by Jody Gehrman
Amazingly, it was Ben. Seven a.m. on a Saturday—the gray dawn still lingered—and there he was in a stocking cap, looking sleepy but adorable.
“Hey. What’s up?” he said.
“Um, nothing. What are you doing here so early?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Wanted to see you.”
Oh, melt, melt, melt. Then I remembered that I had an emergency on my hands and shouldn’t be swooning over my knight-in-white-stocking-cap. “That’s sweet. Something’s up with Amber, though. I can’t really talk.”
His face fell. “Are we back to this?”
“What? No—what do you—?”
“I get it. You two see each other constantly, but I try to steal five minutes and I’m out of luck.”
“Ben!” What was happening? Was he jealous of Amber? Couldn’t he see I had a serious situation to deal with? “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He shook his head and said in a husky, exhausted voice, “I just wanted to see you, but—Never mind, it was stupid.”
“No, it’s not stupid!” Behind me, I heard a muffled whimper escape from Amber. The five million things I wanted to say to Ben flooded my brain all at once, a massive Greek chorus gone berserk. What I finally choked out was, “Do you want some coffee?”
His sad smile broke my heart. “No, thanks. I hear it’s not good for insomnia. Later, Sloane.”
Just like that, he drove away! I whispered a string of curses and turned my attention back to Amber.
“You didn’t tell him, did you?” she asked.
This seemed like a weird question, since Triple Shot Betty’s is so small she must have heard our whole conversation, but I assured her I hadn’t told him anyway.
“You can’t say anything to anyone,” she pleaded. “Not even your mom. Promise?”
“Okay, fine. But Amber—look at me—you’ve got to at least tell me what happened.”
She shrugged, suddenly more composed, and pulled a compact from her purse. “It’s not a big deal. This guy Danny just moved in.”
“Is he your mom’s boyfriend?”
“I guess you can call him that.” She dampened a tissue at the sink and started cleaning her face with quick, efficient fingers. “Anyway, he got drunk last night, started playing ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ I told him if I heard that song one more time I’d slit my wrists. So he hit me.”
“What did your mom do?”
“She yelled at him.”
“Did she kick him out?”
“No. He hit her too. And then, you know, he begged forgiveness, blah, blah, blah.” As she reapplied the concealer, her face took on a callousness that stirred in me a weird mixture of admiration and pity. She caught me staring and said in an irritated tone, “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“You just what?” she snapped.
“You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Well, thanks for that movie-of-the-week advice, but last time I checked, I don’t really have any choice. Don’t know if you’ve ever lived in a foster home, but believe me, it’s not cool. Comprende?”
“So move in with us,” I blurted out.
Her eyes left the mirror and found mine. For a second, the tough-girl façade slipped away and she said in a tiny, childlike voice, “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think your mom would let—”
“Why not?”
She looked hopeful, but then a shadow passed over her face. “I don’t want to drag you guys into this. My mom will freak out—it’ll get totally messy.”
“Amber,” I said, my voice somber, “he hit you.”
That was all it took. She broke down and cried like a little girl, her carefully applied makeup once again rendered a gooey mess. Wouldn’t you know it—a string of cars queued up right then. I leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Walk to my house. The key’s under the doormat in back. If Mom’s gone, just let yourself in and chill. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She nodded, mopped at her face, and left.
As I served up cappuccinos, mochas, and lattes the rest of the morning, I asked myself the most dangerous of questions: How could things possibly get any more complicated?
Sunday, February 8
4:00 P.M.
Day one of cohabitation with Amber, and already I’m starting to wonder why this seemed like such a hot idea. I mean yes, we had to get her away from the beastly step-boyfriend, but man, when a household of two suddenly explodes to a household of four, things get messy fast. No, Mungo hasn’t moved in officially, but he’s here often enough to stake out a shelf in the bathroom, and yesterday I spotted Mom folding a load of his laundry. He’s been doing most of the cooking too, which is an improvement over Mom’s inept efforts in the kitchen. It just feels like things are changing so quickly. Our once private, intimate little world has gotten all crowded and complicated overnight.
Sharing a room with Amber makes one thing immediately clear: The girl has clutter issues. Plus, her bathroom etiquette leaves something to be desired; she’s taken two showers here, and already my shampoo has been depleted by half. Does anyone have that much hair? But I tell myself these are the small sacrifices we’re forced to make in the name of sisterly love.
Amber’s mom showed up last night reeking of beer, barking orders at Amber and calling her names. Mom pulled her into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and they talked for over two hours. Amber and I hung back, waiting for an explosive Battle of the Matriarchs, but apparently they conversed without violence. All Mom would say when we quizzed her afterward was, “Your mother loves you, Amber. We agreed that you should stay here until she works some stuff out.”
Uh, yeah. Step one: restraining order against sack-of-shit-who-beats-you.
But, you know, I’m trying not to be judgmental.
10:20 P.M.
Grabbed a quick taco with Ben downtown tonight, then skated the neighborhood for almost an hour. I practiced my ollies, but they’re pretty rusty. I haven’t really been skating as much since Ben and I started dating. What’s up with that? I really need to get back out there and practice more, or I’ll lose all my chops.
When I came back I found Amber on the floor of my—our!—room, bent over her sketchbook, scowling at something intently.
“What are you drawing?” I asked. “More tattoo designs?”
“Actually, I’m kind of working on a graphic novel.”
“Wow, seriously?”
Amber tucked her chin shyly, flipping through her sketchbook. “It’s just a rough draft . . .”
“Can I see?” I asked, sitting down beside her.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
Oh, gee, Amber, thanks for your faith in my sensitivity! “Of course I won’t laugh.”
“Okay, then.” She flipped the pages of the sketchbook back until she’d reached the beginning. Then she handed it over, chewing on her bottom lip.
On the first page was a girl with long brown braids leaning out the window of a drive-through espresso stand. I squinted at the picture. It was definitely me—I’d recognize that Uniboob anywhere—except the caption read: “Georgia surveys the parking lot as another hot summer day creeps by at Triple Shot Betty.”
In the next frame, two girls drove up in a shiny red Jeep; they looked just like Bronwyn and Hero, except they were named Bridget and Hannah. Soon Amber appeared—she’d given herself the alias Amanda—and a catfight erupted between her and Hannah. I turned the pages, fascinated. Our whole summer was there, captured in inky, dark contours, shaded with colored pencils, our words floating in bubbles over our heads. It was like finding a parallel universe peopled with alternate versions of everything you recognize. She’d named Sonoma Vinoville, and her character, Amanda, was a tough Hell’s Angel Princess who’d moved there from a town called Wal-Mart City. The story line chronicled her adventures among the wealthy, sophisticated residents of Vinoville, including her disastrous affair w
ith a sinister senior named James Johnson.
“This is fantastic!” I gushed. “I can’t believe how well you captured everything.”
Amber shrugged. “It’s really just doodles right now.”
“You call this doodling? It’s incredible.” I got to the part in the story where Ben drove up to the espresso stand in his old Volvo, and I felt a lump in my throat, remembering how happy I was when we first got together—before everything became so messy. “It’s amazing.”
Amber rested her chin on her knees and peered at me cautiously. “You really like it?”
“I do! You’re so talented.”
She looked unconvinced. Her hand inched over and pulled the sketchbook back, like a child retrieving a favorite doll. “I showed it to Jeremy at work the other day. He reads a lot of comic books and graphic novels. He liked it.”
“How could he not?”
“I wonder . . .” She trailed off.
“What?”
“I just wonder what Rex would say. You think he’d like it?”
Grrr. Why does Mr. Sands get to dictate what’s cool in Amber’s world? She used to be so outspoken, so sure of herself—or at least able to fake it when true confidence failed her. Ever since she started crushing on Mr. Sands, she’s become a much mousier, less in-your-face version of herself. Is that what happens when people fall in love? Do they stop being themselves and start trying to be what someone else wants? Or is that just what happens when you fall for the wrong person?
“Who cares if he likes it or not?” My comment came out a lot snippier than I’d intended.
Her eyes went wide. “I do. Is that so wrong?”
I sighed. “It’s not wrong, but don’t you think doing what you love is more important than pleasing him? I mean, you’re really good at this. You could maybe even do it as a job someday.”
She shot me a skeptical look. “You think?”
“I do. And what does Mr. Sands know about graphic novels? Why should his opinion matter that much?”
“Oh, yeah,” Amber scoffed. “What does he know? He’s only got a PhD in literature.”
I put a hand on hers. “I’m just saying, you shouldn’t let him have so much power over you.”
She pulled her hand back as if I’d stung her. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“Look,” she said tartly, “you never understood my feelings for him, so maybe we should just avoid talking about it.”
“Fine.” Ouch.
“Fine.” She stuffed her sketchbook into her bag.
Monday, February 9
3:45 P.M.
After school, I skated up here to Geevana Ridge in search of sanity. There’s a big white dragon of fog peeking its head over the western hills, getting ready to slither down into the valley, where it will spread its wings over everything. It smells good here today, like oak and eucalyptus. I just needed to get away from everything and everyone so I can think for a minute.
I really love this little meadow. I’ve been coming here since I was eleven, and it always makes me feel better. Back then I named the three oaks Gloria, Maxwell, and Albert; the rock at the end of the trail is called Hudson, and the iris that blooms every spring bears the highly inventive moniker Iris. I used to talk to them like they were friends. I was a preteen pagan, I guess.
Right now, I just need to sit on Albert’s low, mossy trunk and not talk to anyone. It seems like everything in my life is making a concerted effort to be complicated lately. Why can’t love ever be simple? Mom’s all into Mungo, but who’s to say they won’t get sick of each other the way she and Dad did? Amber’s obsessed with Mr. Sands, but she doesn’t get that trying to please him makes her so much less interesting than she used to be. I thought things were back on track with Ben after our rainy Tuesday makeup session, but now this whole Valentine’s dance after-party thing is freaking me out.
Nothing is simple anymore. It makes me want to go back to the olden days, when I could come up here with a bag of gummy worms and talk to the trees for hours. I guess I can’t go back, though.
I just wonder if I’m really moving forward.
Tuesday, February 10
1:45 P.M.
Help! My persistent denial and procrastination have created a full-blown wardrobe crisis. The Valentine’s dance is in four days, and I’ve got nothing to wear. As much as I hate, hate, hate the hysteria most girls succumb to before every dance, this time I’m forced to acknowledge a bitter truth: Refusing to plan ahead doesn’t negate dance fever, it only postpones it.
I’m just not a frilly girl. Lace and taffeta make me feel like a drag queen.
In fifth period now, pulling the old diary-inside-the-history-book trick. Ben’s right behind me. It’s so hard to concentrate on the Vietnam War when I can almost feel his breath tickling the back of my neck. Do I really feel that, or is it the air vents?
Ms. Boyle keeps waving her arms around as she talks about Mai Lai. She’s wearing a sleeveless Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, which shows off her tufts of armpit hair quite nicely. Ever since seeing her on a date with Mr. Sands, I can’t look at her without wondering if she’s kissed him. Amber’s right. She really doesn’t have any lips. How does one kiss a lipless person?
I wonder how far Ben expects me to go on Saturday? Presumably we’ll have a bedroom all to ourselves. Do I really want to lose my virginity, then wake up to Sophie De Luca sneering at me over coffee? Trés romantic.
How am I going to break it to Mom that I’m not coming home?
I wonder if Ms. Boyle wants us to see her armpit hair in that shirt?
So many mysteries . . .
9:10 P.M.
Sixth period today got canceled for Battle of the Bands, a ritual that’s theoretically entertaining but historically lackluster. The freshmen threw together a lame assortment of marching band plebeians, our own class displayed bad taste with a deeply ironic eighties cover band, and the seniors went so reggae you could almost smell the ganja billowing out of their instruments. The only showing worth talking about came from the sophomores. They got everyone’s attention with a performance blending punk-ass courage with unapologetic romanticism—a winning combination, even with the Cynical Youth of Today.
Amber, Ben, PJ, and I sat there on the bleachers, trying to get into the spirit of things but failing miserably. Amber was wearing her Wonder Woman wig, which she kept scratching at in restless agitation. The gym always gets as humid as a South American jungle during rallies—all that pent-up adolescent angst—so Amber had to be dying in her rug.
“God, I just want to take this stupid thing off,” Amber grumbled.
PJ looked at her. “Why are you wearing it, anyway? No offense, girl, but it looks a little like roadkill.”
She jutted her chin out. “I’m feeling brunette! You got a problem with that?”
“Who am I to argue with that logic?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head.
Ben laughed. “Is this some kind of sociology experiment?”
“Socio-what?” Amber asked.
“You know, like to see if you can start a fad, no matter how misguided and weird it is.”
“Ben, are you calling me misguided and weird?”
PJ jumped to his friend’s defense. “You’re the one who said you wanted to take it off!”
Amber and I both scanned the crowded gym for Mr. Sands. When we didn’t see him, we exchanged a look, and then she yanked the wig off impulsively, shaking out her own red hair and fluffing it with her fingers.
“Thank God,” she said, “free at last!”
PJ smirked. “Did the brunette feeling pass?”
I laughed, and Amber slapped his arm, smiling. It made me strangely happy to see her unencumbered by her usual disguise. I mean, yeah, her elaborately constructed relationship with Mr. Sands has a certain appeal; shrouded in secrecy, built on deception, she never lacks for danger or intrigue. All the same, I continue to think Amber would be happier with someone less deman
ding. I’m no expert in the field, but I know when I’m with Ben and I’m not worried about how my hair looks or how my breath smells, I feel light and free as a tuft of dandelion fur drifting on the wind. I hardly think Amber gets that with Mr. Sands.
My attention snapped back to the festivities when I heard Mr. Hardbaugh announce, “Next up we’ve got Nick Faller, Suki Howell, Mark Woolman, and Jeremy Riggs doing a song called ‘Amber, Say Yes for Once.’”
Amber and I bit our lips at each other, and Ben shot us a sideways glance but offered no comment. Behind our illustrious principal seven or eight sophomores scurried about madly on the makeshift stage, plugging in electrical chords and flipping switches. A pimple-faced kid wearing John Lennon glasses pushed a button and the contraption beneath him started gushing fog, which swirled around the stage in slow motion. Then the tech crew fell back and the girl behind the drum kit said, “One, two, three” before she, the rhythm guitar guy, and the bass player started up an insanely catchy rhythm that had the whole room nodding their heads in time within seconds.
The only person missing from the ensemble was Jeremy. I looked around, afraid maybe he’d lost his nerve. I pictured him crouched over a toilet in the boys’ bathroom this very minute, his face even whiter than usual.
And then I saw him.
I’ve been thinking about this for hours and I still don’t know how he did it. He just materialized there in the bleachers, mike in hand, black hair draped over one eye with rock star insouciance. A spotlight searched the gym, fell on him, and then the room went black except for the pool of silver light illuminating his skinny form. The gym exploded with shouts and applause. When the cheering had died down a little, Jeremy focused his piercing blue eyes on Amber and started to sing.
“She wears wigs like a secret agent,
I wonder who she’s spying on.
Every day she’s a different girl,