Crazy in Love (2 page)

I’m smart enough to pass on the
M.J.
excuses just now. “That was stupid of me,” I admit. “I should have known you’d try to call back. I turned off my cell because we were trying to watch the end of the movie. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think.”

“That’s the problem, Mary Jane. You haven’t been thinking, ” Dad agrees. “One o’clock on a school night? You’ve been working hard all these years to get into a good school like ISU. Don’t lose it your senior year. College isn’t—”

“I thought you were studying at Cassandra’s house,” Mom interrupts. “That’s what you told me.”

“I was!” I protest. “We’re having a quiz in English on
Julius Caesar
today. We were watching the Shakespeare production. That’s what we were doing. It’s a really long movie. We just didn’t get it started in time.”

All truth. Nothing but the truth.

Not the whole truth.

The movie was running, but we didn’t do much watching. Unless you count watching each other. I spent most of the time watching Jackson House. Six-foot senior, long brown hair, killer smile. Star Simons’s boyfriend. The
M.J
.
in my head firmly believes that anyone named Star Simons doesn’t deserve a boyfriend like Jackson House. And it’s not just the name. Star would be the first one to tell you Jackson belongs to her. But that doesn’t stop her from sneaking in dates with other guys. I have this on reliable authority.

And there’s more. There’s a sadness in those big brown eyes of Jackson House. I’ve seen it. It’s kept me awake nights. And I can make him laugh! Which turns befriending him into a kind of community service, when you think about it. And I do. Think about it. Constantly.

“Mary Jane?”

“Sorry. Thinking about the exam.”

“There’s still no excuse for being out that late,” Dad continues. “You shouldn’t wait until the last minute to study. The habits you form now are the habits you’ll carry with you to ISU.” His voice is already softening, and so are his eyes. He is so easy. It’s enough to make the
Plain Jane
in me say,
Shame on you.

“You’re right, Daddy.” And he is. Still, I don’t think I’m going to get grounded. I almost never do, thanks to
Plain Jane
, who is highly trustworthy. I don’t think Dad’s even going to yell at me. I can’t imagine what Alicia’s parents would do to her if she’d gotten home that late. Alicia is probably my best friend in the whole world, but I would never trade rents with her for five minutes.

I turn to Mom, who looks like she has a lot more to say on the subject. If I give her time, she’s going to ask who was there (fourteen of us) and where Cassie’s parents were (Kansas City or Des Moines, I think) and if I bothered to read the play before watching it on television (no). “I’m sorry I worried you, Mom. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not,” she answers, her voice filled with hurt. And, yes, disappointment.

I gulp down a few bites of cereal.

“Don’t forget your sister’s game after school,” Dad says.

"I won’t,” I answer, although I
had
forgotten about Sandy’s game.

M.J
.
is singsonging in my head:
Yes! Not even a grounding! I win! I win!

But as I grab my pack and walk out of the kitchen, I have to admit that I feel a little guilty. It’s only 7:37 a.m., and already I’ve disappointed my rents, forgotten about my sister’s big game, and gotten myself a monster-truck-sized crush on somebody else’s boyfriend.

2

I back Fred down
the driveway. I refuse to use car mirrors, despite the warnings from my old driver’s ed instructor about the dangers of looking over one’s shoulder. So my head is turned backward while I inch onto Elm, gravel crunching as if I’m breaking it. How could turning around to back out be less safe than backing by mirrors? Side mirrors lie. They even admit it in tiny white letters that warn: OBJECTS IN MIRROR MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR. How can you trust a mirror like that? It’s like thinking you’re skinny because you’re in front of the right mirror in the funhouse.

Fred is my Dodge Neon, bright blue, circa 1997. I love Fred. Dad turned it over to me when he got the Blazer.

Turned it over to you FREE and even paid your insurance, you ungrateful, ugly American
,
Plain Jane
is quick to add.

It takes me about ten minutes to make the drive to Attila High, also known as Attila Ill here in Attila, Illinois. The sun’s still trying to find a spot in the gray sky where it can pop out. November in Illinois is no April in Paris.

I use the time to prepare myself for what I know will be waiting for me at school. Cassie, for sure. Jessica, Samantha, Nicole, Lauren. The Girls have probably been heating up the airwaves with cell phone energy, pooling information and observations about last night. They will not like what they undoubtedly see as a potentially dangerous development in the peaceful coexistence of our group.

A family tree diagram of The Girls would show two major branches. There’s the simple branch with Cassie, Jessica, Samantha, and me. And then there’s the slightly twisted branch with Star at the tip, supported by Nicole and Lauren. This twisted branch shoves its way to the top of the tree as it fights for a position above all other branches. To the casual observer, The Girls are one big happy family tree, with leaves connecting all branches and providing group shade. But from the inside, The Girls are all too aware of the delicate system of interlocking branches, the swaying and creaking of those branches in the wind.

The Girls will not like this perceived threat to the tranquility of the tree. They will not like it, but they will love talking about it.

For the millionth time, I wish Alicia hadn’t graduated ahead of me. Alicia Freedman is my true best friend. But now she’s off in another world at Southern Illinois University, with college and fraternity guys. And I’m back here, trying to survive high school . . . with all these high schoolers.

This morning, it will be up to me to say the right things that will preserve all remaining high school female friendships still available to me. I will have to convince The Girls that of course I would never do anything to hurt one of The Girls. And I wouldn’t. Of course. I was not, absolutely not, making a play for Star’s boyfriend, even though I know he’s unhappy with Star, who has never been known for her faithfulness to any boy. Even though said boyfriend does smell like the forest after a rain and is the only human worthy of the cliché about “eyes that twinkle.”

No. None of this matters. I would never do anything to upset The Girls. So surely all will be well.

I park Fred, and The Girls are on me before I switch off the ignition.

“Hi, guys!” I call, as they back away enough to let me out of the car. I lock it and face them. I’m going for a look that says, “What’s going on? Did I miss something? Duh.”

It’s just three-on-one at the moment. Cassie, Jessica, and Samantha against me. All part of the
good
branch.

Cassie is the first to speak, probably because her home was the scene of the crime. “We wanted to . . . well, we thought you ought to know. People are talking, Mary Jane.”

I frown. Think deer caught in the headlights meets Snow White. "Talking? About what?” I sling my backpack over one shoulder and start heading in to school.

Jessica elbows Cassie, who says, “About Jackson. It’s all over school.”

“Huh?”

“Seriously,” Cassie continues. “I mean, Star’s
got
to know.”

“Okay,” I say, doing my best to maintain the Snow White deer look, which isn’t easy because
Plain Jane
is calling me a slut. Never mind the fact that the only time Jackson and I touched was when our hands met under fluffy white puffs of corn in the popcorn bowl. “Star’s got to know what?”

Lauren and Nicole are coming toward us, and the odds have just slipped to five against one.

“Hey, Lauren! Hi, Nicole!” I wave.

They don’t.

Nicole is the big deal in Thespians. She’s had the lead in every play since first grade. Right now, she could be auditioning for
Gone With the Wind,
the part where somebody breaks the news to Scarlett that the Civil War thing is out of hand.

“We have to talk, Mary Jane!” Nicole exclaims. She glances both ways, as if crossing a street, although we’re all on the sidewalk. I suspect she’s making sure she has an audience.

“We’ve just been with Star,” Lauren adds.

Someone gasps. I think it’s Samantha.

“Star?” I glance from friend to friend.

“She was crying,” Nicole whispers.

The Girls emit sympathetic
ah
s.

So do I. I think I’m drawn in by Nicole’s acting ability.

Nicole shakes her head and sighs deeply, empathetically, dramatically.

“Star’s crying?” I ask. But I don’t believe it—not for one minute. Star Simons shedding tears? In kindergarten, she thought
Bambi
was funny, and that includes the big-bang scene with the offstage deer mom. I’ve seen Star remain unmoved when everybody else in fifth grade cried their heads off because our class pet, Ginny the Guinea, got loose and ate Mars, Venus, and Pluto from Jenny Strand’s Styrofoam science project and died right in the middle of our classroom, her little guinea pig legs all pointing to the ceiling fan.

“Wait a minute. You’re not trying to tell me that Star’s crying because of me?” I ask, clarifying things. “Or because of something I’ve done? No way!”

Nicole is obviously Star’s direct ambassador. “The guys, well, some of them, the ones who were at Cassie’s with us last night, I guess they’ve been all over how you and Jackson . . .”

“Jackson?” I’m offended. “And
me?
Who said anything about Jackson and
me?
”

“I know
we
didn’t say anything,” Jessica offers, glancing at the others for nods of assent.

“There’s nothing to say!” I insist. “I can’t believe anybody would even think about Jackson and me in the same thought.”

The
Plain Jane
inside my head reminds me that I have thought of little else for the past twelve hours, that I purposely and traitorously got up early and spent extra time on my hair this morning in case I happened to bump into Jackson in the hall. She calls me
disloyal
for fixing my hair and adds that it doesn’t look that great anyway.

I try again. “I would never hurt Star. Doesn’t she know that? Jackson and I were just goofing around.”

“She’s really upset,” Nicole says, not letting go of her ambassador mission.

“You guys
were
pretty chummy,” Jessica offers.

“You really did look like you were talking,” Samantha agrees.

M.J.
is screaming in my head,
Excuse me? Did I miss the part where Star and Jackson got engaged?

“Plus,” Nicole begins, glancing away, as if searching the audience for answers, “Star knows about you and Jackson leaving the party together.”

“Leaving together?” My voice cracks. “To get more pop? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I turn to Cassie. “You were all about me going out to get more pop, Cassie!”

She shrugs, noncommittal, apparently waiting to see how all this shakes down.

“Fred was practically the only car there!” I remind them. “We had popcorn and no pop! Okay, no diet. And you can’t count ginger ale. Unless you’re desperate. Or hurling. Somebody had to go.”

“And somebody named Jackson had to go along for the ride?” Lauren mutters.

“He volunteered!” I protest. “Nobody else did. Massive pop is heavy, in case you haven’t noticed.”

The truth is, I was so nervous being in Fred alone with Jackson that I couldn’t have taken advantage of the situation if I’d wanted to. We drove to Fast Gas two blocks from Cassie’s house, bought pop, and I drove us back. I think we talked about the weather, although I did make him laugh once.

Nicole takes it upon herself to set out the facts of the case for the jury. “I’m just saying that Star knows you and Jackson left the party together . . . and came back together.”

“After four minutes!” I cry. “With diet pop!”

Plain Jane
has stopped calling me
slut
and is now whispering that I should just calm down and assure my friends that this whole discussion is simply too silly for words. I’m not pretty enough to be anybody’s girlfriend, much less Jackson House’s.

And suddenly, I don’t know who to believe.
Plain Jane
or
M.J.
? Nicole and Lauren or me? I don’t know what to think. Or what’s really real. What if I am actually turning into a boyfriend thief? That is so not me! I am and always have been loyal and true to The Girls.

“Help me, you guys!” I sniff with total sincerity. The tears that are making my friends blurry are real. “I can’t stand having you guys think I did something wrong. I can’t take it if you’re all mad at me.”

“Oh, Mary Jane, we’re not mad at you!” Cassie gives me a hug. She’s an inch shorter than I am, with too-blonde hair that can change faster than a chameleon. When she hugs me, all seven of her stairstepped silver earrings cut into my chin. Thank heavens she’s wearing a coat, or who knows what damage her belly rings could cause.

“Promise? You believe me, don’t you?” I ask. “Because I really didn’t mean anything. You know me. I was just horsing around.”

“The guys are calling it flirting,” Nicole relays.

“Flirting? I wasn’t flirting! Why would they say that? Why would those guys try to start trouble? Why would they make something up about Jackson and me? I feel so horrible that Star bought into this trash. I feel like it’s my fault.”

Jessica and Samantha have joined in the group hug. Nicole and Lauren stay where they are, apparently firmly in the Star camp.

“You didn’t do anything,” Jessica says. She lets go, backing out of the hug, and I can see she’s crying, too, which makes me cry more, which . . .