Click Here (to find out how i survived seventh grade) (16 page)

I’m so mad and sad and frustrated, I could scream.

Will I ever know a kiss that doesn’t taste like a pillowcase?

MBMS STINKS.

chapter 15

DEFCON 1

“What are you doing in there?” Chris stood with his arms across his chest. I was huddled in my sleeping bag in the basement guest room closet. It seemed smaller than I remembered, with my back shoved up against the back wall and my feet practically sticking out the door, even though I had my knees tucked against me inside the sleeping bag.

“None of your business,” I said, my voice cracking. Shifting in my sleeping bag, I reached to close the door.

“Okay.” Chris’s voice was softer. I looked at him suspiciously. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the closet. “This was the DEFCON 4 spot, right?” He leaned forward and looked inside the closet.

“Yeah. Good memory.”

He glanced down at me.

“You look like you had more than a DEFCON 4 happen to you.” Turning, he crossed the room and plopped down on the bed.

“It’s a DEFCON 1,” I whispered, feeling my throat close up. Chris sat up. “DEFCON 1? Wasn’t that the O’Learys’ tree house?”

I shrugged and looked down at my sleeping bag, picking at a stray thread near the zipper.

“Yeah,” Chris said, nodding. “It was. That was a great place to hide out.” He looked at me. “But I hated going to get you. It was always at dinner when I was hanging with the guys.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“No worries,” Chris said. “That was a long time ago. Now I just have to drive you everywhere.” I glared at him, but he raised his hands to protest. “I was just kidding.”

We sat quietly for a few moments, me picking at the thread in the sleeping bag, Chris staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head.

“How’re things?” I had managed to work the thread free, pulling it away from the nylon sleeping bag to leave a winding trail of pinprick holes. I wound the thread around my finger.

“Okay. You know.”

“Yeah,” I said, realizing that I did.

“Erin?”

I tilted my head to one side. “Hmm?”

“Your finger is purple.”

It was true. I’d wound the thread so tight I’d cut off my circulation. Unwinding it quickly, I watched as my finger changed from purple to pink, tingling as it did so. I wiggled it to make sure it still worked.

Chris stood up. “So dinner’s gonna be ready in twenty minutes.”

I nodded.

“I’m not coming back down to get you.”

“I know.”

“Good.” His voice sounded stern, but his face was soft. Something shiny caught my eye as he walked across the room, something hanging from his belt loop.

The silver basketball key chain.

I stood outside Ms. Moreno’s computer lab by myself. I’d managed to avoid talking to Mark since he had cornered me, pretending I didn’t see him trying to catch my eye. But today I would have to sit near him at I-Club because the leaders were having a meeting and Ms. Moreno said we couldn’t miss it unless we had a note from the undertaker, which I thought was pretty morbid. I stared down the hallway, hoping Rosie would show up without him, even though they usually came together.

I felt as if I’d won the lottery when I saw Rosie coming up the hallway alone, until I saw the look on her face.

“What’s with you and Mark?” were the first words out of her mouth. “What do you mean?” So he was the type who talked.

“He said you’re acting all mad for no reason.”

“It’s not for no reason,” I said, immediately wishing I hadn’t. I’d just admitted I was mad and I didn’t want her to know that.

“So what is it?”

“Nothing.” I couldn’t tell her. She and Mark were practically sister and brother.

“Look, I’m not going to say anything if you don’t want me to. I just hate to see you two fighting.”

I laughed. Me and Mark fighting? It sounded like we were a couple or something.

“He’s kind of bummed out about it,” Rosie said in a low voice. A few kids passed behind her and went into the lab.

I’m sure he is
, I thought.
He doesn’t have a direct pipeline to Jilly information now.

“Hey, Erin.”

“Hey, Tyler.”

His face lit up like the DSL light on a modem. “Cool shirt,” he mumbled as he passed me to go into the lab.

Rosie raised her eyebrows and smiled slyly. “I told you he likes you.” “Shut up,” I said, my cheeks warming.

Rosie’s attention shifted down the hall. “Here he comes,” she said, and I knew she meant Mark. She turned to me. “Look, whatever it is, just work it out, okay? You’re both my friends and I’d like it to stay that way.” She pulled her backpack off her shoulder. “I’ll see you inside.”

I stared after her, warmed by the words she’d spoken, freaked by the fact that I was now out in the hallway by myself with Sack o’ Potatoes approaching. I tucked my shirt into the back of my pants so I had an excuse to look over my shoulder. Mark was still far down the hall. He raised his arm like he was waving, but maybe he was just stretching.

Mark Sacks, now known as the Boy Who Likes Jilly, Not Me.

I frowned. No way was I going to wave or stretch back. I bent down to tie my shoe that was already tied (one of Jilly’s tricks actually coming in handy), watching Mark out of the corner of my eye. I could almost see Jilly hanging on his arm, whispering something in his ear, making him laugh. Or giving him a quick peck on the cheek, the kind that tells everyone, “He’s mine, so eat your heart out.” But I was the one who made him laugh. I was the one who should be kissing him. Me, me, ME. I wanted to crawl out of my skin or scream at the top of my lungs or both.

He was getting closer.

Rosie had said to work it out. Okay. Let’s see. What’s the best way to work this out?

I was getting claustrophobic in the custodian’s closet. It was only about five feet by five feet and most of it was covered with supplies. Shelves lined the three walls and they were jammed with cleaners, bleach, and sickly sweet air fresheners. I was shoved up against a vacuum and two brooms, trying not to look at the disposable vomit cleanup kits stacked in front of me. I had considered hiding out in the bathroom but I knew Rosie would probably look for me there, once Mark walked into the lab and I didn’t follow. After all, that’s where I was when I’d overheard Serena’s friends talking about me. I couldn’t be predictable if I wanted to avoid more humiliation.

I wondered what they were doing in I-Club. Did they already forget I wasn’t there? (Meaning, did Mark even notice I was gone?) Was Tyler making a mess of the faculty interviews he was in charge of? I couldn’t believe I was sitting on the floor of a custodian’s closet when I could be at a computer, creating web pages. And it was all Mark’s fault. And Jilly’s. If he hadn’t come in the theater, he never would have seen her. And if she wasn’t so pretty he never would have noticed her onstage or at the party.

“So what?” I said aloud, when a voice inside pointed out that if I’d had the guts to say no to play tryouts, he would have called me at home with his question, or maybe I would have stayed after that day, too, and we would have worked out the problem together. And then maybe none of this would have happened.

But then again, maybe it would have. He’d seen her at the party. So, it was the party’s fault. If we hadn’t gone … but he had seen her other places, like getting off the bus.

So, it was the bus’s fault. If we didn’t come to school on the bus, then —

“Stop,” I hissed aloud. I was driving myself crazy with all this “if this, then that” stuff. Sighing, I squinted in the dim light of the overhead bulb and adjusted my butt on the floor, elbowing a mop that would have clattered against the wall if I hadn’t caught it in time. Jilly was right. A janitor’s closet was no place for kissing. Or hiding. The fumes from the cleaning supplies were giving me a headache. I tried holding my breath for a while, then tried making my breaths short and shallow. I felt like I might faint.

I stood up slowly and looked at my watch. Three-forty. I’d only been in the closet a half an hour. I still had another hour and fifty minutes before Mom would come to pick me up. I couldn’t stay in here for an hour and fifty more minutes. I’d have to find another spot.

As I reached for the door handle, I heard footsteps down the hall. Quickly I pulled the string, plunging the closet into darkness, the only light coming from the narrow crack between the door frame and the door because I’d left it slightly ajar. I kept my face close to the crack, holding my breath as the footsteps got closer and closer. After a while I couldn’t tell which was louder, my pounding heart, or the
clump-slap
of the shoes coming down the hallway.

The clump-slap stopped. In front of the custodian’s closet. I stepped back, bumping a broom, which clanged against the metal shelves, knocking down a row of Windex bottles like dominoes. Throwing my arms over my head to protect myself, I sank to the floor, just as the door flew open and the light clicked on.

chapter 16

IPF (Invalid Page Fault)

“Not again,” a man’s voice groaned.

I pushed away two rolls of paper towels, shoved the Windex aside, and pulled the mop away from my face. Mr. Foslowski stared down at me, hands on hips, scowl on face. Then his expression softened.

“Aren’t you the corn girl?”

“Yes,” I said, pushing a mop away from my head.

Mr. Foslowski frowned. “Didn’t expect this from you.” He stepped forward. “Okay, where is he?” He began pulling the supplies off the floor and restacking them on the shelves. He moved a trash can aside and peered under another set of shelves. “Where’ve you got him hidden?”

“Who?” I asked, standing up to brush myself off. I picked up the rest of the things that had fallen on the ground.

Mr. Foslowski turned to me, eyes narrowed. “Who else?” he said. “The boy.”

I smiled nervously. “There isn’t one.”

“Got to be one somewhere,” Mr. Foslowski muttered, pushing aside some rolls of toilet paper. “Why else would you be in here?” I wanted to point out that even the smallest boy couldn’t hide behind a roll of toilet paper, but I decided I’d better not. He rummaged around, straightening things as he searched. Finally, he turned around and faced me. “There’s no boy in here.”

I realized that the only thing more embarrassing than being caught in the custodian’s closet with a boy is getting caught in there by yourself. I glanced around, wondering if there was a hidden camera nearby to catch my humiliation on tape.

“No, sir.”

“Just you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No boy.”

“No, sir.” I sighed. “No boy at all.” And when I said those words, something happened inside me. As if everything I’d ever felt about my non-boyfriend life overflowed. My mouth opened, and a whole gigabyte of words poured out. “Though I wish there was. Well, actually not in here, but maybe somewhere a little more, well, comfortable. Not that this isn’t comfortable for all the cleaning supplies, you know, but, well, it’s not really designed for people to hang out in, which, of course, is why you kicked out those eighth graders who were in a closet doing — well, you know.

“But there’s this boy in my homeroom and English and word processing, who’s also in this Intranet Club after school, and we’re really good friends even though I like him more than friends, but yesterday he started asking about my best friend and he thinks she’s cute and she always gets all the boys, even when she doesn’t want them, and it’s just not fair.” I took a breath, then let it out long and slow. I should have been completely embarrassed saying all of that to a complete stranger, but for some reason I felt … relieved. Lighter. Like I’d just defragmented my hard drive. Finally, someone knew about my feelings besides my private web page. It didn’t matter that it was Mr. Foslowski. It was out there.