Crazy in Love (5 page)

“Seriously,” Tim says, “how come you walked up to our table?”

“Okay, Tim. I’ll tell you. But you have to keep it a secret.”

They’re quiet, all two tons of jocks leaning in to hear.

“I’m conducting a psych experiment. It’s for my psychology class. I’m trying to prove that jocks can, too, do two things at once, like eat and talk.”

Half of them groan. Half of them laugh.

Brad’s in my psych class, but I wonder if he knows it because we’ve never talked before today.

“We’re not doing psych experiments in that class,” Brad says, answering my unspoken question about whether or not he knows we’re in the same class. He knows.

"Extra credit,” I insist. "You’d know this if you didn’t sleep so much in class.”

This gets approving
ooh
s and
ouch
es from my jock fans.

Brad turns to Tim. “She calls our prof ‘Sigh Fry.’” Then he turns back to me. “Tell ’em why.”

I’m stunned that Brad knows my pet name for our teacher, Geraldine Fry. But I recover from this information and turn to the mass of jocks hanging on my every word. “Okay. Her last name’s Fry, so that part should be easy, even for you, Tim.” I get the laughter I so richly deserve. I am on a roll here. “The first part is tougher, so pay attention. This woman starts every answer to every question with a deep, soul-shaking sigh. For example, Brad here might ask, ‘What do you call it when you think somebody’s out to get you?’ And Sigh Fry will give this deep sigh, as if to say, ‘What did I do to deserve this classroom of idiots?’ and then answer, ‘Paranoid.’ Hence, she is dubbed ‘Sigh,’ as in ‘s-i-g-h’ Fry.”

“Excellent,” Tim says, nodding.

I don’t eat one bite of food the entire lunch hour, but I’ve never had a better lunch in my entire life.

Kids at other tables are getting up and dumping trash when Brad whispers to me, “I hear you had a real good time with Jackson last night.”

My throat goes dry. Something about the way he said it makes me want to hear
Plain Jane
in my head. But she isn’t speaking to me. So I have to go with
M.J.
But my stomach feels like I’ve just eaten pizza sauce for breakfast, even though I haven’t.

“I try to have a good time wherever I am and whoever I’m with.” I wave my hand over the jock table. “Case in point.”

“Oooh,” Tim croons as he climbs off the bench and lifts his tray. “Mary Jane’s a good time for all.”

As I dump the lunch remains into the trash can, I can’t believe I just said what I did. I didn’t mean it—not
that
way. Not Tim’s way. I think I’m going to hurl as I imagine those words scrawled on bathroom walls throughout Attila Ill:

CALL MARY JANE— A GOOD TIME FOR ALL.

6

Dazed, I spend
the entire next hour contemplating my reputation, instead of contemplating the sociology of third-world countries like everybody else in my political science class. Could my reputation possibly be up for grabs—over four minutes?
Four
missing minutes?

I’ve never had to think much about my reputation. I used to feel like I was the only student at Attila Ill who hadn’t done
it.
According to guys, they’ve all had sex 137 times by the time they enter high school. Girls may not brag about
it
as much as guys (I mean, that would be impossible), but rumors fly, and girls don’t deny. Nobody wants to be seen as a player, but you don’t want to be the only puritan left either.

It was my friend Alicia who set me straight. She said that, contrary to the juice coming from the school grapevine, most high school girls haven’t done
it.
They just don’t admit the fact. The night before Alicia started high school, she and I and a friend of hers named Red, short for Rianna Elizabeth Douglas, made a pact to “save ourselves” for the one true love of our lives. Well, one for each of us.

Since then, I’ve managed to secure dates for most of the major high school events, and I’ve had guys take me out for movies and hamburgers and parties. But I’ve never really had the opportunity to break the pact. So my so-called reputation has been a nonissue.

Until now.

I finger Jackson’s pencil approximately 736 times the rest of the afternoon and avoid direct eye contact with males and females alike. I don’t have to pay for my lunch sins until the end of the day, when I have last-hour study hall with Jessica and Cassie.

Nobody should be forced to spend the last hour of school in the library. They can’t possibly think anyone will study. It’s not the last minute for any class. What’s the use?

The Girls and I sit in the back corner behind the biggest books, the reference shelves. That way we are farthest away from Ms. Lake, who looks so much like a librarian should that I suspect she’s impersonating one and one day we’ll find out she’s a wanted serial ax murderer hiding out from the FBI. Her round face is the epitome of pleasant, framed by curly, dark hair. She wears silk scarves every day with library memorabilia on them, like books and library cards.

When Ms. Lake interrupts our library conversations, she does so with index finger pressed to her thin lips as she whispers, “Quiet, please!”

You have to love this woman, ax murderer or no, symbol of the American library.

I make a pit stop in the girls’ bathroom before reporting to the library. You couldn’t pay me to actually use the johns in this room, of course. I’d rather my sides split from holding it. I just need a minute to collect myself before facing The Girls in study hall.

Nobody’s in the john, except a group of freshmen girls, who don’t know any better. As I wash my hands at the sink, I watch them in the mirror and wonder if I was ever that young and carefree.

I glimpse myself in the smudged glass reflection, and for one second I don’t recognize this stranger drying her hands on a paper towel. I can’t look away from her as she stares back at me. Inside my head, voices are describing what I’m looking at, Mary Jane Ettermeyer:

If I’m ever wanted by the police, I hope the voices in my head are the only witnesses to the crime. I’d like them to be the ones describing me to the police artist. Nobody would ever catch Mary Jane Ettermeyer.

I tell Ms. Lake I’m sorry as I arrive late to study hall. She shakes her head and gives me a sweet smile, undoubtedly so that I won’t suspect her real profession, ax murdering. Still, I’m less afraid of her than I am of The Girls, who are waiting for me, just as I knew they would be.

“Hey, guys,” I call, taking the seat between Cassie and Jessica, the chair they’ve obviously left for me. It feels a bit like taking the witness stand.

Samantha is on the other side of Jessica. She’s no more firmly entrenched in the popular group than I am and has been known to flit from branch to branch. But she’s in on this, whatever
this
is.

I glance down at Cassie’s feet. “Sweet! Great kicks, Cassie.”

This momentarily puts her off track. “You think?” She raises her crossed leg so she can admire her new shoes. They’re Doc Martens. “I loved them in the store,” she explains. “Now I’m not so sure. You think they go with jeans?”

She’s wearing Levi’s, and the shoes don’t go.

“Yeah,” I lie. “They’re so fly. Wish I had a pair like them.” Which I would only wear if I were dead.

Jessica clears her throat with meaning.

“Anyway,” Cassie begins, “we need to talk, Mary Jane. I don’t think you have any idea what people are saying about you.”

“Me?” The surprise in my voice isn’t fake. I’m an under-the-radar kind of gal. The thought of people talking about me makes me have to swallow three times before I can breathe normally.

“Seriously, Mary Jane,” Jessica chimes in. “What’s gotten into you?”

I look from Jessica, to Samantha, to Cassie. There’s concern there, worry even. And friendship. I feel like I’m slipping, falling.

Samantha leans in front of Jessica and whispers, “What were you thinking? Why would you sit at the jock table?”

“I know.” I stare down at my hands, hands that fed jocks. The Girls are getting to me. They’re melting my defenses. I can feel it happening. I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears. I love these people. I need them to like me.

“You’re right.” I look to Cassie. “I don’t know how it happened. I—I knew you guys didn’t want me at
your
table. I was so upset. I didn’t know where to go.”

“What do you mean we didn’t want you at our table?” Cassie demands.

“Because everybody hates me now!” My voice cracks as I say it. And it’s so loud that the ax murderer glances our way.

Cassie puts her hand on my arm. “We don’t hate you!” she insists.

“How could you think that?” Jessica seconds.

“We’re just worried about you,” Samantha adds.

“You’re not mad?” I ask, amazed, relieved, repentant.

“How could we be mad at you?” Cassie asks, squeezing my arm. “But . . .”

I knew there would be a
but,
and I brace myself.

“But,” Cassie continues, “you’ve got to get a grip, girl. It’s like you’re edging toward a cliff or something. You’re in self-destruct mode.”

“And Nicole’s right,” Samantha says. “Star really is hurt.”

“Why?” I ask, wondering how Samantha knows this. “Because of Jackson? Jackson wasn’t even at the jock table.”

“Not about lunch,” Samantha explains, which proves she’s been talking to Star. “About last night. Things are really messed up.”

M.J.
has about thirty-seven defensive comebacks for the branch hopper. She’s shouting all of them to my brain at once. I will not listen to
M.J.
, though. She’s the one who got me into this mess in the first place.

“Make it right, Mary Jane,” Cassie advises in a therapeutic tone of voice.

“What am I supposed to do?” The question is rhetorical. I think.

“
Talk
to Star.”

This suggestion sounds about as inviting as “Pet the snake.”

“It’s the only way,” Jessica chimes in.

“Tell her you’re sorry,” Cassie continues.

If you ask me, Star should be the one telling Jackson
she’s
sorry for dating behind his back. But nobody asks me, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

Cassie is relentless. “Tell her she’s got nothing to worry about.”

I sigh, realizing that this is undoubtedly true and wondering if it would kill me to admit it to Star.

Cassie squeezes my arm again. “Mary Jane, I really think you need to do this. It’s our senior year. I just want us all to get along and have the best year ever. We’ve waited our whole lives for this. Don’t screw it up.”

Cassie says this so earnestly that I find myself agreeing with her. I’m nodding. I want a great senior year, too.

“Don’t look now, but Lauren’s watching you,” Jessica whispers.

I look. Can’t help myself. Lauren’s pretending to read her history book, but I can see her seeing me.

“Do it, Mary Jane,” Cassie whispers. “Talk to Star fast, before this goes any further.”

By the time study hall is over, I’ve made my decision. No doubt I will continue to long for Jackson House, to cherish his pencil, perhaps even to write his name in my diary, if I start keeping a diary. But I will hide these things inside for the sake of The Girls, of whom I am one. Not only that, but I’ll make peace. The
Plain Jane
in me can hardly believe that Star actually feels threatened by me. But I don’t want to take any chances. I’ll talk to Star for the good of the family tree, to root out the discord and let us all blossom into our senior year.

Star’s locker is in the east hall, so I get my things out of my locker and hurry down the hall, hoping I’m not too late. I want to get this over with.

She’s at her locker, squatting in front of it, reaching for something. Star Simons really is the prettiest girl at Attila Ill. Her auburn hair looks as great now as it did in the morning, bouncy and shiny, shampoo-commercial hair.

I walk up to her. “Hey, Star.”

She looks up. If she’s surprised to see me, it doesn’t show.

She gets up, carrying a stack of books. The smile on her face looks real enough and gives me the courage I need to go on and do what I’ve got to do. It may be my imagination, but I can feel all eyes upon us.

I clear my throat. “Star, there’s a lot of crazy talk going on around here today.”

She cocks her head slightly to one side. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. Her smile is immovable.

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard,” I say, stumbling on with it. “You know. About me. About Jackson. About me and Jackson. Or whatever.”

That head tilts a bit more. Smile still in place.

I forge ahead. “Anyways. I just wanted to tell you myself that I’m sorry, like if you heard something stupid that made you think anything was going on. Like with Jackson and me or anything. Because I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

The smile gets bigger, but somehow I’m not relieved.

“So really that’s all,” I say. “We’re okay then. Right?”

She smiles deeply and shifts the books she’s holding. Then, without changing her expression, with that smile still beaming, she whispers, “Wrong. We are
not
okay.”

Chills invade my body as my blood turns to ice.

Star flashes me another smile and turns to go. “See you, Mary Jane!” she calls back to me, so friendly, so nice, that for a minute I wonder if I dreamed the last ten seconds, like a streak of lightning that flashes in a clear sky, leaving you to doubt your own eyes once it’s gone.