“I am!” she says loudly. “Look, if it were up to me, we’d sit back and drink sodas and eat popcorn and talk about all those terrible—girls at school. But the fact of the matter is that I care about helping you. I’m your therapist. And you’re my head case.”
I’m sure she means this as, like, “lead case,” or maybe “most difficult/challenging/troubling case,” but because she’s totally not aware that she’s just called me a head case, it strikes me as funny. Very funny. And I start to laugh like a seriously sick-in-the-head, put-me-in-a-straitjacket-and-haul-me-away kind of crazy person. And the more I laugh, the more I feel like I might start to cry—and I start to worry that my brain-trunk might just fly right open.
Uh-oh. I think my gene is showing.
“Olivia, I know you’ve got some emotions going on there.” Moncherie says this with lots of pity and stuff, but also with a little enthusiasm. I guess when therapists smell tears forming, they get excited.
I’ve got to distract her. I blink back the wetness in my eyes and say, “I should probably tell you something.”
“Yes, please,” she says, looking like she might have just struck gold. She sits up straight and positions her pen above her notepad.
“Now, you can’t tell a soul,” I say.
“Olivia, I’m a therapist. I’m sworn to secrecy,” she says, holding her hand up to emphasize the swearing-in part. Her foot bounces around with impatience.
“My friends and I…”
“Yes?”
It’s my last opportunity to bail on telling her. But I don’t. I ignore my bathroom wall fears and take a breath. “We’re dog-training the entire school so that Mandy can win the election.”
There, I think. That’ll keep her busy. Too busy to make me talk about my mother.
She squints her eyes and cocks her head. “You’re doing what?”
I say it again. Her face tightens, and I’m starting to get nervous she might bail on the secrecy thing, so I add, “I thought you’d be proud of me. It’s like dog psychology, but we’re using it on people. So we’re kind of like junior therapists.”
Moncherie still looks worried. She walks over to her desk, rummages through the top drawer, and pulls out a laminated rectangular piece of paper. “Is this,” she asks, then reads from the paper, “‘a danger or risk of danger to yourself or others’?”
“No, no, nothing like that, not at all,” I say, wishing now that I had kept my mouth shut. What if she decides to shut down the whole project? I add, “It’s totally legal. And mostly just for fun.”
She still stands there stiffly. “Does your grandmother know about this?”
“No,” I say. “And you can’t tell her. You already swore on it. And I’m telling you things, aren’t I? Secret things. I would never have told you a secret like that a month ago.”
She starts rubbing her temples. “No.” She exhales loudly and sits down. “No, I guess you’re right.”
“This is supposed to be a safe environment,” I say, using the words on her that she’s used many times before on me.
“Yes, yes, Olivia. You’re right. Of course you should feel free to talk to me about anything,” she says, and gives me a weary smile. “I’m proud of you for opening up.”
I smile back. I wonder what I’ll end up confessing next time she starts up with the mother issues again. I’m going to run out of material soon. Watch me pour my heart out about Caleb Austin and the freakish effect he’s been having on me lately. Ugh.
The dollar-store timer dings, and Moncherie stands up, still with that droopy smile. “Well, it’s been a productive session, wouldn’t you say?” She looks down at the notepad in her hands and makes a large check mark across something on the page, which seems to make her happy. Very happy.
I’m glad to see this therapy thing is working for one of us.
ON THURSDAY, right before lunch, I pass Caleb in the hall and he says my name. “Hey, Olivia.”
I like the way he says it. He slows down and smiles at me.
I slow down and smile too. And then I say, “Hi, Caleb.” Except I don’t just say it. I spray it, and I’m pretty sure I douse his nice sky-blue shirt.
That blasted hard C! Why couldn’t his name be Neal? I think it’s virtually impossible to spit when saying Neal. Or John. Or Rob, even.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. “Wanted to ask you something,” he says.
I dare to raise my eyes. My heart starts to float a little, like a helium balloon. “You did?”
“Yeah.” He does this little embarrassed laugh that’s adorable. “This is a little awkward—”
“Hey.” The back of Ryan Stoles’s big fat head pops in between us. “No fraternizing with the enemy,” he says. He lets out an obnoxious wail of a laugh. “Dude, what are you doing?”
Caleb smiles. “Hang on, Ryan.”
Just then Phoebe appears at my side. “Coming to lunch?”
Caleb and I exchange glances. “I’ll just talk to you soon, all right?”
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
“What was that about?” Phoebe asks.
“No idea,” I say. “But I spit on him.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Is that really a question? I didn’t mean to!”
“Oh.”
We’re the last ones to get to our lunch table. When we sit down, Delia’s explaining something to Mandy and Joey. “I swear it’s true,” she is saying.
“Danny, as in Daniel Pritchard?” Mandy says, eyes growing wide. “Isn’t he Brynne’s?”
“Maybe not so much anymore,” Delia says. Delia’s locker is three doors down from Danny’s, and two days ago, he was there with Brynne. He went to kiss Brynne good-bye, but she said, “Oh. Em. Gee. Did you just eat a turd or something?” And Danny slammed his locker shut and said, “I think I’d rather eat a turd than kiss you!” And when Brynne stormed off, Delia—in true freedom fighter fashion—handed him a cookie. Apparently, he’s been following her around like a puppy dog ever since.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Danny asked me to the dance,” Delia says, with something between a smile and a look of concern on her face.
“Danny Pritchard asked you to the Fall Ball?” Phoebe can hardly contain her excitement. “Let’s double-date!” she adds, eyes wide and hopeful.
My mouth drops open. “Because of that cookie?”
“No, it was later. We were just talking and he said he never thought Brynne was all that anyway. So I told him he looked like he was going to be tall one day. You know, a compliment, sort of. I just needed some type of reward. I guess he thought I was hitting on him, and he asked me to go.”
“Too bad he’s such used goods,” Mandy says.
“I know—but I kind of do want to go.” She glances down at her Tofurky sandwich, which Delia’s mom credits for her smoothing skin. “I’ve never been to one of these things. Plus, I mean, he was Brynne Shawnson’s boyfriend. It’s like, what if Zac Efron asked you out?”
“I don’t like Zac Efron,” Mandy reminds her.
“I know that,” she says. “But still—on one level, it would be like, wow! You know how there are different pedigrees of dogs? Like different classes of dogs? Well, it’s like he’s in a higher class than us. I mean, you can’t help but be flattered in a strange sort of way.”
I don’t want to admit it, but I know exactly what she’s talking about. I mean, look at Brynne. I would never say this out loud, but I do sort of want her to like me. To admire me in some way, at least. I mean, until recently—like a-couple-of-weeks-ago kind of recently—it always seemed like people would run in the opposite direction from me. My own mother ran away, didn’t she? So the thought that someone like Brynne could like me—someone who likes practically no one—well, in some twisted way, it could mean that maybe I’m not such a freak after all.
I still can’t believe the plan is actually working—it’s working! But just for a second I start to wonder if this growing power we have is good o
r evil.
Because I look over at Brynne’s table. She’s quiet, contemplating her veggie pack. The people at her table are all laughing at something. She’s the last one to join in—it’s like she pushes out a few giggles and then, completely unnoticed, she’s back to staring at her baby carrots. She bites into one, chews, and swallows. Just like anyone else. Chewing and swallowing, the simple act of eating, just trying to stay alive in this insane world.
For a second, it makes me feel kind of sad and melty inside.
Which is ridiculous. So ridiculous that when Phoebe says she thinks she saw Brynne standing alone at her locker today, wiping her eyes with a clump of toilet paper—which would make sense if puny little Danny dumped her—I make myself laugh out loud, as loud as everyone else.
Okay, maybe even louder.
I THINK I hear someone whisper my name.
It’s later on Thursday and we’re in English, serving out the mandatory forty-five-minute monthly reading session, “Rock-n-Read!” The only thing “rock-ish” about “Rock-n-Read!” is that you get the feeling that if you don’t do what’s required, you just may be stoned to death. It’s basically when teachers pace the aisles like prison guards, making sure each one of us is reading something of our “choice.” It can be anything, as long as it meets the requirements (No comic books; no bottles or other packaging; no magazines with faces on the cover—which was later changed to include or other body parts). It’s also when kids try everything to drive the teachers crazy by finding loopholes. Last year, it got so bad the list of requirements were just about narrowed down to Must have both “Catcher” and “Rye” in title.
Anyway, “Rock-n-Read!” is just another thing, like Sleeterball, which starts out as someone’s idea of fun and ends up as a feeder program for detention.
I hear my name whispered again, I’m almost sure of it. I look up from the Composting: The Delight of Decay book I have been sentenced to read since I left my copy of A Wrinkle in Time at home, but no one seems to be looking at me—let alone whispering my name. I once heard something on the radio where someone was talking about how in cases of extreme boredom, like being isolated in prison or marooned on a desert island, the brain starts making up things for the bored person to hear. They interviewed someone who heard a whole opera! I thought that was pretty nice of the brain to do that. So I figure that what’s happening here.
But then I hear it again, only a little louder. “Hey, Olivia!”
And I look up again. Max Marshall is in his seat in front of me. He’s got his hand cupped over his mouth, directing his whisper in my direction.
He passes a piece of paper back to me. On it, he’s written, What’s superficial mean?
I’m glad I know this. Not deep, I write back. I glance at his desk when I pass it back to him. He’s reading The Andromeda Strain.
And then he scribbles something and passes it to me: Awesome. Thanks. And he’s drawn this little squiggly-lined happy face next to his words. And when I look back up, he’s glancing over his shoulder, giving me a crooked little smile. It’s a nice smile.
I try to find something interesting-like in my book, but even the pictures are outrageously mind-numbing—charts that show the different but equally disgusting phases of decay; photos of soil in varying shades of dark brown; an artist’s rendition of compost machines of the future. I pray that the class will be out of its misery soon, but I do so with open eyes to avoid being jabbed with a yardstick by Mr. Renaldi. I add a few other things into that prayer too. Like about a certain someone. An astonishingly hot someone named Caleb. I decide to let the bell be my amen.
When I get up, Max gives me another smile, but rushes off. Janie Lindy smirks and shuffles up next to me. “You know what I heard?” she whispers. “I heard he’s going to ask you to Fall Ball.”
I’m speechless. She just smiles at me, adjusts her hidden back brace, and moves on.
And you know why I’m starting to believe that I’m close to becoming an alpha dog? Because even though Max is a nice guy, and even a cute guy, I only consider it for a couple of minutes. Because you know that prayer I said? For the first time ever, it feels like it could come true.
But.
When I pass Caleb in the hall on my way to sixth period, he just smiles at me and gives me a little wave. He doesn’t stop to ask me anything, like he tried to this morning. I tell myself that it’s okay. First of all, he’s not alone—he’s hardly ever alone anymore. And second of all, I’m still hopeful that it’s only a matter of just yet. We still have a little time before the Fall Ball, right?
JUST YET isn’t happening quickly enough.
“So, I hear the campaign’s going well,” Caleb says to me on Friday morning. I am at my locker, and despite the fact that I’ve been waiting for this moment, he’s caught me off guard.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, and smile. I stand up straight like an alpha dog, but I’m feeling a lot more like a puppy. Then my eyes meet his and I’m stuck. I can’t look away—they’re too deep, with the pull of heavy-duty magnets. “How’s…How’s it…” My mind goes blank. “How’s it…” I allow my eyes to blink shut. “Going for you?” I finally continue.
He looks a little confused. Adorably confused. “Great,” he says. I nod dumbly while my eyes refocus on his. I didn’t know I liked brown eyes so much, but something about my heartbeat is telling me that yes, I do. In fact, my pulse seems to believe that I love them.
“So—”
“So—” I repeat after him, and try to add a dazzling smile.
Just then, Carson and Ryan—now co–campaign managers—interrupt our moment and make me want to scream. Three Sudoku clubbers stand shyly at a distance behind them. “Dude,” Carson says to Caleb, “want these guys to stick up some posters or something? They said they want to help.”
“Sure,” Caleb answers. He turns back to me. “Hey, I’ll just catch you later, okay? Well, good luck.”
He turns to leave, and I can almost hear my eyes thwack back into their sockets, like when I pull Corny’s suction-cup soap dish off the tile above the sink. I blink several times and feel my entire head burn. My ears start to feel incredibly exposed.
And then I realize, he didn’t ask me a single thing—not the whole three minutes we were alone together. Like, say, about the dance, for example.
“You okay?” Maria Trujillo, whose locker is next to mine, asks.
I turn back to my locker and pretend I am okay. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Don’t let him get you all rattled,” she says, looking sympathetic. “You guys have my vote.”
I’m thankful for her misdiagnosis. Despite the knot in my stomach, I feel a slow smile spread across my face. “Really?”
“Well, yeah. I mean I’m not going to vote for a snob like Brynne, and who needs Mr. Rich Kid Show-Off?” She shrugs. I fight the urge to say something stupid, like me. “At least Mandy’s like one of us,” she says. “Kind of weird, but in a good way, right?” She slams her locker shut. “Well, see ya.”
I take a deep breath. I should feel relieved. And I will, I’m sure, just as soon as my body returns to its regular boring state of being.
“Guess what?” Phoebe says at lunch. “We’ve got even more competition.”
“Who?” Mandy says, more with curiosity than surprise.
“Dawn Lane’s running,” Phoebe tells us.
“The girl with the braid?” Delia asks. What she’s referring to is the unstylish four-foot-long braided ponytail Dawn’s been growing out since kindergarten. No one’s really sure if she thinks it looks good or if someone, most likely a parent, has guilted her into it, but it’s sort of kept her in the lower ranks of popularity. The difference between where she is in the ranks and where we used to be is this—she seems utterly unaware of her status.
Dawn Lane is the kind of girl to sign up to play “I Believe I Can Fly” on the recorder for the Spring Talent Show; the one who manages to wear flower-patterned dresses with watermelon-sized puffed sleeves and enormou
s lace collars, and clunky white canvas sneakers with every-color-of-the-rainbow racing stripes, all without the expected sense of shame. She’s the kind of person who takes notes during school assemblies. Like I said, totally oblivious.
“Oh, her,” Mandy says. “That’s okay.”
The teachers in our school always say the election isn’t a popularity contest, but that’s just another big fat lie that grown-ups tell you. And seeing as the training’s worked and people really do seem to like us now, I’m actually starting to feel a little relieved that it is.
It’s on the bus home that I realize Brynne and I have something in common.
She’s standing next to Audrey Sharif, who has reluctantly agreed to share her Bazooka gum. Brynne actually looks excited about it. “Oh, this is the kind with the cartoon!” she says.
Audrey asks, “Why don’t you ever seem to have your own gum? I mean, ever?”
“Yeah, it’s getting kind of annoying,” Carolyn chimes in.
Normally this would have brought out the Wrath of Brynne. But now, she just says, “Well, sor-ry.”
Carolyn and Audrey exchange glances and roll their eyes, turning away from Brynne, who continues to talk, this time to the back of their heads. I may be the only one listening. “It’s because of my stupid little brother,” she says, and then corrects herself. “Half brother. He keeps stealing my gum from me. And my mother keeps letting him get away with it.”
A half brother.
Maybe Brynne’s mother practiced—and failed—on her, and then decided to try for a new-and-improved version. Just like my mom practiced and failed on me, and could one day do the same thing with that guy Darren or maybe someone else. The thought of it makes me want to curl into a ball like those little gray rolypoly bugs. I wonder how Brynne deals with it. I’m not sure I could.
I must be staring at her, because she turns in my direction and her eyes meet mine. The normal gemstone blue of her eyes looks more like a rainy-day gray, and she surprises me with something like a smile, but very heavy and sad. I know that smile. It’s the kind of smile you put on your face when your world has fallen apart and all you really want to do is go home and cry about it like a big baby.
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