning when I have a temperature of a hundred gazillion.

31.

B
y the next afternoon my temperature is down to nearly normal. I have claimed the couch as mine, with pillows and my comforter, remote control, and tissues at hand. Bella is out with her friends and Mom is hanging wet clothes on a drying rack in front of the heater next to the TV.

“Can’t you put them in the dryer?” I ask crossly.

“The dryer died,” says Mom cheerfully. “This will save on the electricity bills.”

“Great.” I collapse back against the pillows.

“Can I get you anything before I go next door?”

“Next door?” I ask.

“Yes. Peggy needs a hand with her curtains.”

“Peggy? Oh, Cat Lady.”

“Peggy is a lovely lady. Show some respect,” snaps Mom, and somehow I’m happier with an angry Mom than a sad one.

“Do we have any chicken noodle soup?” I ask.

“We have cream of tomato,” says Mom.

I shake my head. Then she rattles off a whole list of things we have, none of which I want. I shake my head again.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not really hungry.”

Then someone knocks on the door before she can get going on her favorite medical topic—feed a cold and starve a fever.

“That’s probably Peggy now,” says Mom.

Imagine her surprise when she opens the door to find Dylan standing there.

Imagine my surprise.

“Is Ariel in?” he asks.

Mom straightens slightly and whisks her chores apron off.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, she is. Come in. El!” she calls out as though I’m not just three steps away. Then she turns back to Dylan. “I’m sorry, you are . . . ?”

“Dylan. Dylan Shepherd. I go to school with Ariel. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Marini.” Then he holds out his hand politely and I nearly die when they shake hands.

The sight of him has set up a niggle in the empty cavern that is my brain.

I am in my pajamas. The ones with the cute monkeys on them. The ones that say
Good Night, Sleep Tight
. I pull the comforter over me and hope he hasn’t seen me.

“There’s a Nice Young Man to see you, El,” Mom calls out.

Nice Young Man? Maybe Dylan has brought a friend with him. I peek out from under the comforter.

Mom’s making faces at me, moving her eyebrows up and down, her lips a surprised pursed oval.

“I’m not really up for visitors,” I say, but Mom has already let Dylan through the door.

“Please, call me Isobelle,” Mom insists.

Please, pass me the basin. Dylan Shepherd is in my home. Black hoodie and all.

“Hello,” I say, in a voice that clearly says What the hell are you doing here?

Mom’s making signs behind his back, which are just annoying. The kind of signs that mean, “He’s a Nice Boy and where have you been hiding him?” It’s the happiest she’s looked in ages, but I’m not in the mood.

Dylan turns around and nearly catches her at it. Mom asks if he would like a hot drink. He says no, then sits down in the rocking chair as if he’s settling in.

“Well, I just need to go next door then,” says Mom loudly, as if we’re all deaf. “Nice to meet you, Dylan. Feel free to drop in any time.”

Then she disappears out the door before I have a chance to say anything. The door clicks shut loudly.

“Well,” says Dylan.

“What are you doing here?”

“Geography project,” he says.

The niggle says “Bingo.” “Oh, right,” I say aloud.

“Are you sick?” he says.

“No,” I say, pulling the comforter up toward my chin. “I always lie around on Sundays in my pajamas.”

“Oh,” says Dylan, looking around.

“That was a joke,” I explain, just in case he didn’t get it.

“I thought it was sarcasm,” he says lightly.

I think back to my first idea of Dylan. Bored. Macho. Thick. Suddenly I feel really warm and I wonder whether my fever’s back.

“This is a nice place,” he says.

“It’s just temporary,” I say. I don’t know why I have to tell him this.

He shrugs and pulls out some paper from his back pocket. He unfolds it and thrusts it at me. It’s our geography project info sheet.

“Where’s that girl?” he asks.

“Sarah?”

“Yeah. The bossy one.”

“I guess she’ll be here any minute,” I say.

Dylan looks like he’s settled into the rocking chair for the duration. His jeans have crept up his legs while he’s sitting and I notice that he is wearing two different socks. I wonder if maybe he can’t afford a matching pair.

“So . . .”

The TV is blaring away and I stare at the screen without really seeing it.

We watch three ads, all of them loud, and none of them make any sense.

“So how long have you and Eric Callahan known each other?” I finally get the courage to ask.

“A while,” he says.

There are plenty of things I would like to ask Dylan. Who is Eric’s favorite band? What’s his favorite movie? Do you think he’d go out with a girl like me?

“Did you find my place okay?” I ask.