Maine Squeeze (41 page)

“Look at all the other girls he's gone out with,” Dave said.

“I don't have time. And anyway, I'm not
other girls
,” I said. “I'm me.”

He considered that for a second. Like perhaps it was true? But it wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Maybe I don't love Dave. Maybe I hate him.

“So anyway,” I said. “What did you want to talk about?”

“You know. Stuff. Like maybe us getting back together.”

My heart pounding, my palms sweating, etc. Panic attack.

Then he went on. “I mean, I don't think we should get back together right now. But I think three or four months from now—”

I couldn't believe it. He's
obsessed
with time lines!

“You have these really warped ideas about time and space, you know that? You should be in like a science fiction movie—not my life.”

Was that a great line or what?

I got out and slammed the door. My coat got caught on the window, so I tugged at it. The zipper ripped the Jeep's plastic window like it was a worn-out reused Ziploc bag.

Why did I do that?

Why did he drive down to
say
that? Am I supposed to start planning? Counting down the next four months? He took off down the street. Mr. Novotny was shaking his rake at me, so I ran into the house, lay on the bed, and started crying.

I hate this!

Naturally I called Beth instantaneously. She had the nerve to not even be home yet. Of course Bryan wasn't either so I figured they must have stopped at Safeway or Blockbuster or something. So I called Jane; her mother said she was out shopping for some more new hair accessories to match her new eyeglasses. I wish I had her life. I wish I had anyone else's life right now. Even Oscar's.

Had my first student council meeting today. Since I'm new, I'm supposed to have all the new ideas. I couldn't believe how slowly it was going. Also, the Tom
has
no ideas, unless they're about sex. Mrs. Martinez said how wonderful it was to have me on board and asked what my first issues would be.

I casually mentioned how we should assume a leadership role, for the middle school. The closest one in our district is called Goat Mountain Canyon. Don't ask me how they came up with these names. The area is growing too fast and they ran out of cool names about thirty years ago.

“I like the mentor concept,” I said. “We should help build their futures.” Because with the name Goat Mountain Canyon, they're going to need help building self-esteem.

It sounded good, really. I didn't have much of an idea where I was going with the whole thing when I started, but then I remembered this article I'd read about how a teacher challenged his students to read a certain number of books. If they did, then he vowed to kiss a pig on the lips.

Do pigs have lips? Maybe this teacher kissed the snout. Anyway, there was a picture of him in the paper, because the kids read even more than he challenged them to, and I thought it was great.

So I suggested we challenge the Goats. A peer pressure sort of thing to see if they could read as much as we did.

Nobody cared about the kids reading the books, but they got really excited about some dare that we'd have to pull off or be subjected to. All of a sudden there was a vote and now if the middle-school kids read 3 books on average each by November 15, we all have to spend a night sleeping on the roof of their school—Principal “the Duck” LeDucque, too. Wonder if she knows yet.

After the meeting the Tom wanted to talk to me. “We need to go over some details,” he said.

I bet, I thought. “Like what?”

“Well, you and I have to go over to the middle school and run this by the principal,” he said. “What time is good for you?”

I couldn't believe it. He was so not putting the moves on me. Of course, it was only my first day.

When I got home I told Mom there was no way I could go to Nebraska because I was on student council and was too busy planning stuff like Homecoming and now I had this book-challenge thing going.

She did this paper-rock-scissors thing, only it involved school-politics-family. Family won.

Crap.

This diary has been certified by the FDA to be dairy-free
***
. Wheat-free. Gluten-free. Whine-free. (Okay, maybe not, but definitely wine-free. Alcohol-free in general.)

What the heck is a gluten, anyway?

What I really need to focus on is staying boy-free.

This is a Boy-Free Zone. Imagine signs like that at school. Perhaps I could institute this as my first official vice-presidential act.

You could say I'm throwing myself into my work lately. Beth called in sick, so I was bored and got really into making up new drinks. I made one for Gerry called the Wheatgrass Whirl when he dropped by. “I love it!” he cried.

“You do?” I couldn't believe it.

He poured himself a large glass of water and downed it. “Oh. Well, the drink is
horrible
, yes. But what I love is your initiative! Keep inventing drinks, Courtney, and I'll keep trying them until you get it right. You're such an asset to this place.”

What a boss. “Okay then,” I said. “I've been thinking we should take the Coconut Fantasy Dream”—my voice nearly choked on the name—“off the menu. And put this on instead.”

See? I'm trying to move on, I really am.

I put orange juice, coconut, and frozen strawberries in the blender, then raspberry sherbet. But that was too much like a Sunrise Strawberry Supreme. So I tossed in some pineapple and a little plain yogurt.

“I'll keep this under review,” Gerry said. “But Courtney, don't even think of getting rid of the CFD. It's our most popular drink. A business survives—no, thrives—on
hits
. So … hit me again.” Gerry laughed. “Get it? Hit me? Hey, speaking of gambling. Did I tell you I went to Central City and played the nickel slots last night?” The man lives
so
dangerously.

When I'm old enough to gamble, I'm starting with the quarter slots. Minimum.

For some reason this whole experience led me to the Taco Bell drive-through on the way home at 9:00. I got all the change from the tip jar and pooled it into a value meal (people are so generous). Only I ordered the wrong kind of gordita. I don't eat meat often enough to know the difference between gorditas. Ended up with way too many vegetables. Not the point at all.

No wonder I can't sleep.

Why didn't I drive up to see buffalo instead? Much healthier alternative. But probably too dark to see them.

Agh! Nightmare. Just went downstairs to grab some toast and juice. Still in my PJ's. Mom and her gang are all sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, laughing, telling stories, talking about their kids. It's her Saturday routine.

I heard them on the stairs and paused as I heard my name mentioned. By Mom.

“Courtney says she'll never date anyone again. No, wait—she says she won't this entire school year,” she told her pals.

Everyone started laughing. What is so
funny
about having a little integrity?

“We'll see how long that lasts,” Mrs. Brell snickered.

“Even if she won't date them, they'll want to date her,” Mom said.

“Well, of course, I mean, look at her,” Mrs. Lebeau said. “Her skin is so lovely. And her figure, and that copper red hair … I wish Mark would ask her out.”

Gross! So much for wanting breakfast. Mark Lebeau? Is she insane? He's a sophomore, and he's skinnier than I am. He's also incredibly rich; they have a mansion practically, the biggest house in the neighborhood, and they have parties where they actually valet-park cars (but Mom makes us walk because it's so close).

Anyway, why do Mom and her friends want to talk about us? Why don't they talk about themselves and their own dates or husbands or whatever? Probably it would be boring, but at least it would be about them.

I'm going back to bed.

So Mom got us all digital pagers. She and her friends went out shopping Saturday after their coffee fest and had technological breakthroughs. There was a big special; buy 2 get 1 free. She was acting like she was doing this for us, but it's her thing. She's obsessed with phones, or not answering phones. She said the pagers are part of our new call block program. More like cell block—we're only allowed to receive one call a day, if we're lucky. I
want
to get calls.

It's almost like she used to date a telemarketer and that's why she hates them so much. They're just people with fast, annoying voices and a habit of mispronouncing names. What's the big deal?

Anyway, besides the pagers there are all these codes we have to use. And we have to punch in about 100 numbers to even reach her at work.

So there I was in the middle of math class, watching Rick Young at the blackboard. All of a sudden I started to get sort of hot. You know. Like I was attracted to him. There was this sort of buzzing sound under the desk, and I felt palpitations.

I never really liked Rick Young, but you know how your body sometimes has this will of its own, genetic needs, looking for the best mate, just like species in the wild, etc.

Then I realized it was my pager. I had set it to vibrate by mistake, instead of turning it off like I usually do in class.

It wasn't Rick Young, it was Grandma. She was checking to see if I got her Halloween card yet.

Damn. I thought in this weird way it meant I was ready to think about dating again, that I could be attracted to someone besides Dave. Apparently not.

I can, however, receive messages with up to 50 characters.

Hi, it's me. Courtney's Beth friend. (She used to say that when she was little, because she had a slight lisp. It became my nickname. That's the history, okay?) We're waiting for Courtney, who's only taking the longest shower in history. We commandeered her journal as punishment. We're going out tonight to celebrate her new role as vice president. I think it would be great if there was a coo and she took over Tom's job. But he'll never go for that, because he has to be the center of attention
.

I guess I don't have much to say, so here's Jane. I hear music. I'm going to see what Bryan's up to
.

This is Jane. And it's “coup,” as in taking over something, not “coo” as in lovebirds whispering sweet nothings.

I kept a diary once. My mom found it and read it and got all worried because I had all this stuff written about
horses
. I loved horses. Not in that way, just—you know, I was 7. And she made me go to this kiddie psychologist and act all this stuff out with a My Pretty Pony and a Fisher-Price Barnyard and a Barbie. I swear, I'm not making this up. Ever since then I've been very reluctant to write stuff down.

All I wanted was a horse. To take lessons, wear those tan jodhpurs, carry a whip crop (which I'd never actually use). They thought that was twisted. So why did they rent me all those horse movies and buy me all those horse books?

Anyway. Now that I have a chance and a place to write in that my mother will never ever find, I can make a confession.

I still have my plastic Secretariat stashed in a shoe box under the bed.

So
ha ha
, Mom.

Courtney, back to you. By the way, I'm really glad you and Dave broke up. You might not be, now. But you will be.

Cannot believe my journal was like … violated.

But the Jane thing explains why she keeps insisting senior class trip in spring be to a dude ranch.

Oprah did a show today on dealing with the mother-daughter relationship. Mom was unfortunately home with the flu and saw it. She put on a coat and rushed down to the bookstore and nearly bought out the mother-daughter section (is there such a thing?). She tried to give me a reading assignment when I got home.

“Mom. We get along
fine
,” I said. Except when you're going ballistic about phone calls and insisting I just
try
the veal cutlet.

“What?” she said. “I can tell you're thinking something about me.”

“I wasn't,” I lied.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Okay, well, I was just thinking how sometimes you don't understand why I don't want to eat meat. I mean, you understand, but you think it's just a temporary thing. And it isn't.”

She nodded. “I did think it was a phase—at first. But I can see you're dedicated. Most of the time. I was just wondering whether your decision to not eat the lamb shanks I cooked that night last year … was a rejection of me.”

“No,” I said, thinking back to that momentous night when I decided to give up meat. Should I tell her that the mint jelly didn't help matters? “I just don't want to eat lambs. Or sheep. Or other things that walk around on legs.”