So Not Happening (9 page)

As soon as Jake stops the vehicle, Budge jumps out and disappears. He probably needs to discuss secret Halo strategies found in the book of Revelation.

While Jake escorts his youngest to children's church, I keep my focus on the floor as Mom and I make our way to a row of seats. Smoothing my skirt, I sit down and open my program.

Then I feel the stare.

My eyes jerk to a man two rows in front of us. Chill bumps skitter across my skin.

The bald man. The one who tried to give me a ride to school.

He turns back around, suddenly immersed in his own program.

“Mom.” I nudge her. “I, um ...” How do you tell your mom that you think her husband is up to something shady? He could be dealing crack. Working for the mafia. Selling half-price panty liners in back alleys. “I think something's going on with Jake.”

“He has been a little stressed. But he's been working a lot of overtime lately.”

Overtime? You have no idea.

“Something's not right with him,” I whisper, glancing at the back of the bald man's head. “I saw him—”

“Didn't think Robbie was going to turn loose of me.” Jake steps over me and sinks into the seat by my mom. “He changed his mind when the teacher broke out the Oreos.” He smiles at both of us.

I see through you! I know you're hiding something, Mr. Tall and
Sneaky.

My stepdad introduces us to a few people nearby. I shake hands like I'm thrilled to be in a church. In a school. In a town that hates me.

We sing a few contemporary choruses, then a middle-aged man in khakis and a plaid shirt walks to the podium.

“Welcome to Truman Bible Church. I'm Pastor Wilkerson, and I'm glad you're here.”

Oh,
I'm thrilled too.

“Today we're going to finish our series. We've been talking about something really important. Deception.”

I hope Jake Finley is paying close attention.

I spend the rest of Sunday talking to Hunter and Mia on the phone. Before I go to bed, my cell rings one more time.

“Hey, kid!”

I lean into my pillows. “Dad?” That voice . . . sounds so familiar. Could it be?

“Who else? How's it going?”

“Terrible.”

“Now it can't be that bad. You want to talk
had,
I had to remove twenty pounds of excess skin from a woman yesterday. Try living with that.”

“Yeah, right. My minor issues will never compare to those who undergo the almighty knife. Who valiantly fight the battle of the bulge or wage war on wrinkles.”

He sighs. “I hear your sarcasm. You're frowning right now, aren't you? What did I tell you about that?”

If he gives me the whole frowning-uses-more-muscles statistic again, I think I will projectile-vomit through the digital sound waves.

“Tell your dad all about Truman.”

I give him the abbreviated rundown, tidying up the blog-leakage story but still giving him the important details.

“People here want to run me out of town.” I twirl Moxie's stuffed mouse in front of her face. She only blinks and goes back to growling at her tail. “I was thinking I could move in with you for a while. Maybe try this again next year.” Or
never.

Silence crackles in my ear. “Bella . . . I love you. You know that.”

Here we go.

“But my therapist says I'm in a selfish phase, and that's just not a good environment for you—not full-time anyway.”

It's good enough for his bimbo-of-the-month club.

“This is a learning experience for you. Your mom called me Friday, and we both agree that you need to walk through the consequences of your actions.”

Walk through the ... ?

“No, I don't! Yes, I get that posting my rant about Truman for the whole world to see was stupid. I won't do it again. Lesson learned. Send me a plane ticket.”

“I'm sorry, Bel. I really am. But I'll see you in a few weeks.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” And I disconnect from my dad.

Just like he's disconnected from my life.

chapter thirteen

W
hen I enter the kitchen Monday morning, Budge is sneezing all over the table.

“Gross. Cover your mouth.” Neanderthal.

He lasers me with a glare, then sneezes again, sending Moxie scampering for safer, quieter territory.

“Bless you.” Robbie smiles at his brother. “Did you know that saying probably comes from the days of the bubonic plague?”

I glare at Budge. He is the plague.

Mom sits down, a nervous look on her face, and rubs my back. At last! I finally get some sympathy around here. “Honey, I have some bad news for you.”

I grab the bowl of oatmeal she slides my way and inhale its mapley goodness. “You mean something worse than today I'm going to go to school and be pelted with insults, spit wads, and stray pieces of gravel? I won't have anyone to sit with at lunch, and everyone in class will shun me and egg my car? Oh, wait. I don't have a car.”

“Um, yes, there's more.”

I drop my spoon.

“Sweetie, Budge is allergic to Moxie.”

He sneezes on cue.

“So? He can get some shots or something.”

He stands up and takes his bowl to the sink. “Or you get rid of your cat.”

I grab my mom's arm. “What? No!”

“I'm really sorry, but he's tolerated the cat for as long as he could. He didn't want to upset you.”

Budge stands behind Mom and smiles. He's evil! Evil, I tell you!

“He lives to upset me. You can't make me get rid of Moxie. She's all I have.”

“I wouldn't go
that
far,” Mom says.

“Well, I would. She and I have been together through thick and thin. And she's special—not just anyone would know that you have to moisten her food. Not just anyone would dig out her toys when she loses them. Not just anyone would know that she needs extra pets when she walks into walls or falls off of staircases. Moxie needs me!”

“Bella, we are part of this family now, and we have to make decisions that benefit everyone.”

“Besides,” Budge adds, “it's gross to have a cat in the house.”

“Oh yeah, because you Finley guys are
really
into hygiene and tidiness. Moxie could get lost in the dust in your room alone.”

Budge rears back and blasts another sneeze.

“That's so fake! Look at him—how can you buy into this?”

“Jake will find Moxie a good home, Bel.”

I stand up, my chair squawking across the linoleum floor. “Tell him to find me one too.” And I race upstairs.

Knowing I'd rather dance in the front yard topless than ride to school with Budge, Mom drives me herself.

“Have a good day, Bella.”

For seconds I stare at her. It's like telling someone on death row to keep her chin up. Closing the door, I walk away.

God,
please get me through this day. I'm like Job in the Bible—losing
everything. Okay, so, like, everyone he knew died. And I haven't lost any
cattle or anything. But still
—
I got it had.

I crank up my iPod, bypass my locker, and head straight for English class.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

With room 104 in sight, I pick up my pace.

Mrs. Kelso jumps out of nowhere, stands in the middle of the hall, and blocks my way. “Miss Kirkwood, come with me, please.”

“But I need to get to—”

“Now.”

The blonde woman leads me to her office and motions to a less-than-plush seat, and I sit. She props a hip on a corner of the desk and looks into my eyes.

“I'd like to pick up where we left off Friday afternoon.”

Oh
yes please. I'd love to relive every moment of Friday!

“I don't really care that Mrs. Lee thinks you bring bad vibes to her art classroom. But we did schedule too many students in there that hour, so somebody has to go.” She raises her brows. “And it's you.”

Like I care. Right now dropping out and joining the circus sounds more my thing anyway.

“The question is where to put you.” She moves to take her seat behind the massive oak desk. “I got online and read your blog postings—oh yes, they're still out there. Captured for all eternity in numerous places.” She taps her acrylic nails together. “It occurred to me that since you like to write, you might do well on the newspaper staff.”

“Or I might not.” I p i c a string from my Betsey Johnson skirt. “I'm not interested, but thanks.”

“I really wasn't giving you an option.” She returns to her seat and clicks away on her computer. And before I can say, “Home-schooling sounds fun,” I'm clutching my newly revised schedule.

“I'll meet you after English class to escort you to your new destiny as a journalist.”

“I know nothing about writing for a newspaper.”

Her passive face breaks into its first smile. “Oh, but you're a smart girl. Let's just hope they don't ask to see any of your previous work.”

I suffer through English class, showered with only a handful of slurs. When I wasn't writing my hand to the bone on an essay, I was praying for an Old Testament curse upon Budge's frizzy head.

When the bell rings, I find Mrs. Kelso waiting for me in the hall. “Right this way, please.” She stops a few doors down, and we're in an officelike space, with old framed newspapers hanging from the walls, as well as row upon row of awards and certificates. “This is Mr. Holman. He is the paper advisor.”

I smile at the white-haired man who shakes my hand. “New student, eh? Can she write?”

“Oh, she's got all sorts of experience. She has a revealing . . . honest approach to her work.” Mrs. Kelso sends me a wink. “Now Mr. Holman just oversees the paper. You'll learn the ropes from his editor.”

And that would be me.”

I turn around, my eyes widening at the vision in front of me. A vision with hostility flaming in his blue eyes. Mr. Holman might not be familiar with my attack on Truman, but this guy sure is.

“Isabella Kirkwood, I'd like you to meet my editor, Luke Sullivan.”

I hold out my hand for Luke to shake, but he ignores it, staring at me like I'm contagious.

“This is our new staff member?” He runs a hand through his black hair. “We have a waiting list two pages deep to get on the paper, and this is who we get?” Luke shakes his head and huffs. “Unreal. I can't work with this.”

“You can, Mr. Sullivan,” the counselor says evenly. And you will. Like all staff members, you will teach Bella the ropes of writing for a newspaper. Are we clear?”

Luke Sullivan walks away as the ten other people in the class openly stare in my direction.

“He cares a lot about this paper.” Mr. Holman looks toward his protégé. “It's very important to him. We are an award-winning publication, Miss Kirkwood. I hope you're ready to do everything you can to maintain our standard of excellence.”

I smile weakly. The me from last week would say something about Truman's standard of excellence. “You can count on me, sir.”

Satisfied that no one is going to tar and feather me today, the counselor leaves. Mr. Holman shows me around the room and introduces me to the other staff members. None of them embraces me in jubilant greeting. Nobody cries tears of joy at my presence.

“Luke here will get you started. Our first edition comes out next week, and the back-to-school issue is an important one.” Mr. Holman pats me on the back, shoots a warning glance at his editor, then leaves us alone.

I stand next to Luke's desk and wait for him to turn around and look me in the eye.

Two minutes pass. I clear my throat.

Sixty more seconds. “Look, Luke—”

“You think you can just waltz in here and play the prima donna?”

I check behind me. Is he seriously talking to me? “Um . . . no.”

“I know who you are, and I know about your little gossip column.”

“It was an advice column, and I'll thank you not to use the word 'little' like it was nothing. I mean, granted, the last few postings weren't my best work, and I'm sorry about those, but it's time we all get past it and—”

“If you bring even a hint of trash to this paper, I will go to the school board to get rid of you.”

“Calm down.” I drop my own volume. “What is your deal? You know, you really ought to get some help for your anger issues.”