Lani placed a tray in the holder above the trash can, then the hands smacked together in a dainty way, like to get the garbage-can dirt off them. Girl? Then the eyes met mine. With a couple hundred kids in the cafeteria, there were a lot of different directions those eyes could have gone. It felt a little eerie. I met the gaze as evenly as I could, feeling weirdly challenged by it, like I had to prove I wasn't intimidated.
I ended up breaking this brief looking-match because Macy nudged me hard in the arm. A picture landed in front of me.
"The only one. In four rolls. What is up with that?"
Lani Garver's stare was forgotten for the moment. I gazed at the picture and tried not to move at all. That was my trick when I became completely nervous. If I don't move, nobody will notice me; nobody will see me freaking on the inside. I'll be invisible.
My internal freaking had to do with two things in this picture: the great smile on my face and the horrible thoughts that had been running through my brain at that time.
"Must have something to do with your flash," I managed to mutter, because Macy was six inches away, looking right at my face.
"If you'd get rid of your Barbie camera and buy something decent—" Geneva giggled.
Macy turned to her. "It's just pink; it's not Barbie. Shut up."
I could not get over my smile in the picture. Macy snapped it about fifteen seconds after I came out of my house yesterday morning. I had not seen her at first. I was counting the number of days I had been extremely tired, and the number of times I'd gotten dizzy. I was trying to decide whether I was having a cancer relapse. I remember deciding that it had surely returned. Then I looked up and saw Macy with the camera to her face. Without even thinking, I made peace signs with both hands and smiled.
In this picture I was smiling the most peaceful smile I had ever seen in my life.
"Claire, Jesus Christ!" Macy snatched a plastic salad fork from my hand. I realized I had picked it up and raked my thumb over it. It had snapped. I glanced at the few drops of blood on the blank page of the photo album and stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked.
"You got blood all over the page!"
I mumbled around my thumb, "Three drops. Chill out."
"Are you all right?"
"Fine."
"You're a klutz!"
"Part of my charm."
"You stuck your thumb right down on that! What is wrong with you? Let me see." I let her pull my thumb out of my mouth, before she raised a loud enough stink that everyone would be looking. It was a deep cut, but small.
She sighed in relief, casting a final look at the three drops on the page. "Don't be giving me heart attacks. I hate blood."
I sat stock-still after putting my thumb back up to my teeth. I didn't know which thought was making me freeze worse—that I might have a blood disease, or that my Lisacuts-herself-with-razor-blades nightmares might be invading my real life.
Macy hawkeyed my face, and I knew I hadn't managed to completely wipe off my horrified look. She followed my eyes, which happened to be laying into Lani Garver, who had retreated to the semidarkness of the alcove between the cafeteria and the B corridor. Macy never misses a trick, but her imagination was only as big as her world.
"Are we about to have another Lyda Barone adventure? Are you going to have ants in your pants until you can be nice to that new kid? I guess ... you remember what it felt like to be the new, huh?"
I let out an absent laugh. Talking about my return to eighth grade was the closest we usually came to talking about my leukemia. It's not that I didn't trust my friends to be nice and sympathetic. It's just that fun-loving kids don't hear that sort of stuff very well. I never wanted to think about junior high, let alone talk about it, and it's probably one of the reasons I adored my friends so much. I loved their carefree outlooks on life more than anything under the sun.
Macy groaned. "Fine. If you really must go say hello and sing, like, 'The Happy Welcome Song,' I'll come along for the ride. Just ... please don't bring any more strange people over to our table. I end up being the one doing the that-seat's-taken routine after a week of dork overload, and I've got a heart, too, Claire."
I laughed, removing my thumb. "Don't make me out to be some saint. That's so not true—"
"Girl Scout, then."
"Fuck you."
"Don't curse. It makes you blush. Look. Perfect chance. See where he-perhaps-she is?" She sized up Lani. A paperback book was open in the long, graceful fingers. "It's a girl. Guys don't read books. At least, not in public."
"I swear, Macy. I have less than zero interest in going over there."
"Don't ruin my image of you, Claire. Maybe I admire your heart. Now's your chance to be nice. I know you're feeling sorry for that new kid."
She was telling the truth. She just wasn't telling all of it.
"Yeah? And I'll bet right now, Macy, your biggest problem is, you won't be able to stand yourself until you find out if that's a girl or a boy."
She raised her eyebrows shamelessly. "Hey, I'm not the one blowing my hair under while putting a tight shirt over zero tits. That person is just begging for someone to come up and hint around for some answers. I'm just a victim here."
"You're a victim, and I'm a white whale."
She laid the peace-sign-and-smile photo into the album and scrawled beside it, "Claire as Usual." I flinched but didn't have a whole lot of time for backlash thoughts.
"Come on. Let's go find out." She pulled me to my feet, and I let myself be dragged along by the wrist.
2
Macy leaned against the wall, about four feet from this oddly put together person. I leaned up behind her. "Are you new?" Her voice sounded overly innocent.
"Yeah. I'm Lani."
"Lani?" After Macy got a spelling, she asked, "What kind of a name is that?"
I almost smiled, thinking, It can't be this easy. But instead of "boy's name" or "girl's name," the answer came back, "I think it's Hawaiian."
"Wow, you're Hawaiian?" Macy asked.
"Well..." Lani was chewing gum, and it rolled pensively around behind juicy-looking lips, which made me think, Girl, though the voice sounded slightly low for a girl. "I think I'm a little bit of everything, like ... a mutt. You know? One of those stray dogs you buy at the pound?"
"Too funny..." Macy made one of her plastic laughs, though I hoped it didn't sound fake to Lani. She groped for something else.
"Uh ... what are you reading?"
"The Essential Jung." The jacket of the book flashed in our faces. I guess she was hoping for Makeovers for Girls or Football Digest.
"Yuck, psych class," Macy babbled. "I'm so glad I don't have to take that college-prep boring garbage."
Lani Carver's chocolate brown eyes looked amused. "You don't like psych? Let me tell you, I hate chemistry. There was never a stupider chemistry person."
We laughed easily, because you almost have to when someone is cutting on themselves. But then the silence got a little awkward. Macy never misses a detail, but she's not careful enough with her eyes. They started wandering up and down Lani Carver, stopping at this or that very obvious spot, and she didn't bother to cover up her overly curious hawk eye, which was showing her impatience. Lani watched her take everything in until I couldn't help clearing my throat.
It came out too loud and brought Lani's eyes to me. Since Macy was being rude, the line that followed seemed extremely humane and merciful. "Hey, you know what? I saw you on Saturday night. You were playing guitar at that little café that stays open all winter. Sydney's? You're Claire McKenzie."
I had to smile over the idea that a stranger would remember my first and last name. I felt Macy's gaze pouring on me, hoping I would help her out here.
"And ... you're a drummer?"
The nod was hearty. "But nobody's going to pay me for it. I'm not that good. And I never knew anyone who could play the whole 'Dust in the Wind.' How'd you learn to play so well?"
No girl/guy hints there. "I can't really remembe
r not playing, but I guess I got way better in ... junior high."
My friends had instinctively figured out that when "junior high" came out of my mouth, they should look for a new subject. Macy burst into some talking jag, like she usually does. I just stood by and watched. Cheerleading this, and buying clothes that. She got this kid laughing over why it might be called Shore Mall, if it's on the mainland, and why we have a Forest Inn on Ocean Drive, since Hackett never saw a tree bigger than a bayberry or a twisted pine. I thought Lani might say, "Daw, doesn't the Forest Inn sign say OWNERS, ED AND JOANNE FOREST?" But polite laughter came in all the right places.
Finally Macy's curiosity got to be too much. I came out of my stupor with a jolt of adrenaline as she let fly.
"... take offense or anything, but can I ask you a personal question?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
"Are you ... a girl?" Macy asked.
I was turning all shades of red, but Lani didn't flinch. "Oh! No. Not a girl. Sorry."
We waited, I guess because we were expecting to hear the natural next line, I'm a boy. The smile on his face left me feeling he enjoyed the awkward pause and the notion that our heads might be slightly confused.
"Okay," Macy finally stumbled. "You're a guy."
After that I forever thought of and referred to Lani as a he. The truth is, he never actually answered. I was vaguely aware he might have been intentionally playing some game, so I held my breath, hoping it wouldn't ignite Macy into some blunt attack, some Are you gay? Fortunately, she saw where the line was.
"I'm really sorry. I just, you know. I couldn't make you out. I mean, you seem really cool and everything."
Lani didn't seem to care. "I get accused of being a girl sometimes. I guess there's worse things to be accused of. If people were confusing me with a bull rhino, I would be upset."
He giggled along with Macy. It was one of those high-pitched giggles that hits the same note, like, seven times in a row. It made me giggle, too.
"I guess it has its good points, being confused with a girl," he went on. "People don't always treat girls fairly, and now I can sympathize with them. Like, did you know that if a girl takes a shirt to the dry cleaner, she'll pay a dollar fifty more to have that shirt cleaned than a guy would? And a girl pays, like, seven dollars more for a haircut?"
"You're kidding." Macy had her feet spread apart, and she was swaying from side to side. She always did that when she got nervous. I guessed, now that she had her answer, she was looking for a way to move on.
"So, being that I'm not a girl, does that mean you can't show me around this drab-looking island?" he asked with the same ease. "Show me what stays open in the winter."
Macy laughed, shaking her head, but didn't say anything. I could sense her close-down routine. She hadn't made up her mind about him yet.
"Or you?" His eyes turned to me again. "Are all your friends girls?"
I started to shake my head no, because that seemed dumb. But come to think of it, I didn't have any close guy friends. I had Scott, and Macy had Phil, but it was hard for girls to "buddy up" to the guys we hung with. Sometimes I watched a rare girl who could get with them and crack jokes and act perfectly natural. I wished I could be like that. I always felt like I would say something dumb at any second.
I probably felt that way because it was true. Like, here's what I said back to Lani: "Well, I'll be your friend, if Macy will be your friend."
I tried to cover my dumbness with another throat-clearing session, but it wasn't really working. Is that how you pick your friends, Claire? By how much nerve Macy has?
Macy turned her back to Lani and laughed loudly in my face. Macy liked it when I screwed up sometimes. It left her sure that she was the star of our show.
Like an apology for my brain flake, I made it worse. "Yeah, I'll be your friend."
Macy still had her back to Lani, and she gave me the wide-eyed, evil glare that means If you get any stupider, I'll kill you.
Embarrassed, I tore my eyes from her, and I noticed that Lani was staring intently at the back of her head—almost like he had X-ray eyes and could see the look on her face. His grin sagged but didn't go away completely. Macy spun, and in the second it took to face him, she got her charm back.
"Don't mind her," she giggled. "Claire is always contradicting herself. It's because she lives and breathes music. Those artistic kids—they can't think and talk at the same time. We have to go now, but we'll see you around."
Macy took hold of my sweater and jerked me toward the corridor. We walked toward her locker, and she said, "Don't get any ideas about being his friend. God, I can't believe you said that."
I sighed, rolling my eyes. "I thought he was nice. Is that a crime?"
"No! I thought he was nice, too. And it's not that he's gay. Okay? I mean, my cousin Ron is gay. I love my cousin Ron. He just had the good sense not to let it show until he got out of here and went to New York City."
I knew what she was saying but couldn't figure out how that was fair. Like, if some guy grows up kind of swishy like that, he's supposed to go out for football? And learn to scratch and clomp around like the fish frat? Just to keep his big secret?
"Don't give me that you're-being-unfair look," she snapped. Nothing got past Macy's vision, especially concerning me and my thoughts. But she kept walking for a few moments before adding more. I gathered this was a gray area in the let's-pass-judgment file, and she was usually pretty clear about where her lines were.
"I'm saying, if you beg for trouble, you're going to get it. No, a guy can't help being a femme. But does he have to, like, blow his hair under like that? And that little wiggle walk? Oh my god. Tell me he didn't practice. He's trying to make a statement. He's going to get his ass kicked. Do you want to be right in the middle of it?"
I crossed over some line from being slightly annoyed to feeling very twitchy. I wondered if I was annoyed because I was tired lately. Or I was annoyed because Macy makes this shit up, half the time. Little wiggle...
"He's got a skinny butt. I swear ... I didn't notice any hula going on."
Sure enough, she looked at me like I was out of my mind. "Are you blind? God, you're dense. How could you not see that, Claire?"
"I don't know."
I had never seen Jenna Dawes's underwear, despite how Macy went on and on about how Jenna shouldn't wear skirts to school if she couldn't keep her thighs together. I had never smelled Lyda Barone's onion-ring underarm, never seen Larry Boogers's boogers, which Macy swore on her life were all over his book-bag strap. Not that I was up for any close examinations, but what difference would it make? There was a certain way things always happened. Macy spotted somebody's big-time flaw. I often secretly thought she was seeing/ hearing/smelling things. Then, within two weeks, everyone else had noticed it, too, and I felt like a blind person.
I decided it wasn't worth it to get in an argument that I would surely lose. I yawned, instead, and it made me feel dizzy. Then I got so dizzy, the world started to spin.
3
I hauled it into history class without saying much more than bye to Macy. I didn't want to tell her I felt like fainting so soon after I had grossed her out with my bloody thumb. After sitting for a while, I felt better. But I had given myself such a jolt that I couldn't stop waiting for it to come back. I started seriously thinking that I should see a doctor. I didn't know how I could do that, not without spewing to my mom, who uses every serious problem lately as an excuse to load up on vodka and whatever. Or my dad, whose brilliant idea last time was that I live with him in Philadelphia to be close to the better research hospitals.
I'm not giving up my life. This can't be happening. The thought stuck with me all afternoon, even though the dizziness had not shown up again by the time cheerleading practice started. By then I had something else to focus on—the fact that Ms. D'Angelo and I were mortal enemies.
Ms. D'Angelo thought I was a huge cow interrupting her petite little cheerleading squad. She would gaze at me in practice somet
imes while she was yelling at us.
I hadn't given a thought to being at least half a head taller than everyone else on the squad until I sprained my ankle at summer practice and had to go for an X ray. I overheard Ms. D'Angelo telling the doctor out in the corridor, "I hate having big girls on my squad. They're just all wrong for cheerleading. They always get hurt."
I tried to pretend I never heard it, but every time I got in her presence, I felt like a heifer in need of milking. I couldn't change my height, but I decided I could compensate by going from somewhat thin to thin-thin. I lost five pounds, which wasn't the perfect solution, but Macy had this funny saying: You can't be too rich or too thin. I lost five more pounds, hoping Ms. D'Angelo would think, Wow, McKenzie must have heard me call her a cow. Maybe I shouldn't shoot my fat mouth off. Unfortunately, she still looked at me like she thought I was a cow. But I was afraid to lose any more weight and fool with my health.
Normally I could fight my "cow" paranoia with good thoughts, like that I worked my butt off to get on cheerleading, and I deserved to be here. But we were standing in formation that day, and I got zapped with the realization of how Ms. D'Angelo viewed me, because from my spot in the back, I could see the part in everyone's hair. You look like Shaquille O'Neal. Cave dweller, meaty-beef drumstick-chomping Viking ... Boom! Boom! ... High school topples as mammoth cheerleader attempts back handspring...
I did my invisible-cheerleader act, which is going through as much of practice as possible behind somebody else, on the far side of somebody else, or moving around as little as possible. Ms. D'Angelo called me up front afterward to demonstrate some routine I had picked up pretty fast, but I knew she was just doing it so everyone could get a load of my cowness. It took everything I had not to bite her head off.
Since I was looking for symptoms of cancer relapse, I couldn't help adding that to the list. Tiredness, dizziness, irritability. After we finished practice, I checked my legs in the locker room for any suspiciously ugly bruises, which had been one of my first symptoms last time. I didn't see even a small bruise, but I was so abnormally tired, the lack of bruises didn't make me feel much better.
What Happened to Lani Garver Page 3