Forever for a Year (3 page)

I didn't care. I didn't. Boys are horrible. All of them. New ones with nice hair and even nicer forearms. And old, dumb ones too.

*   *   *

“CARRIE!” my dad called out as I walked into the kitchen that morning at 6:40 a.m. More like he sang my name. Waving, with a big smile on his face. He liked to do this—sing your name when he was saw you, especially me—because he thought it would make everyone forget he was a big jerk. I would never forget. Never.

“My name is Carolina now, and WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, DAD?” I screamed because his being here ruined everything. Everything, everything, everything.

“Please don't scream at me. What made you decide to start going by Carolina? I like it.” My dad talked like he was the mature one. Which he isn't.

“Why are you here?” I whined. I hate when I do that. I'm too old to whine now. Oh no, I could feel tears forming. No, no, no! I would not cry. I would not let him ruin this day. I'm strong. I'm amazing. I'm a grown woman now.

He said, pretending to be a good parent, “It's your first day of high school. I wanted to see my little girl off. I know your mom had an early shift, so I'm here.”

For, like, maybe one tiny little second I thought this was true. I mean, maybe part of it was true, but for just that tiny second I thought it was the only truth. And I remembered when I loved him, before he hurt my mom. When he was my best friend who I could talk to about anything, and we flew to New York City, just the two of us, just to see a new musical, and he was so wise and interesting and funny and the best dad ever, and … NEVER MIND. I hate thinking about that stuff now. Because then I noticed he didn't have shoes on. He noticed that I noticed.

“Carrie … Carolina,” my dad started, smiling, always thinking he can smile away all the problems he causes. “You're right. I don't have shoes on. Which means I spent the night. You don't miss a thing, do you?” He laughed really big. Like it was sooo cute that he couldn't trick me. “Please don't cry. Oh, my princess, please don't.”

I didn't know I was crying until he said it, which made it worse. My motivational pep talk in my head didn't work. This made me cry more. Why couldn't I be perfect? I wanted to be perfect!

I would be. I WOULD BE. I would be.

Tears were wiped away. Big breath. Chin high. “Scott…”

“Scott? You've never called me that before. So I'm Scott and you're Carolina? High school already marks some big changes. I prefer Dad, but I respect your choices.”

Ignore him? Definitely. “Scott, I will have a discussion tonight with my mother, your ex-wife, about her mistakenly letting you back into her life last night.”

“We're not divorced. We're not getting divorced. Stop talking like that. So cold and stilted. That therapy-speak makes you sound brainwashed, not mature, like you think.”

“I only saw a therapist because of youuu!”

“Carrie, you're being mean. You haven't let me see you all summer. Can you please sit down and talk to me? I want to hear about your new school year.”

“Scott, first off, I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to tell you again that I'm going by Carolina now,” I said, calm, perfect. “Second, I am going back to my bedroom, where I will get my bag, go over my checklist one last time, and then come back here to have breakfast. I am requesting that you be gone when I return so I may enjoy breakfast before my first day of high school in peace.”

He looked down. My dad never cried when he was sad; he just looked down and stopped trying to charm you. I felt bad about making him sad, but then I remembered he ruined my life, and walked back to my room.

After I closed the door to the bedroom, I looked in the mirror. I had been so proud of myself for regaining my composure and speaking to my dad the way I did, I assumed my reflection would show this amazingly powerful young woman. Like a beautiful TV lawyer in a tastefully sexy suit admiring herself before a big case.

But the person in the mirror was just me. Red-eyed and puffy-faced me. Carolina Fisher. Calves too big. Boobs too small. Baggy clothes to hide both. The same shoulder-length brunette bob I'd had since the first grade.

My brother had gotten my father's good looks. I was athletic like my mom. It should have been the opposite. Only now that Heath was in college did his being terrible at sports stop mattering so much to the other boys. And junior high would have been so, so, so much easier if I was popular and all the boys liked me. I wouldn't have liked them, but, well, you know.

I called my mom. She wouldn't pick up, I knew, because she was working, but I felt like leaving a message to let her know she was in trouble. “Mom, I just saw Dad. You and I are going to talk when I get home from school today. I love you, but … Okay. Bye.”

After going over my checklist, which I had completed six days ago but kept because I liked seeing completed checklists, I walked back toward the kitchen, deciding whether I was going to use “therapy-speak” again on my dad or just yell at him. Thinking, thinking, thinking. I was going to yell. Definitely. It made me a bit excited, even. Which was weird and bad, I know, but it just did.

Except when I got to the kitchen, my dad was gone. Aaah! Aaah! Aaah! I hated him for leaving before I could yell at him. Which was stupid since I had told him to leave. But you know what? You know what? I didn't care that it was stupid. I still hated him.

*   *   *

“Who was that guy who sat next to you?” Peggy asked after we left biology.

“Who?” I said, even though I knew she was talking about the new boy I gave the paper to. Why do people do stuff like that? Ask things like
Who?
even though they know exactly who people are referring to? I'm going to stop doing it. I really am.

“You think he's cute, don't you?” she said. Sometimes it's frustrating not being able to lie to Peggy. It's also, obviously, amazing. No matter what else turns bad in the world, I'll always have Peggy, the
best
best friend ever.

I whispered so nobody in the hall could hear except Peggy. “Yes, but he's a jerk. And a jerk can only be cute for a few days.” Then Peggy and I hugged good-bye, and I walked toward my second class.

During Spanish and then third-period literature, I didn't think about the new boy from biology at all. It probably helped that he wasn't in either of those classes, but I was also sure I was back to my normal, focused self.

But then, guess what? We had fourth-period world history together. I made sure to sit in the front center so he wouldn't sit next to me. Because handsome boys always like to sit in the back. But then, guess what? He totally did sit next to me.

Oh.

Wait. A. Minute.

Did this mean he liked me? It must, right? Why else would he sit next to me? What should I do? What should I say? This was impossible. I hated this. I wanted to go to an all-girls school so I could just concentrate on getting good grades and going to a good college and anything besides what a stupid new boy thinks of me!

Wait a minute, Carolina. Silly, silly Carolina.

Obviously he sat by you. Want to know why? Because he needs more sheets of paper. He wants to use you. Some girls get used for sex stuff; I get used for my school supplies.

Without looking at him, I tore two sheets (a neat tear—I hate jagged sheets of paper) and put them on his desk. Only I did it just as he was putting down his own notebook. A new black one.

Oh, my face must have turned sooo red. I felt sooo stupid. I looked like such a clueless geek, right? I AM a clueless geek. Never interact with any boy, ever, ever, ever again. Ever. But then the new boy said, “You're awesome. Thanks. But I went to the school store after biology so I could pay you back.” Then he slid back the two sheets I just gave him PLUS two more empty ones to replace the ones I gave him during first period.

Did I hear that right? He called me awesome, right? He totally did. My gosh. This definitely meant he liked me, right? I wanted to throw up. I wanted to move seats. I WANTED to say something back. I really did. But it needed to sound cool, fun, smart, amazing, and like something he would remember the rest of his life, and my brain couldn't think of anything. Nothing. So I just smiled. It wasn't even a good smile. I'm sure it looked like a mean smile. Like a Shannon Shunton smile. Which is the worst smile ever. The worst.

And then the teacher, Mr. Rivard, started talking, so I couldn't even whisper something simple back like
thank you.
Oh, why couldn't I have just said
thank you
? That would have been so nice if I just could have said that. It would have made everything great; it would have saved everything from being ruined.

Mr. Rivard talked for the whole class because that is what teachers do. Which I usually like in history, especially teachers who get so excited about all the stories from the past that they pace and even sweat a little bit. Mr. Rivard was definitely sweating too, but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. I mean, I was writing a bunch of notes down, so I must have sort of heard it, I suppose, right? But it had to be only the tiny part of my brain that tells my hand what to do, because what I was really thinking about was what I would say to the new boy at the end of class to make up for my stupid, snobby smile that I totally didn't mean but was now the only thing he knew about me. Yes, he knew I gave him the sheets of paper, but that was sooo long ago. The terrible smile was the last thing he saw, and he was going to hate me just like all the boys in eighth grade.

Maybe that's why I was obsessing about him. Which was so against my rules to NEVER OBSESS ABOUT BOYS and so unlike me. But, see, he was new, you know? He didn't know anyone from eighth grade. He didn't know that all the boys didn't like me or talk to me. He didn't know there was, like, this secret rule that you couldn't like Carolina Fisher.

But I totally messed that up.

Which was fine. Yes, Carolina, it's fine. It's better this way. School. Soccer. Peggy. No distractions. I was fine. It was fine. Everything was amazing. Always. Definitely.

 

4

Trevor follows orders

“What up, Trev,” my cousin Henry said as I sat next to him and some other freshman football players at lunch. Henry is my uncle Hank's son. He's a year younger and always looked up to me when we were kids, even though we'd only see each other once a year. But now we were in the same grade. At his school. Where he knew everyone. Was friends with everyone. And I was this new, strange kid who everyone probably labeled as the boy with the mom who tried to kill herself. My dad said Henry promised his parents he wouldn't tell anyone, but who knows. You know? The two times I had seen Henry since we'd moved to Riverbend, he'd acted strange. Like I didn't really belong there. Which I didn't. I don't belong anywhere.

Henry turned to his friends and said, “Guys, this is my cousin Trevor. But his last name is Santos, not McCarthy. My dad and his mom are brother and sister. So that's why his last name is Mexican and not American.” What Henry said was true. I still wanted to beat his face in. In Los Angeles, I was half white and nobody cared. Here, I'd be half Mexican and everyone would care even if they pretended they didn't. What nobody knew unless they met my dad was that he acts whiter than most white people. His name is Robert Santos. He was born Roberto but dropped the “o.” He's a sellout like that.

“So why aren't you on the team? Are you not a good athlete like Henry?” one of the kids asked.

“I'm okay,” I said. Truth was, I was better. Henry knew it but just sat silently. “My dad said he might call the coach and see if I can play even though you started practice already.” Why was I saying crap I didn't want to say?

“No way Coach Pollina would go for that, Trev. First game is Friday. Sorry,” Henry said, not looking at me.

“No worries.” Whatever. I wished this day was over. Just wanted to go home and sleep.

“Have any hot girls in your classes?” another kid asked. His name was Jake. He was over six feet tall. Maybe six feet wide too. But baby-faced like a fifth grader.

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said back.

“You like one already?” Jake said. “Who? Who? Who? Tell us and we'll let you know if it's okay.”

Don't say anything, Trevor. But I couldn't listen to my own self. I suck. “She's brunette. Really pretty.”

“What's her name?” Jake asked. Now all twelve freshman football players were looking at me.

“I don't know her name. She's cool.” Though she ignored me in history. Probably knows how beautiful she is and doesn't want to be nice to every guy who tries to talk to her. Girls are always playing games like that.

“What class do you have with her?”

“Why's it matter?” I asked.

“Because how else are we supposed to know who she is?”

“Biology and history, but that probably won't help—”

“Carrie Fisher,” another kid said. He was wearing a white hoodie, and I think people called him Licker. He was in my history class. Figured that out too late. He added, “I heard she wants to be called Carolina now.”

“The Princess!” Jake screeched, cackling like some gremlin jumping in gold coins.

“Carrie Fisher's a loser, Trev,” Henry said. Matter-of-fact. “You can't like her.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. Just accepting Henry's order as if he were my goddamn lord and master. What was my problem? This was my idiot younger cousin who used to throw crybaby hissy fits when his parents put vegetables on his plate at Thanksgiving. This was why I hated school! Makes you think crap matters when it doesn't! Makes you listen to idiots! Makes you act like someone you aren't! Get me out of here!

But I didn't say anything. I didn't go anywhere. Just sat there nodding, or maybe I didn't move at all. My brain was turning dark. Hot. Ready to explode and blow up the entire school. But my body must have been still. So still. I must have seemed so calm. Nobody can tell anything about anyone. We are all a big mystery to one another.