Paper Cuts (13 page)

Mr Sparling catches up to me after class. ‘A word, Ms Perez?’

I have more important things to do, like make myself beautiful for my skateboarding lesson, but I follow him to his office, applying lip gloss as I go.

‘It’s an informal meeting,’ he says, settling into the chair behind his desk. ‘No need to spruce up.’

I drop the gloss back into my bag and decide to beat him to the punch. I only have nine minutes to get to Russ’s locker, and there’s someone only too willing to stand in for me if I’m late. ‘I’m sorry about my last column, Mr Sparling. There wasn’t much to report about the bracelet campaign, so I sort of filled the void with advice to the guys. But I think it’s starting to have an impact.’

‘I think so too,’ he says. ‘There will be mayhem in the halls, and not just Dunfield’s.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean “The Word” is going into syndication.’

He waits for a reaction, but I’m not sure what syndication means. ‘Is that good?’

‘Good? It’s great. Thanks to the cross-pollination you describe in your column, five other schools have asked to run it in their papers, including
The Turnbull Tattler
. All told, there’s a potential readership of nine thousand.’

‘Wow, that is great,’ I say. ‘And scary.’

‘As long as you cover the Literacy Challenge, just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s what grabbed everyone’s attention.’

‘No one knows it’s me anyway,’ I say, more to myself than him.

‘They will,’ he says. ‘Principal Alvarez asked the mayor to let you and Scoop host the final gala.’

I’m not so big on
that
idea. It’s one thing to write these columns and another to stand up and take the heat for them. Besides, I’d have to be polite to Scoop.

‘You’ve got almost two months to gear up for it,’ Mr Sparling says, as I get up to leave. ‘Well done, Luisa. I’m proud of you.’

I barely have time to dump my books in my own locker before jogging over to Senior’s Hall. My brain is spinning from all that’s happened today. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago I found school unbearably dull.

There’s no sign of Russ, so I start checking numbers. A
familiar dark-haired guy is opening his locker, and I study his profile in disbelief.

Joey Carella looks up and gives me a casual nod, as if bumping into each other at Dunfield happened all the time.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

‘Collecting my things. If that’s all right with you.’

‘Now? How long ago did you drop out?’

‘I didn’t drop out,’ he says, stuffing books into his backpack. ‘You just assumed I did because you think all factory workers are stupid.’

‘That’s not true. You
implied
you dropped out.’ I scramble to recall his words on the bus last week. ‘You said it was hard to be motivated.’

‘It is hard. But I’m still here.’

‘Then why haven’t I seen you before?’

‘Because the school’s the size of a small town?’

That’s certainly true. I rarely bump into Rachel or Izzy unless it’s at one of our designated meeting zones, and I’d never seen Russ before the race, either.

Joey isn’t meeting my eyes, so I do the right thing. ‘I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’ll still tip you.’

For the first time I notice how white his teeth are, especially against his olive skin. ‘Then I’ll make sure you get extra fries.’

He waits a couple of beats before saying, ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said the other day about your family. You were right, it was none of my business.’

‘I overreacted,’ I say. ‘And
you
were right. I asked my mom, and she said she is saving to send me to college. Apparently, I was the last to know.’

He closes his locker door. ‘You coming?’

‘I’ve got to hang around a while.’

‘Why?’ he asks. ‘I make a point of not spending one second longer in these halls than I have to. Ask Buzzkill.’

Russ is coming down the hall toward us, so I say, ‘I’m meeting a friend.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Russ says, squeezing my arm. ‘Hey, Carella. Skipped chem again, eh?’

Joey shrugs. ‘I was busy.’

‘You ditched robotics too,’ Russ continues, obviously unimpressed. ‘Cranston’s on your case.’

Seeing Joey’s expression darken, I tug on Russ’s sleeve. ‘Let’s go. I can’t wait to meet Betty Boop.’

Life at Dunfield may be more interesting this year, but that’s partly because I’ve become aware of the land mines buried in its halls.

‘Slow down!’ Russ shouts, running after me down the sidewalk.

‘I can’t!’ I scream, careening toward the intersection. It seemed so far off when we started, but a couple of really good kicks and a slight incline have brought me closer very quickly.

‘Drag your foot!’ Russ yells.

‘I can’t!’ I scream again. I’m barely balanced now. My knees are locked into the bent position Russ showed me when I boarded this rocket. If I move one iota, I’ll either veer into traffic or a brick wall. I’d rather take my chances on hitting a green light at the intersection.

A cluster of schoolboys stops at the corner to watch. One reaches out to stop me and misses by a fraction of an inch.

Ahead of us a lady pulls her toddler out of my path. ‘Sorry,’ I call.

‘Look out!’ Russ’s voice is fainter now.

As if I can’t see the intersection looming thirty – twenty-five – twenty feet before me. ‘Stay green, stay green, stay green,’ I chant at the light. Otherwise I’ll run full tilt into that city bus as it pulls out.

‘Drag your foot!’ Russ yells again.

The light turns yellow, and terror brings the feeling back to my legs. I propel myself off the board and continue to run for a few yards. At the crosswalk I grab a pole to slow down and tumble off the curb and into the gutter. Three lanes of traffic are revving for takeoff.

‘Oh my God. Oh my God!’ Russ is shrieking hysterically.

A taxi swerves to avoid me, and I clamber back onto the sidewalk on my hands and knees.

‘Oh my God!’ Russ screams one more time as he arrives at my side.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, reaching out to pat his pant leg. I’m touched at how concerned he is, considering we’ve only
known each other a couple of weeks. I’m glad I gave him another chance. ‘Russ, I’m fine.’

He’s looking not at me but out into the intersection. ‘Betty!’ he wails, as the bus moves past its splintered remains.

I drop my head onto the sidewalk. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I told you to slow down,’ he says, jerking his pant cuff out of my hand.

‘You sent me down a hill. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

His voice drops to a whisper. ‘She was a limited edition Stacy Peralta board. Signed by Stacy himself.’

He darts into traffic and grabs a wheel, stroking it with one finger and muttering, ‘She’s irreplaceable.’

Something tells me the same cannot be said of me.

My mother looks down at my dirty, torn jeans and asks, ‘What happened?’

‘I tripped off a curb,’ I say. ‘You know what a klutz I am.’ No need to go into details. The woman has enough stress in her life. ‘What smells so good?’

‘Homemade lasagna,’ Mom says, handing me a stack of plates.

‘What’s the occasion?’

‘That I get to have dinner with both my daughters for the first time in weeks,’ she says. ‘Grace is putting Keira down, so tell me about your day.’

‘It was pretty good.’ And it was, aside from a brush with
death and the loss of Extreme BF. ‘My column is being syndicated to five other schools.’

Mom stops shredding lettuce to hug me. ‘That’s fantastic, honey, although I can’t say I’m surprised. Each one is better than the last.’

‘So you
have
read them.’

‘Of course I’ve read them,’ she says. ‘Haven’t I— Well, never mind. Let’s celebrate.’ She reaches for a bottle of wine and pours about an inch into two glasses before filling the third. Mom is laid back about a lot of things, but not underage drinking. She hands me a glass and raises her own. ‘A toast to my very clever daughter.’

I clink glasses with her before sitting down. ‘Mom? What’s wrong with guys?’

She laughs and goes back to making the salad. ‘If I knew that, would I be single?’

‘Why
are
you single? You could be dating. Lots of guys have liked you. Mr Kendricks at the deli, for example.’

She takes another sip of wine and considers her answer. ‘I haven’t really had time to worry about that, Lu. Dating is risky when you have two kids.’

‘But we’re grown up now. At least I am. You could do the online thing.’ Knowing she’ll protest her cyber ignorance, I add, ‘I could help.’

Fishing celery out of the fridge drawer, she changes the subject. ‘So how does this syndication work?’

‘What syndication?’ Grace asks, coming into the kitchen.

‘Your sister’s column is going to be published in other schools’ papers.’

‘The
Turnbull Tattler
?’ Grace says, snickering. ‘That’s the big time, all right.’

‘Grace,’ my mother says. ‘Hold the tongue or forfeit the wine.’

Grace examines the glass. ‘I can barely see the wine. Someone forgot to finish pouring.’

‘Someone forgot to quit while she was ahead,’ Mom says, reaching for Grace’s glass.

That brings Grace around pretty fast. She seizes her glass and sits down opposite me. I tell them about the gala and Mrs Alvarez’s challenge to bring in some high-profile people.

‘What about Solana G.?’ Grace says. ‘She could be a celebrity guest. Paz and I saw her perform at Logan Square last year, and she was amazing.’

‘I was thinking more like a columnist from the
Chicago Tribune
.’

‘Boring. Who would you rather watch at a gala – a writer or an R&B singer?’

‘I doubt Solana would do it,’ I say. ‘She’s getting really popular. Why would she bother with this sort of event?’

‘Because she went to Dunfield?’ Grace says.

‘Really? When did she graduate?’

‘I didn’t say she graduated,’ Grace replies. ‘She dropped out the year I started.’

I don’t want to dismiss Grace’s idea outright since she’s
being helpful for a change, but I seriously doubt Solana G. would support Dunfield for anything.

‘She does charity events all the time,’ Grace says.

‘For literacy?’

Grace crosses her arms and glares at me. ‘You don’t want her because she didn’t graduate.’

‘That’s not what Lu means,’ my mother intervenes.

I used to think Grace was just touchy, but with others echoing her view that I’m a snob, I’m starting to wonder if she might be right.

‘Actually, I think Solana would be the perfect sponsor,’ I say. ‘She’s done really well in spite of dropping out, so coming back now to support literacy is practically a stay-in-school message. Mrs Alvarez will eat it up.’

Grace mulls this over for hidden insults and decides to give me a pass. ‘Let’s go look her up online.’

By the time Mom has cleared the table and put out dessert, Grace and I have tracked down Solana’s agent. With Grace leaning over my shoulder, I type an e-mail about the Literacy Challenge and the upcoming gala. I also tell her about ‘The Word’ and promise to send samples of the column.

‘Maybe you should hold off on the samples,’ Grace says, after I’ve hit
SEND
. ‘She might be put off that you’re a man hater.’