Going Vintage (15 page)

My flowers are on Mom’s desk. I grip the glass vase and pause when I see a flash of light on the computer screen.

If I checked Friendspace, or my e-mail, no one would ever know. I mean, what if the stuff on there isn’t that bad? What if Jeremy wrote me this incredibly heartfelt e-mail that explains his devastating split-personality disorder? The screen flashes again. There’s a page open with a blinking font. “COUPON ALERT! COUPON ALERT!”

I click off the site, obviously a pop-up. The mouse is smooth and yielding in my hand. I’m about to open another window when I hear Ginnie yell down the hallway. “Just because you’re living in the sixties doesn’t mean you need to move like you’re sixty!”

No, I can’t. My skin prickles and I rush out with the
flowers. No one will know, but I will, and if I give in to the technology temptation now, all this work is for nothing. No, insert older word.

All for naught.

Oliver Kimball is waiting at my locker before first period. I see him and stop walking. Do I really need my trig book? Can I get by without it? No. Too late. He’s spotted me.

“Hey.” I rush through my locker combination and shove a textbook inside. I don’t know why I’m in such a hurry. So the kid wants to talk about something administrative. It’s all business. He didn’t even remember my name yesterday. “What’s going on?”

“Why didn’t you call me back last night?”

I don’t look at him, just keep arranging books and binders with feigned purpose. “Did you call?”

“First I e-mailed you, but you never wrote back.”

“Sorry, no e-mail.”

“Figures. Then I had to go Sherlock and find a phone book, text Jeremy, ask what your dad’s name is so I could find the listing, and call your home phone number.”

“You asked Jeremy?” I slam my locker shut.

“Uh, yeah. He should know since you two were make-out buddies for the past year.”

“He was my boyfriend, not my—”

“Right, whatever.” Oliver leans against the locker. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his right bicep flexes. I never
thought of Oliver having biceps, but yep. He does. Nice ones, if you care about that stuff. Which I don’t, because muscles are just a bunch of mass and … sinews under his skin. And I’m not thinking about his skin or sinews, or any guy’s skin and sinews for a very long time, because I’m still trying to get over Jeremy’s … sinews.

That’s an awful word, isn’t it?

“Not whatever. He
was
my boyfriend. Past tense.”

“So. Present tense. I’m getting really geared up for pep club. It’s so traditionally conformist that it’s uncomformist, you know?”

“Oh no, you aren’t joining to make a statement, are you?” I ask.

“Everything I do makes a statement.” Half grin. Another casual bicep flex.

“Can we hurry up with this statement?”

“I was just saying that although I joined with ulterior motives, I do appreciate an institution that’s so true to what it is, you know? No hidden agendas. They want pep, we deliver.”

I can’t help it. I laugh—he would consider it a nonlaugh, because it drips with scorn. Oliver has on a short-sleeved button-down plaid shirt, slim jeans, and … a loosened tie. The kid is wearing a tie. To school. Biceps are canceled out by his transparency. “Nice tie.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” It’s not his orange STAFF shirt, but the tie is just as obvious. Jeremy always said his cousin wanted everyone to know how different he was from the rest of the school, how
unique, brilliant, and above us all. “It’s just … it must be exhausting to look like you’re not trying.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He’s befuddled, like no one has ever questioned his style or air.

“Never mind. That was rude. Sorry.”

He gives me a once-over. “You’re not one of those snobby girls who puts everyone down to lift yourself up, are you? You can’t be in my club if you are.”

“It’s
my
club.”

“Still. There are limitations.” He looks down at his outfit. “I was going for presidential. What was your inspiration? Funeral procession?”

He’s not far off. I’m wearing Ginnie’s black shift dress that she got for our great-aunt Wendy’s funeral last spring, along with a gray cardigan. I know it’s not totally 1962, but until I go shopping, I only have so many choices. I change my voice so I sound like a forties gangster. “What do you say you and I blow this joint and hit up a job interview? Sunday school? Or the symphony, see?”

Oliver grins. It’s the first full smile I’ve seen on him. “God, you’re funny. Lacking in pep, of course, but Jeremy never told me how funny you are.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t say anything about Jeremy.” I feel a misplaced loyalty to my ex. He’s always had such a strong opinion about Oliver, and although I realize it’s just that—an opinion—it’s weird discussing Jeremy so openly, so quickly. Especially to his blood relation. The five-minute bell rings. “I have to hurry. First period is across school.”

“Then let’s get to business. Do you think we could have an unofficial pep club meeting today?” Oliver readjusts his black frames. The lenses are thick, so they must be prescription after all. And he wears them almost every day. “I might try to recruit a few more people if you could get the four you have signed up to show. Then we can vote on officers or whatever. And we really need to start planning if we’re going to do something for homecoming.”

“Homecoming?”

“Yeah, every club has to do a float.”

The float was my idea. How’d he know? “A float?”

“Man, you’re echoey.” Oliver starts backpedaling across the hallway. “After school, at the outdoor theater. See you then.”

So the first meeting is Oliver’s idea. I might have to get him his own gavel, because he is taking this presidential thing way too … presidentially.

Paige and Yvonne can’t make the meeting, because they have an SAT prep class at the same time. Ginnie has a half an hour until she has to leave for soccer. I’m most excited that Cardin joined my club, since she’s my most popular friend. Once word gets out that she’s joined, we’ll have five instant sign-ups. Male sign-ups. Yes, Cardin’s
that
kind of popular.

She meets me in the cafeteria after school and links arms with me. “I feel so behind with you. It’s like you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth since you broke up with Jeremy.”

“Cardin, that was only six days ago.”

“Really? Seems like forever.”

“Feels new to me.”

“Well, I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner. I’ve been calling you, but Paige just told me that you’ve sworn off technology.”

“Only for a while.” Until I finish The List.

“I don’t know how you’re doing that.”

“Neither do I.”

“I guess we’ll plan ahead and set a date to hang out. Put it on the calendar, all official.” She squeezes my elbow. “But I want you to know I’m here for you, ’kay? Breakups blow.”

“Like a hurricane.”

“Is that a song? If not, we need to write it.”

My empty heart feels fuller, like when the Grinch unstole Christmas. “Thanks for joining pep club.”

“Girl, there aren’t a lot of clubs I can get into, but pep?” Cardin readjusts her bra. There’s plenty to readjust. “Pep I got.”

Cardin has this magnetic pleasantness that nets her a steady stream of boys and a slightly scandalous reputation. We became friends sophomore year when we both tried out for soccer (upon my mother’s urging) and were the only girls who got cut. Cardin just laughed and made me walk with her to Baskin-Robbins to buy “we suck” ice-cream cones.

Pep club needs Cardin.

We push open the cafeteria doors. Our school has an open layout, meaning there aren’t interior hallways, just blocks of buildings with wide spaces in between. The quad, with its
picnic tables and benches, is the hub of the school. The tree next to the outdoor theater is nicknamed “The Tree of Life.” The folklore goes that the tree was there first and they built the school around it. It’s roped off because so many students carve into the poor plant, but it’s still the best spot to sit in the quad on a sunny day. Which is most days in Orange.

Oliver’s decorporate-ified his look with a blue-and-gray reindeer beanie. The large yarn ball on top bobs as he talks to Ginnie and another freshman named Vance. And that’s it. First meeting and we have five people. A rousing start.

Oliver waves us over. “Hey, I was thinking we should trash being democratic and just let everyone pick the office they want.”

“We don’t have everyone here. Should we wait?” I ask.

“No way. I’m dressed for success. So, I want to be president. Are we cool with that?” Oliver lifts an expectant eyebrow.

Ginnie sips on a bottle of iced green tea. “Maybe Vance wants to be president.”

“Oh, I just needed a ride home. Oliver lives on my street.”

“Wow, Oliver. Heavy recruiting,” I say.

“This school has insufficient pep,” he says. “We’ll build on that.”

“I think you’ll be a good president.” Cardin beams at Oliver. She’s not being flirty, just nice, but her niceness comes off as flirty. I should tell her not to bother. She’s an obvious pick—Oliver won’t go for her, because everyone else does. “So I give you my vote.”

“Sounds like a landslide victory for me.” Oliver glances down at a fresh spiral notebook. He already has a pen out and … oh wow. He’s written an extensive list in tiny, slanted caps. No writing tablet or smartphone. He’s a pen-and-paper lister, a beautiful and dying breed. “So first order as president … Wait, we need to introduce ourselves. I’m Oliver Kimball, pep club president. Oh, and Mallory wants to be secretary.”

“I’m vice president!” Ginnie raises her hand. “I never get to be higher up than Mallory. Please?”

“I’m Cardin. I don’t want to be anything,” Cardin says. “Save the other titles for Paige. She loves that stuff.”

“Wait, why don’t you get to be higher than Mallory?” Oliver asks.

Ginnie’s mouth falls open. “Because she’s my big sister? I’m Ginnie? Hello, I talked to you on the phone yesterday.”

“Oliver has a hard time remembering names,” I say.

“Mal-lor-y.” He sticks a hand on his hip. “Pretending to forget your name at ASB was part of my
strategy
. I couldn’t have them thinking I was campaigning for the club just because I knew you.”

“
You
got pep club approved?” Ginnie asks.

“No, I did!” I say. “Oliver thinks just because he’s president, he can take all the credit.”

Oliver waves his hand in the air, no apologies. “Lets stay focused. I can see why Blake uses a gavel.”

“We can make a spirit stick and you have to hold it to talk,” Ginnie offers.

“Uh, maybe.” Oliver scratches his chin, covered with
stubble. Not prepubescent stubble. We’re talking five o’clock manliness. “So, Mallory did a mission statement, but we really need to decide what we want this club to be. Let’s brainstorm.”

Chapter 12