Pretenders (10 page)

September 12th

Forgive me, Journal, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last entry.

Why, you ask? There is a shedload more homework in high school than in middle. And it’s a
little tiny bit hard
.

Not that I can’t handle it. I can. I totally can. I will! Last night, while savoring arrowroot biscuits and vanilla decaf, I reconsidered my social goals for the semester and concluded the following: Friends can wait. There’s no one of any real interest anyway. I was pursued by Sheridan Spencer in Monday’s lab. But she was shallow and extremely flammable so I shut it down.

Ver? There is one girl I’ve been tracking. Not as a friend,
though. Strictly foe. Her name is Lily Bader-Huffman. We have English, AP World History, Algebra, and Global Media together. The girl ranks high on intel. She answers every question and knows things we haven’t even been taught yet. I never even see her taking notes.
¹⁹
The point is, I suspect Lily Bader-Huffman may have the
60 Minutes
skill–and a few others, based on our lunchtime encounter.

Knowing that the list of awards, honors, and extracurriculars will be posted tonight,
²⁰
I was determined to spend the first half of the week taking SWAP orders.
²¹
Because once that list goes up I’m going into O.M.
²²
and my charity work will suffer as a result.

So, I was going table to table in the cafeteria, selling my last pieces of inventory. When a viselike force gripped the sides of my head and turned me toward a molten-hot guy. He waved me over. The moisture drained from my mouth.

He was sitting alone but didn’t seem self-conscious about it.
Why? Because tanned guys with careless dark hair and fudge-brown eyes only sit alone for one reason.
²³

“What are you selling?” he asked.

“SWAP bracelets,” I answered.

I placed the prototype beside his orange tray and explained the concept. Which was not easy with him looking right at me. Usually boys get nervous around me. But this one crackled confidence.
²⁴

He nodded as if impressed and then offered me a warm hand in exchange for my name.

“Vanessa.”

He snickered.

“What’s so funny?”

“I wanted to try on the SWAP but it is really nice to meet you, Vanessa. I’m Blake.”

My face turned the color of his pomegranate juice.

He took the bracelet from the table and fastened it around his wrist.

I never imagined it on a boy but I never imagined a boy who looked like Blake.

“That looks really good on you,” I said, meaning it. The brown leather and gold envelope popped against his butterscotch-colored skin.

“Can I order two?”

My heart didn’t skip a beat. It added one hundred more per second.

“Sure!”

He went on about how much he admired my passion and believed in my cause. He said it was refreshing to meet a pretty girl who cared about more than her looks. I turned pomegranate again.

He said it was cute when I blushed.

“What else are you into?” he asked. “Besides saving orphans?”

I wanted him to stop looking at me like that. I never wanted him to stop.

I had to sit. I would never ever eat in front of him, but my knees felt like they were being erased and I didn’t want to fall.

I leaned on a chair for balance. I was about to sit when guess who arrived with tofu salad and two forks? That’s right, Lily Bader-Huffman.

Foe no you dizn’t!

She was wearing pajama bottoms, and her gnawed fingernails had been jaundiced by a yellow highlighter. I needed to scratch. I balled my fists instead.

Was she pretty? Hmmm. Maybe in a “Before” picture kind of way. Bland, frizzy, unkempt, but symmetrical.

Still, no amount of symmetry could explain what Blake saw in her. Maybe they were cousins.

I had to get out of there before I whipped a piece of tofu at that talk-blocker’s throat. Blake obviously got the second
SWAP for her and I did not want to be around when he fastened it to her bony “Before” wrist.

I can hear it now:

LILY:
So what if the world sees me as a “Before” picture? You make me feel like an “After.” A happily ever after…

GROSS!

Now I’m in the study lounge, journaling about my first loss.

An overachiever could get used to this room. It’s peaceful, grounding, and the couches are velvety soft. The vast collection of first edition novels invigorates my soul, the dim lights soothe it.

Jagger, the orphan, is seated across from me. He’s writing and laughing to himself. Might he be a tad insane?

Ew. His dirty sneakers are on the cushions. Poor guy doesn’t have anyone to teach him that shoes belong on the floor and not the furniture.

He’s so thin.

He’s closing his eyes. He must be exhausted from wandering the streets. Why doesn’t the government do something for him? If I wasn’t already committed to the Haitian orphans, I’d mentor him. But… Ver? It would do nothing for my GPA.

I was hoping to see Audri at lunch but she wasn’t there. Second day in a row.

Did I freak her out when we doubled home?

Something about her face (Blue glasses? Uneven smile? Freckle below her right eye?) said, “Go on, Jagger, tell me everything. Trust me with the extended-play version of your story. Life hasn’t always been fair to me, either. I won’t run. I won’t ever run.”

Still. I should have known better.

I should have left out the part about being followed by Pat, the ex–navy SEAL with a history of violence and a score to settle.

At least until she got to know me better.

But she seemed so interested and it felt good to talk.

Too many people know my deal.

Bags of clothes appear by my locker. I never eat lunch alone. Even the 3Ms say hi to me in the halls. But Pat knows too. I can feel it.

Bushes shake when I walk by. Camouflage blurs whip through my line of vision when I’m in crowded places. Randy’s pets bang on their cages the moment I fall asleep.

Last time I visited Carla and Ed in prison they begged me to keep to myself. They made me promise.

Pat wants revenge. Payback for teaching Pat Jr. that lesson about bullying. And the best way to hurt my parents is to hurt me.

I should have kept my promise.

I really really should have kept my promise.

I should have kissed Audri instead of blabbing.

That kiss-butt Vanessa just sat on the couch across from me. She’s journaling too. She keeps looking at me. She’s scratching her arm like crazy, which makes me think she has some sort of communicable skin disease.

Contracting a communicable skin disease is no way to win Audri back.

Man, she’s itchy.

Imagine if she lifted up her leg and started scratching behind her ear like Noodle did when he had fleas.

I just laughed out loud a little.

Uh-oh. She just smiled at me.

What if she wants to come over and talk? What if she asks me to join her on her infested communicable couch?

I can’t let her think I am open to that.

Better fake sleep.

Feeling = Someone does not want me to make Varsity.

Ever since Rosie the cleaning woman left, my lucky things have been missing. First my Nike Air Max shoes, then my basketball, now my red-and-white-striped sweatbands.

I searched the entire house and I still couldn’t find anything. Probably because it’s a mess in there. Mom keeps saying she’s going to “tidy up” but she hasn’t had time. Which is why I don’t understand why they got rid of Rosie. Unless they caught her stealing my stuff. But why would Rosie take my sweatbands? She pinched her nose when I wore them.

Found them! They were in the laundry room about to get washed. Rosie never would have done that. She knew they held two years of victory sweat. Soap would destroy their powers. Without my Air Maxes and ball they are all the luck I have. I was so happy to have them back I actually hugged them. They smelled like Funyuns and winning.

Feeling = Back in the game.

I called Mom and made her swear she’d never ever, ever wash them. I was expecting her usual speech about making my own luck and how superstitions are for people who don’t believe in themselves.

All she said was: Sounds good, Andrew.

Then she hung up.

Now I am in the rain, hiding behind the porch swing waiting for Coops to pick me up. Coops is always late. I’d rather be inside, but Bubbie Libby was cursing the coach for making basketball tryouts at 6 PM on a Friday because I will be gone for Sabbath dinner. I tried telling her it was the only time the gym was free but she wanted to write him a letter anyway. When she asked for the coach’s name I said my ride was here and bolted.