I angrily toss my book light on the floor and then worry that I busted it. More fun is tossing Barrett’s college application, which makes a pleasantly violent sound as it cracks through the air and lands scattered around my floor.
My alarm wakes me Monday morning from a bizarre dream: I’m in my bedroom, only it’s not quite my bedroom. The closet is in a different place, and my pictures of Rupert Grint are gone. As I walk through the room, it sounds like I’m stepping on autumn leaves, but when I look down I see the floor is covered with papers with the word “Jessie” in big black letters and the word “REJECTED” stamped across everything in red. I go to my wrongly placed closet door (Why are rooms in dreams never exactly the way they are in real life? Is this where my subconscious wants my closet door to be?), open it, and a million gray bats fly out at me, each with a tiny Lord of the Rings symbol glowing on their stomachs.
That’s when I woke up. I prefer the Henry dreams, even if I’m not sure if I want them.
I get out of bed and step directly onto a piece of paper—Barrett’s application. Oh yeah. The essay. It’s amazing how a dream about Lord of the Rings bats can make you forget.
I get ready for school in a huff, locking the bathroom door to prevent any unexpected Barrett intrusions. I don’t know what to say to him. Did he really think I could just read the essay objectively to let him know if I think it’ll get him into NYU? Or was he expecting me to get all weepy at his generosity of including me in such an important piece of his life?
I avoid breakfast by yelling down to the fam that I’m finishing a skirt. I consider making up some other excuse to get out of driving to school with Barrett, but he sabotages my thoughts by barging into my room. My floor is covered with his essay, and I panic a little that he’ll be mad at me for not being more careful. Then I remember I’m the one who should be mad, and besides that, a few papers on my floor could never compare to the piles of crap in his room. He doesn’t even notice, just bounds over to me as I sit on my bed and asks, “Did you read it? What did you think?” His pathetically eager expression softens me a bit. I wish I didn’t have to be angry.
“What did you want me to think?” I ask him, a little too snottily.
“I thought you’d like it.” He hesitates. “You didn’t?”
“Oh yeah, everyone loves being called a dork, Barrett. Not that you’d know.”
He looks really confused, and I have the urge to slap the look off his perfect face. “I didn’t call you a dork. I mean, I did, but it wasn’t in a bad way.”
“You said I dumped my friends for a bunch of outcasts and nerds!” I yell.
“That’s not what I said, Jess. Not exactly. Did you read the whole essay?”
“Nooo,” I say, afraid this is about to turn into some cheesy sitcom situation where one person thinks they hear someone say something but really they said something else, then absurd situations occur and laughter ensues.
“Where is it? I’ll show you.” My hand directs him, game-show-hostess style, across my bedroom floor. “Nice, Jess,” he says as he picks up the crumpled sheets and shuffles through them. “Here, read the last line.”
I dramatically grab the page from him and scan down to the end of the essay. I read, Jessie is my inspiration, and I hope I am fortunate enough to find friends just as fun, unique, and creative as Jessie has, without caring about what others think, should I be accepted at New York University.
Wait. Did that just say I’m Barrett’s inspiration? That he wishes he could find friends like mine? That I don’t care what other people think? If he only knew.
“I was saying good things about you, Jess. Great, in fact. I think it’s really cool how you found a new group of people to hang out with.”
“Just the other day you called them nerds.”
“No I didn’t!”
“You totally did. You said to mom and dad that I’d be okay going to Fudwhalla because I’d be safe with, and I quote, my ‘nerd herd.’ I know you used the word ‘nerds.’ ”
“I don’t know. Force of habit, I guess. But nerd doesn’t have to be a bad word. Can’t it just be a social scene, like punk or goth? Like, ‘Hey, I’m part of the nerd scene at Greenville High.’ ”
Barrett is trying to charm me, but it’s just annoying.
“If you think being a nerd is so cool, why are you going out with Chloe Romano?”
“Jess, I can’t change the fact that I like someone. Who can? I promise when I go off to college I’ll try and date someone geekier. Like a math major or—”
“Watch it. I might be a math major someday. And what happened to marrying Chloe?” Even though it goes against my whole nerd pride speech, it’s pretty hard not to approve of Chloe.
“She wants to take it slow. She says it’s only October, and she wants to go to school in California.” He flicks a loose thread on my comforter.
“It didn’t look like she wanted to take it slow on the couch the other night.”
“Slow in the serious relationship sense. Not the couch sense. I’m still hoping to bring her around, though.” He looks up. “So you get it, Jess? That essay is about how much you amaze me. My little sister, who I always wanted to look up to me, has me looking up to her.” He touches the tip of his finger to my nose and just keeps it there. I whack it off.
“I guess it’s okay, then,” I say.
“What’s okay?”
“Your essay. I mean, it’s good. Very moving. Hopefully a nerd will be reading it in the admissions office. Then you’ll definitely be in.”
“Yessss. So you give it the nerd stamp of approval?” He pauses and looks mortified that he just said that, and my insides cringe. But after his essay and everything that has happened in the last few weeks, I decide it’s time to admit something.
I raise my fist and pound it on top of his application like a stamp. “Approved,” I declare.
chapter 34
I LEAVE FOR SCHOOL FEELING GREAT on Monday morning, and the glow continues all week. I ace exams all over the place (thanks to some lunchtime study sessions with Henry), work on the Fudwhalla costumes at night, and even squeeze in a little audiobook time in my afternoon walks home.
Char has left three messages and six texts on my cell, just to say hi and see what’s up. I send a neutral text reply, BAU [Business as usual]. Skool keeping me bzy. TTYLR. And I think I will talk to her later. Just not yet. And Bizza, I’m not so sure.
My skirts reflect my good mood, and I have worn a different skirt each day from what I call my “circus collection,” which includes a variety of clown, animal, and snack prints. Friday I put on a red skirt covered in popcorn boxes, kernels, and the word “pop!” (This skirt can be cross-referenced with my “movie collection.”)
In English, I’m about to plug into my iPod to listen to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (audiobook comfort food) when Polly passes me a note.
Polly: Where’ve you been at lunch? We miss you. Chip keeps insisting that you’re off having some lunchtime affair with that student teacher from the drama department.
Me: Gross. And anyway, I heard he was having an affair with Mr. Zapata from shop. I’ve just been studying in the library. Sorry to disappoint.
Polly: Please come back. Chip’s stories get more and more graphic. You don’t actually own any leopard-print lingerie, do you?
Me: If I did, would I tell Chip?
Polly: True. You’ll be there today?
Me: Have plans. But definitely Monday.
Polly: Doing anything this weekend?
I’d actually really like to tell Polly all about Fudwhalla, but it’s way too complicated to pass in a note. I can tell her all about it next week at lunch after the fact.
Me: Yeah—camping with friends. A little role-playing action.
Polly: Ooh—like sexy role-playing? Or hack and slash role-playing?
Me: The 2nd. But if you want to tell Chip otherwise, be my guest.
Polly: Maybe we shouldn’t feed his masturbatory fantasies.
Polly and I laugh, and Ms. Norton gives us the international symbol for shush.
I put in my earbuds and press PLAY, but my mind wanders to this weekend. It’s going to be crazy—costumes and camping and Henry. . . . I feel like the Dungeon Master of my life has just told me to Roll for Initiative. I think something big is going to happen.
I run into Henry in the hall before gym, and we plan to meet at my locker at lunch. His turn to pay. When lunch rolls around, I’m practically skipping to get to my locker. But when I get there, the person standing in front of it isn’t Henry. It’s Bizza.
When she sees me, she gives a hesitant wave. I’m not really mad anymore. There’s too much good stuff happening to me to keep all of that anger inside. Plus, I’ve been so busy with my new friends and sewing and school that I haven’t really had time to think about her.
She’s wearing a pair of black-and-white striped kneesocks over a pair of red tights and under a pair of cutoff army pants. Her T-shirt has a store-distressed logo of some punk band I remember Barrett talking about in his previous life. Her hair is freshly buzzed, her eyes heavily blackened. When I think about it, she looks pretty goofy.
I don’t feel like wasting time waiting for whatever she’s come here for, so I say, “Hi. Did you need something?” After I say it, I realize how cold it sounded, like the only reason she’s come to talk to me was to get something from me. I guess that’s how it’s pretty much been, though, whether it was my brother’s table at Denny’s or an escort to the STD factory or—
“I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” she says, semi-defensive.
“Don’t you have bio now?”
“So? This is important. I need to say it.”
I brace myself for some self-absorbed Bizza bullshit, but out comes something unexpected.
“I’m sorry, Jessie. Sorry I used you. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry for being a shitty friend.” I move my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Bizza continues, “You were my best friend. I mean, you are the best friend I’ve ever had. Better than I deserved.” I can’t disagree, so I say nothing. “I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me, but I just needed to say it. And thanks for coming with me to the clinic. I don’t think I would’ve gone without you.”
“How’s that situation?” I ask, waving my hand in the general direction of her mouth.
“Better. Gone. And so is Van, too, by the way. I’m not going near that asshole again.” She says it like it’s not such a big deal, but I can tell that it is from years of her pretending things don’t get to Bizza Brickman.
I want to say something snarky about how she shouldn’t have gotten so near that asshole in the first place, but I can’t be bothered. Just then Henry walks into the locker section, looking adorable with his curls in his eyes and his giant white shoes. “Hey, Jess,” he says, “ready for some grub?”
I look at Bizza to see if she’s finished, and she says, “I should get to class, I guess.”
Henry smiles at me and says, “I just have to get my jacket. I’ll be right back.”
After he leaves, Bizza shoulders her backpack and says, “Who’s that?”
“A friend,” I say. “Definitely a non-asshole.” She smiles, and I smile back. Part of me is desperate to hug her, like a final, good-bye type of hug, to let her know that I forgive her enough not to hate her anymore.
“Maybe we can hang out sometime,” she says.
“Maybe,” I say thoughtfully. “I’m pretty busy these days.”
She looks slightly hurt, but her Bizza pride is definitely still in tact. “Yeah, me, too, I guess. But maybe when you’re not too busy.” I nod, and Henry returns. He sticks out a friendly hand to Bizza and says, “Hi, I’m Henry.”
Bizza reluctantly shakes it. I watch the two of them. It’s as if Bizza shaking hands with Henry is the official transference of my old life to my new one.
“S’later,” she says to me, and walks quickly away.
“Ready, m’lady?” Henry bows to me, hand outstretched.
“Yes, m’man,” I say, taking his hand.
As we walk, holding hands, he asks, “M’man?”
“You know—m’lady, m’man. Would you have preferred something else?”
“Actually, it was a lot more than I hoped for,” and I can see his cheeks turn red underneath his unruly locks of hair.
chapter 35
“DON’T LOOK ANY ROYALTY IN THE eye. You can only speak when spoken to, unless it’s someone of your station.”
“Henry, how am I supposed to know who’s royalty and who’s ‘of my station’?” I use finger quotes because I can’t get myself to say it like it’s part of a normal conversation.
“We’ll know. You just walk behind Dottie, and she’ll tell you what to do. And believe me, she’ll revel in that.”
“Great,” I say, although I’m not really worried about that part. I’d rather someone tell me what to do at this thing than get put in the stocks for doing something wrong. “Is everyone going to be really into their characters? Like saying yay and nay and thou art and stuff?”
“Some of them will. Usually it’s the guys with ponytails. Don’t worry. You’re not being graded on this.”
If only that were my problem. Henry sees the constipated look on my face. “What? Did you eat a green french fry? I hate that.”
“No. It’s just—” I decide to be honest with him. “Do you ever feel like a dork doing this? Walking around in a costume with other people walking around in costumes, holding fake swords, interacting with guys and ponytails and—”
“Jessie, chill,” Henry interrupts me. “It’s perfectly normal to feel like a dork at Fudwhalla because there’s nothing perfectly normal about it. Normally, your average tabletop role-playing geek wouldn’t set foot in a live role-playing adventure, but last year Philip told us his cousin was doing it, and we thought it sounded hilarious. It’s not often nerds get to make fun of nerds even lower on the nerd food chain.”
I clear my throat and look surprised. “You’re not a nerd, Henry.”
“Nice of you to say, Jess, but I’m not deaf. I’ve heard people talking crap about me since we morphed into social groups in elementary school. It only sucks when there’s no one else around to soften the blow. Of course it bothers me sometimes that I’m not cool. Why do you think I bought new pants?”
We both blush, but probably for different reasons. I feel guilty, like I bullied him into it. “You kind of needed them,” I say.
“True, but the only reason I actually went out and bought them was to reduce the nerd factor in your eyes. It worked, I hope?”
“It worked.” I smile. “Not that I thought you were a nerd, of course, but you do look better when your pants fit.” A lot better.
We spend the rest of the meal going over more Fudwhalla details. I am happy to hear that my new friends thought the whole thing was weird, too. Even though Henry just full-on pronounced his nerd status, the fact that he could and was completely confident about it made me like him even more. I totally respect him. I wonder if I’ll ever get to that point myself.
chapter 36
I WAKE EARLY ON THE MORNING OF Fudwhalla. Dottie suggested I eat a big breakfast, since it’s always unknown when the first meal will actually get served (and how edible it may be). I’m too nervous for a big breakfast, so I opt for a piece of toast and some scrambled eggs. Dottie came over last night to pick up her skirt. Both of us were impressed at how perfectly the skirts looked and fit. I hope the guys won’t be disappointed with their tunics, which we all decided would be fine to hand out when we met up in the morning. Dottie showed me how to wear the corset over my peasant blouse. I felt awkward because you can’t really wear a bra under a corset, and therefore, Dottie and I were in my room together topless for the shortest moment while we changed. Not that I looked. The peasant blouse that Dottie lent me is off-white and gathered at the sleeves and around the plunging neckline. It is, as they say, dangerously low-cut, so with the additio
n of the corset, my cleavage is nicely peeking over the top of the blouse. I felt rather scandalous when I saw myself for the first time, but Dottie swore that’s how all the Fudwhalla ladies dress. “I’m telling ya,” she said as she changed back into her street clothes, “some bitches get implants just to look hot at Fudwhalla.”
“So there will be other females there?” I asked. I had this fear that Dottie and I would be the only girls, and groups of sword-wielding freaks would chase us through a dark forest at night, capture us, and drag us back to their lairs by our hair.
“Oh yeah. I mean, there’s the queen, of course, and there’s the witches, other royals, their dedicated servants . . .” She darkly smiled at me.
Making breakfast this morning, I feel a little silly with my boobs hanging out, and I pray that no one in my family feels like waking up early to see me off.
I double-check my stuff: sleeping bag, pillow, change of clothes for the ride back. I wanted to bring a flashlight, but Dottie told me there would be torches and lanterns for us to use. More authentic, I guess.
My boobs are dangerously close to a full-on pop-out as I close up my bag, and I barely manage to adjust when I hear Doug’s car pull into the driveway. I quickly open the front door so he doesn’t have to honk, waking my family into a random boob sighting, which would possibly make them question the innocence of the weekend.
Dottie meets me at the door, and we laughingly acknowledge our ample, jiggling chests. Everyone is already in the car, a minivan that Doug borrowed from his mom. Dottie grabs the tunics, and I lug my bag to the back of the van. Doug pops open the trunk, and I throw my bag inside.
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