Yeah? Well, then yay for me, because that means I’m going to be CEO of the whole effin’ world.
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: Re: In bed
nope. I will.
It’s midnight now. I lie in bed and listen to the unfamiliar noises outside. California even sounds different. Apparently, there are coyotes in these hills, plus wildfires and mudslides to worry about. This place is always on the verge of an apocalypse.
I can’t just lie here and wait for sleep or tomorrow to come, whichever happens first. My brain is spinning out. A cup of tea. That’s what I need. Something warm and comforting. Chamomile has the same flavor in Chicago or LA. So I pull off the covers and put on my bunny slippers—the ones my mom gave me for my thirteenth birthday—even though the bunnies are kind of creepy now that they’re each missing one eye, and I head downstairs, taking each step carefully so as not to wake anyone.
In the dark, the kitchen feels far away. I need to cross the long living room to get there, and I’m scared of knocking something over. I walk slowly, arms outstretched, and that’s how I’m standing when I first see them: like a cartoon sleepwalker.
My dad and Rachel sit close together on the couch in the den off to the side, a single reading light turned on above them. They can’t see me, thank God, because I’m now hiding behind a pillar. I feel embarrassed stumbling upon them like this and a little stunned too, since I can see that they are not merely strangers who decided on a lark to elope. They look like a real married couple.
This is intimate, and not in the way it was at dinner, when Rachel put her hand on my dad’s, a gesture that on reflection seemed more for Theo’s and my benefit. Now they are bent together, forehead to forehead, and there’s a photo album I’ve never seen before open on their laps. Must be Rachel’s. Is she showing my dad her before pictures? Her dead husband? Pictorial evidence that this house used to be filled with a functional family? I can’t hear what Rachel is saying, but there’s something about the hunch of her shoulders and the way my dad reaches up and touches her face—cups it between his palms, like it’s something precious and easily shattered—that tells me she’s crying. He might be too.
My heart pounds, and I feel sick to my stomach. I imagine the photos on her lap. Maybe there’s one of Theo, age five, being swung in the air between his parents. We have that picture in our before album. My mom on the right, my dad on the left, me in the middle, caught right at magic liftoff. I am smiling so big you can see that I’m missing a tooth. Did my dad show Rachel our pictures? Hand over everything—our entire history—just like that?
My eyes fill with tears, though I fight them. I’m not sure why I feel like crying. Suddenly, everything feels irrevocably broken in that way it can in the middle of night when you are alone. In that way it can when you are watching your father comfort his new wife. In that way it can when you too are hurting but there’s no one there to comfort you.
I walk backward, a silent moonwalk, a trip that feels so much longer going back than it did coming. I pray that they don’t see me, pray that I can get away before they start kissing. I cannot watch them kiss. When I finally get to the stairs, I force myself to go up slowly and noiselessly, one at a time. I force myself not to run away as fast as my creepy bunny slippers will take me.
CHAPTER 7
Day 15: better and worse and maybe better. Sun still shines with relentless aim and glare. My classmates are still fancy-pants, and the girls still somehow look more mature than me, more confident. As if sixteen years adds up to more out west than it does where I come from.
The humiliation begins early, in class. Good, I think. Bring it on. Let’s get this over with. Maybe I am my dad’s daughter after all. An optimist.
“The Gap is so pleb, don’t you think?” Gem asks her wonder twin, of course in reference to my jeans, though I have no idea what she means. Pleb, short for “plebian”? As in my pants are those of the common folk? Well, yes, yes they are. As are my Costco undies, which I’m tempted to pull down so she can kiss my ass.
The anger sharpens my wits, makes me want to advance rather than retreat. I will not engage with these girls. I’m not strong enough for that. But I will turn to Adrianna, who is sitting next to me, because, screw it, no time like the present to make an ally. I ignore my burning face, refuse to turn to see if the Batman overheard anything, and pretend I don’t notice that anyone was talking about me.
“I like your glasses,” I say, just a tad above a whisper. Adrianna blinks a few times, as if deciding about me, and then smiles.
“Thanks. I ordered them online, so I was a little nervous.” There is something about her tone, quiet, like mine, that’s inviting. Not overly loud, not that teenage-girl voice that everyone else seems to use to demand notice. She has brown hair tied back in a bun that looks purposely messy, big charcoal-lined brown eyes, and bright red lipsticked lips. Pretty in the aggregate, the sum somehow adding up to much more than each individual part. “You really like them?”
“Yeah. They’re Warby Parker, right? They make neat stuff.” I hear Gem and Crystal giggle in front of me, maybe because I used the word “neat.” Whatever.
“Yup.” She smiles and gives me an ignore them look. Bitches, she mouths.
I smile and mouth back, I know.
—
After class, I gather the courage to tell the Batman that we’re going to have to de-partner, that I’m not willing to risk breaking Wood Valley’s honor code just because he doesn’t know how to play well with others. I am feeling brave today, empowered by having introduced myself to Adrianna and by not cowering before the blond-bimbo squad. Or maybe it’s that for the first time since I moved to LA, I ate something other than peanut butter on toast for breakfast. Regardless, I will be immune to the Batman’s cute-boy voodoo.
Not my type, I tell myself just before I march up to his usual spot by the Koffee Kart.
Not my type, I tell myself when I see him in all his black-and-blue glory, as tender as a bruise.
Not my type, for real, I tell myself when it turns out I have to wait in line behind a group of girls who are traveling five strong, like lionesses, one the obvious leader, the rest her similarly dressed minions. All the type to skin you alive and suck on your bones.
“E, tell me you’re coming on Saturday,” the leader, a girl named Heather, says, not at all dismayed by the Batman’s dismissive hug or the fact that he keeps glancing down at his book. Not Sartre today. Dracula, actually, which is both awesome and seasonally appropriate reading, considering we are nearing Halloween.
Not my type, not my type, not my type.
“Maybe,” he says. “You know how it is.”
Generic words arranged in such a way as to say absolutely nothing. Impressive in their nothingness. I’m not sure I could say less in as many words, even if I tried.
“For sure, Ethan,” one of the other girls says. Her name is Rain or Storm. Maybe Sky. Definitely something meteorologically related. “So, like, yeah, we’ll see you then, then.”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time he just gives up the act completely. Starts reading right in front of them. His energy sapped.
“Okay, well, bye!” Heather smiles her best smile—perfect teeth, of course, since LA is the land of the porcelain veneer. I Googled “veneers” last night and found out they cost at least a thousand dollars a tooth, which means her mouth cost five times more than my car.
“Bye-ee,” the other girls say, and finally walk away. The Batman looks relieved that they’re gone.
“Can I help you?” he asks, like I’m the next customer at a drive-through. I remember our English project, and how he just assumed I could be railroaded like everyone else.
“So ‘The Waste Land’…,” I say, and tuck my hands into my back pockets, trying to look casual. “If you don’t want to work together, that’s fine. But then I need to tell Mrs. Pollack and find another partner
. I’m not just going to let you do the work.”
There, I said it. That wasn’t so hard. I breathe out. I feel lightheaded and shaky, but nothing that can be seen from the outside, I hope. My mask firmly still in place. Now I wish he could just hand me my Happy Meal and end this thing.
“What’s the problem? I told you I’ll get an A,” he says, and leans farther back. He owns that chair even more than I own my lunch bench. He stares at me again. His blue eyes look almost gray today: a Chicago winter sky. Why does he always look so tired? Even his hair looks tired, the way it sticks up in random little peaks and then folds down, as if bowing in defeat.
“That’s not the point. I can get an A on my own. I don’t need to hand in your work,” I say, and cross my arms. “And anyway, it’s against the honor code.”
He looks at me again, and I see the faintest hint of a smirk. Better than a dismissal, I guess, but still obnoxious.
“The honor code?”
Screw him. He’s probably the son of some famous actor or director, and he doesn’t have to worry about his place here. Or getting into college. He’s probably never even heard the word “scholarship” before. Would have to look it up.
“Listen, I’m new here, okay? And I don’t want to get kicked out or in trouble or whatever. And it’s junior year, so it all counts. So I don’t really care if you think that’s dorky or stupid or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” the Batman says. Another inscrutable smirk. I hate him. I really do. At least when Gem and Crystal make fun of me, it’s for things that I can tell myself don’t matter. My clothes, not my words. I hear my mom in my head, for just a second, since her voice has mostly evaporated—water to air, or maybe disintegrated, dirt to dust—but for one easy second, she’s right here with me: Other people can’t make you feel stupid. Only you can.
“Or whatever,” I say again, like I’m in on the joke. Like he can’t hurt me. I bite back the sudden tears. Where did they come from? No, not now. No way. I take a breath, and it passes. “Seriously, I’ll just find another partner. Not a big deal.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. Shrug like I don’t give a shit. Make it sound like I too have people lining up to talk to me, like the lionesses do for him. The Batman looks right back at me, shakes his head a little, as if trying to wake up. And then he smiles. Not a smirk. Nothing mean or cruel about it. Just a good old-fashioned smile.
He doesn’t have porcelain veneers. He does have a cleft. His two front teeth are slightly crooked, veer just a tiny bit to the right, as if they’ve decided perfection is overrated. I don’t think he wears eyeliner. I think he was just born like that: his features enunciating.
“Okay, let’s do it,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I am distracted because his smile transforms his face. He turns from beautiful, moody teenager to a goofy, slightly awkward one in an instant. I can almost see him at thirteen, vulnerable, shy, not the same person who holds court at the Koffee Kart. I bet I would have liked him better then, when he read Marvel comics instead of Sartre, when he didn’t wrangle with all the hard questions and come out the other end sad or angry or tired or whatever it is he is.
I definitely like him better smiling.
“Let’s tackle ‘The Waste Land’ together. April is the cruellest month and all that jazz. Not my favorite poem, but it’s seminal,” he says, and puts his bookmark in Dracula and closes it, like that’s that. Decision made. Here are your Chicken McNuggets with extra honey mustard. Pleasethankyouyou’rewelcome.
“Okay,” I say, because reading him makes me slow. I’m the tired one now. His smile is like unlocking a riddle. How does an imperfection make him seem even more perfect? And did he just use the word “seminal”? Is he sad or angry or just sixteen?
“Do we really have an honor code here?” he asks.
“We do. It’s ten pages long.”
“Learn something new every day. We haven’t officially met yet, have we? I’m Ethan, Ethan Marks.”
“Jessie,” I say, and we shake hands like real adults: no fist bumps or faux cheek kisses or guy nods. His fingers are long and slender and solid. I like them as much as his smile. Like touching them even more. “Holmes.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Jessie.” He pauses. “Holmes.”
Day 15. Definitely better.
—
Later, in gym, I walk the track with Dri—she says that’s what her friends call her, because Adrianna has “too many reality-show connotations”—and we laugh as we count the number of times Mr. Shackleman tries to surreptitiously adjust his balls. It’s Dri’s game. SN is right: she’s funny.
“I can’t decide if he’s itchy or trying to hide his boner from watching the Axis of Evil run,” she says. Gem and Crystal have lapped us three times now, not breaking a sweat, not even breathing hard. They look so good, I can’t help but watch them too.
Mr. Shackleman doesn’t look much older than the high school boys, except he already has a beer gut and a small bald patch on the back of his head. He wears gym shorts and blows a shrill plastic whistle more than necessary.
“Are they twins?” I ask about Gem and Crystal.
“No,” Dri laughs. “But they’ve been best friends, since, like, forever.”
“Have they always been so, you know, bitchy?” I hate the word “bitch.” I do. Using the B-word makes me feel like a bad feminist, but sometimes there is no other word.
“Not really. You know how it is. Mean girls get mean in seventh grade and they stay that way until your ten-year reunion, when they want to be best friends again. At least, that’s what my mom says.”
“It’s funny how high school is high school everywhere,” I say, and smile at Dri. Try not to feel uncomfortable at the mention of moms, like it didn’t set off an invisible flare in my chest. “I mean, this place is completely different than where I come from, but in some ways it’s exactly the same. You can’t escape it.”
“College. So close and yet so far away,” Dri says. She’s nothing like Scarlett, who is brash and unafraid of anything or anyone—contrary to what she claims, she’s the brave one of our duo—and yet, I have a feeling Scar would like Dri. Would guide her along, like Scar has done for me all these years.
“A friend told me recently that how happy you are in high school is indirectly proportional to how successful you’ll be later in life,” I say, testing the theory that maybe SN is Adrianna, which I’d definitely take over SN being Theo. Maybe she was just too shy to reach out on her own. I study her face, but there isn’t even a twitch of recognition.
Nope, not her.
“I don’t know. Hope so.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an inhaler. “Sorry. I’m allergic to the outdoors. And the indoors. And everything else. I know it makes me look like a tool, but not breathing looks worse.”
Once we are better friends, I should tell her she has nothing to be sorry for. No self-deprecating qualifier necessary. And then I laugh to myself, because even though she is two thousand miles away, Scar is right here too. Because that’s exactly the kind of thing she would say to me.
CHAPTER 8
Theo is wearing jeans that are so tight it looks like they are thigh tattoos, and a sleeveless leather vest. I’m pretty sure he approaches getting dressed as an act in costuming. Today he’s a buff and surprisingly hot Hells Angel.
“Look at you checking out my guns,” he says, and opens the fridge. He takes out two fancy pressed juices and throws me one. “Here. This will keep you from getting rickets.”
I’m perched on one of the kitchen stools, reading. This enormous house tricked me once again: I thought I was home alone. Had I known Theo was here, I wouldn’t have left my room with my exfoliating clay mask on. Not my best look, costume or otherwise.
“What the hell is this?” I take a swig of juice, which is green and cloudy and, it turns out, revolting. I fight my gag reflex.
“Kale, ginger, cucumber, and beet juice. Probably should have started you with one more fr
uit-heavy. Forgot you aren’t an advanced juicer.”
“An advanced juicer? Really? You know that sometimes talking to you is like watching a reality show,” I say. “It’s amusing only because it can’t possibly be real.”
“This is all real, baby.” Theo again flashes his impressive muscles.
“Not too shabby,” I say, referring to his arms. “I dig the biker look.”
“Biker? I was going for rocker.”
“That too.”
“But healthy, muscular rocker, not strung-out, skinny rocker, right?”
“Definitely the former.”
Theo looks relieved, and for the first time, I see that maybe he isn’t all confidence all the time. Now that I know what to expect, I take another sip of my juice. There is something oddly virtuous about its grossness. I can’t decide if I love it or hate it, which, it turns out, is exactly how I feel about Theo.
“Are you going to Heather’s party tonight? It’s going to be insane. Her dad and his new girlfriend are in Thailand, and he has this huge mansion in the Hills. They have mad bank.”
Wait, SN used the expression “mad bank” recently.
Doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself.
Those words are common enough, right?
I look at Theo, point to my mask.
“What do you think?”
“Oh no. Please don’t make me have to take pity on you and take you with me,” Theo says.
“What a lovely invitation, but no thanks. I have homework to do.”
“Don’t believe you. It’s Saturday night.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“That I believe. But I bet we could rustle something up.”
“Seriously, appreciate the pity and all that, but maybe next time?”
“Your loss,” he says, and jumps off his stool and attempts to fist-bump me. “Don’t smoke all my weed while I’m gone.”
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Tell Me Three Things Page 5