by Nessa Morgan
“Nothing much,” I answer truthfully. What can I say other than we’re friends unless you know something more than me, and you shouldn’t know more than me. But I missed my chance to let that slip from my lips.
“That’s a lie if I ever heard one, little missy,” she started, trying to be coy and innocent but completely failing. She peeked into the rearview mirror and tried to fix her hair. How we haven’t been hit by a car because of her distractedness, I’ll never know. “There is something going on,” Jamie presses, flipping the mirror down in front of her to check her makeup as we sit at a traffic light. At least she stopped this time.
She pulls into the school parking lot, taking her usual parking space near the front of the school, prime territory for all the students with cars.
“God, why are you pressing it, Jamie?” Zephyr bursts abruptly from the back seat. My body lurches from the shock of his loud, angry voice. He doesn’t get angry that easily.
Not batting an eye, because she’s used to her little brother, Jamie asks him, “Who lit the fuse on your tampon this morning?” I would’ve laughed had I not been wondering the same thing.
“Forget it,” he mumbles as he slides from the car before she even fully stops to park. He slams the door shut, rocking the car, and stomps to school, not even waiting for me to catch up—like normal—to ask him what’s wrong. I’m not used to my friend being so angry without talking to me. That means I’m the problem… but I haven’t done anything.
For the rest of the day, he avoided me. He even skipped AP Euro. As if I wouldn’t notice the empty seat next to me. At the end of class, after I spent the entire fifty-five minutes thinking that he’d just pop into the room with a late pass from the nurse’s office or something, I decided that I wouldn’t worry too much about it, he wasn’t my problem.
Even though he felt like my problem.
Scratch that, he’s my best friend—the boy has always been my problem.
***
At the start of October, aside from the gorgeous sight of the changing leaves and wonderful scents of autumn filling the air, the Homecoming signs started popping up all over the building. They were plastered to the walls, covering the walls, strung along lockers, some even in the bathrooms; it was a bit ridiculous what they were doing for advertising, although the professionals should really take notes from high school students. If I saw this amount of advertising for movies, maybe I’d see a few out of annoyance. Most of the Homecoming posters were hand painted by the girls of the cheerleading squad and student council—no boys were trusted simply for the reason of their stereotypical awful handwriting. Some of them fit the stereotype perfectly. Some posters were done professionally to promote and better incorporate this year’s theme: A Night Beneath the Stars. Oddly, and pathetically, enough, that was the theme last year, if I remember the old posters from last year correctly.
I didn’t go to the dance last year. I don’t do dances to begin with. Something about them just seems pretentious and overdone. If I want to, say, bust a move, I’ll happily do it in the safety of my bedroom with the blinds drawn and the perfect music. Just for further information, I never have the need.
Kennie had been on a cloud since the temperature started to drop. She knew that Homecoming was around the corner and she couldn’t wait to dress shop. And by dress shop, I mean kidnap Harley and me and take us to the mall to watch her try on every single dress in the store until she chooses a blue one, because she always chooses a blue one.
“I can’t wait,” Kennie announces in her high-pitched squeal, the one she uses when she’s very excited. She slides into the seat across from me, a large smile on her face. It’s now common knowledge that the seat next to me is reserved for Ryder. How that became common knowledge, I’ll never know or understand. He started spending lunch with me the day after the afternoon we spent at the arcade. Once he realized that I liked apples, he started bringing me one daily.
Kennie looks expectantly from Harley to me, waiting for one of us to do something, say something. She wants us to ask.
“For what?” Harley finally, sarcastically, asks in monotone when she realizes what Kennie’s waiting for. She angrily tears apart her sandwich, letting the pieces fall onto the Ziploc bag she packed it in. “Alexia Cavanaugh to wear another plastic crown while she quotes Lindsay Lohan’s speech from the end of Mean Girls? Again?” With a roll of her brown eyes, she looks to me, silently pleading. “Not that I’d know anything about that.” From what I’ve heard, that’s pretty accurate.
What can I do? I want to ask her. Instead, I shrug. What does she expect? She’s dealing with Kennie Strait, here.
“Homecoming is awesome, Harley,” Kennie begins, as expected, with a faraway look on her face as memories flood through her mind. I bet that she’s remembering all the dances of her past. All the good times she’s had, all the times she’s been nominated for Princess only to receive first runner up, all of her past dates—usually Duke. As quickly as I saw it, it’s gone. “Just because you’re too bitter to appreciate it—”
“What is there to appreciate?” Harley snaps angrily. “The paper streamers, the half-assed decorations, and the way everyone seems to be nice to everyone they’ve hated before this one little moment?” Her hand runs through her hair, the way she does when she’s stressed or annoyed, pulling her brown hair back only for it to flop back into her face, covering her eyes. “At least this year we have an awesome color and hall.” She’s referring to the Class Color tradition, the juniors wear black, the easiest to do, and the hall that’s decorated and designated The Junior Hall during this one week is the first hall that you see when you walk into the building, but the second one that you’re most likely to walk down for any reason. “We still have a crappy theme, like every year.”
“I will admit,” Kennie begins, her hands straightening the gray t-shirt she’s wearing. “That our class themes haven’t been that great in the past.” The themes chosen for every class usually have nothing to do with the theme of the dance; they are only meant for the Spirit Week leading up to the big game. Freshman year, the overall theme was Disney movies, my class was stuck with Toy Story, sophomore year we had movie genres—a big step up, huh?—and my class was stuck with action movies. This year, we have seasons as our school theme and the junior class has winter, which means that all the girls that want to dress up and show some leg or whatever have to cover up if they want to properly represent winter. The upside: I don’t have to endure the sight of the girls of my class walking around like prostitutes or something. Oh, and our hall will be a winter wonderland. That will be awesome! “But Homecoming is still fun,” Kennie presses, hoping to sway Harley.
“Says the peppy, perky cheerleader,” I add, watching their heads snap in my direction, as if they forget that I was there—sitting across from them as they had their little debate about nothing important.
“And the rugged, manly football player,” I hear behind me. Harley and Kennie snicker like schoolgirls while Ryder throws a leg over the bench, taking his usual seat next to me, his jean-clad thigh touching mine. He does that on purpose, I know. He wants to be closer to me than I want him to be. “Did I mention how handsome this football player is?” He angles his face to accentuate his features. I laugh at his idiocy.
“Hey,” I greet, perkily pepping up, trying to take on Kennie’s happy-go-lucky persona. It doesn’t really work on me. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?” I ask while already knowing that he’d love to get a shot at my own neck. Maybe with his lips.
Oy.
“The scent of Homecoming’s in the air,” he states, handing me an apple from his lunch, his fingers lightly brushing against mine. I can’t help but take the moment to examine him as he smiles to me in his dark jeans, black t-shirt, and decorated letterman’s jacket. His blonde curls fall into his eyes as he looks to me, his normally cocky smirk tugging on his lips.
I can see why the girls tend to fancy him; I’m just not one of them.
But I do love the attention. I can’t deny that.
I smile, my way of thanking him for the fruit. “Do you smell alcohol, shame, and bad decisions, too?” Harley snorts. I take a bite from the apple, feeling the juice run down my chin. I try to stop it with the back of my hand while Harley tosses me a napkin from her rumpled brown bag.
“Not what I meant,” Ryder begins as he unwraps a large sub sandwich almost as big as my head, definitely not one of those Five Dollar Foot-longs from Subway—now I have that stupid jingle stuck in my head. “I was just thinking that with Homecoming around the corner, it’d be nice to go with someone I find…” he trails off, pausing for dramatic effect or some sappy crap like that. “Adorable,” he finishes, throwing a look to me.
No one in his or her right mind thinks I’m adorable.
I’ve never been the adorable type.
Time to have fun with this.
“I know just the girl,” I start, taking the time to swallow another bite. “Kennie’s available for rent, though she’s pretty pricey, aren’t you, dear?”
Her attention shifts to me, her blonde ponytail swinging over her right shoulder. Is she surprised? “I already asked Duke, honey.” And the girl recovers quickly. I roll my eyes. Can she really not play along here?
I shrug my shoulders, not bothering to look at Ryder, and say, to my apple, “You were too late, Ryder.” I push the sadness in my voice, hoping it’s convincing. “Maybe next year, yeah?”
He lets out a chuckle, low and throaty; running a hand through his blonde curls. They fall back into place. “I was thinking someone more brunette and bitter,” he tells his sandwich just as I spoke to my apple. “Not blonde and bubbly.”
“You think I’m bubbly?” Kennie asks with a wide smile, as if all of her hard work was beginning to pay off. She loves compliments, especially when they’re directed to her perky personality.
“Harley’s the bitter one.” I point at my friend with a pink painted nail. The color, though I like it, was a spur of the moment choice last night. I couldn’t sleep so I gave myself a manicure and couldn’t find the green polish.
Honestly, Harley is the bitter one out of the two of us; I know that’s hard to believe, what with her winning personality and my quick sarcastic comments and threats directed toward punching someone in the throat—usually Ryder, but I’m more the demented one.
Harley looks to Kennie, tucking her hair behind her ears, her brown eyes narrowed after she rolls them. “Why does she talk like I’m not even here?”
Kennie shrugs her shoulders.
“What about sexy and cynical?” Not quit alliteration but I’ll give him an A for effort. “Cute and curly,” he continues, more stupid than the last. “Or marvelous and misanthropic?” Marvelous? That makes me sound like a cross between Liberace and Leatherface—ha! I can do alliteration, too—from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
“Someone’s been studying for their SATs,” I observe.
“Joey?” The humor has left his voice, Ryder sounds serious, and he wants to talk to me. Damn. I see, from the corner of my eye, his body shift and turn to face me. Harley and Kennie exchange curious glances, and I can tell that they will not leave without witnessing whatever’s about to happen. Double damn.
I sigh, loudly and rudely. I don’t want to have whatever conversation we’re about to have. Can we please just rewind a few minutes, you know, before the talk of Homecoming started, and take off on a new path. Maybe one about homework, perhaps?
“What?” I ask, reluctantly, looking to him as he smiles shyly.
“I’m trying to ask you to Homecoming.”
I look into his blue eyes, seeing my reflection; he’s that close to me.
Without embarrassing me and making a big spectacle out of it with the help of the latest in dorky pop songs, I almost blurt out. That’s very surprising, dude.
Yep, I don’t want to have this conversation now or anytime in the near or distant future.
“And I’m trying to deflect,” I tell him honestly.
“You don’t want to go—”
I try and interrupt him, try and make him stop talking, with the truthful explanation of, “In my past two years of high school, I’ve never wanted to go to a dance.”
“—with me?” he finishes, sadness crossing his face, trying to make me feel guilty. I can’t tell if it’s forced or he’s actually sad. Probably both.
I release another sigh, I feel like I belong on the CW or something. “It’s not you, Ryder,” I tell him. Harley and Kennie are still watching us both like hawks. “I just don’t dance.” Honestly, I have no rhythm—I’m whiter than white bread—what little African-American in me—and there isn’t a lot if you look at me—has no groove thang. And what makes it worse; my mother was a dancer. I’m named after Josephine Baker, for crying out loud. How have I not inherited anything? “I hate dances. I avoid them at all costs. Just ask them.” I point to our audience.
He briefly looks to my friends, their eyes wide as they watch the train wreck before them. Thanks, guys, I almost say sarcastically, Such a big help, you both are.
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Harley starts, trying to defend, but failing as a sadness fills her eyes, a sadness I haven’t seen before. “I’ve never been to one either.” She’s like me, avoiding all school functions with such gusto; it’s an art.
“She avoids anything school spirit related, Ryder,” Kennie—the cheerleader and junior class representative—tries to explain, though she never understood it herself. She always told me, in that light and musical voice of hers, that high school was supposed to be fun and eventful, she understood why I would want to hide out and become invisible, with as much as she’s heard about me, she just didn’t support it, and my decision for invisibility, most of the time. “What makes you think that she would attend the biggest dance of the year?”
From his look—the raised eyebrow over his left eye—I can tell that he doesn’t get it, that he’s confused by something someone said.
“I usually spend that night on my couch with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and all versions of Carrie.” I did the last two years, and let me tell you, it was so much fun. If you can’t tell the sarcastic nature by which I mean that last statement, I truly apologize for your ignorance.
“Forget your aunt.” Harley releases a loud snort, trying to contain her laughter and prevent her Pepsi from shooting through her nose like a geyser. “Spend the night with me.” His sly smile, the one I want to normally punch him for, crosses his lips—I still want to punch it. “Dancing,” he quickly clarifies. “Spend the night, with me, dancing.”
I roll my eyes and look to the nearest garbage can, throwing the now-browning apple core. It soars right in. “Think about what you just said, dude.” I hope that he makes the connection; I hope he sees his mistake. “And figure out why my answer is still no, ‘kay?” With that, I slide away from him, seeking the space he doesn’t allow me to have when he’s near, and climb over the bench, walking away from the table.
“What did I say wrong, now?” Ryder asks Kennie, loud enough for me to hear him as I’m walking away, heading anywhere in the school where Ryder isn’t.
***
I went through the rest of my day pretending there wasn’t a person out there—a popular senior that could have his pick of any girl in the school, hell, even the state—that wanted to go to Homecoming with me. Me. But it was very hard to ignore, especially since it was the main thing on my brain, no matter how many times I tried to push aside for things more important, like schoolwork.
But it was hard to do when the main focus of most conversations was the dance.
There were girls in American Sign Language talking, not signing, about dresses when they should have been signing, not talking, about books and reading habits. There were people in AP English talking about creative ways to ask their girlfriends to the dance, a big extravagant gesture that would get the girl’s attention, when we should have been reading, analyzing,
or finishing our papers about Beowulf; they’re due at the end of next week. There were large posters in the hall covered with white and yellow dots meant to represent stars, there were people dressed as fairies, either from the Tinkerbell world or of their own creation, handing out floral scented flyers that sparkled when angled in the light, advertising the dance.
Homecoming, I hated to admit, was everywhere and I couldn’t escape.
In orchestra, I didn’t even get a break. Every year, the Chamber Orchestra had to play through the announcement of Homecoming court, so we practiced, of all things, Pachelbel’s Canon in D, the most annoying piece of music ever composed. After practicing the piece three times, because the violas had issues, I finally got the break I was looking for, because the first Canon in D is so easy, I learned it in the fifth grade, we start working on our actual competition pieces.
Last week, Miss Pearl gave us Fantasia Espanola and Palladio. We started practicing that, easy enough, right? Not according to my obnoxious excuse for a stand partner.
“That was great, class,” Miss Pearl, a huge fan of positive thinking and positive reinforcement, calls from the front of the room, her baton still bouncing from what little music remains in her head, a smile on her face. “I’ll see all of you tomorrow, same time.”
Like that, class was dismissed to reset the room; put away the stands and chairs, take the loan instruments back to their respective places.
“How can she say it was great?” Max Hawthorne, my stand partner since last year, instantly complains. His voice is like nails running down a chalkboard, and he still hates me for being third chair first violin while he’s stuck in fourth. He removes the shoulder rest from his violin with an angry yank. This would start The Rant that he’s famous for spewing. “The seconds were off by a beat, the cellos we just wrong”—because he can’t think of a valid reason to complain about the cellists—“don’t get me started on Missy and that thing she claims is a double bass.”