Chasing Boys (8 page)

“I’ve been here before. Angelique’s brother lives here. Upstairs.”

Shower man.

“Angelique’s brother? How do you know Angelique?” I say.

Dylan waves his hand in the air impatiently as if he doesn’t want to talk about it, then finally says, “Eric’s my cousin.”

“You’re Eric Callahan’s cousin?” I repeat.

Callahan. Shepherd.

“Our mothers are sisters,” he says.

I get it, of course. It’s just that I can’t think of two guys less like each other than Eric and Dylan.

“Do you want a drink?” I need to move. My mind is crowded with the information. I just want to go somewhere quiet and work out what it means.

“Coffee would be good,” he says even though five minutes before he didn’t want a drink.

I wander into the kitchen, careful to keep the comforter covering me and turn the electric kettle on. I decide to make a dash for my bedroom to get changed and bump into Dylan who is standing right behind me. The comforter drops out of my hands and Dylan reaches down and gives it to me. He now has a perfect view of my little-kid pajamas.

“Going to change,” I mumble.

I throw on some clothes from my bedroom floor, look in the mirror and decide against brushing my hair. I don’t want to look like I’m trying.

Back in the kitchen I make him an instant coffee and hoist myself up onto my favorite spot on the counter. Dylan doesn’t talk so I fill in the gaps. I ask questions and he answers using the least amount of words he can. I wonder if it’s a game with him.

I find out that he lives two blocks away. He lives with his mother and father and his really little brother. His grandfather lives in an addition on the back of their house.

“What’s it like living with your grandfather?” I ask, but he just shrugs.

“You know,” he says.

“I don’t,” I say.

“Him and my dad don’t get along so well,” he says. “But I like having him around. He’s pretty out there for an old guy. He has a mean sense of humor. I guess I used to hang out more with him when I was younger. He gave me my first paint set.”

Dylan has just put more than two sentences together. I should be celebrating, but I can’t stop thinking about Eric.

“Why don’t they get along?” I ask.

He shrugs. “They’re too different. Or maybe they’re too much the same. I’ve never worked that out.”

“How come you moved schools?” I ask.

“I felt like a change,” he says, so sharply that I don’t have the nerve to ask why.

“Are you good at math?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“Are you going to join the basketball team?” I ask. “Have you ever been to one of Eric’s games?”

“No,” Dylan says. “I don’t like playing games.”

Then I remember my good manners and ask if he wants a cookie.

“Thanks,” he says.

“I’m sure Sarah will be here any minute,” I say, looking pointedly at the kitchen clock. I can’t remember what time we made our meeting.

Then I shove a box of cookies under Dylan’s nose and watch him devour half of it, carefully pulling the cookie halves apart and licking the cream from the center, then dunking the rest of the cookie into his coffee. Watching him do this makes me feel unsettled.

“So, do you have any ideas about the project?” I ask. I’m not really interested. It’s just that the kitchen has been shrinking and Dylan is invading my personal space. I have an urge to reach out and trace the white scar that runs from his lips. I sit on my hands.

Dylan shrugs. “Projects aren’t really my thing.”

“Really? It’s just that Eric—”

“You’ve really got it bad for him, haven’t you?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“I saw you in detention. You have the hots for him,” says Dylan casually. “But he already has a girlfriend—remember? So maybe you should, like, back off.”

“What?” I repeat. My body is still and I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Tears sting the back of my eyeballs. I feel them escape and slide slowly down my cheeks. I don’t make an idiot of myself by moaning or gasping or shrieking. All my noise is clogged in my throat, but the tears pour out like some efficient fire sprinkler.

Dylan grabs a paper towel and leans in close. He swipes at the tears on my cheeks then grabs my nose like I’m a little kid and says, “Blow.”

So I blow and mumble that I have a cold.

Then Mom bursts in, on a quick excursion for more pins.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” She grabs her sewing box and disappears again without once looking at us.

Dylan moves away and the phone rings. I get down off the counter to answer it. It’s Sarah. She’s stuck at home with her little brothers, still waiting for her mom to return from a quick trip to the mall. She promises to make it as soon as she can.

“Don’t bother,” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Let’s catch up in class.”

“I’ve gotta go,” Dylan mumbles as I hang up. He’s already worked out there’s no geography project happening today.

Then he leaves and I stumble back to the couch and turn on the TV. I can’t see the whole screen because the drying rack is covering it slightly.

That’s when I realize that my washed underwear has been on display for the whole world to see.

32.

O
ur school uniform is red and black and white.

It’s compulsory, but everyone manages to make their own statement. Margot’s going through a crimson phase, so she adds little accents, like her bird necklace, that she can quickly hide when it’s inspection time.

The uniform colors are the only colors I wear, apart from my old pajamas. Everything else is black. I don’t count the pink top in my drawer because I haven’t worn it yet.

When I go to school I wear my uniform.

When I’m not at school I wear black.

I wear black because it is easy.

I wear black because it is cool.

It is cool like the black silence of a deep well.

Like the secret depths of a limestone cave.

Or the stillness of a long dark night.

And when I see someone else, someone wearing black, our eyes meet and we know. We know why black.

33.

B
y Monday I am well enough to go to school.

How disappointing. I realize Margot didn’t call me on the weekend. She apologizes and I tell her not to worry about it. She and Desi are full of news from last Friday night’s movie. We are sitting in our usual spot on the carpeted floor of the biography section in the library. I have one ear on them and both eyes on the glassed-in meeting room where the newspaper group is in session. Even though everyone is sitting in a circle of chairs, it is easy to see who the leader is. I watch as Angelique prompts questions, makes notes, and directs the discussion. The room is mostly soundproof, so I am only guessing what is really going on. At one point she stares straight out at me, as if aware that I’m watching her. The stare reminds me of her appearance near my house last Saturday and then I’m positive that it was no dream.

I suddenly make the connection that she had probably been visiting her brother.

“. . . fixed it?” asks Desi, tugging at my sleeve.

“Excuse me?”

“Your Wednesday radio gig. Is your mom going to complain?” asks Desi.

“Why don’t you join them?” says Margot.

She has seen me watching the newspaper group.

“What?” I laugh as if I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“The newspaper nuts. Maybe you should discover what you’re missing out on?” Her eyes are two slits of dark granite.

“I don’t—,” I say.

Desi cuts in. “Hey, that could be fun. Maybe we could all join. I’d love to know what they talk about in there.”

“Who cares?” I say.

Margot has already unfolded herself from the floor. I watch her straighten her skirt, smooth her hair, and walk to the meeting room. Desi follows quickly behind.

I don’t know what to do. At the last minute I race quickly after Desi before the meeting room door shuts behind her.

“Hello,” says Angelique with a smile.

34.

D
id you see her nails?” repeats Desi for perhaps the fourteenth time.

“Yes,” I answer, flipping to the back of my math textbook for an answer.

“I mean, they were professionally done. Professional. I should know, because my cousin Kiera works in a salon. Not that there’s anything wrong with your nails, El.”

Desi hasn’t shut up since we invaded the newspaper group at lunchtime. She is fascinated with Angelique and acts like we’ve been in the presence of a movie star. She’s also careful to let me know that I am her friend and she’s on my side when it comes to the whole Eric saga.

Strangely, Margot has barely said anything. All she said as we got to our lockers was, “Well, that was interesting.”

As usual, I can’t decide whether she really meant it was interesting or if she was mocking it. I don’t know what to make of the meeting. There seemed to be a lot of talk about what people were going to do, but so far no one seemed to be doing anything. Nobody except Angelique and the guy called Coop, the one from detention, who was writing an article on the school basketball team.

“I heard her father is some famous journalist,” says Desi.

“Who?” I erase my math scribbles and start again.

“Angelique’s dad. And her mom used to be a model. I’ve never heard of her, but she was big in Europe years ago. She lives in France.”

“Who does?”

“Angelique’s mother. If I was Angelique, I’d live in France. Imagine the clothes. Do you think she uses French products on her hair? Not that there’s anything wrong with your hair, El.”

Ms. Clooney cruises by like a shark on food patrol. She pauses long enough to rest her fingertips on Desi’s textbook before moving on. Margot is sitting nearby, looking out of the window.

“Problem?” asks Ms. Clooney as she stops at Margot’s desk.

Margot shifts her gaze to her book. “No problem,” she says.

I wait for Margot to look up at me and roll her eyes, but she doesn’t and I feel the earth shift a little beneath my feet.

For eighteen months, Margot and I have been best friends. For eighteen months, since I moved to Blair, Margot and I have shared secrets and laughed at the losers and sighed at the crapness that is our lives. Before I came along it was just Margot and Desi. Then it was Margot and El and Desi. The magical power that is three.

But lately something’s changed. It may not be real, but it’s there like a tiny stone in my shoe. I limp along as if I have no choice, but I could make it more comfortable in an instant. I just need to confront Margot, but what do I say? “Are we still friends? Have I done something wrong?” I can see her eyebrow lift now as if asking whether I’ve gone crazy.

Maybe I have.

35.

I
t’s the geography field trip day and I’ve forgotten to bring my signed form, so I secretly sign another one and hand it to Mr. Ray. I have not been looking forward to this. I figure the constant waves breaking in my stomach are due to an early start and no breakfast.

We get on the minibus and everyone is jostling to get the seats at the back. Desi and I choose a seat in the middle and Sarah sits in front of us and turns around. I feel rather than see Dylan pass us to go farther toward the back of the bus.

“I’ve made up some forms for you and Dylan to use—you know, for the whole stats thing.”

Desi nudges me but I keep a straight face and say, “Thanks, Sarah.”

“I figure if it’s okay with you and Dylan I’ll just take some photos and maybe interview some people. Stats really aren’t my thing. Did I mention that already?” asks Sarah.

“Yep.”

“I’ve also brought my digital camera. You know, for my part of the project. But you can have it if I finish early.”

“I don’t think we’ll need a camera . . . Thanks anyway, Sarah.”

When we get there, everyone piles out. Dylan, Sarah, and I group together and Sarah reads the riot act about what we should be doing.

“Here are the forms,” she says. “It’s probably better if you split up—we’ll finish earlier that way.”

Our group is responsible for taking stats around the mini golf club and shopping plaza across the street. They flank a busy road that seems filled with trucks. I feel sorry for the little cars. Sarah leaves to record interviews with some sales assistants and shoppers and golfers. Dylan stands with the form in his hand and looks lost.

“I’ll take the stats for the number of cars in and out of the parking spots,” I say. “You note the number of trucks and buses going past.”

I try not to think about the last time he saw me.

Dylan heads off to the corner, clicker in one hand and Sarah’s form in the other. Mr. Ray checks on us a couple of times and nods encouragingly.

“Remember to note the vegetation surrounding the area,” he says. “Native or introduced?”

Vegetation? I guess you could call the mini golf green vegetation. There are houses on either side of the plaza and golf course, but they are old row houses and don’t have a lot of front garden space. I notice a tree here and there, trying to exist among the fumes. A gray house has some ivy twining in and out of its chain fence and I note it under the section for introduced species. The convenience store has a pot of something green out front but it’s pretty wilted and I don’t know if I should mark it down or not.

It’s a busy place. I’m amazed at how life goes on when we are locked away at school. Trucks arrive to deliver supplies. Mothers come and go with tribes of children—one kid comes over and leaves his grubby paw prints on my school pants. A man with a haircut meant for someone much younger pulls up in a red convertible.

All the while, through these comings and goings, I watch Dylan out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I think he is watching me. I wish it were Eric instead. In a perfect world it would be Eric standing on the corner. If it were Eric standing there, I could go over and discuss the project. We could talk about other things. Find out what we had in common.

But it is not a perfect world.

Sarah finishes early so I get her to take photos of whatever vegetation she can find. Then Mr. Ray blows his whistle and Dylan comes over to wait for the bus.