by Jody Gehrman
“Done,” she said, turning to me, her cheeks pink and her eyes ablaze. “Now what?”
I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. “Now we wait.”
Monday, January 19
1:30 A.M.
Grrrr. Woke up to the sound of Amber’s ring tone. I’d only been asleep for forty minutes, since I’d had to stay up late writing that history paper after we got sidetracked by MySpace.
I answered the phone with, “Why?”
“He friended me! It worked! Oh my God, G, you’re brilliant. I have to send him a message. What do I say?”
“Chill,” I commanded.
“Please! You’ve got to help. I have to sound smart.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Do not—I repeat—do not do anything.”
“What? Why not?”
“Building the suspense. No message for a few days. Got it?”
“But—”
“No buts. Bye.”
“G—”
“Hanging up now.” And I did.
Good God, what have I gotten myself into?
6:40 P.M.
Amber showed up at school today in a Wonder Woman wig and massive sunglasses. I walked right past her the first time, thinking absently, Check out that girl’s do. It wasn’t until she called out, “Yo, G!” that I did a double take. There she was, flashing her green eyes over the rim of her bug-eyed shades.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She pushed the sunglasses back into place and looked around furtively. “You like?”
“Umm, Halloween’s sort of over.”
“I’m a brunette in the name of love.”
“What does that mean?”
Her eyebrows shot up like this was the stupidest question in the world. “Hello! There’s someone on campus who can’t know I go here, or everything is totally ruined.”
As if on cue, Mr. Sands came strolling down the hall, delectable as ever, beat-up leather briefcase swinging from one arm. When Amber saw him she whirled around, seized a random locker, and started spinning the combination lock madly.
“Coast is clear,” I said when he’d passed. “Incidentally, don’t you think this is a little weird?”
“Did he look twice?”
“No, relax.” I studied her carefully. “This is very strange, Amber.”
“What’s strange?”
“Coming to school looking like . . .” I gestured helplessly at her. “I mean, everyone thinks he’s hot—doesn’t mean you have to go all Lynda Carter on me.”
She looked around quickly, then yanked her sunglasses off and fixed me with an anxious stare. “Geena, you don’t understand. I’ve got it bad—I mean really, really bad. The whole John fiasco is nothing compared to this. Right now I’d rather throw myself in front of an eighteen-wheeler than ruin my chances with him.”
“Okay, calm down—”
“He can’t know I’m in high school. He just can’t!” Her eyes were tinged with a distant, feverish look, like someone in a made-for-TV movie dying of some exotic, degenerative disease.
“Hey . . .” I squeezed her shoulder and tried to sound soothing. “Don’t worry, okay? He’ll never recognize you.”
She brightened. “You think it’s working?”
“If I didn’t recognize you, there’s no way he will.”
“Good,” she said, slipping her glasses back on. “Let’s just try to keep it that way.”
Tuesday, January 20
10:30 P.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Amber Alert
Hey girl,
Newsflash from Betty Land: Amber’s totally lost it. She’s crazy about this new English teacher named Mr. Sands. Admittedly, the guy’s cute. Okay, cute is an understatement, let’s upgrade that to spine-tinglingly beautiful. But come on, he’s a teacher! She’s more likely to win a Pulitzer than get anywhere with him.
Okay, if I’m being totally honest, I have a slight case of Mr. Sands fever myself. He’s just so intellectual and sophisticated and hip. I mean, Ben is smart—maybe even brilliant—but he doesn’t have the worldly allure of Mr. Sands.
Does this ever happen to you? I mean, I know you’re totally devoted to Claudio, but have you ever met a guy who speaks to a part of you Claudio can’t reach? It’s super confusing. Wish you were here. Miss you, Cuz . . .
Geena
-------------------------------------------------------------
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Amber Alert
Geebs,
Oh, God, I’m tempted all the time! If you think it’s rough staying committed to Ben, imagine what it’s like having a boyfriend in Italy and living with A TON of gorgeous guys. Last year none of them even noticed me, but now that I have a boyfriend they find me fascinating. Just my luck. I know what you mean about the older man thing too. Remember when I had a crush on my piano teacher? Granted, I was nine, but still . . .
My advice: Don’t freak. Just because you find Mr. Sands agréable doesn’t mean you’re unhappy with Ben. There’s real life, and then there’s fantasy. Ben is real, Mr. Sands is a fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with having both.
Don’t worry too much about Amber. Considering her train-wreck-of-a-love-life, maybe indulging in a harmless, go-nowhere crush isn’t such a bad idea.
Kisses,
Hero
Wednesday, January 21
11:40 P.M.
Amber’s mom let her have the El Dorado tonight, so we figured we’d go hang at La Plaza Cafe for an hour or two. I cruised into the living room to tell Mom where I was going. She and Mungo were sitting indecently close to each other on the couch. They were gazing into each other’s eyes with such rapt attention, I felt sort of bad interrupting them. I shouldn’t have worried; neither of them even spared me a glance.
“I’m going out with Amber,” I announced.
“All right,” Mom said.
“I’ll be home by like ten thirty. Is that okay?”
“Mm-hm.”
I decided to experiment. “Oh, and I’m thinking about joining a cult. Saw it on the Internet—something about satanic rituals, virgin sacrifices—pretty standard.”
“Okay, babe. Sounds good,” Mom answered.
Middle-Aged Love Zombies. What are you going to do?
As I climbed into the El Dorado, I told Amber, “I’d better not stay out too late.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“I have to get home before my mom does something regrettable with Mungo on the couch.”
Amber nodded. “They’re getting it on, huh?”
“Blegh. Let’s not talk about it.”
On our way to the cafe, we paused at an intersection and suddenly Amber let out an eardrum-rupturing squeal.
“Hello!” I complained. “I’d like to retain my hearing in that ear, thank you.”
“That’s him!” She pointed to the MG idling at the stop sign to our right.
As the MG rumbled into the intersection, I caught sight of Mr. Sands behind the wheel. My heart sped up in spite of my brain telling me it was no big deal.
Amber hit the gas and wrenched the steering wheel to the left, following his taillights.
“What are you doing? The cafe’s that way.” I pointed to our right, toward downtown.
“Cafe-Shmafe,” she said, “we’ve got to see where he’s going.”
“Um . . . why?”
“Maybe he’s going home!”
“And what? We’re going to follow him in, make ourselves comfortable?”
She ignored me, concentrating instead on applying a coat of lip gloss while she drove. Never a good idea. A cat darted out into the road and she came inches from creaming it.
“Watch it!” I wailed.
Amber didn’t even notice; between keeping tabs on Mr. Sands and applying beauty products, she had no time for the actual road. The MG turned le
ft. She gave him a bit of a lead before following, like a detective tailing a suspect. When he pulled into the driveway of a two-storied, banana-yellow bungalow, she slowed to a crawl, then parked on the opposite side of the street. We watched in hushed silence as he let himself in through the front door.
“Oh my God,” Amber breathed. “This is where he lives.”
The curtains were only partway drawn, and we could just make out his blurred form passing through a slice of light.
“Uh, yeah, probably. Either that or he’s breaking and entering.” Despite my patronizing tone, a quiet awe seeped into my blood. I mean, we were at Mr. Sands’s house. We were a few measly yards from the inner sanctum of Dr. Hipster. I felt a bit creepy violating his privacy, but that didn’t stop me from experiencing a little thrill.
“Come on,” Amber said, opening her door.
“Wait—what are you—?” But she was already out of the car. I scrambled out, taking care to close the heavy door quietly.
“I just want to see where he lives.” She started toward the house.
“Are you crazy?” I whispered, scurrying after her.
“We won’t get caught.”
“Famous last words!” We were already to the front yard now. Mr. Sands’s head appeared in one of the windows, and we both ducked.
Amber ran in a low crouch toward the side of the house, and I had no choice but to follow. We hunched down below a window, and suddenly a light came on inside. Amber poked her head up cautiously, but quickly squatted back down.
“He’s in there,” she whispered, her voice edged with barely contained hysteria. “I think it’s his bedroom.”
Inwardly, I groaned. This was against the law. I didn’t think Yale admissions looked kindly on a police record. Just then, though, the light went out, and in a few moments a pair of French doors framed by a small balcony lit up above us.
“Pew. That smell!” I moved my foot and something clattered.
“Shhh!” Amber chided. “What was that?”
I gingerly reached down and retrieved the thing by my shoe. Holding it up, I read the label on the can as I mouth-breathed to avoid the rank odor: ALPO.
“Looks like Mr. Sands has got a—” But I didn’t get to finish my sentence. I was interrupted by a low growl.
“Shit.” Amber jumped behind me, gripping my arms and wielding me like a human shield. “That thing’s huge.”
“Niiice doggie. . . .” Before me, tense with warning, stood a waist-high, reddish-brown mutt. It growled again, its teeth glow-in-the-dark white. Over my shoulder I murmured to Amber, “They can smell fear, you know.”
“Great. I bet I reek.”
“We’d better go,” I told her, “before it barks.”
“I’m right behind you.”
Naturally, the dog abandoned growls then for an explosive series of barks. The French doors upstairs swung open and we heard footsteps above us on the balcony.
I scurried over and hid behind a garbage can, but before Amber could wedge herself into the shadows beside me, an outside light came on and doused her face with incriminating brightness.
“Moriarty! Stop that. Oh, hi there.”
She turned slowly and faced him, looking up. “Hi.”
I bit my knuckles. Busted!
“Aren’t you the girl from the coffee stand?” He sounded surprised, but not exactly hostile.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
My mind raced as I desperately tried to think up ways to make this seem, well, less stalker-ish, more . . . Romeo and Juliet. Or at least not restraining-order-worthy.
I leaned as close to her ear as I could without showing myself. “Tell him you live nearby.”
“I live just a couple blocks from here,” she told him.
“And you lost your cat . . .” I prompted.
“I lost my cat.”
“Named Sal Paradise.” Am I a genius, or what?
“His name’s Sal Paradise. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
I heard him chuckle, and I let out a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t calling the cops. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“That’s funny, though, isn’t it?”
“What?” Amber sounded vaguely terrified.
“My dog and your cat are both characters from On the Road.”
Bull’s-eye!
“Ohhhh,” Amber trilled, laughing. “Yeah, that’s funny. Okay, sorry to disturb you. See you later.”
“Wait—did you find him?”
Amber was already moving toward the El Dorado, but paused to look back at him. “Who?”
“Sal Paradise.”
“Uh—no, I think he’s probably home already.”
“Oh-kay.” He sounded puzzled.
I just shook my head. Girl was blowing a beautiful opportunity. I watched hopelessly as she dashed for her car, opened the door, and dove in. I could see her banging her head against the steering wheel.
I waited until Mr. Sands had gone back inside and the dog had retreated to the other side of the yard before I slunk through the shadows and joined her.
“Oh, my God!” Amber squealed as we sped back downtown in the El Dorado. “I thought I’d have a heart attack. He recognized me!”
“I know!” My heart was still racing.
“What was that about Paradise?”
“Main characters from On the Road?”
She gave me a blank look.
“Never mind.”
She parked at a random spot on the plaza. The yuppie boutiques and restaurants were all closed, their windows staring out at the night with slick, hollow indifference. We sat in the shadowy depths of the El Dorado, trying to catch our breath.
Amber put her feet up on the dashboard and covered her eyes with her hands. “That was so embarrassing! How is this going to work? He’s out of my league. You were right. The whole idea’s insane.”
A part of me felt relieved—finally, common sense was winning out. But then she spoke her next words, and I felt a little sick.
“He’s got his doctorate and I’m just a trailer-trash nobody.”
I squirmed. “Don’t say that.”
“Let’s face it, Geena, it’s people like me who’ll be scrubbing toilets for people like him. We don’t ride off into the sunset together.”
This didn’t sit right with me. If Amber had said anything else—he’s too old for me, or I’m tired of wearing wigs, or just plain old never mind—I’d have been perfectly happy to drop it right there. But for her to give up on Mr. Sands because he was too smart, too Berkeley, too everything-she-wasn’t, made me sad. To go along with that was to affirm all her worst assumptions about herself, and I just couldn’t do it.
“I’m not saying I’m an expert in this area,” I told her, “but if you want to get close to someone, you have to think like him, right?”
Even in the dark car, I could see that her sideways glance held equal parts hope and fear. “But that’s just it. I have no idea how a guy like him thinks. He might as well be an alien.”
“Well, we know he’s in love with literature.” I turned toward her in my seat. “Kerouac in particular—he’s, like, obsessed with On the Road. What’s that tell us?”
“On the Road? What’s it about?”
“These guys who drive around a lot.”
“What happens?”
“Basically, that’s it. They drink and smoke and leave women all over the place.”
“Sounds boring.”
“A little.” I rubbed my forehead, trying to concentrate. “Anyway, he’s totally into the beats. They write sort of like jazz music, you know? Free and kind of crazy. So what’s this predilection tell us about Mr. Sands?” I gazed through the windshield, turning the equation over in my mind. “Hip, irreverent, irresponsible? Infatuated with freedom?”
She nodded, her face pinched with worry. “O-kay . . .”
“See, if we know how he thinks—”
“Yeah, I get that, but come on.
‘They drive around’? It’s not much to go on.”
“Well, the beats are like cultural icons, you know? They challenged the conventions of their day with radical ideas and created this revolutionary aesthetic—”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” She hung her head, shrouding her face with a curtain of hair. “I’m not book smart like you.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I told her. “You’re totally smart. You just have to let your inner nerdy girl out.”
She laughed at that, and I felt better. I hate it when she gets on this I’m stupid kick. She’s not exactly an intellectual, but she’s still intelligent, and somehow it feels like my responsibility to prove that to her.
I glanced at my watch. “I should go—it’s almost ten thirty. Who knows what’s happening on our couch by now? Come over tomorrow after school, though. We’ll work on that MySpace message.”
“Okay.” She sounded doubtful.
“We’ll crack his code. Don’t worry.”
“You really think I can get him interested?”
How did this happen? Half the time I’m trying to pry her loose from this crazy Mr. Sands fixation, the other half I’m assisting in his seduction. Twisted.
“We’ll give it a try,” I promised.
Her face lit up with a smile. “Thanks, G.” She turned the key in the ignition, and the El Dorado roared to life.
Thursday, January 22
2:15 P.M.
I saw Ben talking to Sophie during lunch. She had on this short, sexy little skirt, sheer tights, and shiny red patent-leather pumps that would have made me look like an underage crack whore, but somehow she pulled it all off with her usual panache. She was sitting with Marcy Adams in the cafeteria and Ben stood leaning against their table, chatting away. Every now and then Sophie would peek coquettishly up at him, bat her lashes (I’m so not kidding), then throw her head back and laugh as if whatever he’d just said was the hands-down most hilarious thing she’d ever heard in her life.