Vegan Virgin Valentine (4 page)

As soon as the bell rang, I handed in my test and bolted out of the classroom, hoping Travis wouldn’t follow me. Ever since ninth grade, we’ve been comparing notes after anything from a pop quiz to a final exam. I know exactly what he got on the SATs. He knows that on the English Regents, I made the mistake of spelling
fervor
with a
u
instead of an
e
but compensated by kicking butt on the essay questions. It’s sort of unhealthy the way we’ve played into each other’s grade obsession, but it’s gotten us into Princeton and Yale, so I guess I’m not complaining.

Travis grinned as he caught up with me. “I was stumped by the second question, but then it hit me.
Brown versus Board of Education.
From there, I cruised through. What about you?”

I shook my head. I was barely even thinking about the fact that—damn it!—I mistakenly wrote
Wade v. Board of Education.
I was more wondering if Travis is a clueless idiot. Does he think I don’t know? And let’s say I
didn’t
know, how could he full-frontal grind with V one day and act totally normal with me the next?

“Are you okay, Valentine?” Travis asked. “Did you screw it up or something?”

I started walking faster.

“You
did
screw it up!” Travis said, keeping up with me. “So sweet! My GPA just left yours in the dust, didn’t it? I can
taste
my valedictory speech.
Mmmm, mmmmm —
”

I whipped my face toward Travis. “Will you shut up already?”

“I’m just kidding. You know how we always—”

“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to talk right now.”

“What’s your deal? Are you PMS-ing?”

I clenched my fists. “You don’t
know
what my deal is?”

Travis shook his head.

“Get a freaking conscience,” I snapped.

And then I took off in the other direction, down a stairwell, and through the English hallway. I didn’t stop until I was certain I’d left Travis far behind.

I was still fuming after fourth period. I headed home, ate a peanut butter sandwich without even tasting it, and went into my room to check my e-mail.

Ash had sent me a text message from her cell phone saying to call or e-mail if I wanted to talk.
As if,
I thought, deleting it. I deleted about fourteen thousand e-mails enticing me to buy mass quantities of Viagra and refinance my home. Then I saw an e-mail from Bethany Madison. It looked like she’d sent it about fifteen minutes ago.

I was about to reply to Bethany when an IM from TravisRox188 popped up on my screen.

Yo, Valentine. R u there?

What do u want?
I pounded on the keys as I typed.

Over at the college. About to go to class. Still searching for my freaking conscience…

U really don’t know?

If I did, would I ask u? ;)

I forgot how Travis always did those annoying winky emoticons. I felt pissed off just looking at it.

Does the 22nd letter of the alphabet mean anything to u?
I wrote.

He didn’t respond for a second. I pictured him sitting there, counting on his fingers, so I quickly wrote,
V, u remedial idiot.

U mean your… What is she again?

Not about to give u my family tree, but u totally should have stayed away.

What can I say?
Travis wrote back.
I like tall girls whose last name is Valentine. ;) ;) ;)

That’s SICK and INCESTUOUS!!!
I typed.

For your info, what … or who … I do is NOT your business. We broke up almost a year ago, in case u forgot.

Ouch. I bit down on my tongue and wrote,
U can do whatever the hell u want, but there r some boundaries, u know? Things u shouldn’t do EVER.

Travis didn’t respond for a moment. I was about to log off when one sentence popped up.

I can see u haven’t changed.

I was tempted to hurl my stapler through the monitor, but instead I grabbed my keys and cell phone and stomped out to my car. If I was determined to beat Travis for valedictorian before, now I wanted to kick his salutatorian butt all the way to Princeton, New Jersey.

As far as V, well, I was too pissed off to even think about her.

I was still angry when I got to the college for my improv dance class. Not a good idea. Even when I’m feeling fine, I hate this class. I wish I’d never registered for it, but SUNY Brockport has a renowned dance program, so I figured I should cash in while I had the opportunity. Big mistake.

The teacher is Dr. Hendrick. He used to be in the chorus of a Broadway musical several decades ago, so he still thinks he’s hot stuff. The only hot thing about him is that he sweats like an ice cube on a summer day.

We’ve had four classes so far this semester, during which he’s spent the entire fifty minutes calling out things like, “Be a pine tree!” “Be somber!” “Be a baby bird!” A guy pounds on drums in the corner, and all the students sway and mope and tweet accordingly.

Today was more of the same. We’d just finished our stretches when Dr. Hendrick shouted, “Be a gazelle running through the wilds of Africa!”

The drummer pounded a steady rhythm. Everyone started springing around the room, chests forward, feet flying. I slunk after them, looking more like a deer in the woods.
After
it’s been shot. Maybe I’m uptight, but I just can’t get into the whole hippie-dippy-let-loose thing.

Dr. Hendrick trotted after us, his forehead glistening. “Be popcorn sizzling on hot oil!”

Everyone flung their bodies around. I shook my arms a little. I glanced in the mirror. I looked like I was having a seizure.

“Now close your eyes and move like you do when you’re happy. Do happy, however you interpret that.”

I shut my eyes. The drummer began a frenetic rhythm. I stood still for a few seconds before peeking. The whole class was swaying and bouncing and twirling. Even Dr. Hendrick was galloping around, his eyelids scrunched shut, sweat drenching his underarms.

Then he opened his eyes, and I was busted.

“Ms. Valentine, why aren’t you doing happy?”

As my classmates jiggled and the drummer pounded, I stared at Dr. Hendrick.
Doing happy?
Today of all days, I’m supposed to be
doing happy
? Besides, I’m just not the happy sort of person. Sure, I feel good when I get an A or when someone compliments me on what I’m wearing, but if you’re looking for Mary Poppins or the von Trapp family, you’re not going to find that in me.

Dr. Hendrick and I stared each other down for a moment, and then he shouted to the class, “Stop doing happy and start being radishes. Not Saran-wrapped and miserable in the grocery store, but radishes in a garden. A lush, fertile garden full of radishes.”

This guy was definitely a freak.

When I got home, V was in the kitchen, swigging directly from the carton of milk.

“Stop it,” I said. “That’s disgusting.”

She gulped for a few more seconds before smiling at me, a white mustache spreading across her upper lip. “What do you care? It’s not like you even drink milk.”

“I care because it’s unsanitary.” I unlaced my boots and set them in the laundry room. “Besides, if you do it with the milk, you’re probably doing it with the orange juice and the lemonade.”

“Yeah, I’m a real refrigerator slut,” V said.

“Take out the ‘refrigerator’ part and you’re right on target.”

V reached into the cupboard and pulled out the Oreos. She split one apart and scraped off the filling with her teeth. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Travis Hart.”

“So that’s his first name?” V sat on one of the stools. “I couldn’t remember.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “So it’s true?” I asked, furiously. “You and Travis … in the locker room yesterday?”

V split another Oreo in half and scraped out the filling. She wasn’t eating the brown cookie part, just licking them clean and lining them up in a row on the cutting board.

“You knew I was with him last year,” I said, anger building in my throat. “How could you do that?”

“You said he was nothing to you.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” I snapped.

V didn’t say anything as she licked all of the cookies another time and then piled them in a stack.

“I can’t believe you stole away
my
ex-boyfriend on your first day at
my
school.”

“
Ex
is the operative word here,” V said, laughing sarcastically. “He didn’t exactly belong to you.”

I raced toward her, seriously feeling like I was going to kick her. But, instead, I kicked over the other stool. As it crashed to the floor, I ran into my bedroom and slammed the door.

I stayed in my room for almost thirty minutes. I arranged all my papers so they were in two neat piles. I put my pens and markers in the plastic student government cup that I got at a leadership conference two summers ago. I straightened my closet, hanging all my clothes in the same direction and making sure my shoes were paired up and relocating any sweaters that drifted into the shirt section.

I kept thinking about all the things I wished I’d said to V. About how there’s a right and wrong in this world and what she did is definitely in the wrong category. About how you can’t let hormonal urges come before friends and even family. About how she betrayed me by fooling around with Travis and I’ll never forgive her for that.

Once it was all clear in my head, I went into the living room to give her an earful, but she wasn’t there or in the kitchen. I opened the door to the stairwell leading to the guest room. As I headed upstairs, I smelled something sort of smoky and sweet and peppery.

It was pot.
Oh my God.
V was getting high up there.

I’ve only been around people smoking pot one time, but it’s such a distinctive smell, I could place it anywhere. It was at that Model UN conference at Georgetown. We all stayed in the dorms and, ironically, it was the kids representing the Netherlands who brought the joint. A few of my teammates smoked, but I didn’t try it. It wasn’t just that I was president of Chemical-Free Fun Nights, though that wouldn’t have looked very good if it got around. It’s more that I didn’t like the idea of losing control, of having a surge of unwelcome emotion, of giggling at stupid things and crying at nothing, like the girl representing Iceland was doing.

I stood on the landing for a second, breathing in another whiff. So I was right about V and the new bad habit she’d acquired in San Diego. Her stoner backpack had definitely made me wonder.

As I turned and stomped back down the stairs, V cracked open her door and shouted, “I’ll kill you if you tell G-ma and G-pa.”

“I’m so scared,” I said.

V slammed her door and I slammed the door to the stairwell, and suddenly I realized that in the past forty-eight hours, I’ve slammed more doors than I’ve probably slammed in the previous year.

V and I barely spoke over the weekend. She was out with my parents a lot. When she was home, I was either working at Common Grounds or studying at the college library or going for long walks in the frostbit January weather, just to be off her radar screen.

Monday was Martin Luther King Day, so the high school and the college were closed, but my parents were going to work. When I woke around nine, they were already gone. V was still sleeping, so I wolfed down a banana and a bowl of cereal with soymilk. Then I bundled up in jeans, a long undershirt, a sweater, two pairs of socks, boots, a hat, a scarf, gloves, and my coat. I put my cell phone in the coat pocket and headed outside.

The sky was clear blue and the air was freezing. I walked across town to the canal. I took a right on the towpath and hiked almost all the way to Adam’s Basin. I saw only one person along the way, a middle-aged woman with a golden retriever. We waved at each other. I was relieved she didn’t try to chat with me because I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

My cell phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and stabbed the “answer” button with my gloved finger.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Where are you, sweetie? Dad talked to V a few minutes ago and she said you weren’t there when she got up. Are you at the college library?”

“I’m walking on the canal.”

“You’re
what
? Did you say you’re walking down the canal?”

“Yeah.”

“Sweetie, it’s ten below out with the wind-chill factor. Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Want Dad to come pick you up? I’m sure he can leave his office for a few minutes.”

“No,” I said. “I want to walk.”

On my way back to Brockport, there was a fierce blast whipping into my face. One of those insanely frigid winds off Lake Ontario. My eyes and nose were watering. My cheeks were tingling. My fingers ached. And my thighs were frozen solid.

Unfortunately, however, my brain wasn’t numb.

I couldn’t stop obsessing about how Travis and V had hooked up. And what Travis had said in the IM, about how I haven’t changed. And the agonizing fact that V was living with us indefinitely. There was only so long I could avoid my own house.

That night, my parents had dinner with friends in Rochester. V was watching television. I was in my room eating dried apple slices and attempting to calculate estimates for my statistics class, but she had the volume on so high I couldn’t focus. It was some stupid sitcom and the laugh track was giving me a headache.

After several earsplitting guffaws, I stormed into the living room, grabbed the remote control off the coffee table, and lowered the volume.

“Why’d you do that?” V asked.