I was sprawled out in a chair in our living room, with my head on my hand. My hair, miraculously, had grown past my shoulders in the six months since I went back to eighth grade. I no longer had "chemotherapy cheeks," as my dad called them, which are the color of half-dried rubber cement. I see my hair, my complexion, and I can read some sort of magic determination in them: Get rid of the past. And my eyes caught the flash so they seemed to shine with hope.
Coast Regional High School was a huge place, where girls with problems could remake their lives. New faces poured in from four other barrier islands, which meant that to four-fifths of these kids, you did not have a past. There was a kind of hope whizzing around the corridors. Joe Hunk could ask you out tomorrow, even if you had been a dork-breath yesterday. You could work your way into a seat in the cafeteria at that fourth table from the door—which around here is known as the Queen's Table—even if you were shoveled off to the corner with the invisible unknowns during the first week. Some eighth-grade science nerd could save up for a foil job, come into school a raving blond, and totally believe her life would change.
I tried to tell myself just to forget about anything like becoming outrageously popular. I felt at a serious disadvantage even to a science nerd, having heard my last dirty joke at a sixth-grade pajama party, and then dropping into Home-school Hell for the Sick for a year and a half. If you start eighth grade in January, completely naive, looking like something the cat dragged in, you can only hope for a huge high school like Coast to help you disappear a little better.
But even my brain couldn't help figuring out which crowds were going to have all the fun. A group of girls sat at the fourth lunch table from the door in the cafeteria, and they were so cute, and so not shy, and just mean enough that nobody would dare pick on them. Despite that cheerleading tryouts had not been held yet, they were starting to be called the Freshmen Cheerleaders, and their table was nicknamed—in mumbles from girls who didn't sit there—the Queen's Table.
I didn't doubt that these girls would be cool around here. In fact, they were all from Hackett, so I knew them from grade school, and they had been popular since about fifth grade, or whenever it is you start to think about stuff like that. Most had swapped jokes with me at a bunch of sixth-grade slumber parties.
The second week of high school, I was going past them into the girls' bathroom, and Eli Spellings didn't keep her voice low enough.
"Look, there goes that leukemia girl. Her hair grew back way nice, at least. Remember her from January? She looked like she'd been nuked in a microwave. Was that sickening, or what?"
I went into a stall and leaned against the side, with my hand over my mouth. I totally forgot to sit down and go to the bathroom. I had been suspicious that these kinds of remarks flew. It's just that people were polite enough not to say them where I could hear.
Macy Matlock was standing in the middle of them, as usual, and happened to take a different view of the thing. I heard her mouth go off, because you can't miss that.
"You pig, Eli. What the hell is wrong with you?" I heard something like a slap, like she smacked a book to the floor, or cracked a notebook on the sink ledge. "That girl is one of the sweetest people you'd ever want to meet, and not only that, but she just heard you."
Footsteps clomped my way, and I prayed to wake up from this nightmare. But there she was, gazing in the stall door, because I'd been too stupid to lock it. I glanced back, thinking the veins in my face would crack open.
She grabbed my wrist, and before I knew it, we were moving back toward this bathroom meeting of the Queen's Table, which amounted to about seven glares, all mowing me down to nothing.
"I know you heard that, Claire. Eli has something to say."
Macy folded her arms across her chest, giving Eli the death look, and I waited for them to jerk past me and run, or get meaner. What I didn't understand had a lot more to do with Macy than anyone else.
She has a big mouth, but her heart is bigger over certain matters of principle. Second, if she believes something and glares into your eyes, you believe it, too, no questions asked. For whatever reason, she totally believed Eli owed me an apology. Eli spit out what would have made the Pope happy.
"Claire. Oh my god. I didn't know you could hear me, I mean ... not that I should be saying shit like that, anyway. I just ... last year? I didn't know what to say to you, that's all. I'm just really stupid ... Okay?"
I glanced at Macy in stunned awe, then at the floor, realizing some response was expected. Nurses forever warned me that people wouldn't know what to say. It was completely forgivable.
But it came out something like, "Forget it ... please ... I don't think ... anyone should have to know ... what to say...," and my voice box pizzled out because I couldn't smile and think of words at the same time.
Macy kicked her in the ankle. "See! Did I tell you she was sweet?"
Her loudness made me jump, and for whatever reason, they thought that was funny. Myra Whitehall grabbed my arm and pulled me along with them. "Come on, hang with us? I was at Kim Norris's sixth-grade slumber party with you. Remember?"
I felt sure they were just feeling sorry for Claire with the Novelty Sickness in Her Past, and I didn't want that. We were going into fourth period, which meant the cafeteria, which meant they were thinking I would sit at the so-called Queen's Table. I only got swept along with it because I was in shock.
There's a photo of all of us at the Queen's Table, taken three days later by Myra. My arms are crossed, and I'm biting my lip over my smile. I don't belong at this table, or in this picture with Eli Spellings, Geneva Graham, and Macy Matlock. And if I smiled too big, they would see the evidence in the photo later. Macy called that one "Claire the Humble, Macy the Horrible. Every Bitch Needs a Claire."
She was referring to her darker side, which everyone knew she had, because of her big mouth. For Macy's good part, she would never tolerate evil treatment toward somebody who had done nothing to deserve it. For example, I had not done anything to deserve Eli's bathroom ignorance, because you can't help having been sick. Macy would shove people for remarks on girls with huge chests, kids with bad skin, people with disabilities.
But those people were few and far between compared to people who could help what was wrong with them. Other people were obnoxious, dorky, phony, smelly, fat-yet-overeating, whiny, wimpy, stingy, clumsy, overly horny, or butt smooches. She had managed to perfect herself and could not see why it was so hard for anybody else. And she would rip on these people and not care who heard.
"Lyda Barone Bombs Out Macy" is a funny photo in a sick way, because I have this look of horror on my face as a glowing Lyda Barone clings to my arm. Lyda had all but wrapped herself around me for about a week, probably because I was the only person who had ever been nice to her. Everyone said she smelled. She looked like she would because she didn't wash her hair a whole lot, but I never actually smelled anything.
My look of horror came because of a trick Macy had started to pull in pictures. She would plan out ways she could "enhance" the picture, all the way back to when she was posing. She knew she wanted to pen in "air stink" squiggles going from Lyda's armpits to her own nose, so she posed all wide-eyed with her eyes going in that direction. I knew what she was up to, because she'd done it before, but it was hard to lecture her when you're cracking up.
When I say a foulness lay under the surface of these pictures, I can't say exactly what breed of garbage was ready to squirt from behind each person's eyeballs. But I can talk about myself, and it would only be fair to do that. Other people's foulness had to be there, and it had to be as big, or bigger, than my own. I say that because of what happened when Lani Garver showed up. A new kid walks into school, and you can't tell by staring whether it's a girl or a guy. A stink the size of Kansas doesn't get raised out of people's sweetness and kindness. I ended up being a victim, and everyone else wound up on the let's-obliterate-the-gay-kid squad. What does that say about whose garbage is bigger? And here's some dirt on me:
While all my daytime fun was going on, I had started having nightmares that were gory and disgusting. I would wake up all Claire, you are nuthouse material. In these dreams, girls I had never seen before would cut swirly designs in their legs with knives, or swallow forks, or part their hair with razor blades, stuff like that. I hadn't had a single nightmare I could remember while on chemo, and yet here I was in the greatest time period of my life having these dreams like something out of a horror flick.
And what's worse is I was not entirely scared of them. Some totally sick part of me was obsessed with them. I would make them into songs that I would play on my electric guitar, down in the basement. I had a notebook full of lyrics that would have choked the devil. Sometimes I was all ashamed of this thing, and yet these lyrics rhymed and rhythmed out so well that I couldn't bring myself to burn them. Nobody knew about this. Who could I tell? Macy was tone-deaf. My mom would tell the whole island, and my dad had just gotten remarried.
When I started my job at Sydney's Café, at the beginning of sophomore year, Macy took a picture and called it "Claire Decides to Ruin Every Saturday Night for Two Hours Over 25 Bucks." It's me with my acoustic guitar, singing cheery old folk songs into the mike. You would think my brain was a flower shop.
We actually had that photo album in the cafeteria during lunch on the day Lani Garver first showed up. Macy was cursing a blue streak because none of the pictures from my surprise party had turned out.
"We finally get you a boyfriend in the fish frat, and there's no evidence of 'Macy Performs a Miracle.' Shit..." A photo landed in front of me that was supposed to be me and Scott, but above our noses was only white and flash.
"Smiles are good." I handed it back, and she glared at my usual calm like a cat in the dark.
"That was a miracle"—she started smacking overexposures down on the table, and I couldn't argue—"being that you couldn't seduce a tree trunk."
I laced my fingers across my stomach, stretching out in the chair and pondering on that. "Seduce somebody. Like, how do you seduce somebody? Like, why should I have to seduce somebody? Can't we just be chilling and some guy likes me for that?"
Eli raised her head from copying Geneva Graham's Spanish homework, and they both giggled.
Macy threw her head down on the table in a shock fest. "Help this woman before she loses what I just helped her catch. She's deeply disturbed."
"Watch this, Claire." Eli nudged Geneva, who could catch just about anybody, at least for a night or two. "Do your peanut-butter thing."
I watched, mildly amused, as Geneva upset half the cafeteria, sucking peanut-butter glops off her pinky, her eyes burning a hole into one dying bastard after another.
"You try." She pushed her mutilated PB&J at me.
I blinked at it long enough to make them think I might. "I don't eat peanut butter."
"Claire, Little Miss Chronic Diet," Geneva groaned. "Use your salad dressing!"
"It's watery, low-fat Italian. I'll end up feeding my shirt." My grin slid a little wider, because they knew there was no chance of this thing happening.
"Hey, she already caught herself a hottie, without any peanut butter, cigarette lighter, Vaseline lip, dangly earring, tongue piercing, pedicure wiggling, sassy butt, helpless routine." Myra stopped for air and her collie-dog eyes glowed. She was sweet. Always on my side. "You know, maybe you should be asking her for lessons. Claire, how'd you catch Scott Dern?"
I looked down at my laced fingers, sniffing to break the silence. "I don't know. I don't think he likes me very much. He's not exactly ... talkative."
"He's fish frat! They're too cool to be motormouths." Eli waved me down. "You have to get him alone."
"She's had him alone. At least, she had him alone with me and Phil," Macy snapped, and started tossing ruined photos over her back into the aisle in frustration. "I don't have any evidence of that night at Phil's house, or the party night. Four rolls down the toilet! What gives with this goddamn camera—"
Eli, Myra, and Geneva were still stuck on the alone business, boring holes through me like three Cheshire cats. I just let my grin wander higher, so they could think what they wanted, because this conversation was moving dangerously close to some garbage I didn't want to spew about Scott.
Albert Fein saved me by picking up one of the overexposed pictures as he came past with his tray. "Somebody's pictures are on the floor."
"It's a picture of Claire McKenzie in her underwear. If you want, she'll autograph it." Macy glared dead into his eyes, and Albert Fein was just dorky enough to try to stare through the overexposure.
The girls cracked up until Albert's ears turned red, and I held out my hand for it. "I'm not in my underwear, Albert. Give it here."
"You can still autograph it." He pulled it away, and I flopped my arm back down in frustration because I knew what was coming, and I knew it would start a fight with my friends.
Macy said it for him in this nasty, screechy twang. "Aren't you that famous guitar player from Sydney's? Don't you know anything, Albert? 'Famous' and 'Sydney's' do not go in the same sentence. This is an island. The only famous people are tourists."
I nodded hard in agreement, hoping that would end it, but it didn't.
"She's breaking up our Saturday nights! For what, Albert?"
He grinned from ear to ear just because she was talking to him; the fact that she was telling him off didn't seem to matter. "Well, I think it's cool—"
"Good, then you can go chuck money at her with all the fishwives while we're waiting to go party. Now, give me that picture and get out of here..." She trailed off from her dork attack, staring over my shoulder, down the aisle. Her hawk eye was working itself big-time on somebody, which was not unusual. But I was facing Myra, Geneva, and Eli, and their eyebrows were lowering, too.
I tilted my head backward over my chair, and that was how I recognized Lani Garver from homeroom. Upside down. He had just stood up from a table over in the corner and was putting trash on a lunch tray. I brought my head back up and yawned. I probably could have ignored this whole thing nicely, if it wasn't for Albert.
"Is that thing a boy or a girl?"
My head snapped up to his braces smile, and thank god I was yawning, because I might have actually hollered at him. I could never forget what eighth grade felt like. And I didn't get how some overweight, underbuilt bucktoothed kid finds room to goof on somebody else who looks funny. Is it because we're talking to you? Get your power somewhere else, hypocrite...
"It's a boy." I kept yawning to keep from snapping the news. "The teacher asked how to spell his name. It's L-A-N-I, but he said you pronounce it Lonny."
"Looks like a damn girl." Albert kept up. "Except that would be one very tall girl. Jesus, maybe it's one of those ... those ... hermaphrodisiacs—"
I rubbed my eyes in annoyance, knowing Macy would handle it, which she did. "Who asked you! The only thing I remember anyone asking you is to leave, mean face. Can the kid help it if he has long eyelashes and pink cheeks? What are you—jealous? Roll on out of here before somebody starts in on your looks."
I gave her the time-out sign because Albert was moving away from us, grinning to hide the redness on his ear tips.
She turned her gaze to Myra and Eli and Geneva. "Cut it out! No stare fests. Claire said it was a boy."
I sat there blinking as she kept rolling her neck to get the kinks out. Every roll gave her another opportunity to check out Lani Garver over my shoulder.
And she didn't lecture again when Geneva piped up. "Claire, I think that guy is wearing blush and eyeliner. The teacher actually asked, 'Are you a guy?'"
Eli and Myra turned to watch me suspiciously. I had noticed only two things in homeroom—his height and the drumsticks shoved into his jeans' back pocket. I'm five ten but would have only come up to this kid's cheekbones. I had seen the sticks and thought, Hmm, a drummer. Way cool.
"You know what? I don't think the teacher ever did ask—"
"Claire, you are so den
se." Macy surrendered and stared. This boy-girl was now coming up the aisle, which gave me a chance to look without being too obvious.
The first challenge was the combination of shoulders and face. I wouldn't say there were muscles, just larger bones that made the shoulders broad. And yet, you would look at this face and think, Girl. No question. Geneva had a point, because the face looked to be done over with really subtle makeup—until it got within about six feet of you. Then you realize, That's not makeup. It's just really peachy skin, overly thick eyelashes, natural pipeline lips. The dark hair was to Lani Garver's shoulders—with the top layers kind of bobbed under and going behind the ears. Guys don't plan their hair. Girl, I thought.
Lani passed by us, and I looked at the back view. Most girls had hips. Guy?
I tried to look at this person as a butch girl, which would have worked, except for the big shoulder bones. I decided it looked slightly more like a gay guy. I waited as this Lani Garver turned left at the front and gave us a profile. Macy could always see into my head along with everybody else's.
"You're waiting to see if there are bumps in the front. Nope, no triangles." Her tone was curious and not mean, because if this turned out to be a girl, the haircut was cute, and no one can fault a girl for being over six foot and flat-chested. "God almighty. I hope it's a girl."
Without her head moving, her eyes wandered sideways until they caught the table where the fish frat were sitting. I let my own eyes wander past the cluster of big muscles, anchor tattoos, and sunburnt noses even in chilly November. Fortunately, they were just talking among themselves and eating. The fish frat didn't notice people easily. They waited for everyone to notice them.
Lani Garver's dark-chocolate brown eyes caught on this and that thing on the tray, like there was no real thought, and all the staring didn't register.
My eyes couldn't help falling to you-know-where. I'm not saying it was a huge bump. But girls' jeans zippers tend to lean almost backward, when they're skinny and their jeans are tight. This zipper came out—at least more than it went in. Guy.
What Happened to Lani Garver Page 2