When It Happens (11 page)

“Don’t you have your own credit card?”

“I’m . . . yeah . . . just not on me.”

It’s obvious she’s totally lying by the way she can’t even look at me.

“Actually,” she says, “I don’t really need these. Let’s go.”

By the time we find the guys snorting over porn magazines, I’m wondering what exactly I’m doing here. And what I saw in Dave that made me think he could be my ideal boyfriend.

CHAPTER 18

better for her

october 7, 12:40 p.m.

“Man,” Mike says, “I have never seen you this hooked on a girl.”

We’re having lunch at the diner. Josh decided to stay in the caf to scam on some sophomore.

Mike is trying to get the ketchup to come out of the bottle. He shakes the bottle over his cheeseburger like he’s trying to strangle it.

“Tell me about it,” I say. “We finally talked yesterday, but it’s not enough. She’s still going out with that asshole.”

Mike sticks a knife into the ketchup bottle. "Dude,” he says. He shakes the bottle over his plate. The ketchup spurts out everywhere. But Mike doesn’t see this because he’s looking at me and saying, "Maybe you’re making it—”

“Watch it!” I point at his plate, most of which is now covered with ketchup.

“Shit!” He starts scraping ketchup off his cheeseburger. “Do I want some fries with my ketchup or what?”

“The knife technique apparently works.”

“Right.”

“Maybe I’m making it what?”

“Huh? Oh. Well . . . maybe if you’re making it too easy for her, she won’t feel forced to do anything.”

"Yeah....” This is way too complicated. I can’t figure out how to get her to see that I’m better for her than he is.

“I have this vague recollection of you in your prime,” Mike says. “Back when you had balls.”

I throw an onion ring at Mike’s face. It hits his left ear. Then I take another onion ring and dip it in mustard.

“Never attack your master planner,” he says. He takes a huge bite of his cheeseburger.

“Yeah, but your first plan sucked,” I tell him.

“You’re just pissed because you fucked it up. You must have looked really good falling up those stairs.” Mike laughs. “Man, I wish I’d been there!”

“Hey! She talked to me, didn’t she?”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but that was out of pity.”

“I don’t know. . . . Talking’s not enough. I have to do something drastic.” I dip another onion ring in mustard. “Suggestions?”

“You need me to wipe your ass for you, too?”

“How much am I paying you for this advice again?”

“What about gym?”

“You know gym doesn’t count. All we do is run together. ”

“You just need strategy.” Mike thinks for a minute. “Does Sara ever see you with other girls?”

“Like who?”

“Like anyone. It doesn’t matter. If she sees you with another girl, she’ll think there’s competition. Girls always like guys more when they’re less available.”

Suddenly, I have my own plan. "You’re a genius,” I say.

"What?” Mike says. "You just realized this now?”

Our plans have been known to suck. But this one is pure brilliance.

That night, I don’t speak during dinner. I’m still in planning mode.

After dinner, Dad and I do the dishes. It’s my turn to dry. Mom’s upstairs. She has a headache. So at least we don’t have to listen to Simon & Garfunkel or Cat Stevens or any of her other hippie jams. James Taylor’s cool, though.

Dad washes the last dish. “Have you given college any more thought?” he says.

All anyone’s been talking about at school is college applications. Mike is so frantic he’s scaring me. Even Josh is buying into the hype.We have to work on application essays, like, every day in English, which is seriously cutting into my lyric-writing time. And Ms. Everman cornered me in the hall the other day. She apparently thought it was possible to convince me to apply between third and fourth periods. Even Mr. Hornby wants me to apply to Manhattan Music Academy, where he went. And Sara’s in the top ten of our class. If I ever convince her to be with me, why would she want to get serious about someone who’s not even applying to college?

"Your future depends on your education, Tobey.”

“Dad. I know.”

I bang a glass down in the drainer too hard. But it doesn’t break.

“No,” Dad says. “You don’t know. If you knew, you wouldn’t be sitting around.”

“I’m not sitting around.”

“I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, because in only eight short months I’ll be in New York. And then you won’t have to be embarrassed about your loser son anymore.”

“Tobey. It’s not like that.” Dad sits down at the table.“I’ve been trying to get you to understand for...You weren’t like this when you were younger.”

“That was before I got a life.” I wipe my hands and throw the towel on the counter.

“Yeah, it’s important for you to be your own person. But part of achieving balance in life also involves being a responsible person.You’re responsible for your future.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

“You don’t—”

“Okay. Dad? This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” he yells. He rubs his hands over his face. I can’t remember the last time I heard him yell.When he looks up at me, it’s like he’s going to cry or something.

I sit down across from him. “Why do you keep trying to change me?” I say.

“This isn’t about change. It’s about who you are. Who your mother and I raised you to be.” Dad leans forward in his chair. “You’re brilliant, Tobey. But that intelligence doesn’t mean squat unless you use it to create the best possible life for yourself. Being smart and not using that gift is a waste of your life.”

“Wait. Are you saying that I’m wasting my life because I’m more interested in my music than conforming to a corrupt system’s rules? I’ve been working on my music, Dad!”

“I know you have. But why can’t you do both?”

“Not everyone is Ivy League material like you guys.”

Dad sighs. “Have you thought about going to college and doing something with music?”

“I don’t need college to do what I want to do.”

He gets up. “I’m not telling you to give up on your dreams. Just think about college. It can help you achieve them.” He shuffles toward the stairs.

I sit there for a long time. Thinking.

In my room, I pick up my acoustic guitar. I start to play this Bach concerto that always clears my head when I feel conflicted. It’s one of the first things I learned to play. It kind of transports me back to this time in my life when everything seemed simple. When there weren’t all these problems. And when I did have a problem, the solution was always simple: Follow your heart.

I go over to my desk and take out some paper and a pen. I make coffee. I sit back down. Then I do something I never thought I would do in a million years. I write
Life Plan
at the top of the page.

And then I begin.

CHAPTER 19

already over it

october 14, 9:25 a.m.

“That did not just happen,” I whisper.

Joe Zedepski dropped his calculator. For the third time today. In the last ten minutes. It’s a miracle the thing still works after all these years.

I write on the side of my page:

I point to what I wrote with my pencil. I glance at Laila. She’s read it already.

She writes on the side of her page:

Maybe it’s sleep deprivation from being up until two in the morning every night this week doing what should be an illegal amount of homework. Or maybe it’s that I’m starting to feel like I’m with the wrong boy. But for some reason, I’m having a laughing fit.

At first I don’t make any noise. I cover my face and try to think sad thoughts. But it doesn’t help. I’m cracking up uncontrollably. And Laila’s going to start, and it’s going to be bad. I can already see her trying to resist. We’re always laughing at the worst times when it’s mad wrong to be laughing. I’m sure it’s stress related.

“Would you girls like to share the joke with us?” Mr. Perry booms.

This guy has no sense of humor. Like, if there was an actual medical condition for lack of sense of humor, Mr. Perry would have the most severe case.

We don’t say anything. I pretend to take notes.

“Simmer down, please!” he says.

Which is of course even funnier than the pocket protector thing. So now it’s even harder to calm down. I push my hair behind my ears. I nod a little to appear competent. I bounce my foot up and down. I try to get it together.

After class we meet Maggie in the hall. They both stand there, looking at me. Then Laila’s like, “Are you sitting with us at lunch or what?” Maggie looks at me expectantly.

I’ve been dividing my time between their table and Dave’s, over where life is all shiny and sparkly. The thing is, Dave said there isn’t room for Maggie and Laila at his table. I guess it is pretty crowded at Dave’s table, but it still feels like he’s dissing my friends. And they feel it, too.

“Um . . .” I know deserting them is wrong. But I’ve wanted to taste the high life for so long. I’m not ready to give it up yet.

“You think about that,” Laila says. She motors down the hall.

“Laila—”

Laila turns around. “And FYI? You’ll never find something real at
that
table.” And then she’s gone.

“Mags—”

“Look,” Maggie says. “I know how much you like him. I’ve been there. Just don’t turn into one of those girls who ditches their bf’s for some boy.”

“Of course not! I just . . .” How can I explain what sitting at Dave’s table means to me without hurting her feelings? “Maybe I . . . like, I could sit with you guys more and . . .” Even I can hear how lame I sound.

“Yeah,” Maggie says, “maybe . . .”

And then she’s gone, too.

After the first two hours of calc homework, I can’t decide between ripping out every single page of the book to burn them individually or just burning the pages all together in one huge bonfire.

“I hate this!” I yell. I fling the book across the room. Since my room is about the size of a postage stamp, it hits the wall right away and thumps onto the carpet. My room is so small it makes me feel constricted and edgy, like there’s no escape.

Like Dave makes me feel sometimes.

The past two weeks have been disappointing. Dave and I just aren’t connecting the way I thought we would by now. We don’t have that much in common and his sense of humor is lacking. Not like Tobey, who always makes me laugh. And Dave totally goes along with what Matt and Alex do. It’s not like I suddenly hate Dave or anything. . . . I still feel like I want to be his girlfriend. But I can’t help thinking about Tobey, too. . . .

Dave’s lying on his stomach on my bed, reading his history book. History is his favorite subject. Stuff that happened a million years ago to dead white men. Thrilling. How can he actually like that stuff? How can I like someone who actually likes that stuff?

“Sara, take it easy.” Dave gets up and kneels next to my chair. “You’re brilliant. What could you possibly not get?” He rubs my arm.

I try to focus on the problem. But sitting at my rickety pseudo-desk makes it impossible. “I’m . . .” Mom’s idea of a desk was to put a board over some cinder blocks. The cinder blocks are covered with burlap. I am not kidding. So here I sit, just like every night, churning out an endless deluge of homework. It’s only October, but I’m already over it.

Dave is still kneeling next to me. He keeps rubbing my arm. “I think you need a break.” He takes his hand away from my arm and gently runs it down my leg. “When’s your mom coming home?”

Mom works late on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it’s Tuesday. We have at least another two hours alone. Not that it matters anyway. Every time Dave comes over, we end up making out, even with my mom in the next room. And my door doesn’t even lock. And I know she knows what we’re doing. But it happens anyway because she doesn’t care.