The Art of Adapting (29 page)

All of this over a stupid crush on a boy who would clearly never choose her over bitchy, slutty Caitlin. Abby dug her nails into her palms, then inspected the small half-moon marks she left behind. The tears still loomed, so she did it again, harder. Mr. Franks held his hand out to her, very nearly touching her left wrist.

“Please, stop,” he said in such a small, soft voice that her tears came freely. She turned her back to Gabe and Mr. Franks and let her humiliation swallow her whole. As if the rumors weren't bad enough, now everyone in school would be calling her a crybaby. And they'd be right.

“It's my fault,” Gabe whispered.

“No, it isn't,” Abby sobbed. “It's . . .” But she couldn't say it. She wasn't sure why. There was no need to protect Caitlin. The school had a zero-tolerance policy on bullying. But being a narc was a thousand times worse than being a bully. Social suicide. Abby cried into the crook of her arm like the pathetic loser that she was. She felt a hand on her shoulder and shook it off with a swing of her elbow. She turned to see Gabe reel back, holding his hands up to protect his face. It was all going wrong. She wasn't mad at him. Just hurt and scared and hating everything she felt.

Abby sniffled, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath. “It's fine,” she said. “I'm sorry we were interrupting class. It won't happen again.”

Mr. Franks sighed and turned to Gabe with narrowed eyes.
“Gabe, I know whatever this is, you'd like it to stop as much as I would.”

Gabe stared at Abby, looking sad and sorry, and it made the tears threaten again. Abby bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the metallic tang of blood, and that did the trick. She shook her head at Gabe, so slightly that only her dangling earrings swayed. Gabe gave a tiny bob of his head.

“Yeah, we were just . . . goofing around. It won't happen again,” he said.

Mr. Franks wasn't buying it, Abby could tell, but what choice did he have? He sighed angrily and pulled out two unevenly cut squares of blue photocopy paper. Hall passes, because now they were both late for their next classes. He signed them and handed them over.

“This isn't over,” Mr. Franks said. “If you won't talk to me, talk to someone. Mrs. Geller or Mr. Walsh.”

Abby shook her head. The last thing she needed was fake sympathy from a guidance counselor who hadn't been a high school student for fifty years, or a vice principal who thought joining more sports teams was the solution to every conflict.

“I'm fine. We're fine. We don't need to talk about it anymore,” she whispered.

She took the hall pass and her book bag and rushed for the door, but Gabe was longer-legged and faster, and he made it to the door with her, opening it for her like a gentleman, which just made it all worse.

“Stop,” Abby said, because if she said more she'd risk crying again. Gabe waited for her to pass through, then followed her out. She hurried to get away, to put some distance between them, but he caught up to her easily. He grabbed her upper arm and she yanked it free of his grasp, then blinked up at him in the bright midmorning sun.

“What?” she asked coldly.

“I'm sorry,” Gabe said. “I don't know how to fix this.” He looked around, as if to make sure it was safe. Luckily, the grounds around Mr. Franks' classroom were a ghost town. Everyone was already in class.

“Clearly we can't be seen together, like, ever. You just go back to doing whatever it is you do with Caitlin, and maybe she'll stop.”

“This is low, even for her.” Gabe shook his head. “I'm not sure she's capable of it.”

Abby turned on him, anger forming a hard, cold place in her belly. “You don't think this is her? Are you crazy? Who else would care?”

Gabe shrugged. “Maybe there's some guy who has a thing for you. We don't know. These things take on a life of their own . . .”

“Nobody else cares about me in this school. Nobody. Caitlin's the only one who would have any reason to . . .” Abby gestured toward Mr. Franks. There were no words to sum up all that Caitlin had done.

“If you're so sure, then I'll . . . I'll talk to her,” Gabe offered.

“Please don't. Anything you do for me will just make things worse. We need to steer clear of each other. If you say anything to her, just tell her that I don't mean anything to you and never did.”

“But that's not true,” Gabe said.

Abby thought of slapping him, the first time she'd ever felt the urge to hit another human being. She decided not to, because she wasn't the violent type. Then she struck him in the center of his chest with both palms before she could stop herself. She snapped her wrists back in the process. She knew it didn't hurt him, but she'd used enough force to knock him back a step. She rubbed her stinging wrists. Of course she was the only one who got hurt.

“Shut up!” she screamed, not caring who heard.

Gabe gave her a wounded look, rubbing his chest. She didn't know what he wanted from her. Or what she wanted from him anymore. She just wanted to disappear, same as always, only even more so now.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Nothing, apparently,” Abby said. “I'm just ruined, that's all. You and Caitlin can live happily ever after and I'll hide in the corners until high school is over. Thanks.”

She turned and stalked off, equally disappointed and grateful when Gabe didn't try to follow her. She checked the hall pass. Mr. Franks
had signed his name, but hadn't written in the time he'd dismissed her. Which meant she could put in any time she wanted. She veered left and headed for the track. A twenty-minute run would help. And she'd only be missing algebra, which she could do in her sleep. She settled her book bag into the small of her back, braced it with her arm, and broke into a hard run, her flats slapping the pavement, echoing off the walls of the buildings around her.

The morning was cool, which made running easier. She changed in the bathroom so the gym teachers wouldn't see her. The PE class was playing indoor volleyball, so the track was empty. She ran until she was winded and weightless.

Abby made it through the rest of her day without seeing Gabe or Caitlin by carefully avoiding all of their usual hangouts. She lurked around the field at lunch, where Byron and his smoking buddies gathered. Byron wasn't with them today, which was what she'd hoped for as she crested the hill toward the field. But as she stared at the crowd of hacking, puffing dorks on the other end of the grassy patch, she kind of wished Byron had been there. Just seeing a familiar face in the crowd might have made her feel less anxious and alone. He would've given her plenty of space, but he would've nodded to her to let her know he saw her. To make her feel like she existed.

She texted Em to say she wasn't feeling well and might go lie down in the nurse's office. She didn't want her company. Em wouldn't understand any of this. Nothing like this could ever happen to her.

Abby skipped soccer practice. It was the first time she'd missed one, and she knew she wouldn't get into trouble for it. She needed the workout, but she couldn't bear to see Caitlin, or Em. She hated that skipping it sent a message to Caitlin. A message that she'd won. But she had won, hadn't she?

She called Matt and asked him to pick her up from school. He drove her home in his little red pickup truck in silence. She was glad that he didn't ask any questions. They settled in their seats by the window at home with their usual snacks. When Abby saw his little green notebook tucked under his right thigh, hidden from
view out of respect for her, the waiting pen tucked into the metal coil of the notepad's spine, there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from coming again. She couldn't eat today. There was no way. And now she wasn't just letting herself down, she was letting Matt and Celeste down. Matt got up and left her to cry alone. When she was done, empty of tears but with a throbbing headache instead, Matt came back to the window. He set a box of tissues and a bottle of cold water before her, and took his seat beside her again.

“I put the notebook away,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said. She blew her nose, drank half the bottle in one long pass. “I'm sorry.”

“I put it under the kangaroo picture,” Matt said. As usual, there was no inflection to his voice, no emotion behind his words. He was as rock-solid as Abby was quicksand. “The birds are even busier today.”

“Should we count them?” she asked.

“It's not five o'clock,” he said. Matt and his rules. They were annoying and comforting at the same time. Abby nodded, but she counted the birds anyway, silently so Matt wouldn't know. She needed something else to fill her mind.

After counting the birds about ten times, Abby watched the neighbors arrive home from work, fetch their mail, roll beastly plastic trash bins out to the curb. The man across the street was trimming the green hedges that framed his thick lawn, carving the unruly bushes into a perfect right angles. Abby started to feel less alone. Less empty. Maybe, if she could just never go back to school again, if she could just live there in the sun, in the window beside Matt, counting birds and watching people and breathing, she could eat again.

“There!” Matt said, pointing down the street. One of his beloved Vizslas, sleek and elegant, trotted along next to a young woman jogging. “Now it'll be a good day,” he said, snapping his fingers. He nodded, bobbing his blond head, looking from Abby's right shoulder to the window. She wanted to feel it, that same simple happiness, but she was a dark hole inside.

“Okay,” she said, because he seemed to be waiting for her to say something.

“It's the same thing,” he said. “That's you. You're the Vizsla. The Vizsla was the Vizsla, and then I met one and it was too excited and jumpy and it made me feel worse, not better, so then the Vizsla wasn't the Vizsla for me anymore. But then it was you. Sitting here and being calm and not jumping on me. You're the Vizsla.”

He was pretty excited, his voice rising in pitch, higher than Abby had heard it before, and she wanted to understand, but he was off in Matt-land, where no one else could see how his random thoughts connected to each other.

“I'm a dog?” she asked.

“That's not a dog. That's a Vizsla. They're not slobbery or ugly and they don't shed thick long hair everywhere and they don't smell. They have too much energy but they're more beautiful than any other dog. The owner runs a different route most of the time, so I don't see him anymore. The Vizsla. Most of the time I don't see him anymore. And I missed him. Even though I don't want one anymore, not a real one, not a rattlesnake-tail jumping-out-of-their-skin one. But then it was okay, because even if I didn't see him anymore, I saw you. You're the Vizsla now.”

Matt was pointing excitedly at the window with one finger, and when that didn't seem to be enough, he started gesturing with his whole hand, waving toward the street, smacking the pane of glass with the backs of his long thin fingers. The Vizsla was long gone, but Matt was still signaling wildly toward it.

“I'm the Vizsla?” Abby asked. Something inside her cracked. A tiny speck of light pierced the gloom. She felt like laughing, but Matt seemed so serious, so earnest, so passionate. All of which just made it more ridiculous. He was calling her a dog. And he meant it as a compliment, she was pretty sure.

“Yes,” Matt said, leaning back in his seat. His hand was still extended, hovering between them. Without looking at her, he patted her shoulder with it, three quick taps, light as a bird's wing. It was the first time he'd ever touched her. “Yes, I love it,
that Vizsla. But I don't need it anymore. You're the Vizsla now. I love you now.”

The neighbor finished loading his hedge clippings into the big green trash bin and started sweeping the walkway in front of his house. The mailman came and made his rounds, nodding toward Abby and Matt as he passed. She sometimes forgot that the window worked two ways, and the outside world could see in just as well as she could see out. She raised her hand and waved, and both the mailman and the neighbor waved back.

“Okay,” Abby said, smiling for the first time all day. “I'll be the Vizsla now.”

One thing about Dale, he knew his way around a computer. It only took him a few minutes to hack into the high school's system. Byron was shocked when Dale said his major was computer science. That had given him the idea.

“So what exactly are we looking for in here?” Dale asked.

Byron shrugged. “Not sure exactly. But I'll know when I see it.”

“What do you care about a bunch of high school kids anyway?” Dale asked, typing away, leaning in close to the computer, just like Matt did when he was on a mission. Byron could've asked Matt to do this, and he was sure Matt would've been better at it, faster, but Matt would've known it wasn't right. Dale didn't seem to care.

Byron shrugged. It'd cost him a promise to lay off flirting with Chelsea and admitting that parkour was an art form while free-running was just a sport, to get Dale's help. He wasn't about to add the truth about his age into the mix.

“So this girl in trouble is a friend of yours?” Dale asked, typing away, screens sliding by as he delved deeper and deeper into the system.

“My kid sister,” Byron said.

“Oh,” Dale said, blockhead bobbing on his thick neck. “Okay, then I get it.”

That seemed unlikely, but Byron knew better than to say so. Byron's phone buzzed in his back pocket and he slid it out to see a new message from Betsy.

Hey there :)

She was writing to him regularly now. Byron smiled and tried to think of a clever response, then caught Dale watching him, eyes squinted like he was playing Dirty Harry. Byron tipped his phone so that Dale could see the screen, see that it wasn't Chelsea.

“Your girl?” Dale asked, still squinting at the phone. Maybe he needed glasses.