“So . . . what if like four months from now he’s getting impatient, and I’m still not ready?”
“Then you don’t do it.”
“But what if I think I’m ready and we’re almost doing it and then I realize I’m not and I freak out right when he’s about to—”
“Chillax! You’re thinking about this way too much.” Maggie throws a lacy turquoise top at me. “That’s the problem with you genius types. You overanalyze everything. ”
“I don’t think I’m overanalyzing. I just—”
“Look, stop worrying so much. Just go with the flow.” Maggie scrutinizes my outfit. “I like the pink on you. But try this one—it’s much tighter.”
I take the tiny shirt and try to squeeze myself into it.
“It only matters what you want,” Maggie says. “Don’t let him force you into anything.”
“Right.”
“Don’t forget mints tomorrow. And—oh yeah! This is the shirt!”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too tight.” I peel it off.
“That’s the point. You’re wearing it.”
“No, I’m not. I like the pink one.”
“But the turquoise is so you.”
“Um, no.”
“Oh—you should get some condoms so you have them when you’re ready. You have no idea what’s out there. And you can’t always expect him to have them.” Maggie has condoms, plus she’s on the pill. She believes in doubling up on birth control.
“What if he wants me to put it on?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you do it?”
“Oh, it’s easy,” Maggie says, like it’s nothing. “First, you have to make sure you’re putting it on the right way or else it won’t unroll. Then you squeeze the tip to let the air out so when—”
“I get it.”
“Then you just unroll it. But make sure you unroll it all the way down. You don’t want it to come off, believe me.”
All this seems like too much. Figuring out which way to unroll a condom in the dark and how much it’s going to hurt and how I’m going to feel after. Is it worth all the drama?
I steer the conversation back to the date. “Okay, so mints. What else?”
“Don’t act all shy when you see The Look. You know you’re dying to make out with him.”
“Finally,” I say. “Familiar territory.”
“Oh, yeah, like Scott ever gave you The Look,” Maggie scoffs. She’s convinced that a person can’t be smart and passionate and president of the chess club. Two out of three, maybe.
“It wasn’t his fault I wasn’t more attracted to him,” I sniff.
“It also wasn’t his fault he wasn’t attractive. Big whoop.”
“Oh! He’s cute!”
Maggie raises an eyebrow at me.
“Sort of,” I mumble. I glance at the clock. “It’s getting late.” I shove my jeans back in the bag. “I better go.”
“Hey,” Maggie says when I’m in her doorway.
I turn around just in time to catch the pink shirt that’s flying toward me.
On my way down the hall, I pass her parents’ room. Their voices are lower, but they’re still fighting. I consider listening at the door, but that’s tacky. Anyway, I don’t want to know. I’m not ready to find out that the only parental role models I’ve ever had aren’t happy after all.
CHAPTER 10
living proof of the impossible
september 5, 9:43 a.m.
I never thought talking to a girl would ever be this hard.
At least we have Music Theory together. The problem is that we were put into pairs the first day, and so I never get to talk to Sara. She sits all the way across the room with Laila. I could always go up to her after class or something. But it’s not that simple. How exactly do you get a girl who likes someone else to like you instead?
Mike’s philosophy is if a girl likes someone and you want her to like you, you should watch what the guy who she likes does. Then whatever you see him doing around her, do that. The logic is that since the girl likes this guy so much, she’s automatically into the kinds of things he does. Mike’s big plan for me is to do the same exact thing that Dave did. So all I have to do is go up to Sara, talk to her for a few minutes, and then ask her out. Since it’s only been three days since Dave dropped the bomb, I’m not technically scamming on some other guy’s girl. And Dave is an asshole who doesn’t deserve to be with Sara. And Sara isn’t some random girl.
But I still haven’t come up with a feasible enough excuse to talk to her. So I’ve decided to accidentally-on-purpose cross her path in the hall. Josh found out from Fred that Sara has drafting third period.There’s only one way Sara can walk to drafting. So I’ve scoped out the staircase where some serious serendipity is about to go down. Today’s the day.
When second period is almost over, I start packing my bag on the sly. The instant the bell rings, I sprint out of class. The halls are clear. I station myself at the bottom of the small staircase that leads down to the art studio.
I wait.
People moving by bump into me.
I wait some more.
And then I see her.
I start to walk up the stairs.
She starts to walk down.
She looks at me.
I smile at her.
My lip sticks to my front tooth.
I say, “Hey.”
And that’s when I trip. My books go flying all over.
I never thought it was possible to fall up stairs. But here I am. Living proof of the impossible.
I put my hands out to break my fall. My fingers slip on a stair. Some kids behind me run up, pushing me over. I bang my head against the wall. Random pages from my binder, which popped open when it smacked against the floor, are scattered for what appear to be miles in every direction.
Sara bends down to help me up. “Are you okay?” she says.
I get up quickly like it’s no big deal. "Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Every time I see you, you’re bumping your head!”
And every time I see you, I wish my headboard was bumping against the wall. With you in my bed.
The bell rings.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sara says.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want help picking up your stuff?”
“Oh. Did something fall?”
Sara laughs. This is a good sign. Most girls don’t get my sense of humor.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “Thanks, though.”
“Okay, well . . . see you.”
“Later.”
I watch her walk away. Here was my chance and I blew it. And I looked like a spaz for nothing.
Could I be a bigger loser?
By the time all of my papers are shoved into my binder, I realize I should be in pre-calc. I’m mad late. Well, what do they expect? We do have lives here. Whoever established that there should be only five minutes between periods was obviously designing this rule for a school with like ten students. Sometime around 1908. Not that I’m ever in a rush to get to class on time. But still.
The teachers couldn’t be more clueless about our lives. The more I think about this as I walk to class, the more annoyed I get. Like, now I’m late, and Mr. Perry is going to ask me for a pass, and I don’t have one, and he’s going to be all, “Why are you late?” And what am I supposed to say? “Oh, sorry, Mr. Perry. I was just acting like this deranged stalker, and then I had to humiliate myself in front of the one girl I’m dying to get. The humiliation part took longer than I thought.” Yeah. That’ll work.
I walk into class like I’m not guilty of anything.
Everyone stares at me.
I sit down.
Mr. Perry quits speaking in the middle of a sentence. He glares at me.
It’s very quiet.
I open my notebook to a new page. I write the date like nothing’s wrong.
“Tobey?” says Mr. Perry.
>
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a pass?”
It’s like they all read from the same script.
“No,” I say. But what I really want to do is jump out of my chair and yell, “Don’t you think that if I had a fucking pass I would have fucking given it to you when I walked through the fucking door?!” Then slam my notebook shut and stomp out the door in a triumphant huff. But he’ll harass me more if I do that.
Then he goes, “Why are you late?”
“Sorry,” I say.
Everyone is still staring at me.
“I appreciate your apology, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I was in the bathroom.”
“Without a bathroom pass?”
“That’s right. It was an emergency.” I shake my head dramatically. “Trust me.You don’t want to know.”
Everyone giggles. Mr. Perry looks embarrassed.
“Next time you’re late, make sure you have a pass.” He goes back to talking about something that is, I assume, of vital importance to our lives.
After a few minutes of everyone writing down what he writes and no one raising their hand to answer his questions, Mr. Perry says, “Take out your homework. Let’s go over number nine.”
Everyone rustles in their notebooks and produces pages that may be homework or are just posing as homework until Mr. Perry discovers that they are, in fact, not homework. I don’t even bother to pretend to look for something that I would never have.
Mr. Perry looks at me. "Where’s your homework?” he demands.
“I don’t have it.” I never have it and he knows it. How long is it going to take him to get it?
“Why not?” he barks.
“I wouldn’t want to shock you with unprecedented behavior.”
It’s so quiet I can actually hear the water running in the fountain outside.
Mr. Perry slowly walks over to me as if twenty other kids weren’t in the room.
He is pink.
He is fuming.
He leans on my desk and says, "I don’t like your tone.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had a particular tone,” I say.
“Don’t get smart with me!” he threatens.
I’m vaguely aware that this is escalating into a situation. Mr. Perry should come with a Parental Advisory sticker. If he thinks being late and not doing homework is such a life-or -death situation, this dude seriously needs to brush up on his current events.
Mr. Perry picks up his hall pass, which is a huge protractor with his name on it, and whips it at me. "Go to the guidance office,” he says. "I’ll be there after class.”
I take the pass. I close my notebook. What would be the point of protesting?
When I get to the guidance office, Ms. Everman notices me right away. She’s practically the only adult here who cares about what happens to us.
"Hi, Tobey.” She smiles. "Want a Jolly Rancher?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you here to see me?”
“Well, yeah, but not by choice,” I tell her.
“Hmm, sounds interesting.Why don’t you have a seat?”
I sit in the big stuffed chair. Her office has lots of posters and plants and stuffed animals.The radio plays classical music.
“So,” she says. “What’s up?”
“I was late to pre-calc, and Mr. Perry told me to come here and wait for him.”
Ms. Everman scrunches her eyes up like she’s confused. “Why would he want you to come all the way here just because you were late?”
“I didn’t have a pass.”
"Okay...”
“You always have to have a pass with Mr. Perry or he has a conniption.”
“Why didn’t you have a pass?”
“Because I was just late.”
“Why were you late?”
There’s no way to explain this without telling Ms. Everman the whole story about Sara. I mean, that’s what guidance counselors are for, but it’s too embarrassing to go into it with her. So I say, "I lost track of time.”
“But you’re wearing a watch.”
“I just . . . wasn’t paying attention.”
“Yes, that seems to be the story again this year.” Ms. Everman picks up one of those squishy stress balls from her desk.“I’ve already gotten complaints from a few of your teachers that you’re not doing homework. Are you planning to keep up the same trend this year?”
“You know me. Homework is against my religion.”
“And what religion is that?”
“Dadaism.”
“Dadaism isn’t a religion,” she says. "It’s a cult.”
“You mean they didn’t tell me this whole time?”
“Tobey, if we could be serious for a few minutes here, I’d really like to know what you intend to do about graduating with a decent transcript.”
“Other than doing it?”
“What makes you think you’ll get into a good college without doing all your work?”
“I always have at least a C average.You know that.”
“Yes, but why are you satisfied with that? Especially when we both know you could be doing so much better?”
“I’m fine with it,” I tell her.
Ms. Everman sighs and shakes her head. “There’s a lot more to life than just getting by, Tobey.”
“It works for me,” I say.
“A person with an SAT score of 1450 should have a much higher GPA.” She smiles. “But I’m sure we can find some colleges that would be thrilled to have you.”
“But—”
“Stop,” Ms. Everman interrupts.We’ve had this conversation before. She’s been on my case about college since I met her freshman year. I told her I wasn’t interested in going to college. She told me that I’d realize the error of my ways. Which so far hasn’t happened. “I’m serious. Just think about it. Hard.”
“Okay.” I give her a wide-eyed, optimistic look.
The look works.“You know where to find me,” she says.
In Music Theory, I’m all frustrated from the conference with Mr. Perry and the dean and then writing an essay entitled “Why What I Did Was Wrong and Will Never Happen Again.” And now my pen is getting all blotchy. Cheap pens suck. I write a reminder on my hand to get decent pens after school. Then I glance over at Sara. She’s laughing at something Laila said.
And that’s when it suddenly hits me. A plan that will actually work. I won’t have to pose as a deranged stalker with zero potential anymore. Sara can see me for who I really am.
It does involve some initial risk, though. In order for it to work, I have to talk to Laila.
CHAPTER 11
when you connect
september 6, 3:34 p.m.
I decide that the only way I can possibly calm my nerves before Dave is supposed to pick me up in three hours, twenty-five minutes, and seventeen seconds is to work on my sketchbook. So I fill a glass with water, grab my colored pencils and watercolors, and go sit on the front porch. Everything else I need is already sitting on the wicker couch—glitter, glue, scissors, Jane magazines, CD player, and Creative Visualization. I’m at the part where I have to make a treasure map of my ideal relationship. The concept is that if I physically create a description of the boy I want, if I can see him that clearly in my heart and in my mind, then I’ll be more open to him coming into my life. Of course, I already think this guy is Dave, so I’m imagining how I want him to be from the little I already know about him. When he’s my boyfriend, I can show him this later, and we’ll laugh about how I knew him even before I knew him.
With my favorite James Taylor CD playing, I use yellow to paint a border around the page, which makes the whole page look like it’s lit up. So far my treasure map is a collage of words I cut out of magazines and glued at all different angles around the page. Words like “romantic” and “smart” and “cute” and “introspective. ” I shade around some of the words with a pink colored pencil. I smudge the pink into light blue.
> I spread glitter over the border. Then I write about the way I want to feel when I’m with this awesome boy. Like I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Like I’m the most important thing in his life.
I flip through this month’s Jane, looking for more words and images to describe him. I cut out a couple sitting on a hill, watching a sunset. I cut out “irresistible” and “funny.” I cut out a yin-yang symbol. James sings how the secret of love is all about opening up your heart. And then I imagine an absolutely perfect date happening tonight, with romance and excitement and the euphoria that happens when you connect with the person you’re meant to be with. Not that I’ve ever experienced that feeling. But I can imagine how intense it is.
At the diner, I’m feeling really confident. Dave told me I looked great when he picked me up, and he held my hand for half the movie. He even said how he’d been looking forward to tonight all week. So I ask the thing I’ve been dying to know all summer.
“Why didn’t you call me this summer?”
“I was staying with my uncle in Boulder. I had a summer job set up there before I moved, so it was just easier for me to go back than try to find something here.”
Knowing that there was an actual reason he didn’t call me is the best part of the night.“If I’d been here,” Dave says, leaning toward me and reaching for my hand across the table, “I would have definitely called you.”
I am insanely happy.
But I’m still nervous about the inevitable kiss later. I wish that I wasn’t nervous so I could be hungry. When I’m telling the waitress what I want, I’m all weirded out about Dave watching me. For some reason, I always feel self-conscious about ordering food.
“So,” I say.
Dave smiles at me.
I smile at him.
And I can’t think of one single thing to say.
“I’m so glad we had that storm yesterday,” Dave says. “The heat was killing me.”
“Isn’t it hot in Colorado?”
“Not really. Or when it gets hot, it’s not that humid kind of hot. It’s a dry heat, so you don’t really feel it.”
“Oh, yeah! I remember that from earth science. It’s like . . . when air is dry, it has less water vapor, so there’s room for your sweat to evaporate.”
“So why don’t you feel as hot?”
When It Happens Page 5