When It Happens (3 page)

But I can’t.

Plus, how can I survive another year of the same expectations and stress? And if I see Joe Zedepski drop his calculator one more time I swear I will lose it. Just put your calculator in the middle of your desk instead of right at the edge where you know it’ll fall off. How hard is that?

I try to visualize my future life. The place where everything feels right and good things always happen and I can be the person I want to be. I imagine my ideal, completely confident self in a pink bubble, floating into space, letting the universe make it happen.

But my visualization skills are working at less than maximum efficiency today. Because it’s time for homeroom. And first impressions are everything.

I’m a nervous wreck.

I peek into the room, pretending to be waiting for someone. At least Dave’s not in here. But a lot of his friends are, like Caitlin and Alex. If I manage to come off as cool, or at least as someone with a sense of style, it’ll get back to him. Then maybe he’ll ask me out. But if I act like a dork in any way, he’ll know about it by third period. This is a small school, and word gets around fast. This school is way too small for anyone to even think they can keep anything to themselves.

I walk in with shaky legs. I find a seat. I pretend to look for something in my bag.

“Okay, people!” Ms. Picoult yells. “Your schedules are ready! Come on up!”

Ten seconds later, her desk is completely surrounded by kids complaining that their schedules are messed up and demanding to see a guidance counselor. Ms. Picoult yells that no one is to enter the guidance office until their lunch period. Chaos ensues. Snarly seniors rant that the people who program classes have no skills.

I move to the front of the room. My schedule is the only one left on her desk. I pick it up, expecting the worse. Miraculously, it looks okay.

But of course there’s a problem. It’s the curse of first-period gym. I’ve had gym first period every year. I’ve tried to get out of it before, and there’s no way. They just tell you that all the other classes are full and this is the way it is and there’s nothing you can do about it. So now I get to experience the thrilling sensation of sitting around in my sweaty underwear all day for a whole other year. Fun times.

I sit down to fill out the seventy-three forms we have to do. Caitlin’s sitting next to me, filling out her forms and talking to her posse. After a few minutes, she suddenly turns around and stares at my kneesocks. I only tried on a million outfits last night before I decided on these retro kneesocks and my new denim skirt and my favorite sky-blue T-shirt.

I go, “Hey.”

Caitlin looks right through me like I’m not even there. Then she turns back to her friends. One of them laughs.

I raise my hand to go to the bathroom.

In the hall, some seniors are huddled together, clearly too cool for the mundane intricacies of homeroom. I’m about to walk right by them. But then I notice Dave is one of them.

I freeze.

Should I go up to him and say hi? Or just walk by and wave? If I don’t do something now, I probably won’t see him for the rest of the day. And I can’t stand not knowing if he likes me. But look at what just happened with Caitlin. She obviously thinks I’m lacking. Now if I go up to Dave, it could be catastrophic.

I’m still debating what to do when Dave and his group walk down the hall, away from me. He never even saw me standing there.

My life is over, and it’s not even first period yet.

CHAPTER 4

cafeteria survivor

september 2, 6th period

If the sign in the cafeteria that says WELCOME BACK! were being honest, it wouldn’t say that. It would say SUCKS TO BE YOU!

Everyone in the cafeteria is so fake. Especially the girls. They’re all kissing and hugging other girls they annihilated behind their backs last year. It’s all so ridiculous. As if we couldn’t wait to get away from each other last June. But it’s not entirely their fault. They’ve been programmed by society to believe that if you’re popular and pretty and perky you’ll lead a fulfilling life. Don’t they know it’s always the geeks that turn out to be the most successful later on?

I’m still hesitating by the door. If Mike and Josh didn’t have this lunch period, I’d definitely bail for Subway. Well, maybe it is entertaining to watch them play Cafeteria Survivor as if a million bucks were actually at stake.

I think the last rule sums up the basic difference between them and me. I don’t care if I get voted off the island.

Emerging from the line, I scan the tables to scope out the best location for people-watching. It’s one of my hobbies. Seeing how people interact, imagining how they’re feeling, sometimes overhearing bits of conversation . . . it always gives me ideas for lyrics.

I head toward the far windows. I put my tray down on an empty table. When Mike and Josh get here, the main thing we have to discuss is recording our demo. We’ve been working all summer to save up for studio time. Also, we need to decide what we’re playing for Battle of the Bands.

I sit down and contemplate the fries.

"Hey, Tobey!” a girly voice screeches at me.

I look up to see an enormous pair of breasts bouncing my way.They’re attached to Cynthia. I haven’t talked to her since last April. That’s when she gave me this ultimatum that she had to be my girlfriend or else. And I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship. But the truth is, I didn’t want to get serious with her.

“Hey, Cynthia,” I say to be polite. But I want her to go away. I’m in such a different place now. It’s crazy that I ever wanted her, even if it was just a physical thing.

She puts her hands on the table and leans over.You can totally see down her low-cut tank top.

I guess it isn’t that crazy.

“What’s up?” she says.

“Chillin’.”

“Yeah, so . . . some of us are getting together at Zack’s tonight. His parents are still in Barbados.” Cynthia inches across the table so her face is right in front of mine.“In the mood to party?”

“Not so much,” I say. “Sorry.”

Her smile instantaneously dissolves. I feel a twinge of guilt for making her feel bad. But I was pretty clear about things before.

“Oh,” she says. “Whatever.”

There’s a second of regret when she walks away and I get a look at her ass in those jeans. I remember what her ass looks like out of those jeans. But then I remember Sara. And how Cynthia can make me feel great, but only for a few hours.

Josh comes racing up to the table. “Tobey! What up? Long time no see!”

He saw me three days ago.

Josh smacks his tray down and grabs my arm. “Whoa, dude! You’re, like, huge! You been working out?”

Josh is a bit of a spaz. It’s one of his best qualities.

“Ha,” I say.

“Dude! You are so not going to believe what happened to me yesterday! I was down the shore at my brother’s place and you know how . . .”

And his stories are endless.

I’m still letting him ramble on when Mike arrives.

“Hey, man,” Mike says.

“Hey.”

Mike is my best friend. He’s into everything I am. Music, writing poetry and lyrics, playing backgammon and chess, brainy chicks. We also like the same old-school bands like The Cure and R.E.M. We mostly have the same musical influences. Josh digs our style, so he kind of goes along with whatever we do.

Suddenly Josh yells, “Senior year, men! We rule the school! Par-tay!” Then he proceeds to bounce up and down on the bench.

All the drastic bouncing makes Mike spill Coke on his shirt. It’s like there always has to be some kind of conflict between them. Josh is this total spontaneous, wild drummer type. His personality tends to contradict Mike’s, who’s constantly planning and analyzing everything. And I’m like the sensitive, introspective one. Together, we make one killer band.

“Dude.” Mike puts his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Chill. What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with me, baby? What’s the matter with you?” Josh jokes in his best Danny Zuko voice. The school play last year was
Grease
, and Josh played John Travolta’s character. And he was actually really good. His goal is to be an actor. My goal is to be a musician. A lot of our conversations involve complaining about how the world keeps telling us to give up now while we still have a chance to make something of ourselves.

Mike ignores him.“Have you seen her yet?” he asks me.

“No,” I say.

Subtle is not part of Josh’s vocabulary. He’s all, "Woohoo! Tobey’s in love. He’s in lust! Tobe’s got—”

“Hey. Dude? Chill.” Something in Mike’s voice makes Josh actually shut up and eat his lunch.

Mike knows all about the Sara thing. Josh knows, too, but it’s different with him. Josh lives for relationship drama. He’s notorious for public displays of mortification with ex-girlfriends in random hallways. But like me, Mike’s also looking for something real. I just don’t think he knows it yet. He loves the chase. He’s never satisfied with what he gets.

“Let’s see your schedule,” Mike says to Josh.

We all get our schedules out and determine that the only things the three of us have in common are lunch and gym. The only other thing I have with Mike is history.

“Did you get that new bass?” Josh asks Mike.

They’re talking, but I tune them out.

I finally see her.

She just walked in with Laila. She’s hugging her notebook and looking different, but the same. Better, if that’s even possible. I mean, she was hot before, but now she’s . . . I almost have an apoplexy when she turns around and looks toward my table. Every fantasy I’ve had this summer comes back to me. Every scenario from all those sweaty nights in bed, listening to my iPod.

Mike feels the vibe and follows my stare. “Whoa. What did she do?”

Josh takes one look and says, “That’s what’s up.”

CHAPTER 5

staring at me

september 2, english

When I see Scott in AP English, I completely forget what it was about him that made me be his girlfriend last year. Before I realized I wanted more and dumped him.

He looks at me. I quickly look away. I lucked out. Laila is saving a seat for me in the front. So I can avoid Scott, who’s in the back wrestling with his bag, which I’m sure is already overpacked with books. I’ve had enough guy trauma for one day.

“Good morning, genius prototypes,” Mr. Carver booms. “Welcome to the most demanding class of your entire high-school career.”

Um, yeah. That seems a bit pretentious. I swear, the guy is on such an ego trip about English. I had him last year for honors. He thinks whatever he teaches is all that and a bag of Munchos. As if they even give us good stuff to read. It’s like the reading list was established in 1927 and hasn’t been updated. Ever.

Laila slips me a note. We started passing notes about the Caitlin situation in calculus. Right before she had to restrain me from strangling Joe Zedepski. He already had his calculator out. His huge graphing calculator that we don’t need yet because it’s only the first day. The one he just had to put right at the edge of his desk, teetering precariously, just waiting to fall off. Anyway, it’s most excellent that I have two classes with Laila. Plus we have lunch with Maggie next.

I unfold the note in my lap. It says: