A breeze blows over me, smelling like summer. Summer is almost here. I should be happy.
I open my eyes and look up at the sky and there’s James, looking down at me.
“Hey,” he says. “Did I scare you?”
“No.”
“Sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Ready?”
I hold out my hand. And he helps me up.
“Did you see if they have pink ones?”
“Oh, come on. They always have pink ones.”
I point at James. “But did you see pink ones?”
“Not exactly,” he admits. “But don’t worry. It’s all good.”
The line at Magnolia isn’t too long today. We’re almost up to the window. That’s where you can look in to see what cupcakes they have and with what color icing.
“So,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Keith was so random last night—”
“I know! It’s like, Hello! My boyfriend just broke up with me!”
“What’s up with that?”
“Seriously.”
We move up a few steps in line. I still can’t see in.
“As if I’d ever go out with him,” I add.
James smiles. “What’s so bad about Keith?”
“Like he’s anywhere near my type.”
“And what’s your type?”
“Oooh!” I can see in the window now. “Yes! They have the pink ones! Plus your green ones. Bonus!”
“What sprinkles?”
“I think yours are . . . yeah, yellow circles.”
“Nice.”
“And mine have blue flowers!”
We slap a high five.
We always walk to the pier and eat our cupcakes there. It’s amazing how you can do something like this a million times and never get sick of it. As usual, James inhales his cupcake in three bites while I’m still peeling the paper off mine.
He’s like, “You never told me.” Some crumbs fly out of his mouth.
“Told you what?”
“What your type is.”
“You’ve been my best friend for four years. How can you not know this?”
“Um, maybe because you never told me?”
Which is true. We’ve both dated a few people since middle school, but Steve is the first boy I’ve been serious about. And James never takes the risk of asking a girl out unless he knows she likes him first. He does pretty good for a computer geek, though. He’s even dated a couple hotties. But for some reason it never lasts. And he always has the lamest excuse for why it didn’t work out. He was going out with Jessica for a while, but I don’t know what happened with that. If he wasn’t such a good person, I’d suspect that he’s a closet manwhore. But James is way too sensitive and deep for that. It must be a standards thing.
“Okay, well . . . you know I like Topher Grace.”
“Ah, yes. Of the infamous screen saver.”
“Jealous much?”
“Not to negate my heterosexuality, but he doesn’t exactly seem like the most attractive candidate out there.”
“He’s not,” I explain. “That’s the whole point of him.”
“Obviously.”
“I mean, it’s something about him that’s the attractive part. Like, I think he’s cute and all, but it’s more about his personality. Something in his eyes.” I take a huge bite of my cupcake. Sprinkles fall off.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this.”
“What?”
James leans over and whispers, “You don’t actually know Topher Grace.”
I throw a flower sprinkle at him. It bounces off his nose.
“You know what I mean,” I say. “There’s something about him that’s—I just know what I like.”
James is watching the skyline sparkle as more lights blink on. My favorite thing is how the pink sunset light reflects off all the building glass. I try to concentrate on this, on being here. I don’t want to think about Steve anymore. Somewhere underneath it all, I know he doesn’t deserve to take up space in my brain.
One way I know James and I are going to be friends for a long time is that we both love board games. And who else loves board games anymore? All my other friends switched to video games or being glued to the computer sometime around fifth grade. But James never changed. And neither did I.
So now we’re at his place, playing Parcheesi. I always feel really comfy when I’m over, because it’s so colorful and warm and cluttered with his mom’s pottery and knickknacks. This is what a home is supposed to feel like. Not like mine, which feels too empty. And big. You could probably fit this whole apartment in my living room. I used to feel really guilty about it when I came over, like I don’t deserve to live in a brownstone while James doesn’t even get his own room. But now I just feel relaxed. We sometimes have these sweet family dinners with his parents and little brother and real comfort food. Not gourmet cuisine like the complicated, exotic stuff my mom always gets. And then we sit around after, playing games or talking or watching TV. Or just doing our own things, together.
But I know James doesn’t feel the same way about living here. That’s why I hope he becomes a super successful software designer and gets the house he’s always dreamed about. I know he feels cramped here. It’s not like he’s the one just visiting.
“Oh, man,” James mutters. I have a blockade set up, and he wants to pass.
“Sucks to be you.”
“Somewhat.” He’s trying to figure out a way to save himself.
“There’s no way out.”
“Maybe not.” He inspects the board, configuring all the possibilities.
“Admit it. You’re screwed.”
“Not yet.”
“James!” his mom yells from the kitchen. “Could you give me a hand, please?”
“Not now,” James says.
“What?”
“Not now, Ma!”
Mrs. Worther comes into the living room. “It’ll only take a second.”
“It never takes a second. And in case you haven’t noticed, I have company.”
“Well, of course I noticed!” his mom huffs. “I just need—”
“Okay. Ma? If I help you, do you promise I can have the rest of the night free to hang out with Rhiannon?”
“Jeez! You act like I’m always bothering you.”
“That’s because you are always bothering me.”
Listening to James and his mom, I miss not having that kind of relationship with my mom. Not that I want her to always be bugging me to do stuff, but it would be nice if we did things together once in a while—the way we used to when I was younger—and if we talked more. Mom’s always so tired or busy when she gets home from work. If we’re eating together, it’s mostly in silence.
“Don’t touch the board,” James warns me.
“Who, me?” I flutter my eyelashes innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Knock it off. I’m on to your cute act.”
“Hmmm?”
“Yeah, yeah . . .” James mutters on his way out.
I examine the board. I’m definitely winning, so there’s no point in moving any of my guys. Not that I ever would.
Okay, except sometimes? James is too good, and I have no chance of winning without a little intervention. It’s like when we play Monopoly. We both have very different strategies. He’s always like, “Why do you even bother with Baltic Avenue?” Meanwhile he has a zillion hotels on Boardwalk, so there’s really no point in playing him. Sometimes not even being the lucky wheelbarrow helps. So I might take a few five-hundreds from under his side of the board when he gets up for a drink or something. But he always figures it out right away when he comes back, so it’s not really cheating. It’s more like teasing.
Brian peeks around the corner. Brian is five and too cute for words. He has his stuffed Prickle with him. Prickle is his favorite Gumby character, and the stuffed Prickle was his mom’s when she was in high school.
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“Hey, Brian,” I say.
“Hi.”
“Come here.”
Brian runs over with Prickle’s arms waving all around. He almost crashes into the Parcheesi board. “What are you doing?”
“Playing a game with James.”
He looks around for James. “But James isn’t here.”
“Yeah, he is. He’s helping your mom with something.”
“So you’re playing by yourself?”
“No. I’m just waiting for him to come back.”
“Is waiting boring?”
“Kind of.”
“Reading’s more fun, right?”
“Right.”
“Wanna read?”
“Sure.”
So Brian runs to get Lafcadio, which is this cool Shel Silverstein book we’re currently reading. And the TV’s on and the ceiling fan’s whirring and the neighbors are laughing through the wall. And his dad is in the little office space he converted from a closet, working on an article and listening to National Public Radio. And I can smell dinner cooking and James and his mom are talking in the kitchen and Brian comes running back with his book.
This place definitely feels like home to me.
I usually have this horrible feeling in my stomach on Sunday nights. I call it the Sunday Night Dread. Because tomorrow I have to go back. And there’s all this homework I promised myself I would do Friday night so I wouldn’t be doing everything totally last-minute the way everyone else does. And now it’s already Sunday night and where did the weekend go?
Back in my room, I get out my binoculars and try to see Mars. It’s close to Earth right now, which means you’re supposed to be able to see it with the naked eye. It looks like a red star. But, as usual, it’s not clear enough to see much of anything besides the moon. Still, I like this routine of trying.
Steve always hated routines. He complained that I wasn’t spontaneous enough, that I always had to plan everything in advance. I could tell he wanted me to be more exciting, but it’s just the way I am. I love routines. Like how James and I have our Magnolia routine. Or even when we play Monopoly, he’s always the top hat and I’m always the wheelbarrow. It’s our thing. It’s just the way we are together.
But Steve wasn’t like that.
Maybe that’s okay, though. Maybe it’s impossible to find everything you want in one person. Maybe everyone in your life gives you certain things you need. And your friends give you the rest of what you can’t get from your boyfriend.
Question: Is it unrealistic to believe that one person can be your everything?
CHAPTER 3
Monday
THE THING ABOUT first period is that it starts at eight o’clock and my brain isn’t working yet. No one’s is. Except for the teachers’. But they get paid for that. And even then you can totally tell that some of them are still hungover from partying too late. Or maybe that’s just true about Mr. Farrell. He looks like he might be fun to hang out with.
My brain’s still asleep. Plus my contacts were all dry and irritating yesterday, which means I had to wear my glasses today. And it’s not like I have cool retro glasses like James or anything. I have these boring ones that I picked out freshman year and never bothered updating because I thought I wouldn’t have to wear them again.
Question: Did I pick out these glasses because I was trying to make a statement that dorky glasses are in?
Anyway, I have Earth Science first period, and today’s a lab day. Which means that instead of going to gym second period, we have science for twice as long. Which would be excruciating enough for most kids in here under normal circumstances. But lab in this school is not normal circumstances. And that would be because our school is retarded.
First off, we don’t have enough lab stools. So it’s first-come-first-sit. But even the prospect of standing for two periods hunched over the lab table the whole time isn’t enough to make me get out of bed ten minutes earlier. I usually slide in just as the bell’s ringing. So I’m standing and bending over and my back is killing me. You’d think Eliezer or Miguel would have the skills to be a proper gentleman and let me sit. But no.
We go to Eames Academy of Design. It’s a magnet school for kids who want to be things like interior designers or urban planners or architects. When I first told my parents I wanted to apply, my dad was like, No way.He was hating Brooke’s decision to reject the joys of capitalism and wanted me to make up for it. So we had this whole heated argument about how it’s more important to do something you love than to make a lot of money (my side), versus you have to be a responsible adult and support yourself because no one else is going to do it for you (his side). I had to throw this whole hysterical screaming fit before he even listened to what I was saying. Which is such a joke, because this school is really selective and lots of kids don’t even get in, so it’s supposed to be a privilege to even be here. So we agreed that I could go if I got in. If I didn’t get in, I’d be forced into some obnoxious college-prep private school horror show. Guess who won that battle?
Kids apply from all over New York City to go here. It’s supposed to be one of the best public schools around. But you don’t necessarily get in for having good grades in middle school. It’s not that kind of selective. You have to have some special talent. Besides me and James, there are only a few other kids who live close by. Everyone else is from the Bronx or Brooklyn or Queens, or just from other neighborhoods in Manhattan, all spread out.
So you’d think our school would be all technologically advanced and crammed with supplies. Which I guess it is when you see the computer labs and projectors in the classrooms. But not so much with basic stuff, like restocking soap in the bathrooms or having short paper for the copier (so all of our handouts are on long paper until more short paper comes in) or having enough lab stools to sit on.
I stand up straight and stretch out my back. Part of it makes a cracking noise.
Other than lab days, Earth Science is tolerable. Math’s okay (I’m a peer tutor), English Lit rocks (mostly because of free-write time), and Web Design blows (completely). I wish I was as smart as James. Then everything would be so easy. Everyone always says how I’m so smart, but they don’t know what it’s like being me. Always feeling like you could do better. Maybe I’m too hard on myself. But that’s part of being a perfectionist.
There are only about three people who know what’s going on in this class, because Ms. Parker can’t teach. Plus, she always throws in these impossible questions that like maybe Einstein could figure out on one of his good days. So the last fifteen minutes of lab is the worst kind of stressful. It’s this frenzy of flipping through notes and everyone getting mad at everyone else because no one knows what to put for the conclusions section.
“What’d you get for three?” Eliezer asks us.
“We just did three,” Miguel says. “Weren’t you listening?”
Here’s Miguel: wicked smart, completely destroys the curve.
“Dude,” Eliezer says. “Just what’d you get?”
Here’s Eliezer: burnout senior, needs this class to graduate.
Miguel looks at Eliezer like he’s the biggest reject ever. Then he starts explaining like he’s talking to someone whose last reading accomplishment was Pat the Bunny.
“You have to explain that the half-life of Carbon-14 is 5,700 years, so that means after that period of time has elapsed, half of the original C-14 sample is still radioactive element, while half of the sample has been converted into its stable decay product, which is Nitrogen-14.”
Eliezer stares at Miguel. He goes, “Huh?”
I think Miguel lost him at elapsed.
“What part don’t you get?” I ask him.
Eliezer snatches Miguel’s paper and starts copying.
“Don’t!” Miguel panics. “You know if we copy, we’ll all get zeroes.”
Eliezer keeps copying. “Like she’s gonna notice one answer.”
Miguel throws me a desperate look.
“S
he reads everything,” I say. I unzip the side pocket of my bag and take out a new pencil. They’re lined up in their holders next to my colored pens and regular pens.
Eliezer goes, “Yeah, right.”
“Ever read her comments when you get your labs back?”
“No.”
“Well, if you did, you’d see that she reads everything.”
“She even corrects your spelling,” Miguel adds.
Eliezer realizes he’s outnumbered. He pushes Miguel’s lab back to him.
“Whatever,” he groans. “Let’s just get this over with.”
On my way to math, Steve’s across the hall and I want to go up to him. But the hall is crowded and I can’t get through, and then he’s gone.
Nicole’s waiting for me around the corner. She’s like, “Did you see Brad?”
I didn’t.
“He shaved his head!”
“Ew. How does it look?”
“Disgusting. Everyone’s saying how his head is shaped like an egg.”
“This just in.”
“Did you get number thirty-two on the homework?”
“Um.” I think I might have tried that one between thinking about Steve and thinking about Steve.
The bell rings.
“Not that it matters,” Nicole grumbles on her way to the back of the room. She always sits in the back and I always sit in the front. Unless we have assigned seats. She likes to do that so she can spy on everyone and write down story ideas without them knowing. “I didn’t get any of the other ones, either.”
“You’re coming to tutoring, right?”
“I’m not sure.”
I’m a peer tutor for math on Tuesdays. Nicole comes almost every week. I like explaining math to people. I’m into the finite rules and organized methods. I guess that’s why I rock at math. Which is weird, because you’re not supposed to be good at both math and artistic stuff. But making numbers work has a calming effect on me. Plus, everyone knows that colleges will reject you if you don’t have enough activities. It’s so they know you’re not just some antisocial brain in a jar.
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