Ink Is Thicker Than Water (5 page)

“This is Sara’s thing,” Russell says, obviously way too much under Mom’s influence. “Let her figure this one out on her own.”

Chapter Four

“You know what I heard people are doing?”

I slap Kaitlyn’s hand away as she attempts to switch the radio station from oldies. When I’d gotten the old T-Bird from Russell’s mom, Ginger had left the radio on the oldies station, and I’d realized I never really wanted to change it. There’s something about old music, and old movies, too, that just suits me better. Stuff today seems so slick and assembled by marketing teams or whatever. I like things that are just what they are.

“What are people doing?” I ask. Kaitlyn’s car is in the shop so I’m driving her to school today.

“Going over the river. There’s some club there that doesn’t check IDs.” The last three words are said in this exuberant hush, like we’d entered the church of underage drinking.

“Why do you care about that?” I’m not trying to sound snotty; I just genuinely don’t get it.

“What do you mean, why? It’s what people do.”

“What people?” I ask. “Garrett?”

“No, Josie Hayes and Lora Benning were telling me about it in French class.” She shrugs a little. “I just thought it could be fun.”

“Good for them,” is all I say. But I sound like a jerk so I smile. “I could never get away with driving to Illinois and sneaking into some club. If my parents found out…”

Somehow it sounds better to have dorky parents than admit that the mere thought of this illicit activity has me refraining like heck from rolling my eyes. I was fine with Kaitlyn figuratively drooling all over Garrett, given that he has good hair and a great butt and always smells like an Abercrombie and Fitch store. But emulating that whole crowd is another story.

“Kellie, God, you wouldn’t
ask
your parents. We just say we’re going somewhere else.” Kaitlyn sighs. “Sorry. I just thought you’d be into it. And everyone’s been, like,
so
understanding about Garrett, you know? It’d be fun to hang out with them this weekend.”

“You should go with Josie and Lora, then.” I try to sound really enthusiastic about this suggestion, even though Josie and Lora are the kinds of girls who used to laugh at us—and probably still do—because even safely ensconced in the hippie-dippy walls of Ticknor, people can be terrible to one another. Hopefully, Kait will remember that before this weekend. Watching her cry over Garrett was bad enough.

“Never mind. It’s really not a big deal,” Kaitlyn says, thank God. Maybe her sanity has been restored.

When I get to class, Jennifer is caught up in conversation with Adelaide Johansson, one of those genius kids who seems to spend more time talking to teachers than fellow students, probably because she has the name of an ancient person, so the coast seems clear to look at Oliver’s message. Again. Maybe the two-billionth reading will be illuminating.

“Kellie, phone away.”

Grrrr, caught. I make a big show of turning it off (read: clicking it to silent) and tossing it into my purse. This is about the safest place to do anything against school policy; Jennifer is so eager for our approval she isn’t about to turn into the bad guy.

“You remember about the meeting tonight, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I say even though once again my brain is too crowded with thoughts of Oliver’s lips on my cheek, my neck, my mouth, and other places to have much room left for the school paper.

“I’m glad you’re joining.” Adelaide turns to face me from the desk in front of mine. I only sit behind her because she’s five-foot-even, and so seeing notes on the board is never an issue. “I really like your style. Most people struggle with that balance of irreverent and intelligent, but you nailed it.”

I sort of nod, because, okay, I’m not like Kaitlyn and ready to move closer to the world of people like Lora and Josie, but let’s be real. In another universe, sure, Adelaide would definitely be in the popular crowd, and actually, back in grade school she was. She’s tiny and blond with a seemingly endless supply of new clothes—qualities that, once you hit middle school, won’t save you if you’re also a crazy overachiever. Adelaide is always collecting signatures for petitions or raising her hand in class to answer questions with way too much knowledge or hanging posters in the hallway to stop world hunger and pollution and abuse and lots of things. Of course I’m against that stuff, too, but come on. Sure, I want to do more than I’d been doing, but if the newspaper is going to force me to associate with this brand of person, well, I might need a little more time to warm up. You probably have to become an achiever before you can be casual with overachievers.

At lunch I’m vaguely listening to the guys at my table describing whatever movie they saw last night that involved someone’s face getting
punched off
when Kaitlyn drops into the chair next to me.

“I was just talking to Jessie Weinberg,” Kaitlyn says. “I guess she used to be super close with Brandy, so she totally has an inside scoop. I should have talked to her on Saturday instead of running out.”

“You were upset,” I say. “You were fine running out. And we had more fun at the diner anyway.”

Kaitlyn kind of cocks her head at me. “We had more fun watching your sister’s boyfriends’ friends have a toast-eating contest than I would have if I’d gotten anywhere with Garrett?”

I guess she has me there, but I still feel like just a couple of months ago a night out with Sara and crew would have ranked up there on really good nights for both of us. Of course I wanted Kaitlyn to find true love or at least a hot guy to make out with, but not at the expense of who she was. Not at the expense of who
we
were as friends.

“After school we could go hang out at Java Joint,” I say. “We can fully discuss this without anyone around.”

“Sure.” Kaitlyn jumps up with her wallet in hand. “Want anything while I’m up?”

“No, I brought a sandwich, and crap, I actually can’t go out after school today, and I can’t take you home. I have this thing I need to do.” I can’t admit to her in this specific moment that it’s the paper, that I am going to be in the company of the overachievers it seems we’ve at least indirectly tried to avoid being. But luckily she shrugs and accepts
this thing I need to do
as an acceptable excuse before walking off.

“I heard you’re joining the paper.” My friend Mitchell chomps on the cold pizza he brings for lunch nearly every day. It makes me wonder how his girlfriend Chelsea can stand to kiss him.

“From where? That’s the lamest gossip ever.”

Chelsea giggles at Mitchell. For some reason, he still answers seriously. “Adelaide. She was going on and on about your submission.”

“Are you on the paper?” I ask, and Mitchell nods. Maybe that makes me seem like a bad friend. Should I know everyone’s extracurriculars? I guess I figured most of us didn’t have any. Ticknor is a pretty safe place not to have to try too hard, if you don’t want to.

“I’m the photo editor,” he says. “Chels is one of the photographers. It’s pretty cool, actually. You’re gonna like it.”

I didn’t know about that, but at least I’d have people to hang out with.

“Weird,” Chelsea murmurs, and I follow her sightline through our open courtyard to see Kaitlyn in line for a salad with Lora and Josie.

“Oh, Kait’s friends with them now,” I say like it’s no big deal at all. “I guess she’s expanding her circle of acquaintances to include even the most heinous among us. She’s in line for the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Everyone laughs, and normal conversation resumes. Except now I don’t feel much like joining in.

By the time the school day ends, I’m so ready to start my new life as A Writer, that when I walk into Jennifer’s classroom, I can’t even be bothered to pretend I don’t see Adelaide when she starts yammering at me about new staff member initiation.

Though, really—initiation? What have I gotten myself into?

“Hey, Kell.” Mitchell waves and points toward the open desk to his right, as if there are more than eight people in the room and I would have a tricky time figuring out where to sit.

“Is there really an initiation?” I ask, my voice as quiet as I can make it. Maybe it’s genetics or maybe it’s just growing up in a house with Mom as an example, but while most people have an indoor voice and an outdoor voice, I on the other hand have an outdoor voice and a stadium voice.

“Of course there’s an initiation.” Adelaide walks over from her spot at Jennifer’s desk and hands me a roll of toilet paper. “Go on, take some.”

What kinds of things does the newspaper staff actually do together? Suddenly I am kind of scared, and not just of becoming classified as a full-on geek. “I’d rather not.”

“Adelaide, don’t frighten our new members,” Jennifer says as she walks into the room. “Kellie, don’t look so horrified. I promise it has nothing to do with anything that’s sprung to mind so far.”

While that doesn’t exactly settle me, I pull off a wad of toilet paper and hand the roll to Adelaide, who bounds back up to Jennifer’s desk to deposit it in a drawer, her bright red skirt bouncing like a cartoon.

Being the new one in a room of kids who actually care about being here when they all have to know I’m someone who just got lucky and normally struggles to keep up a B average is awkward enough. Now the room fills while I sit there holding a clump of Cottonelle.

“Maybe you should put that down.” Mitchell gives me a wide smile I’m 90 percent sure is what made Chelsea fall for him. Despite his cold-pizza habit, Mitchell is pretty cute. “You look like you’re getting ready to—”

“Shut up.” But I laugh.

“Okay, now that everyone’s here, I want to introduce Kellie Brooks, who’s writing our new humor column,” Jennifer says. “As for the toilet paper, Kellie, you have to tell us something about yourself for each square you took.”

I’m a certified over-user of toilet paper, actually; one of my most humiliating memories is that, two days after Russell had moved in with us officially, everyone had been out of the house but us and I’d completely clogged the toilet. Nothing makes you and your new stepdad bond like watching him plunge the toilet in your bathroom. So I guess habit is the only way to explain why there are literally twenty-two sheets of toilet paper wadded up on my desktop.

“I don’t think there are twenty-two things to say about me.”

“We all had to do it,” Mitchell says.

I shoot dagger-looks at Chelsea because she never warned me her boyfriend is a complete traitor.

It is probably the lamest list anyone has ever offered up, especially considering these kids are all Academic Achievers (what Ticknor calls their honor roll) and driven, and I’d landed in this slot in what Mom would have called a lark. Also I’m writing a humor column, and that’s a lot of pressure. But I actually get laughter when I start with
Number one: my first name is Kellie. Number two: my middle name is Louise. Number three: my last name is Brooks. Number four: yes, the “Louise Brooks” thing was on purpose, because number five: my mom thought I’d appreciate being sort of named after one of the most glamorous women of all time in her opinion.
Jennifer takes that opportunity to pull up a picture of Louise Brooks on her computer and project it on the wall, so everyone will know what the heck I’m talking about. And kids sort of ooh at her beauty, which makes me strangely proud.

By the time I hit number eleven (
I spend a lot of time teaching my little brother the difference between pirates and ninjas
), I’m sort of enjoying this. Nobody looks annoyed with me, there is a lot of laughter (and you can tell it’s that whole laughing
with
me, not
at
me thing), and the truth is I’m sort of disappointed after number twenty-two (
In five and a half years, I will be twenty-two myself
, which, let’s face it, isn’t even very funny) that I can’t keep going. I mean, I thought I was funny all the time, but this is the first time I’ve subjected a roomful of people who aren’t family to my big mouth. And this side of me—probably the same one that applied to newspaper in the first place—really likes it.

Adelaide is the editor-in-chief (of course), so once I’m through with basically what boiled down to an ode to myself, she marches to the front of the room with at least twelve times the authority Jennifer ever effuses. “Story ideas, who’s got ’em?”