Playing Nice (11 page)

"Interesting is a good way to describe Lake Loraine." Matt smiles and tilts his head. I can't stop looking at his mouth. His lips are so round. The top makes a perfect heart-shape and he licks them ever so slightly after sentences. "I want to give you something," he says.

"Okay." I might faint.
Breathe, Marty
.

"Here." He takes off one of his black jelly bracelets and slides it onto my wrist. When his fingers touch my skin, everything in my body explodes into one massive shiver. He reaches his hand up and cups my cheek in his palm. OH. MY. GOD. I say it over and over, trying to block out the voice in my head that's telling me good girls don't think about sex, just kissing and holding hands. I might die right here on the gum-encrusted school floor from holding my breath and I don't care.

"Well, it was good to see you, My Hart," Matt says.

I stare at his butt as he walks away, his jeans hugging his hips with just the right amount of tightness so it looks like a shelf. A shelf I want to rest my hand on. I sink back on the wall and stare at my wrist, not sure if my legs can move.

I'm late for WelCo.

***

Sitting in the Special Ed room, my mind topples over the many hurdles that have come up in the past few days. I can barely wrap my head around everything. I don't even hear Ms. Everley until her voice starts to get louder.

"Marty, are you paying attention?"

I blink and look at her. The v-neck of her red dress dips so low I can see the divot between her boobs. "Did you get the decorations for the Hot Shot dance?"

"Um..." I shake my head clear. "I did."

"Great. What theme did you settle on?"

My mouth sputters for a second while I try to form the words. Bon Jovi plays on repeat in the back of my head, a montage of bad 80's hair. "Shot Through the Heart". My mom was the one who suggested I sign up for WelCo in the first place. Another activity to add to the list. But I hate shaking sweaty palms. And walking next to smelly freshman. But it's all a part of the plan and it makes me a better person to suffer through the sweat.

"Shot Through the Heart," I say. "That's the theme."

Ms. Everley smiles.
See, it's a great idea
, my mom's voice whispers in my ear.

"That's very nice."

I swallow, fighting the strangulation I feel around my neck. Why is it becoming so hard to breathe in my own skin? Why is it I want to scream and tear the Hobby Lobby bag stuffed under my bed to pieces, like I did my original design?

"Thanks," I choke out.

"Moving on to the new girl. I think it's our responsibility to make her feel extra welcome. Does anyone have any ideas?" Ms. Everley asks.

Giggles pepper the room and whispers start to fly like a thousand wings flapping in the breeze. Soon the classroom is abuzz with so much chatter Ms. Everley can't control it.

Kathryn Harris leans toward me. "I heard the new girl got kicked out of her old school," she whispers.

Kenton Studier leans into Kathryn. "I heard her mom is a stripper in Lima."

I picture Lil's mom. A stripper? She wasn't even wearing a booby shirt on Saturday night, and something tells me thongs are strictly forbidden in Lil's household unless they're black and say Up Your Crack. If I was going on appearance alone, Ms. Everley would be the highlight act of the Crazy Horse out on Highway 81—and she's an English teacher.

"I heard she got pregnant and was forced to leave town," Pippa Rogers says, leaning back in her chair and almost falling over.

"Who got pregnant, Lil or her mom?" I ask.

"I don't know," Pippa scoffs, and sit up.

I slouch back in my seat.
Everyone hates my mom, but they're wrong
.

No one comes up with a way to make Lil feel welcome. Instead, every single person in the classroom gets up and walks out before the meeting is formally adjourned. I stay in my seat, staring at one of the posters I made when I ran for president. For some reason, it's still hanging on the wall.

Vote for Hart. A girl with a heart for Minster High
.

"Is everything okay, Marty?" Ms. Everley asks, collecting papers from the desk and shoving them into her black bag.

"I'm fine," I say.

The world's worst word.

As the week passes, words start to fall out of me at weird times, like my internal cup is overflowing and I'm trying to catch everything before it spills on the ground for people to see.

One day after gym class, I feel so overwhelmed to get them down that I scribble everything on the bottom of my tennis shoe. By the time I get home, all that's left are the words
sifted
,
cacophony
, and
bad ass
. I write them down and stuff them in my box anyway. It's getting packed, the crinkled papers stacking up, and I think I might need another one for all my words.

How is it possible that for seventeen years I thought I knew
me
? Now an alien has crept to the surface and I can't decide if it's going to eat me alive or help me breathe better. Part of me knows what I'm writing is wrong, that if my parents saw everything I thought they'd be so disappointed. But the other part of me, the part deep down that bubbles and wants to erupt and coat myself over until I'm born into new skin, knows I might explode if I don't.

Some days I even have a hard time looking at my parents, seeing them in all their X and Y glory and knowing that maybe I want something different. I'm scared that if my mom knew all of me, she might not like me. She said once that a person can love someone they don't like.

I didn't particularly like your grandmother, Marty, but I will always love her
.

It was weird when she said it because it was at Grandma's funeral and all these people kept telling me I was just like her. I cried that night, thinking my mom might not particularly like
me
. Is it better to be liked or loved? And what's the difference? Do you tear up the house of a person you like or does every corner remind you of the good times and the thought of ruining those memories makes your heart hurt?

But on other days, I'll see my mom cooking a healthy dinner and I'll know that saying
this tastes fantastic,
even though it really tastes like feet, will make her feel good. And then my inner voice that wants to scream disappears. On those days, I remind myself that being an X joined with a Y is a good life.

Most afternoons, I find myself hiding in a patch of forest behind our house. My dad calls it "No-Nana Land" because my grandma refused to sell the trees before she died.
Someday that wood is going to be worth more than the soil it's rooted in, mark my words
, she would say. No one ever goes back there, but even now that my dad owns the land, he won't cut down the trees. When I was younger, I used to spend every day here, pretending I was a princess locked in a castle or Laura Ingalls Wilder exploring the frontier. I would get lost in my imagination; it all felt so real, like I'd become someone else for hours at a time.

I never thought about the girl who walked out of the forest and back into her pink bedroom. What she believes in. Who she wants to be. I thought my parents would tell me because they know best. And maybe they do, but even when I think that, the boulder keeps pressing on my chest.

Lil doesn't say much to me, just sits in class listening to Ms. Everley and picking at her nails. One day, she rubs her pen over the same spot on her desk until a long groove forms. Then she gets up and leaves when the bell rings.

I stare at the black mark, my brain screaming that she's just vandalized a desk and walked away, and how could she do that? But then I think,
it's just a desk
. Someone carved the word FUCK into the right-hand corner of mine. At least all Lil did was leave a line.

I know I should lean over and talk to Lil, but I don't. For some reason, her not saying anything doesn't bother me. I have a feeling Lil has said a lot of words in her life and maybe not saying something means more to her than actually talking.

I write that one afternoon after I see Matt in the hallway at school. I replay our moment together, running my fingers over the black jelly bracelet he gave me, until I'm tangled in thoughts of him. My stomach gets tight, like I might be sick, the most wonderful sick I've ever been. Sick with love or like, I can't decide. If you don't always like the people you love, I think I want to like Matt. My parents love each other and they don't kiss very much and all I want to do is kiss Matt.

But then I'll see him and he'll walk straight past me like I don't exist and I get all mixed up again.

And wait for college to have sex
.

***

Ms. Everley takes the entire English class down to the computer lab to work on our final assignment for
The Catcher in the Rye
. We have to write a literary critique of the book citing previous reviews that support our conclusion.

I'm still not sure how I feel about Holden Caulfield and all his swearing and hookers. But a part of me is beginning to understand how it must have felt for him to be lost in a world he didn't like and how sad he was that his brother was gone. I'm beginning to think that literary heaven is a mess, all full of insane characters like Holden and Randle Patrick McMurphy, guys who really know the meaning of life, who get that we're all just crazy.

"Can I ask you something?" Alex says as I take my seat in the middle row behind an ancient computer that hasn't been replaced since the 90's. The room smells like melting plastic.

"Sure," I smile. He's wearing his red and white Minster High football jersey with a sleeveless undershirt. I force my eyes to his face, away from the hair sticking out of his armpit.

"Did we go out last Saturday? Because that's what I'm hearing."

My jaw drops open and I stumble over my words. "I... umm... well."

"I'm not opposed to it. I mean, you smell really good. I just feel like I would remember something like that." Alex scratches his chin.

"I am so sorry." It's all I can think of to say.

He leans down toward my ear, his usual scent of Old Spice and freshly-cut grass filling my nose. He smells good, too.

"Whatever we did or didn't do is okay with me. As far as I'm concerned, we went to a movie and I stared at you the whole time because you looked so beautiful."

I smile and exhale.
Beautiful
. There's that word again.

"Thanks," I say to Alex, my cheeks getting hot just like last year when he said "beautiful" to me after my last performance of
Guys and Dolls
.

"Are you going to the Hot Shot dance?" he asks.

"Of course. I'm in charge of it," I pull my shoulders back and sit up straighter.
President Hart at your service
.

"Well..." Alex runs his fingers through his curly brown hair. His blue eyes sparkle even in the dim computer lab. "Since we did go to a movie last Saturday, and you let me put my arm around you, maybe we could..."

"Nice jersey, Jock Strap." Lil cuts him off and casually takes the seat next to me. Alex blinks, surprised. He looks at Lil, and then back at me, a deer-in-headlights kind of look on his face. His shoulders fall a bit.

"Thank you, Lil. You look nice today as always," Alex smiles at her and says in a bold voice, "Thanks for going out with me last Saturday, Marty. I hope we can do it again." He winks and walks over to his seat.

I giggle, the nervous bubble in my stomach deflating. I think kissing Alex would be nice. He probably tastes like apples and his lips are never chapped and I bet he'd run his fingers through my hair just like I've always wanted. We could go out on dates and he'd hold my hand and kiss me on the front porch while my parents peered from inside the house, thinking,
Marty's finally found the perfect boyfriend
.

But what if that's not what I want anymore? I touch the black jelly bracelet Matt gave me. Insta-goosebumps.

"Oh my God, could he have a bigger boner for you or what?" Lil turns on her computer. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her red sunglasses are propped on top of her head, even though it's raining out, and she's looking straight ahead.

Did she just say the word
boner
?! You can't just say things like that out loud!

"Be quiet," I whisper, my heart picking up speed.

"What? Would you prefer I call it a chubby?" Lil speaks even more loudly. Pippa Rogers turns around and rolls her eyes. My face heats up a thousand degrees. I can't believe Lil is saying this. To ME. I breathe, trying to calm my insides.

You are in a class, Marty Hart.
Eyes on the board
.

"Lil," I bark through my teeth.

"Or maybe purple-headed yogurt slinger!" Lil's voice is on the verge of yelling now and half the class is staring at her.

My mouth has fallen open, a gaping hole the size of the Grand Canyon. I can't believe her ability to say things that should never be spoken aloud.

And then I feel it. It starts with a sniffle that moves to a hiccup that becomes a giggle that explodes into an all-over, body-convulsing fit of laughter I can't control that makes me want to scream BONER at the top of my lungs.

"Is everything okay, Marty?" Ms. Everley asks. I've caused such a commotion that she can't start the lesson. I stare at her and the white line of chalk across the crotch of her black pants.
Is everything okay?
I'd like to know the answer to that question myself. For the past few days, I haven't felt right in my own skin and all of a sudden Lil says some inappropriate words and I'm free and laughing and utterly embarrassed at the same time. What's happening to me?