Moonglow (3 page)

Jess is getting on my nerves again. I don't understand it, I don't like it, but it's the truth. I know she's going to come up with a solution—she always has and she always will—but right now she is frustrating the hell out of me, and I have to fold my hands behind my back or risk slapping her across the face.

I mimic Jess and look around my room as if I'm appraising the area to come up with the perfect wall color. That's what she might be doing, but I'm just trying to keep my mouth shut so I don't say something bitchy.

During the silence a little slice of moonlight spills into the room. Its reach isn't long, but the tiny bit that lingers next to the window is strong and looks like a silver plank that leads from my bedroom to the moon itself. I feel a tug at my heart and wonder if the plank is sturdy enough to hold my weight, if I could walk on the moonbeam until I'm out of sight of Jess and everyone on earth. A warm sensation comes over me that reminds me of my mother's touch, and I take it as a sign that I should start walking, that I should begin my journey right here and now. Before I can say my good-byes, Jess crosses in front of me and blots out the moonlight, destroying my chance of escape.

These are the kinds of foolish, out-of-the-blue thoughts I've been having lately. I don't know where they're coming from, but these ideas ignite even more complicated feelings, feelings that are better kept hidden and not shared. Better to keep my thoughts simple and focused on finding a wall color solution. Finally Jess does.

“Orange!” she squeals.

Orange? Didn't I read somewhere that orange is the new pink? “That'll work.”

“Of course it will. I'm a genius when it comes to design!” she squeals once more. “Just lose the banner.”

“No!”

Over my headboard hangs the banner for our football team. Truth is, I know nothing about football, I don't really like the sport, but I'm the girlfriend of the quarterback, so it's my duty to keep a banner of our team in my room. But that's not the reason my reaction is so passionate. It's because of what is on the banner: a depiction of the team mascot.

Looking at the wall, I see the banner in full detail, maybe for the first time. Navy blue and white lettering spells out the team name, Weeping Water Timberwolves, while right in the center, the school mascot is depicted ripping through the material; its huge paw is outstretched, and its sharp nails are jutting out from its toes, as if it's clawing its way out of the wall.

Off in the distance I hear Jess rambling on about how she'll have to decorate around it, but I can't stop staring at the timberwolf's face. It's no longer a harmless school mascot, no longer a cartoon character, but a real live living creature. And I'm scared.

The whole room grows dark, and the only light is coming from the moon. The light is stronger now, and the silver plank has pushed itself farther into my room, illuminating my bed and the wall behind it. Glowing in the presence of the moon, the timberwolf looks like it's about to attack me; it's a creature that needs to pounce and feed. Its mouth is open and hungry and eager, its fangs ready to taste my flesh. Suddenly another one of those crazy, uncontrollable thoughts takes over my mind.

Part of me wants to jump on the silver plank and run out of my room to safety. Part of me wants to feel the creature's fangs plunge into my skin so the two of us can become one. The frightening thing is, I have no idea which part of me I want to win.

Chapter 2

The first day of school used to be so much fun. But all that's been ruined thanks to Bobby Worman's mother. Allow me to explain.

Jess, the rest of our friends, and I are decent students, not valedictorian material, but definitely college prep and definitely filled with a healthy dose of school spirit. To us, Weeping Water High School (henceforth referred to as Two W) was the perfect mix of educational institution, social club, and, of course, fashion show. Walking down the hallway used to be like walking down a runway. And we would be starting off sophomore year modeling this year's latest trends if Mrs. Beverly Worman read
Vogue
instead of the Bible.

Last year she bought her son, Bobby, a black T-shirt that spelled out the acronym OMFG in green velvet embossed letters because she thought it translated to “Oh My Fabulous God.” Normal people know the
F
stands for something entirely different. But Bobby's mother is a “born again,” very sweet, and she makes incredible brownies that Bobby brings to school on half days, but to her absolutely everything has a spiritual connection.

I remember the day Bobby—or The Worm as he is now officially known—wore that T-shirt to school. He couldn't stop bragging about how his mother bought it for him and that she had no idea what the
F
really stood for. Unfortunately, Principal Dunleavy (Dumbleavy to most of the student body as well as some of the cooler teachers) did. And since he overheard Bobby boasting about his mother's fashion faux pas of biblical proportions, he didn't believe The Worm when he tried to backpedal and say that the
F
was for fabulous and it was an expression of his religious beliefs. A week later we were informed that beginning the following year Two W would be adopting a new dress-code policy. And that's how our school uniform was born.

So instead of wearing an awesome eighties inspired top with shoulder pads and dolman sleeves in electric blue, vintage Jordache jeans, and Candie's high-heeled clogs, I stand before my mirror in a white, short-sleeved polo shirt with two navy blue
W
's embroidered on the left chest pocket, paired with navy blue khakis, and simple navy flats. I look like I tighten screws into engine parts in an automobile factory. Or like I bowl. Neither of which I ever have any intention of doing.

This morning when I got dressed I didn't even know how to accessorize. What goes with bowling attire? A wrist brace? After much deliberation and rummaging through my jewelry boxes, I opted for simple sapphire studs and a matching necklace and, in homage to my new wall color, a bunch of bracelets in various shades of orange. Stymied, I kept the hair and makeup to a minimum. I'll have to live with this new outfit for a while before I feel brave enough to experiment.

Luckily, I don't have to do much with my hair for it to look good. Despite the fact that my mother has blond hair and my father's is brown, I'm a redhead. Some distant relative must've had the red hair gene for it to land in my DNA. And it's a pretty red, closer to auburn than Little Orphan Annie. Thick and bouncy, so even dressed like I'm the poster child for Androgynous Anonymous, I still look like a girl, though I'm not sure I'll still be the prettiest girl in the world like my boyfriend, Caleb, always says. Thanks to The Worm and his mother I may have to settle for top ten.

As I grab my navy blue and white cowhide-print backpack—I had to find some way to self-express—and turn to run so I won't miss my bus, I see the timberwolf eyeing me. I still don't know if he's friend or foe, but in the early morning sunshine he doesn't look as menacing, nor does he instill in me feelings of dread and anxiety and fear. I must have been caught up in a moment the other night; why else would I be so freaked out by a stupid mascot?

I don't know; maybe it's a phase I'm going through. Maybe these negative feelings are all a result of being stressed out, thanks to my subconscious quest to make a good impression on the first day of school. I mean, sophomore year should be better than freshman, right? But last year I became a football player's girlfriend, made the cheerleading squad, and if it hadn't been for my B in algebra, I would've made the honor roll. Freshman year is going to be hard to top, so there's a lot of pressure on me to impress the masses.

On the bus ride into school, I change my mind and I swear all my problems have to do with Jess. Before I even sat down in the empty seat next to her, I felt my stomach clench and my throat tighten; just looking at her pissed me off. What is wrong with me? So what if she didn't adopt my less-is-more approach to hair and makeup. It's her look, not mine, and usually I think she looks great. Why is her face infuriating me this morning?

Obviously she got up in the middle of the night to re-dye her hair to get rid of her blond roots and straighten her curls so the color and style will be as close to Japanese as she'll ever get. It's also clear that she spent another hour polishing her nails a deep burgundy, the same color as her lipstick, and topped it off with plum eye shadow and mauve cheeks. She looks like she's ready for a night out in Tokyo, not a day at Two W. I could warn her that Dumbleavy may make her scrub all the color from her face before first period, but I don't trust myself to say it nicely, so I keep quiet. And honestly, it's kind of hard to say anything to Jess, nicely or otherwise, when she just won't shut the hell up!

Oh my God! On and on and on she's been rambling, hardly taking a moment to breathe, telling me yet another stupid story about her stupid boyfriend. Normally, I thrive on this stuff; I'm a very social girl, and my friends' social trials and tribulations are mega-important to me. But today I just can't take it. I don't think I can listen to another entry in the disappointing saga that is her relationship with Napoleon Jaffe.

They've been dating for most of the summer, practically since he came to town with his mother and sister after living in Connecticut his whole life. When Jess explains his backstory, she makes it sound way more interesting than it is, but the basic facts are that his mother grew up here, got married, and moved away to the East Coast, became a widow, and returned to Weeping Water with her two kids to live with her mother-in-law. Unexciting. But Jess has convinced herself that he's led a wildly dramatic life that is movie-worthy. It's not even TV-movie worthy. I told her that she's gotten overly excited because he has an unusual name.

“Why would any parent name their kid after a short, maniacal emperor who was always scratching his chest?” I asked.

“Your parents named you Dominy,” Jess replied.

Score one for the best friend.

Watching her fiddle with the cheap ID bracelet he bought for her spelling out her full name—Jessalynn—the same crappy piece of jewelry she swears she will never, ever,
ever
take off, I swear I can feel my blood start to boil.

“Can you believe it?” she asks.

What I can't believe is that I haven't scratched her eyes out. Since I haven't been listening to Jess, but daydreaming about ways to silence her long-winded, tedious, and oh-so-boring story, I have no idea what her question is relating to, so I fake a reply.

“No, Jess, I can't.”

Her second question is even more unbelievable. “Don't you think after all this time he should've tried to go a little bit further with me?”

I'm still not completely certain, but I think Jess is talking about sex.

“So you haven't done anything except
kiss
all summer long?” I venture.

Jess slaps my knee and yells, “Will you keep your voice down!”

She looks around the bus to make sure my question hasn't drawn the attention of our fellow riders and only looks at me when she's satisfied no one has overheard and is currently eavesdropping. “Last week we had a very long, French-kissing make-out session,” she says.

“Well, that makes sense,” I reply. “Napoleon's French.”

She slaps me again on the same knee only harder this time. “This isn't funny,” she whispers. “That was the high point of our two-month, one-week, and three-day relationship.”

There's so much I want to say, but so little that I know Jess wants to hear. I've already told her that I think she's more attracted to the guy's name than to the guy himself, but she told me that was ridiculous, even though her notebooks are already filled with the name Napoleon written in every conceivable manner and configuration. Print, all caps, all lowercase, script, bubble letters. Followed by pages of heart drawings that are filled with
Napoleon and Jessalynn.
She used her full name because, she informed me,
Jessalynn
has the same amount of letters as
Josephine,
who was the real Napoleon's wife back in the day. She believes it's karma; I told her it's coincidence.

The real glitch is that Napoleon's only outstanding feature is his funky name. He isn't too tall or too short; he isn't too fat or too thin; he's got a normal haircut, normal IQ, normal everything. I want to tell Jess that Nap is the dull mayor of Dullville and she should be grateful that he's really not into her so she can break up with him and find a cool guy who really likes her and who's a lot of fun. But I'm not in the mood to be a straight shooter, so instead I tell her what she wants to hear.

“I don't know what the problem is,” I say, sneaking a glance out the window to watch the world fly by. “Whenever I see the two of you together, you look like you're in love.”

“Really?” Jess asks. In the reflection, I can see her blue eyes bulging at me.

“Yes!” I reply, turning to look at her. “You're grossweet.”

“What?”

“A little gross and a little sweet,” I explain. “Both at the same time.”

I'm staring into Jess's eyes, but I see her hand move. Before she can slap my knee again, my hand springs out lightning fast and grabs her tight around the wrist. Jess tries to break free, but my hold is secure, and after a moment of struggle Jess gives up.

“Let go of me.”

“Do not hit me again.”

I could let go of Jess's wrist, it's what I should do, but I don't. I like how my fingers feel wrapped around her skin, and I like how her tiny bones feel pressed against my flesh, delicate and vulnerable. If I made the choice I could probably snap them into little pieces. No, not probably, definitely. I know it, and Jess knows it. It's what I want to happen; I want to twist my hand so her bones shatter, break through her flesh so we're both stained with her blood. The thought of it makes me want to squeeze her hand harder. Just as I'm about to, the bus goes over the speed bump into the school parking lot and shakes me in my seat. The spell is broken. While Jess rubs her wrist and looks at me warily, it gives me enough time to think of a lie.

“I think you gave me a black-and-blue!” I say, massaging my knee. “I couldn't risk another assault.”

True to her nature, Jess chooses to embrace the good and believes my story. She would never hurt me physically—she would never entertain the idea—so how could she think for a split second that I would want to do the same to her? Before this morning I would've felt the same way. Now I know differently.

I almost forget the incident until I run into Archie Angevene, who after Jess is my second best friend, and feel the need to replay the entire story so I can get a reality check and find out if I overreacted.

“Archie!”

“Hey, Dom!” he replies. “Heard you almost ripped Jess's arm off.”

Guess Jess beat me to the punch. So to speak.

“Arch, I don't know what's wrong with me,” I confess. “I just couldn't stand listening to her anymore, and all of a sudden I grabbed her and wouldn't let go.”

“Let me guess,” he says, shoving a book into his locker. “She was filling you in on another riveting chapter of Nap 'n Jess's ‘not-so-in-love story' and you snapped?”

“Yes!”

Thank God, Archie gets me. And thank God, he's gay. If he weren't, we would probably date, break up, and I would lose my best guy friend forever. Things are so much better this way.

“FYI she's not upset with you,” Archie says. “But I think she's upset with me now.”

“Why?” I ask.

“She kept asking me if it was normal that a guy would only want to French-kiss a girl after almost three months of going out,” he relays. “I finally told her I don't know why any guy would want to stick his tongue down a girl's mouth in the first place. Everybody knows that girls got cooties!”

“Which is why I got my vaccine,” I reply, playing along.

Turning around I see my boyfriend, but he seems happier to see Archie than me. Maybe I do have the cooties?

“Winter!” Caleb exclaims.

“Bells!” Archie shouts back.

Let me explain their nicknames. Besides being gay, Archie is an albino, and when he was a kid he wore his white hair straight and long, which reminded Caleb of the Winter Warlock on his favorite Christmas special. Meanwhile, Archie says Caleb's high-pitched laugh reminds him of church bells. So Archie is Winter and Caleb is Bells and together they're Winter Bells. At moments like this I think they make a better couple than Caleb and I do.

“Can we talk later?” I ask. Caleb, unfortunately, doesn't hear me.

“Winter, did you get the new playbook?” he asks.

“Just picked it up,” Archie replies. “Why?”

“Coach has got some cool new plays for us,” Caleb informs him. “There's this one . . .”

Besides being gay and albino, Archie is also on the football team. Back in junior high he was in love with Johnny Saretti, a gorgeous Italian kid in our class. Archie was convinced he could snag Johnny as a boyfriend if he could only make a good impression; so when he heard Johnny was trying out for football, Archie tagged along. Jess and I watched from the stands, ready to dial 911, convinced Archie was going to break every bone in his then-skinny body. An ambulance was called, but for Johnny, who suffered a major asthma attack on the field. Archie made the team as a wide receiver, whatever that is, and two months later Johnny and his family moved to the more arid climate of Arizona for health reasons. Today, Archie, along with Caleb, is one of the stars of the team. And most of the time I love the fact that my boyfriend and my best guy friend are buds, but not right now.