Good question. What do I see in him? Aside from the fact that he’s undeniably gorgeous with that shaggy blond hair, brain-nuking smile, and hockey star thighs? Does he remember making out with me in the basement last week? He doesn’t act like it.
LeeLee takes off to her own first-period class. I slide into the table I share with Mary Therese Montgomery, my queen-of-the-geeks lab partner, who’s revving up her tape recorder. Mr. Twohig grunts his sympathy and tosses me some handouts, and here, in A&P, I’m finally back in my element. Neurons and synapses. Mitochondria and DNA. Memorize, memorize, and then out the door. Math and science are so safe, so predictable. No surprises.
Melanie and Danielle share the table next to mine. Pale, willowy Melanie tucks her tidy auburn pageboy behind her ears and leans closer to whisper, “You doing okay?” Danielle, with her fabulous sun-streaked hair and a leftover summer tan, wiggles her fingers in a wave.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I’m kind of tired of saying this.
Mel and Danielle are tight the way LeeLee and I are tight. Even when the four of us hang out, we always pair off. Without LeeLee in this class—because she’d never be caught dead slicing open a rabbit—I tend to feel like the odd geek out.
Devon, on the other hand, is in this class. He pokes my back as I shuffle through my handouts. “Gallagher. Got an extra pencil?”
I always have extra pencils on hand. How could I not? I’m always drawing. I hand one back to him, though not one of the sacred mechanicals I use to take notes. He smiles. I smile back. How could he possibly forget he almost swallowed my tongue? How could he forget that his sweaty hands once groped the cups of my padded bra?
I watch in dismay as his green gaze roams and then rests on the exposed legs of Alyssa Hunt, top slut. Alyssa wets her lips with a feline flick of her own tongue. Devon’s smile stretches, and suddenly I’m invisible.
I slouch, tapping my pencil. No, Devon will never ask me out, and here is why: picture me at fifteen dating Kevin Nguyen, a sweet, normal guy. We were lab partners in pre-chem. We study-dated a lot.
Then Dad got to meet him.
Dad: “I don’t want you going out with that boy anymore. He’s Asian.”
Me: “No, he’s not. He was born here”
Dad: “No interracial relationships, Shawna. End of discussion.”
After that, I made up excuses whenever Kevin asked me out. Finally, he quit asking. We say hi in the halls now, but that’s about it.
Okay, picture me again later that year: Andrew Klinger, the geeky-yet-sexy computer genius who couldn’t wait to get his hands on my, um, modem.
Dad, prerecorded: “I don’t want you going out with that boy anymore. His father works in a bar.”
Me: “His father owns that bar.” A chain of them, actually.
Dad: “Bar owners aren’t the kind of people I want you associated with. Besides, they’re Protestant.”
Then, the best one of all: Danielle fixed me up with her brother, Philip. We hit it off right away and dated for two months. Dad, hard as he tried, couldn’t come up with a single criticism except that Philip, a senior, was “a bit old” for me. A nice, Catholic, Irish American boy on his way to Harvard to follow in the footsteps of his lawyer parents. Perfect, right?
When Philip asked me to his senior prom, I spent four months’ allowance on a dress, double pierced my ears, and risked skin cancer trying to build up a tan. A week before prom, Philip took me to the movies. Later, we parked. We didn’t go all the way—hello, I was fifteen—but we did lose track of time. A full hour past curfew we gunned up the driveway. Luckily Dad possesses no firearms.
My father loomed menacingly as Philip began, “Dr. Gallagher, I’m so sorry, but—”
Dad: “Shut up.”
Me and Philip: (stunned silence)
Dad, taking in my messy hair and disheveled clothes: “Did you have sexual intercourse? Did you use a condom?”
Me: “WHAT?”
Philip—once he recovered from the shock: “S-sir?”
Dad: “A condom. A condom. Surely you know what a condom is?”
Me: “Dad, Dad, Dad—”
Dad: “Did—you—or—didn’t—you—use—a—condom—tonight?”
Philip: “Sir, we didn’t do anything—”
Me, at the same time: “No, Dad! We did not use a condom!”
Poor Philip took off like a chipmunk. He didn’t take me to the prom, or anywhere else again. He graduated and went off to Harvard, of course. I never told Danielle what happened. I doubt Philip did, either.
But that’s not the “best” part:
A couple of days later I found a sample-sized box of Trojans on my bedspread. Ribbed, no less. Pre-lubricated. Assorted colors! And a typewritten note from Dad: Shawna, this does not mean I approve of premarital sex. I sincerely hope you never need these. But IF YOU MUST ENGAGE IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE, please promise me you will use a condom.
I stashed the condoms in my closet and never looked at them again. Never dated again, either. By junior year I’d established myself as a die-hard science nerd, with minimal social skills and an ayatollah for a father. No male heterosexual with a brain would ask me out on a date, and I’ll never bring another guy home to meet my dad.
I yelp as Devon flicks my shoulder. “Got a sharpener?” he whispers.
I fumble in my purse . . . where is it, where is it? Noting his sigh of impatience, I give up and relinquish one of the pristine #7 pencils I reserve for impromptu sketches. I’m sure I’ll never get it back.
My reward, though, is his heart-melting smile. “Thanks, Gallagher. You rock.”
26
Just like in the movies, there will be a reading of Mom’s will. The same will she made out, like, twenty years ago.
Dad leans close to the beveled mirror in our front hall, smoothing the sleeves of his dark suit, adjusting his tie. Is he deliberately trying to look the part of a grieving widower?
“Will Fran be there?” I ask, curious.
“I hope not. I’ve had enough of that woman. As far as I know she’s back in New York.”
“Can I come?” If Fran won’t be there, it might be interesting.
“Don’t you have an English test today?”
One thing about Dad, he knows my schedule down to the minute. Wade Prep posts every detail on the school Web site: exams, assignments, due dates, etc. Big Brother in action, making sure your parents can track every grade.
Yes, it’s an English test. No, I didn’t study. I’ve been a bit busy, you know, with death and all.
“Yes.” I sigh, and add, “Hey, you look handsome today,” because he really does. No wonder Dad has so many girlfriends. Not shabby at all for an almost-sixty-year-old dude.
“I do?” Dad jerks his tie one last time, then shrugs, businesslike, into his coat. He pecks my forehead. “Thanks, honey. You have a good day.”
I grab a bran muffin, head off to school, and drag my way through A&P, trig, English, lunch, economics, study hall, Spanish, and then art. No after-school extracurricular activities this year. Thank God I already fulfilled my requirements for college. After three years of Spanish Club, Tech Club, Mathletes, and Green-peace, I am so taking a break.
After school I peek in the mailbox. Since I’ll technically have enough credits to graduate this winter, I already sent out a gazillion applications. Kenyon, though, is the only college I want. Dad took me to visit the campus over the summer and I fell in love with those old Gothic buildings in the middle of nowhere. I almost didn’t apply anywhere else, but Kenyon’s a bitch to get into. Besides, Dad made me.
Nothing for me in the mailbox. I shower Charles with attention and then check my e-mail, but it’s only the usual butt-cluster of spam, jokes, and chain mails. Then I notice the wrinkled paper on my desk with Arye’s e-mail address. Was he serious about keeping in touch?
Impulsively, I type a short note: Just wanted to say hi. Hope you had a safe trip back and thanks for coming. Say hi to—how do you spell Schmule?—you
r brother for me.
Perfect Shawna adds: Say hi to your mom, too. Talk to you soon.
Talk to you soon? Ha, not likely. I bet he forgot all about me the second he jumped onto that plane, happy to escape the evil clutches of the Gallagher clan.
I hit SEND anyway. Now he has my e-mail address, too.
27
Too old to go trick-or-treating, too lazy to hand out candy, LeeLee and I hit the mall on Halloween night. In a fitting room at Sears, the only store she can afford, I watch sympathetically as she tries to force a pair of jeans over her, um, voluptuous rear end.
“I’m so fa-at,” she moans, adding a few self-directed insults in Spanish.
“You are not fat. You’re Puerto Rican. You’re supposed to be curvy.”
LeeLee sniffs. “Ugh, so stereotypical. What, because I’m Puerto Rican, I’m supposed to shop in the fat lady department and be happy about it? These piece-of-shit jeans are supposed to stretch.”
“So go up a size.”
“This is a four-teen!”
She bitches some more, and ends up buying nothing. We head for the food court, and while waiting in line at Auntie Anne’s—not that she needs a giant pretzel after her fitting room meltdown—her cell phone rings.
“Hi!” she squeals. She holds it away from her mouth. “Omigod. It’s Tovah.”
She gave Tovah her cell number?
“Yeah, I mean, no, we’re at the mall. Shawna and me.” LeeLee smiles so broadly I’m surprised her cheekbones don’t splinter. “Yeah, I know! I’m so glad you called—” Jabbering, she drifts out of line, phone glued to her face like it was stitched there by a Beverly Hills surgeon.
Dismissed, I buy a whole wheat pretzel and stake claim to a bench. As I munch despondently, who comes along? Susan Connolly and her winged monkey, Paige Berry.
“Hey,” Susan greets me. “What’re you doing here?”
“We sure didn’t expect to see you here, Shawna,” Paige adds sweetly.
I swallow a bite of pretzel and dab my lips. “Why not?”
“Well.” Susan tosses her mane and glances at Paige, who smiles evilly as she twirls a mahogany curl. “Because of your mom and all.”
I—simply—cannot—stand—these—two. “I’m not allowed to go to a mall because my mother died?”
Paige’s frosted lips twist with amusement. “God, Shawna. Why are you so touchy?”
I’m not touchy, Paige. I simply hate your guts. Every word you say in my presence only tempts me to jab a fingernail through your phony purple contacts.
“Do you want to hang with us for a while?” Susan asks, disre-garding the fact that Paige’s reception to this couldn’t be any colder if she’d dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. “Saks is doing makeovers. C’mon. It’ll be fun!”
Not too long ago I would’ve jumped at the chance to hang out with Susan, sans Paige, of course. Even now I can feel the old fantasies creeping in: Susie and Shawna Cruise the Mall. Susie and Shawna Find a Great Deal on Estée Lauder Mascara. Susie and Shawna Make Peace, Blow Off College, Tour Europe for a Year, and ...
“Yo, Gallagher.” Devon ruffles my bangs. “’Sup, blondie?”
Susan groans. “God, Devon. Do you have to follow me every-where?”
Devon jerks a thumb in the direction of his hockey pals. “I’m not following you, freak. I’m here with my homies.”
“Devon, you’re white,” Paige says flatly as I sit there with my half-eaten pretzel and stare straight up into Devon’s devastating green eyes. “You don’t have homies.”
Ignoring this, Devon smiles at me. “You look great tonight, ya know?”
“Thanks,” I croak, happy I washed my hair and remembered lip gloss.
“Yeah,” Paige coos. “You do look nice. I mean, for a while we were really worried about you. Those bags under your eyes? We thought you were sick or something.”
Interrupting my thoughts of homicide, LeeLee marches over and fakes astonishment. “Wow, happy Halloween! I see you losers remembered your costumes.”
Susan levels her with a chilly gaze. “Got enough pockets on those pants?” she inquires, nodding at LeeLee’s cast-off cargos.
“Yeah,” Paige echoes. “Better watch it, Velez. I hear they’re cracking down on all the shoplifters around here.”
LeeLee holds out a flat, talk-to-the-hand palm. “Bite me, bitches.”
My pretzel tumbles to the floor as I jump to my feet. Devon picks it up and hands it back, as if I have any desire to eat it now, and runs his hand deliciously along my forearm. “Gotta run. See you Monday, right?”
“Sure,” I say faintly, heart clanging.
Paige yanks Susan’s purse strap. “Let’s get some coffee. I’m, like, jonesing here.”
Susan sends me a weirdly apologetic look. But before I can analyze it, LeeLee drags me away. “I hope they sprinkle it with arsenic. Two less rats in the world.”
I stare longingly over my shoulder as Devon joins his band of hockey buddies. “Do you think he remembers that night? Seriously.”
LeeLee blows raspberries. “Seriously? I so think you need to get over that dude. It’s one thing to suck face when you’re drunk at a party, but—”
“I was not drunk.”
“—but you can do a lot better than him.”
“Really? With whom? You see anyone lining up?”
She avoids that one with: “Why do you care so much about having a boyfriend?”
“Why do you not care? When was the last time you had a date?”
“Please. I’m on scholarship. What rich WASPy dude’s gonna ask me out?” Whether this is true or not, she doesn’t seem concerned. I really envy that. “You’re so hot for him,” she adds slyly, “why don’t you ask him to the Snow Ball?”
I consider this halfheartedly. “What if he says no? What if he already has a date?”
“Ooh, I guess you’ll just shrivel up and di-ie, then.”
LeeLee dances off. I follow, disgruntled. At an alpaca kiosk, she raves over a beautiful red scarf while I try to decide if I should blow sixty bucks on a doggie sweater for Charles.
“I bet Tovah would love this.” She fingers the soft fringe. “It looks like something she’d wear.”
“What did she want?” I ask, since LeeLee brought her up. “And why’d you give her your number? You hardly know her.”
“Well, I do now.” Anticipating another Tovalogue, I don’t press for details. “I really like her, you know?”
“Yeah, so you said.”
LeeLee stops. “Why are you acting so weird? I mean, we met at your mom’s funeral, so we decided to keep in touch, and—”
“What-ever.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m so sorry that bothers you!” she finishes angrily.
Instantly ashamed, I grab her sleeve before she can walk away. “Wait! I’m sorry.” LeeLee flexes her jaw as she looks up, looks down, looks everywhere but at me. “I’m, I don’t know, I’m just not me, I guess.” My voice breaks. I haven’t cried since Schmule’s eulogy.
LeeLee relents. “Oh, Shawna.” She hugs me. I hug her back, tears spurting. “I’m sorry, too. I mean, you just lost your mom, I know you’re depressed—”
“I’m not,” I sob. “I’m just, just. . .” I don’t know what I am! Or why it has to hit me in the middle of a crowded mall.
“It’s okay, okay? God, Shawna. You know you’re my best friend. You are, forever! I absolutely swear it.”
I cry harder, and she’s kind of bawling by then, too. Then I see Susan and Paige strolling back, lattes in hand. When Paige nudges Susan, they exchange identical smiles. Thankfully they pass by with no snippy remarks. I shut my eyes, hug LeeLee harder, and pretend not to notice them.
28
As I’m surfing the Net for some new art supplies—I wore my pastels down to nubs with a life-sized portrait of Charles—I hear the unmistakably cheery: “You’ve got mail!” I click on my mailbox to find an e-mail from Arye.
My jaw drops when I see: Tell your
dad THANKS A LOT FOR NOTHING!
What? Quickly I add his name to my buddy list. Good, he’s on. I click on the message box and type: What are you talking about?
I wait, taking mental bets whether or not he’ll ignore me. A second later I get an IM back: Like you don’t know.
Me: I DON’T know! What did he do?
Him: Go ahead. Play stupid. YOU know what’s going on.
No, I don’t. But I’m not in the mood to argue in cyberspace. I wait, fuming, till a second e-mail arrives and “EyraG” disappears from my buddy window.
I click on the message: Let me FILL YOU IN. Penny left a will—AS YOU WELL KNOW. It’s old and she never changed it—AS I’M SURE YOU ALSO WELL KNOW! OK, that’s her fault. But this really screwed us over.
Your dad gets EVERYTHING! He gets the GALLERY. He’s making us SELL OUR HOUSE because Mom can’t buy him out. He’s even after Penny’s STOCKS! It’s going to probate, but it looks like he’ll GET EVERYTHING! Like you didn’t know? He never said ONE WORD?
Mom’s freaking out! We can’t afford to stay anywhere in NY, so guess where we’re moving to? CLEVELAND! IN THE MIDDLE OF MY SENIOR YEAR! To live with Aunt Rina!
Shawna—do NOT bother to respond to this. I am seriously pissed off and I do NOT want to talk to you. This SUCKS! So do me a favor and ask your dad—WHY IS HE DOING THIS? WHY DOES HE WANT TO RUIN OUR LIVES?
Shocked, I can’t budge. Dad said nothing about that reading of the will. I never asked because, well, who cares? But he wants half of Mom’s house? He wants her art gallery, too? Hello, it’s not like we have no money of our own.
Arye said not to answer, but I do: I swear I didn’t know this. And stop blaming me. It’s not my fault! YOU ask him why!
I hit SEND. Apparently Arye blocked my IMs because I get a second e-mail back: I’m not asking him anything. And I know it’s not your fault. Right now I’m REALLY PISSED OFF Just let me know if you find anything out.
“I’m not letting you know anything!” I shout at the screen.
It makes no sense. I can’t even believe it’s true.
29
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