Mom drives me to school, and we pick Kate up on the way. I can’t maneuver my crutches and carry my guitar, backpack, and foot pillow, so Kate, very unwillingly, carries my guitar over to the performance hall for me. She’s about to dump it on me outside of the building, but it’s obvious I’m not going to get far if she doesn’t at least open the door.
“Geez, Abbey.” She rolls her eyes and swings open the door. “Here you go, gimpy.”
“Thanks,” I say and stick my tongue out at her.
“I suppose you want that door opened, too?” She points at the double doors down the hall, that lead into the music room.
“Yes, please.”
“I swear. You really need to get better soon. This is going to get so old.”
Once we enter the empty room, she pushes me down in my chair and tosses the guitar on my lap, barely avoiding my oozing knee wound, drags another chair over, yanks the pillow out of my hands, lifts my foot, sets it on its comfy resting spot, and leaves in her usual loving manner. “Later, klutz.”
There are still ten minutes before the first bell, and I’m bored and lonely. I unzip my case and pull out my guitar to practice the new song we’re learning. It’s called “Moon Shadow” and it’s a total hippie song, one I think my dad would have loved, but it’s easy to play. Before my accident, I had it down, but now trying to go between D and G in a smooth way is a little tricky due to the bandage on my left hand. Plus, my fingertips haven’t developed any tough calluses, so they’re still sore from the metal strings. I almost get through it twice without messing up, but then I hear a noise behind the curtain.
“Hello?” I say, but no one answers. “Hello?” Nothing again.
Then, thanks to the horror-movie marathons Kate and I have every summer, I imagine a masked killer leaping out from behind the curtain and strangling me with a guitar string or bludgeoning me with a trumpet. “Tell me who you are, or else…” I yell.
“It’s just me,” Keeta says finally.
“Oh.” I run my fingers through my hair and grab a clump to twirl. Here’s my chance to apologize, but my mind has turned into a bowl of soggy corn flakes and all I can say is, “Hey.”
“Keep on practicing,” she says from behind the curtain. “Sounds like you need it.”
I know I deserve her burn, but it still hurts. Then I take a deep breath and say more than one syllable this time. “Keeta?”
But she’s gone back to ignoring me.
“Keeta, come on. Please,” I beg.
“Yeah, what?”
“I need to…could you come here for a sec? It’s so Wizard of Oz talking to you behind the curtain like this.”
She parts the curtain and walks through. Her face is stone hard as she approaches, but when she looks up and sees my bandages, it softens. “Ay, Dios mío,” she says and steps off the stage.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound extra injured so she’ll feel obligated to be nice to me.
She stands over me with her hands on her hips like a superheroine and asks, “Are you okay?”
Whenever people ask me if I’m okay when I’m not, I always start to cry. I guess today the tears help me because instead of being angry at me, Keeta sits down beside me, moves my crutches to the side, and puts both of her hands gently on my ankle. “Amara, what happened?” she asks. Though she knows my real name by now, I am glad she still calls me Amara, even if I’m not sure why she calls me this and I wonder what it means.
I sniff back the waterworks and look at her. Hearing my special name again is all I need to know that whenever I actually get around to apologizing, she will forgive me. “Oh, you should see the other girl.”
“Estás loca. Look at your knee…and your hand.” She takes the guitar off my lap and places it in its case. I feel naked without it. “I guess you’re not playing basketball anytime soon.”
I wonder how she knows about my being on the team, but then realize Stef probably told her. I bet they tell each other everything, like about the moronic way I acted this weekend. I have to stop avoiding it. “Keeta?”
“Sí, Amara.”
I melt again.
“What’s on your mind?” she asks.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask, deciding the apology can wait.
“Why do I call you what?” she says, pretending to look confused.
“Come on. You know.”
“Well, what do you think it means?”
“Monkey face? Clumsy girl? Goddess of dorks?”
She laughs, and I love that I can make her laugh. “No, try again.”
“Ándale dime,” I say and playfully shove her shoulder. “Come on, tell me.” That’s when I realize flirting comes a lot more naturally when you actually like the person you’re flirting with.
“Hmm…” She gathers her hair and tosses it on her back, exposing her neck. I notice a cute freckle by her ear. Is it weird that I want to kiss it? “I’ll tell you under one condition.”
I try to stay focused. “Okay. What?”
“You tell me why you’re always so nervous to be around me.”
“What? Now you’re the crazy one,” I say and pull at the strings of my hoodie until I nearly choke myself.
She laughs again. “Oh, I’m the crazy one now?” she says and then looks down at my foot.
“Yep, that’s what I said.” My big toe is sticking out of the ACE bandage, and because I feel self-conscious of its nakedness, I wiggle it and then wince. This makes her even more concerned than before.
“You know what I think?” Keeta says with a smile on her lips.
At this point I would give up brownie batter and SpongeBob for the rest of my life if I could just know what she was thinking.
“I don’t think you’re like the rest of your friends. Are you, Amara?”
Here’s your chance. Don’t screw it up! “No. I swear I’m not. I’m so sorry about how we, how I, acted. They were being so stupid and I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”
Then she looks up at me for what seems like a million minutes. The walls disappear and I’m so far away I don’t even notice when the classroom door opens.
“Boys have the worst timing,” Keeta says under her breath. Then she gets up, dusts off her pants, and hops up on the stage again.
I don’t think I ever felt so unhappy to see someone, but I smile politely as Jake walks toward me.
“Oh man. What happened, Abbey? Are you okay?”
Weird thing is that when he asks it, I don’t cry. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Jake spends the rest of class asking if I need anything, and I spend the rest of class watching Keeta walk around the room, helping the guys with their finger placements, wishing it was my hand she was touching instead of theirs.
*
I hobble late into Spanish, and Garrett yells, “What the hell happened to you, Abbey?”
Then Señora Cabrera tells Garrett, “Cuide su lenguaje, por favor.” And now everyone is staring at us.
I sit down and carefully prop my leg up on Stef’s empty chair. After sitting in guitar and then all during PE to file emergency contact cards for Mrs. Schwartz, I’m developing a sore butt to match my sore crutch-bruised armpits. This whole situation blows.
Garrett leans forward to question me more, but Señora Cabrera clears her throat and gives Garrett the scary teacher stare, so Garrett writes me a note instead: OK, how long ’til it heals? Just give it to me straight. You know I don’t usually prefer things straight, but this time I’ll make an exception. :-)
I turn the paper over and write: Ha, ha. The doctor said it wasn’t too bad a sprain, so like two/three weeks. Then, take it easy and see how it goes. Don’t freak out, I’ll be better in no time.
Then Garrett adds to another blank spot on the paper: You’ll pay for this. But since we’re friends, I’ll try to forgive you. FYI, you’re a damn klutz.
Señora looks our way and scowls a little, but I don’t really care. I’ve already missed whatever it is she’s teaching. Besi
des, Garrett just called me her friend, so our note passing has just become way more important than learning the names of Things in the Market.
I write back: It’s not like I meant to use the road as a slip and slide. Then remembering my teammate duty, I ask about Stef: Hey, where’s your sidekick? Sick? Hungover? Maternity leave? By the way, tú eres una chica extraña.
Hey, I know I’m a crazy girl. It’s what all the ladies love about me. Anyway, Stef and her g.f. are fighting in the locker room. She’ll probably be MIA for the rest of class.
This is the first time we’ve ever talked about girlfriends or anything closely related, and it feels good that she trusts me, so I make sure she knows I’m cool with it and reply: That sucks. I hope she’s okay. Then I can’t help but ask a slightly selfish question, revoking any kindness or coolness I just displayed: They fight a lot?
Garrett’s reply comes back on a new sheet, which is a good sign; she wants to keep writing to me. I must have passed the cool-with-the-lesbianism test. Kinda. I mean, you’ve met Keeta. FYI, she told us you’re in her guitar class. Nice try keeping that a secret, you freakin’ geek. Anyway, Keeta es una coqueta. Like, she’ll flirt with any girl. And she’s a mentirosa. I mean, like a big-time liar. They should break up already, but whatev. Wáchale. I think Mrs. C is on to us.
*
After the longest sixth period ever, I slowly make my way to my locker and drop off my Spanish and social studies books. Then, as I slam my locker shut, someone’s clammy hands cover my eyes.
I lean on one crutch and feel the hands. They are big, rough, and not girly. “Jake?”
“How did you guess so quickly?”
“It’s a gift,” I say, not admitting he’s the only boy I know, therefore making him the only possibility.
He has my guitar in one hand and a soft drink in the other.
I’m sort of, I don’t know, angry that he took my dad’s guitar from the safety of the instrument closet, but I let it go. “Wow,” I say in the most enthusiastic girlie voice I have. “That’s so cool of you. I was just imagining the pain I would have to suffer to go and get it.” Should I hug him or punch his shoulder or something? I mean, I sure as hell am not going to kiss him. I opt for the half-hug-slug-nudge. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He takes my backpack off my shoulder and puts it on over his own. He looks like a double-humped dork. I kind of like that someone is willing to look like a dork for me. I doubt Keeta ever looks dorky for anyone.
“Thanks,” I say and smile sincerely. And it’s right about then I realize I seem to be into any kind of positive attention, girl or boy. When have I become such a player?
“Oh, this is for you, too.” He hands me the sweating soda.
I slurp down a big gulp to show my appreciation and my eyes water from the fizziness. “Thanks,” I say, trying to hold back a burp.
He takes the drink from me so I can walk with my crutches, and as we stroll he asks me more questions than I thought teenage boys were capable of asking. He starts with the simple ones: “How’s your ankle?” And eventually goes into more personal ones: “Do you have a big family? What does your mom do? Have you seen Fearful Gnats in concert?”
When I tell him about my family, I say, “It’s just me and my mom.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” he says, I guess remembering what happened to my dad. “So, who’s your favorite teacher?” he asks, trying to recover.
“Oh, Mrs. Schwartz. Hands down.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty stellar,” he says, and I like that he can keep up with my sarcasm. “So, you ever hiked up Sabino Canyon at night?”
I wonder if this is his way of suggesting we do so, but I’m not ready for that, so I say in a parental tone, “You should know better than to hike at night. Haven’t you ever heard of mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and scorpions?”
He laughs. “But that’s what makes it exciting.” Then he asks, “So, how do you like Gila so far?”
I don’t feel like I can answer this question without sounding schizophrenic, so I just say, “It’s cool. How about you?”
“At first I thought it was sort of lame. I mean, the same people hanging out with the same people. But, you know, it’s not like that all over. Like, I was really surprised to see you in guitar.”
“Yeah?” I feel that flirty urge inside me again, so I go with it. “Why’s that? Girls shouldn’t learn how to jam?”
He laughs again and I’m pleased with myself. “No, I mean…you’re just…I mean, when you were at Doolen, you just mostly seemed interested in making the rest of us feel stupid. And I mean that in a nice way.”
For the first time ever, I’m glad to shed my nerdy persona. “Yeah, well, people change, I guess.”
By the time we reach the double doors of the gym, I’ve told him a thousand times more about my life in our ten minute stroll than I’ve ever told Keeta and decide that he’s actually a pretty cool guy, as far as guys go.
“Well, here you are,” he says.
“Yep,” I say. I look inside the gym and see Kate with the rest of the freshman team warming up. “So, thanks again for getting my stuff. And the soda.” I motion toward the drink in his hands.
“Sure.”
“So,” I say, not knowing how to end it.
“Um, Abbey?”
Okay, he’s either going to tell me that I suck at guitar and should quit while I’m ahead or he’s going to ask me out. Either way, I’m breaking out into a sweat.
He clears his throat. “Uh, you don’t seem the school-dance type.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is. And, well, I don’t really do dances either. So I’m not going to ask you to the Spring Fling.”
I laugh because this is nothing like I’ve seen on TV. “Well, thanks for the heads up on that.”
“But do you want to go to a concert with me?” His smile is frozen on his face, as he waits for my reply.
“Uhhh,” is all I can say. “I, uh…”
“There’s this band. Death Becomes Her. And there’s this chick in the band. She plays guitar. You remind me of her.”
“Really? Wow, um…well, I…”
His smile slowly thaws.
God, just say something, Abbey! “It’s just that, I…”
“Hey, it’s cool. You’re not into it. That’s okay,” he says and opens the gym door for me. We walk in and he puts my stuff down against the wall.
Then I have an epiphany right there in the gym. I realize no boy has ever asked me to do anything and this might not ever happen again. Ever! “Wait, Jake.” I grab his hand, and I think we’re both momentarily shocked into stupidness from the unexpected contact of our flesh. Then I say, “That sounds cool.”
“Nice,” he says and gently kicks his foot against my good foot. “Our Cons look sort of good together.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“See you tomorrow in class then.” He turns and leaves the gym and that is that.
I, Abbey “Chunks” Brooks, have a date with a boy.
Chapter Nine
After Jake leaves me standing there in the gym, Kate runs over. “Oh my God, you and Jake Simpson?” She grabs my crutches and nearly knocks me over. “I knew it, you little liar.”
In my mind I’m already trying to come up with a way of getting out of this date with Jake, but at the same time, I’m enjoying Kate’s attention. “We’re just going to a concert.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m insanely jealous, but not really. Wait until you hear what happened in chem today.”
I hobble over to the bleachers and she carries my stuff.
“So, okay, Derrick, yummy, finally broke up with that skanky slut during lunch, right?”
“Okay, sure.”
“And then in chem, when we were in the middle of our lab, he leaned over and whispered in my ear that he, and I quote, ‘really likes me’ and he knows that I like him. And so then, I was, like, trying to play hard to get. So I was all, ‘What makes you so
sure I like you?’ And he was all, ‘I’ve been watching you watch me since the first day of school.’ And I was all…”
Her story is making me cringe, like when I watch my mom scrape dry paint from underneath her fingernails. But then Coach Kimball unknowingly saves me with a blow of her whistle.
“I’ll tell you the rest later, ’kay?” Kate shouts as she runs to the baseline, as if I’m on the edge of my seat.
“Can’t wait,” I yell back at her.
I have an hour until JV practice starts, so I prop my ugly foot and my pathetic self on the bleachers and take out my bio book. I intend to do homework, but what I busy my brain with isn’t bio or even the thing that just happened with Jake.
“Don’t strain yourself too much, Abbey,” Garrett says and throws down her stuff, which includes her green messenger bag with an upside down rainbow triangle patch and a button that reads, I’m not gay, but my girlfriend is. Geez, even her backpack is cool.
Garrett sits down next to me and points to my closed book and blank binder paper. “Got something on your mind?”
With Kate so distracted with her Yummy Dummy Derrick, I’ve felt like I don’t really have anyone to talk to, and I think maybe Garrett might be a good second choice. “Yeah, I guess.”
Garrett waits to hear all about it, but it’s harder than I thought it would be to say it. “Well I was wondering…how do you…you know…um, how do you…”
“Knot a cherry stem with your tongue?”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
“Change your tampon while you’re driving?”
“Gross. No.” Just say it, I yell in my head. “Okay, so how do you know for sure if you like someone or if they like you?”
“Oh, love advice is my favorite. Though the cherry-stem thing may apply here because having that skill tends to turn people on,” she says and moves in a little closer. “So, what are we talking about here? Boy or girl?”
I can’t believe she’s just asked me that, so I just stare at her with my eyes popping out of my head.
“Hey, anything goes, Dear Abbey. I’m just being open, but I take it by the look on your face you’re talking about boy stuff. No problem. I’ve dated boys before.”
Freshman Year Page 8