by Maria Padian
“I came with some girls from my school,” I say. Which is so only partially the whole story that . . . yeah. I lie. To my best friend. “What are you doing here?” I continue. “With Marliese? I thought you guys hated this rah-rah stuff.”
The pivot works. Roz, suddenly on the answering-instead-of-asking side of the conversation, scrunches her forehead in confusion. “I’m staying with her. You know that.”
I pop the tab on my Coke. “So how’s it goin’?” I repeat.
“It’s fine. Sucks not having a car. I keep bumming rides from Marliese. Which is getting old.”
I nod, as if I know. “When do you think you’ll come home?”
Roz takes a deep breath, followed by a long exhale. “Probably soon. Mom texted Marliese and said Shawn’s chilled out. I think they know they screwed up and now want to make nice with me. Before I go to Schiavo on them.”
The buzzer in the gym sounds the beginning of the next half. Most people have returned to the bleachers and the hallway is empty. Except for us. I take a step toward the game.
“We should go back,” I say.
Roz shakes her head. “Marliese wants to leave. There’s a party at her stepbrother’s tonight.”
I take another step and concentrate on keeping my expression neutral. Right after we’d arrived in Clayton, Roz took me to one of Marliese’s stepbrother’s ragers. We pulled up at the same time as the police—three cruisers, swirling neon lights—and managed to speed off in time to see dozens of kids race from the blaring house and duck into the dark woods.
I declined future invitations to accompany her there. For which she gives me endless amounts of grief. Even now, she’s smirking.
“It’s not that bad, Izzy.”
“Did I say anything?”
“You don’t have to.”
So much for my neutral expression. “Okay. Well. Have fun. Just shoot me a text or something. I miss you!” More steps. Then I remember. “Oh, and thanks. I know I need to return this.” I point to myself. The top.
One corner of her mouth curls up. “Keep it. Looks great on you.”
“Thanks,” I repeat. I’m about to turn and run back to the gym when she calls out one last question.
“What girls from school?”
There’s this pause. This frozen moment in time, before I disappear into the gym and she disappears with Marliese, when we look at each other and both know: this is an ask. The closest thing to an ask you ever get from Roz. Because the girl’s just not wired to say she wants—or needs—anything.
Invite me to sit with you, she doesn’t say.
So I don’t.
“The a cappella girls,” I tell her. The ones you’ve never met, but you mock, I don’t add. The ones you call the Uncool, as if they’re one step removed from the Undead. Catholic zombie dorks. “Turns out they’re basketball fans!” That’s it.
“I’ll text you,” Roz finally says before I turn and rejoin the others.
The second half is ugly. County, led by Sam, busts open a massive lead, which prompts its fans to begin celebrating early and the opposing fans to either fall silent or scream insults at the refs for bad calls. Occasionally, they scream insults at the players on the court, and at one point a resource officer has to “escort” two belligerent boys from the visitors’ side out of the gym. Finally, with two minutes left in the game, the County coach pulls his starters. It’s an act of mercy but also a chance to give his second string some playing time. As Sam and Co. head to the bench, everyone on the County side of the gym rises in a standing ovation.
Which is when I notice Melissa and her friends.
I don’t know how I missed them up to this point: they’re sitting dead center, behind us and to our right. They shriek like banshees as the starters retire. Dressed head to toe in blue and gold, with ribbons in their hair and faces painted to match, a few wear white T-shirts with numbers scrawled on the front.
Melissa, of course, wears Sam’s number.
“I love you, Seven!” she screams. Right before he sits, Sam glances in her direction. This quick shadow of a half smile passes over his face, as if a bird had flown into the gym and flitted past a light. But it’s enough to set off giggles, oohs, and meaningful glances from the posse. Melissa blows him a kiss, waves to him, just in case he, and everyone sitting on her side of the gym, didn’t notice her. But Sam has already turned his attention back to the floor and the final minutes of the game.
Roz is wrong about this girl. She isn’t awful.
She’s ridiculous.
Which makes you wonder. What is he thinking? Then again: maybe he’s not.
When the final buzzer sounds, it’s Clayton County High, 58; the Other Guys, 18. A slaughter. Both teams shake hands and jog off to the locker rooms, leaving half the fans exuberant, half miserable.
Our crew is just hungry. We vote to decamp to this awesome diner Lindsey loves, and after arranging ourselves into various cars, we drive over and squeeze into a corner megabooth. Everybody starts ordering ice cream and fries. Aubrey claims she didn’t have dinner and orders a BLT; Jamila goes for a wedge of cheesecake. I do some quick mental math, adding up the total bill plus tip and dividing by the number of VCs, because I only have a ten on me and nobody is asking for separate checks.
Even if all I get is an herbal tea, I don’t have enough for a shared bill.
Then, Min announces, “By the way, everyone, Paul’s got this.”
“Thank you, Paul!” Simone declares.
Everyone snaps—except me, Ann, and Aubrey.
“Somebody tell the new girls about Paul,” Jamila says.
“My dad,” Min explains, smiling like someone who just hit a tennis ball with the rim of her racket and watches as it clears the net by an inch. It’s unearned, but you’ll take it. “He keeps me in Visa prepaids.”
“Plastic surgeon,” Jamila mutters in my ear.
Mental note: my other angel, if they do exist, is a plastic surgeon named Paul.
The interrogation of Aubrey begins as soon as the waitress disappears with our menus. The girls want details about every guy on the team. Especially Sam. Everyone wants the scoop on Sam.
And wants to know if he’s single.
“Taken,” Aubrey laughs. “And she’s pretty much the most popular girl at his school.”
“What does that mean, really?” Min wonders aloud. “‘Popular.’ Most friends? Most liked?”
“Most power,” Jamila says.
“Most feared,” somebody else suggests. Which draws murmurs of agreement.
“Maybe just . . . the most,” I say. “The thing I want to know, Aubrey, is do you like her?”
Aubrey’s eyes grow round. As if she’d never considered the question. Or no one had bothered to ask her before. “I guess I like her as much as I’ve liked any of Sam’s girlfriends,” she finally decides. Which draws a long “Whooooo” from the table.
“And how many of those are there?” Jamila asks. “Does he take breaks in between?”
“Or is he a serial monogamist?” suggests Simone.
“I can never decide whether that’s good or bad,” comments Ann. “Is that someone who likes commitment? Or can’t be alone?”
As the conversation veers away from Sam and toward a general debate about guys who can’t be alone, I notice Aubrey getting quieter and quieter. By the time the check comes and we’re all heading out, she’s stone silent. When I offer to drive her home, she simply nods and climbs into the car.
“You okay?” I ask after we’ve gone a few miles and she’s yet to utter a sound. She bears no resemblance to the Energizer Bunny who’s been tailing me ever since she made Veronic Convergence.
“Yeah. Actually, no. Not really.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Why did you invite everyone to come to the game? I thought just yo
u and me could go together.”
The anger in her voice throws me.
“I’m sorry, Aubrey. I thought you wanted to be part of the whole VC thing. Not just the singing.”
She turns her face toward the window, a little patch of it steaming with her breath. We’re passing the Four Corners market, which is hopping. It’s dark, so I can’t be sure, but I think I recognize a familiar Jeep Cherokee in the lot?
“I guess I just wish people liked me for me. Not for being Sam Shackelton’s sister,” she says to the glass.
I don’t know what to say. Especially because I’m not sure I don’t fit that description.
Aubrey twists in her seat to face me. “You know why I left County?” she demands. “Because people were either sucking up to me in order to get near Sam, or laughing at me because I’m not . . . like him. Gorgeous. Athletic. Popular. One of his exes actually thought it would be funny to set up a fake Instagram account called If-I-Were-Cool Aubrey. She posted all these pics of big-boobed women in bikinis, then photoshopped my face onto them. It was awful.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” I don’t know what else to say. She’s describing the sort of bullying I’ve only heard about. Or read about, like in a People magazine article.
Poor Aubrey.
“I got really depressed,” she says. “That’s when my parents thought maybe St. V’s might be better for me. So I transferred.”
As we near her driveway, I slow and signal. “I hope that girl got into huge trouble,” I say, turning in.
Aubrey frowns. “How did you know this was my house?”
Oops. Not good.
“Uh, you told me the number.” There was a number on their mailbox. Right?
“No, I don’t think so,” Aubrey says.
I fix my eyes forward, aiming the car toward the glowing lights ahead. I feel her staring at me.
Pivot, Isabella. Pivot.
“Well, you must have because how else did I know?” I say. Willing lightness into my voice. We reach the wall of massive garage doors, and I shift the car into park. I turn to her. “Aubrey. You didn’t make Veronic Convergence because of Sam. The girls came tonight—yeah, because we’re boy starved at St. V’s, I’ll admit it, but mostly to support you.”
“I know,” she says, staring into her lap.
“We like you,” I tell her.
“I know,” she whispers.
“Even though your brother is hot AF.”
Her head snaps up. “Ha!” she exclaims, and fake-slaps my arm.
We both burst out laughing. I feel my blood pressure drop.
“Hey, you want to come in and meet Frank?” she asks.
“Love to,” I tell her.
Mr. and Mrs. Shackelton are cozied up on the couch when we walk in, watching something on that big flat-screen and eating cookies. From the pool house view, this room seemed sharp edged and bright. On this side of the glass, however, it’s soft. Pastels. Everything hints at color, but what color exactly? The walls are pale petals, the carpeting ash. The parents blue-eyed and as beautiful as their furniture.
They are also beyond thrilled to meet me. When Mrs. Shackelton realizes I am “the” Izzy from St. Veronica’s, she practically straps me to a chair and force-feeds me desserts. She starts a kettle for tea while the dad insists on hanging up my jacket. They pepper us with friendly questions—“Did you girls have fun at the game?” “Where did you all go afterwards?”—then thank me repeatedly for driving “Bree” home, and make it abundantly clear that their daughter walking in the door with a new friend after spending some social time out of the house is a very big deal.
Which makes me feel more than a little guilty for every time I’ve ever felt annoyed by Aubrey.
Meanwhile, Frank yaps nonstop. He’s thrilled to see me again. Probably wondering where I’ve been. I’m thinking it’s a good thing none of us speaks Pug.
I don’t stay long, maybe fifteen minutes, then head back to my car. Which is boxed in.
Sam and his friends have just pulled up.
I can’t help noticing that they are unloading a case of beer from one of the trunks. I was right: Sam was at the Four Corners market with his crew. Loading up for the night. I wonder who’s got the fake ID.
Awful/Ridiculous Melissa spots me first. She nudges Sam, whispering. The surprise on his face when he recognizes me reminds me of Jack. That time Mami walked into the room while we were trying to wrap his birthday present for her.
“Hey. Izzy.” A statement, not a greeting. He turns to the guy carrying the case, and I hear him murmur, “Take it round back to the pool house,” before focusing on me. “We meet yet again.”
“Yes indeed,” I say. Three boys from the team and two girls I don’t know emerge from another car. “Great game tonight. You guys were awesome.”
“Thanks,” Sam says.
Melissa slips her arm around his waist and bares her fangs, which I guess is her version of a smile. She’s washed off the face paint, which is a good thing because otherwise she would have been terrifying.
“Hi, we haven’t met,” she says. “I’m Melissa.” Her voice is aggressively perky. Like she’s daring you to be more upbeat, energetic, and fun, but behind all the singsong? You can hear thunderclouds rumbling in the back of her throat.
“Izzy,” I tell her. I look at Sam. “I’m afraid you’re blocking me.”
“Were you at the game? Izzy?” Melissa asks.
“I went with Aubrey. Just dropped her off.”
“That’s so sweet of you!” she says.
I shoot her a level look. “Nothing sweet about it. Aubrey’s great. Sam?”
He sort of startles. “Yeah. Right. Let me move my car.” He extricates himself from Melissa and digs in his pockets for keys. Meanwhile, the group drifts to the backyard. The pool house. With the beer. Melissa sort of waggles her fingers at me in this fake-friendly wave and fades into the shadows with them. Time to get in my car and get out of here. But as I swing my door open, Sam speaks.
“Izzy Green Eyes.”
I turn. He’s doing it again. Tilt of the head. Hands jammed in his pockets.
“Thanks for taking Aubrey tonight. She was looking forward to going out with you.”
I concentrate on smiling in a way that doesn’t show my disappointment. I mean, what else did I think he wanted to say? “Sure. It was fun.”
He steps closer. “She, uh, doesn’t need to know. About the beer?”
Right. Now I get it.
“What beer?” I reply.
He narrows his eyes at me, surprised.
“G’night, Sam.” I lower myself into the car. But he’s not done.
“I hope you don’t mind, but can I get your number? There’s something I want to ask you, but now’s not a good time. If you know what I mean.”
“Hand me your phone,” I tell him.
He pulls his iPhone, warm, from his back pocket and I punch in my number.
“See ya,” I say, handing it back.
Then Sam moves his car, and I back out of their long driveway without swerving off into the trees. Which is pretty much a miracle, considering how my heart is pounding.
11
Mami slams the car door shut and strides to our front door, leaving a path of sharp heel bites in the soft dirt. She barely acknowledges Roz, sprawled in one of the plastic chairs. Before Mami disappears inside, she wheels around to hurl one final command at me.
“And do not forget, Isabella, that you have to be at work at two today. Jack!”
From the back seat, my brother emerges, head down. He trudges past Roz, aiming big eyes brimming with misery at her, before following Mami. She slams that door, too.
“Bad time?” Roz comments as I flop alongside her.
God, I hate these chairs. “You could say.”
“I’d suggest we go for a ride, but sounds like you have to be at the market in . . .” She glances at her phone. “Twenty-three minutes. And I don’t have a car. Still.”
I glance across the street. No sign of life at Gloria’s.
“How’d you get here?” I ask.
“Walked,” she says, swinging one leg like a pendulum, her foot scuffing a trench in the gravel. “Took me an hour, but Marliese never came home last night and I need some stuff out of my closet. I think I’ve got a blister.”
“Will an ice cream from the market help?”
On Saturdays from two to six, I work at Meadowbrook Market. In addition to my whopping minimum-wage salary (which just about keeps me in phone cards), I’m allowed one free “treat” per shift. If Roz is around, I usually give it to her.
She usually makes sure she’s around.
If I were a good friend, right now, I would nuke her a plate of leftover arroz con pollo instead of sharing my freezer-burned freebies. But I’m not that good—Mami’s in the kitchen, and we’ve had more than enough “quality time.”
Today was our first official meeting with the Habitat for Humanity people.
It didn’t go well.
We met at their office. Clayton Area Habitat for Humanity is located in a rabbit warren of creaky rooms upstairs from the ReStore, which is Habitat’s version of Goodwill. The whole place smells like used clothing, which is weird because they don’t sell used clothing. Only used furniture. Doors. Sinks and toilets. Lights, desks, air conditioners . . . everything you need for a house. And all pretty decent. Like, way nicer than the Scrouch. Although, that’s not saying much.
While Jack played downstairs with some ReStore volunteer, Mami and I took our seats at the conference table and were introduced to all the people who would be working with us. Mr. Lyle, Ms. Clare, and Mrs. Brenda, of course. A red-bearded guy from the “board,” whatever that is. Some other guy named Chris, who kept saying things like “pouring the slab” and “raising the walls.” A woman named Natalie, who had brought her baby and was quietly breastfeeding.
And one badass grandma named Betts, who showed up wearing Carhartt work boots, jeans, and a red flannel shirt. She had a Judge Judy haircut and hard blue eyes. Mr. Lyle introduced her as the site supervisor, and while she didn’t say much, she did manage to glare at me every time I looked up from the phone in my lap.