Love? Maybe.

by Heather Hepler

  I grab my uniform, which I note is not only clean, but ironed. My mother is combing Dom’s hair. He stands completely still while she does it, which is a miracle because when I come at him with a brush, he runs screaming away from me. My mother shooshes him downstairs and then turns to me. She raises her eyebrows, still holding the brush in her hand. Normally I wouldn’t dream of letting my mother touch my hair, but my guilt and the fact that my hair can’t get any worse make me nod. I have to bend to allow her to reach the top of my head. I passed her height-wise about a year ago. Now I have about three inches on her and I’m showing no sign of slowing down.

  “Thanks,” I say when she finishes. She smiles and hands me the brush.

  “Hurry, so you can eat before you go.” I nod. She pulls my door shut as she leaves. Breakfast. Novel concept. I get dressed fast, frowning at the tiny run in my tights. I peek in the mirror before heading downstairs. My mother managed to twist my hair into this complicated-looking knot at the back of my head. It feels like my eyebrows are being pulled up to the top of my head, but I have to admit it looks pretty good.

  I know I’m making a pig of myself at breakfast, but it’s the first meal I can remember in the last week that didn’t: a) come from a vending machine, b) come from a delivery person, and/or c) have enough chemicals in it to actually change my molecular blueprint. Dom and Lucy keep interrupting each other to talk to my mother. She laughs when Dom tells her about jumping in the water all over the kitchen floor. Yes, my life is just one big comedy show.

  “How about you, Piper?” my mother asks. She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at me.

  I shrug, trying to think of something interesting to say. “Claire finally heard from Stuart last night.”

  “Poor Claire,” my mother says. I notice she didn’t even ask what they talked about. I guess as the leavee instead of the leaver of two marriages, my mother just assumes that Stuart broke it off with Claire.

  Mom sighs and pushes away from the table. “I’d better get a shower,” she says, standing up. She walks around the table, kissing each of us on the head before heading toward the stairs. “Thank you for taking them to school.”

  “No problem,” I say.

  “Once we get through Valentine’s Day, things will mellow out.” I nod. Even though I sometimes feel put out with all the stuff I have to do around the house, I know my mom’s slammed at work and I know she wishes it could be different. “Be good for Piper,” she says to Dom and Lucy. They smile at her like angels. More like angels with their halos stapled to their horns.

  I wolf down another piece of bacon before getting up and putting my dishes in the sink. I look from Dom to Lucy. “Stay put,” I say, heading upstairs. Halfway through brushing my teeth, I hear screaming downstairs.

  “Piper!”

  I grab my backpack and shove my laptop inside. I hear the shower running and my mother singing as I pass the bathroom. Another scream. I hurry down the stairs, bracing myself for whatever is going on down there. I round the corner, my mouth already open, preparing to yell, but both Lucy and Dom are sitting at the table right where I left them. I quickly look around the room, trying to figure out what happened while I was gone, but then I see the clock.

  “Arrggghhh!” I yell. I’m going to be late. I shove my arms into my coat and twist my scarf around my neck. I hunt for a few moments for my left penny loafer. I finally give up and shove my feet into my flowered rain boots. I shepherd both Lucy and Dom in front of me and out the door. It isn’t until I’m just about to pull the door shut behind me that I see the reason for all the screaming. Swimming in the aquarium with the fish is my missing left shoe.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Claire whispers as I slide into my seat. My boots squeak against the linoleum. I had hoped to enter unnoticed, but Mr. Reyes spotted me as I was coming in, earning me a dirty look and probably a detention.

  “I just got your message,” I say. After dropping off Dom and Lucy, I checked my cell. Call me. v.v. urgent!!! C. I look over at Claire. Her eyes are red and watery. “Are you okay?” I whisper, but she just shakes her head and looks at her desk.

  I put my head down on my arms. Despite the fact that I overslept or maybe because of it, I feel exhausted, like even my bones are tired. Mr. Reyes makes the usual announcements. It’s one of the high points of the day for many people. We’re allowed to write our own announcements.

  The bell finally rings and I pick up my book bag, staggering under the weight of three textbooks, two novels, one laptop, assorted pens and highlighters, a calculator, and a slightly bruised apple that I added on the way out of the house. Mr. Reyes is busy with someone else as I pass his desk, allowing me to slip out without a detention—at least for now.

  “Tell me,” I say to Claire as she follows me to my locker.

  “It’s Stuart,” she says. I raise my eyebrows, not sure what to say. “He said he thinks we should have a little space.”

  She looks at me for a long moment. I take a deep breath. “You did say last semester that you wondered what it would be like to go out with someone else.” I realize too late that I’ve said the exact wrong thing. Claire’s eyes spill over. I offer her a very crumpled napkin from my bag. She takes it and blows her nose. I pull my locker open. I roll my eyes when I see the bottle of purple nail polish sitting in front of my books.

  “Is it supposed to rain today?” a voice behind me asks. I turn and see Jillian walking toward us and staring pointedly at my galoshes.

  “From you?” I ask, holding up the bottle of nail polish. Jillian shrugs. She’s always leaving her little “self-improvement” tools in my locker. Jillian looks over at Claire and raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess,” she says. “You heard from Stuart.” Claire nods, then blows her nose into the paper napkin I gave her. I scrounge in my locker for the pair of flats I was sure I left there last week. I finally give up, resigning myself to a day of sweaty feet. Double awesome.

  “I need some sugar and caffeine,” I say, thinking maybe a couple of cookies and an Americano might clear the fog covering my brain. I push my locker closed. We start heading toward the cafeteria, weaving in between the clusters of people standing around the halls. The administration has threatened a bazillion times to get rid of morning break, saying it cuts into learning time, but I’m pretty sure they’d have a minor rebellion on their hands if they actually did. And not just from the students. Right after homeroom all the teachers make a dash for the teachers’ lounge. I had to go in there once to pick up a book for my lit class. All the teachers were standing around pounding coffee and stuffing themselves full of donuts. They were like wild animals at the kill. I got out of there as quickly as I could, careful not to turn my back to them. Who knew if they would mistake me as being jelly-filled?

  The caff is packed. We get in line behind a cluster of senior girls who look at us like we’re offensive, which in my case might actually be true considering how my boots are making my feet sweat like crazy. And with Claire sniffling like she’s got the plague, it’s no wonder they push forward to give us a little more room. When we get up to the counter, I grab a cinnamon roll. One look at Claire and I take a second one. If anyone is in need of some raw sugar, it’s her. Jillian picks up a carton of yogurt and we slide down the line toward the coffee. By all accounts, our school is pretty plush. Not too many high schools have a cappuccino machine and a sushi bar.

  We pay and make our way over to one of the tables. I slide into a chair near the window and immediately tuck into the cinnamon roll. Jillian is watching me. She seems slightly horrified by me. I often catch her looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I guess because she’s very image conscious. Somehow she manages to make even the basic uniform stylish. I’m not that into fashion and hair and I never wear makeup.

  “Look, Claire,” Jillian finally says, tearing her eyes away from the train wreck that is apparently me. “Prince Charming Stuart was not.” She’s about as compassionate as a bulldozer. “You’re just go
ing to have to get back on the horse.” I point out she only just fell off the horse yesterday. Jillian nods. “But it’s not like we didn’t see this coming,” she says. Claire stares at me. I have to nod. Darn truth.

  “He said he needs to focus on himself for a while,” Claire says. I don’t know what to say to that. As far as I know Stuart’s always been pretty good at taking care of Stuart.

  “Stuart is a moron,” Jillian says. Claire gives her a smile, making me feel vaguely like a failure. Here I sit, Claire’s best friend since elementary school, and I have nothing. Jillian says four words and she gets a smile. Jillian moved here from New York last fall semester and we sort of adopted her. I’m starting to think maybe it’s the other way around.

  Jillian leans forward. “You will not believe what I saw today.”

  “What?” I ask. I push the last of my cinnamon roll into my mouth and try to wipe the stickiness off my fingers.

  “Take a look for yourself,” Jillian says, nodding toward something behind me. Claire looks past me, a half smile forming on her face. I have to turn all the way around in my seat. What I see makes my heart beat too fast. Hillary King is standing with her back against one of the pillars. She is talking to her friend Katie, which in itself isn’t weird. But she’s doing it with her arms draped around some guy. And while I don’t really care who the guy is, I do care a whole lot about who the guy isn’t.

  “Wild, huh?” Jillian asks. Claire is looking at me with her eyebrows raised. Luckily the bell for second period rings. Jillian is the first to break off, following some guy with a soccer ball under his arm down the main hall. I say good-bye to Claire at the stairs toward the art wing, giving her a little hug and a fresh stack of napkins I scored from the caff. I have to keep telling myself to calm down as I make my way toward trig. I mean, who Hillary King is or isn’t currently dating should have no effect on me at all, but it does. Because if the scene in the caff is any indication, who she’s not dating anymore is Ben Donovan.

  chapter four

  At Montrose, ninety-eight percent of the student body looks like they just stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad or just got kicked off Top Model. But even though breathtaking is pretty much the norm around here, Ben Donovan still parts the students in the hallways like he’s Moses and they’re the Red Sea. I mean, I’ve only spoken to Ben Donovan once and that was to stutter hello when he nodded at me on the pool deck. Pretty much every girl in school has probably daydreamed about Ben Donovan at one time or another. And the weird thing is even the teachers refer to him that way—Ben Donovan. Never just Ben. It’s always first and last name. Ben Donovan, like even his name has to be set apart from the rest of us.

  And if I had to say exactly why I’ve been crushing on Ben Donovan since I was in seventh grade, I probably couldn’t. I mean, it just sort of happened. But it’s not like anything will ever come of it. Ben Donovan is what Jillian calls “my ideal.” She says we all need someone in our life who is completely impossible. It keeps us hoping. I’m not sure I believe that, but it’s as good an explanation as any for the way my heart starts beating too fast whenever I see him.

  I write his name across the top of my paper in fourth period, considering it. Mr. Reyes is blah-blahing about some poet named Rumi. I’m trying to figure out more sayings for my Consternation Hearts when my cell buzzes. And when I say buzzes, I mean it actually sounds like bees are inside of it, letting me know that Charlie has gotten to my phone. Weird ring tones are his specialty. We’re not supposed to have phones in class, but everyone does. I slip my phone out of my pocket and hold it under my desk, so Mr. Reyes can’t see. It’s my mother. She’s recently discovered texting, which means she can tell me things as she thinks of them, instead of having to wait for the rare moments when we’re both free.

  Working Late. Can u pick up L and D? M.

  I think about the rising mountain of homework that is threatening to bury me. I start to text her back, asking if she can call Mrs. Bateman, but before I can finish, Mr. Reyes is standing beside me, his hand outstretched. Everyone in class watches me as I hand off my phone. The bell rings for lunch and I gather my books together. Mr. Reyes doesn’t say anything as I walk past his desk. He just holds up my phone, along with a pink slip of paper. A detention. Hurray. This day just keeps getting better and better.

  “Where do you want to eat?” Claire asks when I meet her at my locker. She seems better—a little less liquid.

  “I’ll be in The Pit,” I say, holding up the pink slip. We can serve detention morning, noon, or after school. Since I’ll be spending my afternoon with Lucy and Dom, I have to spend lunch in detention.

  “Ouch,” Claire says. “Sorry.”

  I shrug and try to be cavalier about it. “No big. Maybe I’ll finally get caught up on my homework.”

  She nods. “I’ll grab you something from the caff,” she says. “Sushi?”

  “Burger,” I say.

  “Your mother would be shocked.” She smiles the tiniest bit when she says it. My mother is a well-known health nut.

  Thinking less of my mother and more of my last three “meals”—peanut butter, bacon, and a cinnamon roll—I amend my order. “Veggie burger and carrot sticks.”

  “Enjoy The Pit.”

  I snort. Not one of my more ladylike characteristics. “Not likely,” I say.

  Claire smiles a little before heading toward the cafeteria, which is a relief. At least little bits of Claire are still poking through. I start heading toward The Pit, a quaint nickname for the shop room where they have detention. Nothing like a little sawdust and the smell of motor oil to make you hungry. My phone buzzes again. I take a look before heading down the steps to the basement.

  Thanks, P. Love M. I roll my eyes. She didn’t even wait for my answer. She just assumed that I don’t have anything else going on. And the sad thing is, other than homework, she’s actually right.

  I step into the land of cars and power tools and walk over to a stool near the back. I’ve only been here once before and that was because I refused to dissect a cat in biology. Ms. Heimer wanted me to spend the whole week in here, but one call from my mom and all I had to do was one day. I wipe at the decade of grime on the table with a rag that’s been left there. I give up when I notice all I’m doing is moving the dirt around. I sit and drop my bag on the table in front of me. Mr. Bell, the shop teacher, is supposed to sit with us during detention, but all he does is take roll and give us a couple gruff sentences about hanging us up by our ankles if we mess around. Then he heads into his office and shuts the door. About three seconds later we hear the opening chords of a Zeppelin song.

  I slide my Brit lit book out of my bag, trying to ignore the grunting from the other side of the room. Today’s distraction seems to revolve around lifting something very big and very greasy. It’s better than last semester, when they had a chew-spitting contest. I still feel vaguely ill when I smell anything wintergreen-scented.

  The Pit is populated half by people in detention and half by students I’ve never seen anywhere else except here. Pitters don’t look the same as the rest of the students. To be totally honest, I sort of admire Pitters. Even if they’re gross, at least you know they’re real.

  There is a burst of yelling from the other side of the room as the Neanderthal Games really get going. I look over at Mr. Bell’s office door, expecting it to fly open at any minute, but his only response is to crank up the squealing guitar solo. I sigh and try to find my place in my lit book. Mr. Reyes, ever the romantic, has assigned us Valentine’s Day–related words for our homework. Just another reminder of how inescapable the holiday is. We’re supposed to be prepping for the PSAT, and since Mr. Reyes is a self-proclaimed “logomaniac” (word lover), we just keep getting lists and lists of vocabulary. I’ve complained about him so much that my Christmas gift from Charlie was a calendar for my desk at home. It’s called 365 Obscure Words. So far I’ve learned that mundungus is something that smells really bad and that mytacism is the incorrect use
of the letter m. Useful stuff.

  I look around The Pit and decide that this is the epicenter of mundungus-ocity. It’s weird though. While The Pit is full-on nasty, the cars in here are pretty nice. From where I’m sitting, I can see one Mercedes, one BMW, one Lexus, and half a Hummer. In all truth, Montrose Academy is about as fancy as you can get.

  “Look, the princess is back.” A hand, almost as big as a page in my English book, plants itself on the table next to me. He’s so close I can feel his breath on the side of my face. Wintergreen. I just keep working on my vocabulary, remembering another word from my calendar. Ablutophobia. A pathological fear of washing or bathing. “Hey, princess.” I don’t look up. Meat Hand pulls my book away from me, snaps it closed, and slides it across the table to another set of hands. Smaller, but equally grungy. I finally look up.

  “Hey, Barry,” I say. Like most everyone else at Montrose Academy, I’ve known Barry since we were in elementary school.