by Cassia Leo
I look up in time to see Jared taking his seat two rows ahead of me. I expect to find him fuming with fury; instead, he’s smiling at me.
“Hey, Stiles,” he says with a nod of his head.
I glance at Jesse and he mimes a phone call. I turn back to Jared and he’s sitting in his desk facing the front of the class. Am I still asleep?
Chapter 4
I arrive at Mr. Avante’s house at three-thirty in the afternoon. Actually, I arrive at 3:29, but I wait sixty seconds before I ring the doorbell. Mr. Avante is a stickler about being prompt. Thirty-two years in the military has a way of doing that to people.
The pristine red door swings open and Mr. Avante smiles at me. His dark-brown skin gleams in the May sunshine and his perfectly white teeth sparkle.
“Belinda,” he says, and I attempt to match his dazzling smile. “Come on in, honey.”
Last week, my mom commented on the fact that I hadn’t smiled in weeks. I’ve been more diligent about faking it lately. I also find that the more I force myself to smile, the easier it becomes to fool myself into thinking that I really am happy.
“Is Nina all set?” I ask as I step into Mr. Avante’s living room.
I’ve been walking Nina, Mr. Avante’s energetic Pomeranian, to the dog park for more than three years. It started off as a way to make a little cash for books for me and video games for Frankie. But I stopped reminding Mr. Avante to pay me months ago. I’m always surprised when he opens the front door and recognizes me.
All the furniture and picture frames are exactly as they were when Mrs. Avante died six years ago—less than a year after my dad died. She had great taste and Mr. Avante and his caregiver are fastidious about keeping everything tidy and dust-free.
“Yula’s coming late today,” Mr. Avante says, grabbing Nina’s leash off the coffee table. “Some kind of dance recital for her niece.”
Nina catches sight of the leash and hops up and down at his feet. I take the leash from his hand and latch it onto Nina’s pink collar.
“Call my cell phone if you need me to pick something up on the way back,” I say. “My cell phone, okay, Mr. Avante? My mom’s not home, so no one will answer if you call my house.”
“I gotcha,” he says, patting my shoulder. “I may be forgetful, but I ain’t deaf.”
I set off down Harcourt Avenue toward the dog park, stopping at a few bushes and trees for Nina to sniff around. We arrive at the park and find we have it mostly to ourselves except for an old woman with a thick English bulldog and a young guy with a black Labrador, neither of which I’ve seen here before. Both of their dogs could rip my little Nina Simone to pieces, but they look well-behaved so I unhook the clasp on Nina’s leash and let her run free.
The park only has two benches and the old woman is occupying an entire bench with her lunch. I walk slowly to the other bench and take a seat next to the guy who, up close, is pretty gorgeous. He doesn’t have the prerequisite Payne Bay tan, but the mussed up crop of deep brown hair on his head and his chocolate brown eyes are cute.
“I’m Conor,” he says, holding out his hand.
Handshakes always make me feel like I’m on a job interview. Nonetheless, I hold my hand out to shake his and realize I’m offering him Nina’s leash.
“Sorry,” I say as I transfer the leash to my left hand. “I’m Belinda.”
We shake hands and the softness of his skin and the way he grips my hand firmly makes my stomach flutter. I pull my hand away and immediately begin fidgeting with the leash.
“I’ve never seen you here,” I mutter to distract myself from the crawling sensation stirring inside my belly.
“It’s only my second time here,” Conor says. “I just got Dizzy.”
The entire dog park suddenly goes into soft focus. The trees and grass and benches fall away like pictures spilling from a photo box. I’m paralyzed. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can’t smell. I can barely glimpse the blurred outline of Conor’s face next to me.
“Dizzy? It’s not my perfume is it?” my lips say, but it’s not me speaking and my voice sounds huskier.
Conor laughs and casts me a sly grin. “That’s my dog’s name. Actually, he belongs to my cousin who was just shipped off to Japan last month. He’s in the Navy.”
Conor’s face comes a bit more into focus as my body leans toward him. I can’t stop myself. My face is inches from his gold-speckled brown eyes when I reach up and pluck a piece of dried leaf off his shoulder. I toss it behind the bench and sit back.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
What am I doing? And why can’t I stop?
“Do you go to Pacific High?” the husky voice asks.
“No, actually, I go to St. Demetrius,” he says with a shrug as if he’s apologizing for my inevitable disappointment in his parents’ choice of school.
“I think I hear a little Catholic guilt in your voice,” I murmur. “There’s nothing wrong with all male schools. I wouldn’t mind going to one.”
Oh, gosh. I’m going to throw up.
Conor flashes me a crooked smile. “Hey… Are you doing anything this Friday?”
I laugh heartily. “That depends. Are you going to ask me out?”
“That depends. Are you going to say yes?”
“Actually, I was going to say… absolutely.”
If these crazy dreams don’t stop, I may need to see a shrink. I dig through the junkyard in my top dresser drawer for my student ID card. I need it to order a yearbook at the student center today. I sift through gum wrappers, hair ties, protractors, pencils, and game cartridges, but I come up short.
I check the pocket of the jeans I tossed onto the floor last night. I pull out my ID card and two pieces of neatly folded paper. Unfolding the first piece of paper, I find Jesse Nova’s phone number written in his spiky scrawl. I crumple it up and chuck it onto my unmade bed before I unfold the second piece of paper.
I stare at Conor’s name and number and realize it’s not just my dreams that are crazy. It’s me. It’s like I’m possessed or something. Maybe I have multiple personalities. No, that’s not what they call it anymore. Now they call it Dissociative Identity Disorder, or something like that.
I knew refusing to go to therapy after my dad’s death would catch up with me eventually. Wait a minute…. If my conversation with Conor wasn’t a dream then that means… I have a date tomorrow night.
The first thought that crosses my mind is that Frankie can’t find out about this. But why not? Isn’t he the one who flaunted his three-day relationship with the girl in his French class? God, if my mom knew about that she would tear him to shreds. I would have torn him to shreds if it weren’t completely obvious that he was only doing it to make me jealous. But watching Frankie hold Veronica’s hand for three days while she sat at our lunch table was like having someone reach inside my chest, rip out my heart, and hand it to Frankie just so he and Veronica could play hacky sack with it.
Chapter 5
With every ring on the other end of the telephone, my heart beats faster. I’ve never missed a day of work, even if it is an unpaid volunteer position, and I’ve never lied to Nancy.
“Payne Bay Library. How may I direct your call?” Krista’s voice chimes through the speaker as clear as a bell, but with a definite undertone of annoyance.
It’s one in the afternoon and Krista is already peeved. Of course, all it takes to annoy Krista is an accumulation of more than fifty-cents in overdue charges.
“Krista, it’s Belinda,” I say. “Is Nancy there yet?”
“She’s picking up donuts for today’s meeting,” Krista replies.
“Oh, yeah, the meeting,” I say, my voice trailing off.
I completely forgot we have a meeting to discuss the Summer Reading Program, which is just five weeks away. This is a bad day to call in sick.
“Are you okay?” Krista asks.
“Um… Actually, no, I’m not feeling well,” I say, fashioning a soft croak in my voice. “I think I’m coming do
wn with something. Can you let Nancy know I won’t be coming in today?”
I had hoped to tell Nancy myself, but having Krista relay the message may be exactly what I need to pull this off.
“Really?” Krista replies, and I can imagine her green eyes widening with disbelief. “Are you seriously calling in sick? Are you sure this is Belinda?”
No, I’m not sure, but I’m dealing with it.
“Krista, please, I’m not feeling well,” I reply. “Can you please tell Nancy I won’t be in? Please?”
A puff of air blasts through the phone speaker. “Fine,” Krista replies. “But I’m not taking notes for you at the meeting.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure Frankie will tell me all about it,” I say. “Thanks, Krista!”
I hang up feeling relieved and, for the first time in months, excited about a Friday night. I don’t even flinch when I stroll into History class and get a verbal warning about being tardy from Mrs. DeGarza. I’m so light I could float through the ceiling.
After what feels like two excruciating hours of waiting in line to order my yearbook in the student center, but is actually just thirty-seven minutes, I scamper across the campus and fly down the front steps to Mariposa Blvd. The California sunshine wraps it arms around me and carries me home on a breeze full of possibilities.
Bursting through the front door of our two-story house, I toss my backpack next to the coatrack. My cell-phone rings as I fly up the stairs. I glance at the number on the screen, recognizing it from the crumpled piece of paper I’ve been stealing glances at all day.
My throat thickens as my finger reaches for the green button. “Hello?” I say, trying not to sound as if I just ran home through ninety-degree weather so I could shower and be unbelievably fresh for our first date.
“Hi. It’s Conor,” he says. His voice is smooth as mercury slithering through my ears.
“Hey!” I say. Actually, it’s more of a shriek—too enthusiastic. “I just got home. What’s up?”
“Just calling to make sure we’re still on for tonight.”
I pause for a moment as if I’m trying to remember what’s going on tonight. “Yeah, sure! Yeah, of course.”
Calm down, Belinda.
A soft chuckle vibrates through my phone.
“Okay… I guess I’ll see you at seven. Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?”
Did I say I didn’t want him to pick me up? I can’t keep any of this straight. “Uh, no. I’ll find my way there,” I say. “Where exactly are we meeting again?”
“Trixie’s,” he replies. “Are you sure this is Belinda?”
“Oh, yeah! Trixie’s… now I remember…. Yeah, I’ll be there at seven.”
I hang up and the phone immediately rings again. For a fleeting moment, I imagine it’s Conor calling me back just to hear my voice. Then I look at the screen and my chest deflates when I see Frankie’s name.
“What’s up?” I say.
“I heard you called in sick,” Frankie says, a stitch of worry in his voice. I imagine Frankie’s eyebrows pushed together beneath the fringe of curly auburn hair he refuses to chop off. “I was just calling to make sure you were lying.”
I start absentmindedly straightening the purple comforter on my bed. I never make my bed. I don’t see the point. No one sees my room, except for Frankie, and his bedroom is even messier than mine.
“Are you calling me from the library?” I ask, paranoid that Nancy is standing over him as he attempts to catch me in a lie. No, Frankie would never do that to me. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.
“Yeah, but I’m outside so don’t freak out,” he says, and I finally catch the sounds of traffic whooshing past him.
“Yes, I’m lying,” I reply as I sit on my half-made bed. “I have a date.”
I can’t conceal the excitement in my voice. It’s a phrase I’ve only spoken aloud twice in my life; three times if you count today.
My first date was with Henry Rosales, a drop-dead gorgeous jock who somehow got it in his head that I was his type. My neighbor set us up on a date when I was fourteen. Henry was my first kiss, which was a saliva and bubble-gum fueled disaster. Henry turned out to be a complete bore, and the first heart I ever broke. After I broke it off with him, he serenaded me at my window in a last-ditch attempt to win me back. That was when I realized how utterly insane love can make a person.
My second date was with Frankie two and a half months ago. Luckily, when I told Frankie I thought it would be better for us to just go back to being friends he didn’t have a meltdown.
“A date?” Frankie replies. “Really? Wow….”
“That’s it? You’re not going to ask who he is?”
“You can tell me later. You probably have to curl your hair and apply that spackle stuff all over your face. See you tomorrow.” He hangs up before I can even say goodbye.
What am I doing?
I’m moving on. That’s what I’m doing.
The water flows too sluggishly from the showerhead. The air blasting out of my hair dryer never seems to dry my hair, but causes plenty of perspiration to sprout on my neck and run down my back. My hands shake as I apply my makeup. I had three hours to get ready and I’ve already blown two and a half hours turning myself into a hot, sweaty mess.
I give up on my hair and pull it back into a ponytail. I stare at my face in the round mirror above my dresser and sigh. Nothing about my face is remarkable, but Conor must have seen something interesting to ask me out.
I know what Conor saw. It was my new split personality that reeled him in. How am I supposed to pull this off?
This isn’t like going on a date with your best friend. I hardly know Conor and yet I’m so eager to rub more salt in Frankie’s wounds, possibly throwing away what little progress we’ve made these past couple of months at getting over each other.
The entire walk to Trixie’s, I’m in a constant battle with a stiff ocean breeze that clearly wants to blow my shot at looking halfway presentable. The neon-blue sign above Trixie’s storefront is outshone by the brilliant pink sunset, but all I can think is, “Maybe I shouldn’t have worn a skirt.”
I trudge across the parking lot toward the wall of glass splashed with posters depicting bowls of frozen yogurt with vibrant berries tumbling in and around the bowl. It’s supposed to look tantalizing, but is it really that hard to get the berries inside the bowl? I guess people lose all hand-eye coordination when they need their frozen yogurt fix.
Placing my hand on the door handle, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. The wind has blown my ponytail askew. I release the door handle and attempt to tug my ponytail back into place as I stare at the shadowy outline of my reflection. The door swings open and slams into my forehead, lighting up my head with fiery pain.
“I’m so sorry,” says a woman carrying a toddler and a white paper Trixie’s bag.
I think I feel a trickle of blood. The woman’s face suddenly gets all fuzzy. I’m going to faint.
She sets her toddler and her bag of yogurt down on the sidewalk and gets in my face. “Are you okay?” Her voice sounds as if she’s yelling at me from the far end of a dark tunnel.
I blink a few times and her face comes into focus. My hand reaches for my forehead. I can’t feel the blood, but I don’t think it’s gushing. The woman pulls a few napkins out of her Trixie’s bag and attempts to dab my forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” she says repeatedly, her face screwed up with guilt.
I take the napkins from her and smile. “It’s no big deal,” I say, in my split personality’s voice. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have been standing in front of the door like that. I’m fine.”
The woman stares at me for a moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Please, go enjoy your yogurt,” I say, then I pat the toddler’s head and slink into Trixie’s.
Conor is walking toward me when I enter. “What happened?” he says, his boyish face contorted with worry. “I just s
aw you talking to that lady then I noticed you holding your head. Are you okay?”
I dab my forehead a few more times then I chuck the bloody napkins into the trash bin. “It’s nothing,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I’ve gotten paper-cuts worse than this.”
No, I haven’t.
Conor doesn’t appear eased by this explanation.
“Hey, why don’t you order me whatever you’re having,” I say, patting him on the arm. “I’m going to get cleaned up in the restroom.”
No, don’t order me whatever you’re having. I want the peanut butter swirl cone!
“Sure,” he replies, but he grabs my hand before I can walk away. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I can’t feel his hand. He’s touching me and I can’t feel it. I yank my hand away and nod before I dash into the private restroom and lock the door behind me.
The blue and white tiles remind me of something I can’t quite grasp. I wipe the dried blood from the quarter-inch cut near my hairline and press a folded paper towel into the cut to make sure the bleeding has stopped. It takes a few minutes to stop the slow trickle. I crumple the paper and toss it into the bin.
I strut out of the restroom with my shoulders pulled back and my head held high. Conor’s sitting at a small white table with two bowls of what looks like vanilla frozen yogurt covered in sliced strawberries. I guess we’re not yogurt soul mates.
I take a seat across from him and he stares at the cut on my forehead. “What?” I say as I pick up a plastic spoon and shove a large scoop of yogurt and fruit into my mouth.
I can’t taste anything.
He smiles as he watches me chew my mouthful of fruit and yogurt. “Hungry?” he asks.