I tell myself that Jackson just hasn’t had time to right all wrongs and restore to me my just reputation. But my stomach’s feeling queasy. And when the phone rings again, I’m so startled that I drop my cards.
“Hey, Mary Jane. This is Brad. “So you want to—?”
Before he can finish, I say, "No! Call Jackson!” and hang up.
It takes all the fake confidence I have to convince the rents that all is well and justice will prevail without involving the local police force and the FBI.
I get three more calls Sunday evening, all of them from different guys at school. None of them jocks. Something is definitely fishy. It feels like a fresh second wave of gossip. I explain to each caller that I am not interested, not available, and not that kind of girl.
When the phone rings at 10:00 p.m., I grab it. “What do you want?” There’s not an ounce of sex in my voice.
“Uh . . . this is John White? We had algebra together our freshman year until you dropped it.”
I can’t believe this! John the Math Geek White? “I know who you are,” I say, trying to control myself from taking it all out on this . . . this . . . math lover.
“I need to know how far ahead you’re booked,” he continues.
“Booked?”
“Dated?” he tries again.
“Let me get this straight,” I say evenly. “You want to know how far ahead I’m dated up. Are you taking a survey, John? Plan to run the stats and do dating equations?”
“No,” he answers, dead serious. “I’d like you to book me for one. One of those dates, I mean.”
“What do you mean ‘those dates’?” I snap.
“You know. The kind Star said—uh—never mind.”
“Star?” Of course! I can’t believe I’ve been so dense! “Star Simons put you up to this!”
“Uh . . . who?”
“What did she say about me, John?” I demand.
“What did who say?” he stammers.
I want to reach through the phone and grab him by his scrawny chicken neck. “Star! I want to know exactly what she said!”
“Aw,” he groans. “I don’t want to—”
“Now, John!” I scream into the phone.
“She just said you were giving guys a real good time. Things like that. You’re not going to tell her I told you, are you?”
“Good-bye, John.” I slam the receiver down. Sometimes old-fashioned phones are better than cells that way.
I have to use the phone book to get Star’s number. My heart pounds the whole time, not easing a beat as I dial her number and listen to the rings.
“Hello?” I can’t believe my luck when Star herself answers the phone.
“Listen to me, and listen good,” I begin.
“Who is this?” she asks.
“It’s the one you’ve been spreading rumors about. Although come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you did this to lots of people. So, just so you make no mistake about it, this is Mary Jane Ettermeyer telling you to back off!”
“Mary Jane, are you all right? You sound—”
“Don’t even try that two-faced routine with me, Star!” I shout. “I’m so on to you. Just stop it. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Are you finished?” she asks, her voice soft.
I don’t answer.
“Just stay out of my business, and I’ll happily stay out of yours.”
I know she’s talking about Jackson.
“You have no idea what my business is, Star. Or Jackson’s. ” And with that, I hang up. The click of the phone never sounded so good.
Before I have time to think, to listen to the voices in my head, I grab my cell and press #1 on my speed dial. I have reprogrammed it to reflect current realities.
Jackson answers his cell on the first ring. “Just Jackson talking,” he says.
“Just Mary Jane answering. Jackson, I need to talk.”
“I’ll be there soon as I can,” he promises.
I stare out my bedroom window at the street below, even though I know he can’t possibly appear before 10:30 at the earliest. But I wait. And while I wait, the voices in my head come in loud and clear:Plain Jane: What are you doing? You know full well that at this very moment, the lines are being drawn. Star is gathering her warriors against you. Your friends are hearing Star’s side of this ugly little story of betrayal. You can’t seriously believe that Jackson will dump Star for you. So where does that leave you?
M.J.: Nothing matters except Jackson. You don’t need anyone except Jackson House on your side.
It’s 11:00 before I see Jackson’s Cherokee turn onto my street.
I race downstairs, skipping the squeaky step. Mom always leaves the sink light on in the kitchen because Dad’s been known to get the late-night munchies. I just hope he doesn’t get them tonight.
I ease outside and wish I’d worn a coat instead of counting on my sweater to keep out the night chill. The sky is midnight black and filled with stars that shine brighter than streetlights.
I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say to Jackson. I will calmly inform him that his current girlfriend makes the Wicked Witch of the West look like Mother Teresa, and the sooner he breaks all ties with her, the better for all mankind. I will further explain that there will be no romance until this whole mess gets straightened out. There will not be one iota of physical expression of affection expressed affectionately between us until my reputation has been restored, and Star Simons is wearing an “ex-girlfriend” tattoo on her forehead. My plan is to remain firm, mature, controlled, yet carefree and fun.
But approximately seven seconds in the car alone with him and every carefully rehearsed line flies out of my head. I stare into his eyes, and I feel my own eyes fill with tears.
He looks alarmed. “Mary Jane? What is it? What’s the matter?”
Then I burst into tears. I can’t speak. I can’t stop crying. All I can do is try to sniff the tears back inside. But it sounds like I’m vacuuming a swimming pool.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he coaxes. He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him.
I don’t even feel the stick shift poking into my thigh. All I feel is his hand on my head, smoothing my hair. And I let myself sink into his broad chest. “She’s . . . sniff, sniff . . . so . . . sniff . . . mean!” That’s all I can get out.
He hugs me then and rests his head, his chin, on top of my head. “I know. I know. I’ll talk to her. I’ll make it all okay. Don’t worry.”
Then before I realize what’s happening, he’s kissing me. And kissing me.
And I’m kissing him back.
18
The Battle of Attila Ill
I have no idea what to expect when I pull Fred into the senior lot on Monday morning. I don’t know if I have anybody left on my side of the battle line. Jackson still needs to talk to Star to tell her they’re done, finished, over, history, and that she’d better stop spreading lies about me. And I haven’t talked to The Girls since the mall.
I’d give just about anything to have Alicia with me right now.
I got up earlier than usual and tried on everything in my closet. It felt like selecting my battle armor.
Plain Jane thought everything made me look fat, but at least my new green sweater was way better than that brown fuzz one that got me into trouble at the mall. She also approved of the tennis shoes, in case I had to flee for my life.
M.J. had her heart set on low-rise jeans, with a low-cut, short red top that would only fly if I got that belly button piercing she’s been lobbying for. And if I put on my coat before the rents saw me.
I’ve ended up with a clothing compromise: tennis shoes, low-rise jeans, green sweater.
Lauren rolls into the spot next to Fred, and we get out at the same time.
"Hey, Lauren,” I call as she locks her door and turns toward the building.
She doesn’t answer. Her feet move faster.
I’m pretty sure she heard me the first t
ime, but just in case, I holler after her, “Lauren!”
When she keeps going without turning around, I know the battle lines have been drawn, and she’s on the other side.
Cassie and Jessica aren’t milling around, so I have to walk up the sidewalk alone.
The second I get inside, Jill Sweeny and Emma Phillips charge.
“Listen to me, Mary Jane,” Emma shouts. “Stay away from Tyler!”
People are watching, staring. We are the accident they’re gawking at.
“Why would I—?” I begin.
“Don’t even bother denying it!” Jill snaps. “And while you’re at it, keep away from Tim, too.”
I didn’t know Jill was dating Tim, not that it matters. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I haven’t done anything.”
“Really?” Emma challenges. “Are you telling me you and Tyler haven’t talked on his cell?”
“Well, no, yeah, but—”
“Because I have proof ! Your number is on his cell, Mary Jane. How do you explain that?” Emma folds her arms as if satisfied that she’s caught me red-handed.
“Proof that he called me!” I can shout, too. “I didn’t call him. And I’d be very happy if you had this conversation with him instead of me.”
Jill starts to say something, but I cut her off. “And the same goes double for Tim!”
I storm to my locker. But when I glance back, I can see that the opposition is growing. Four girls are circled around Jill and Emma. This is worse than I thought.
I rush to English class because I know Jackson will be there. The room is half empty. I suppose it’s also half full, but this feels like a half-empty kind of day. I stop just inside the door and sense eyes turn to me.
Jackson is in the second row, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He’s laughing with Sean Reed, who plays basketball for Attila, so he doesn’t see me yet. It amazes me that Jackson is able to stay on the sidelines of this battle. All evil glares seem to be reserved for me.
I size up the situation and make my decision. Holding my head high, I ease myself into the empty seat next to Jackson. I do this as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Jackson turns, and his dimple deepens when he smiles at me. “Hey, Mary Jane.” He says it like he’s very glad to see me. I’m not sure what I expected.
“Hey, Jackson,” I return. It will be a miracle if the entire class isn’t sweating from the sexual tension between us. Attila High could save on heating bills. Just let Jackson and me sit next to each other in every classroom. I lower my voice. “So? Did you tell Star?”
He winces, kind of like you would if you’d watched your puppy get run over and were just now recalling the scene. “Yeah. She didn’t take it very well. She made me promise not to tell anybody we were breaking up until we had a chance to talk things through.”
This isn’t the report I was hoping for. But at least he talked to her.
Nicole is one seat up and two seats over, and she hasn’t quit glaring at me since I walked into the room. “Well, you better finish the job soon, Jackson,” I say, “because I’m all alone over here. And everybody’s got me labeled as the villain in this thing.”
He frowns, looking genuinely surprised. “The villain? How could anybody think that? You couldn’t be a villain if you tried, Mary Jane.”
I’d like him to repeat this, loud enough for Nicole to hear.
But our teacher interferes and begins class. He writes study questions on the board, and Jackson gets out his notebook and starts copying. The rest of the hour, Schram talks, Jackson writes. Schram writes, Jackson writes.
I try to follow his good example. I do want a boyfriend who takes school seriously. But I’m busy dreading the rest of the long, lonely day ahead.
When English is over, Jackson has to rush off to his next class, and I’m left to shove my way through the Attila High masses by myself. I get so many cold shoulders, I’m numb. The only hopeful sign is that the male population of Attila has stopped pursuing me, apparently. One guy acts suspiciously friendly in French class, but that’s it. I give Jackson credit for working his un-gossip campaign behind the scenes, behind enemy lines. Private Jackson, my war hero.
The only one of The Girls who even speaks to me is Cassie. And that’s just when I catch her at her locker right before lunch.
“Are you okay?” she asks. She glances nervously over her shoulder, no doubt fearful of having crossed the battle line.
“No, I’m not okay. How would you feel if everybody hated you?”
She risks touching my arm. “Everybody doesn’t hate you, Mary Jane. I don’t hate you.”
I’m pitifully grateful for this watered-down declaration of friendship. I tell myself that as soon as Jackson and I are totally together, The Girls will come back to my side. I’ll even make a point to include Star, which is something she’d never do for me. I just have to hang on for a while.
I don’t even try lunch. Instead, I eat the mints and cough drops I scrounge from my backpack and locker, then hide out in the library with the ax murderer until lunch is over.
The rest of the day slogs by in a nightmarish blur until I happen to run into Jackson after his last class. Could be because I leave study hall early and plant myself in the doorway of his classroom until he exits.
Jackson is in the middle of a group of escaping seniors as he hustles out of the classroom, so I have to shout to get his attention. “Jackson! Over here!”
He glances over at me and smiles his melting smile while I make my way upstream to him. When I get there, I have the distinct feeling that his darting gaze is shooting past me, over my shoulder. Down the hall.
“Could we talk later, Mary Jane?” he whispers. He does that hall-glancing thing again.
I turn to see what he’s looking at.
And there’s Star. She’s walking toward him, smiling. She waves, in her short leather skirt and white cashmere sweater that falls off one shoulder. She’s strolling and chatting to Lauren, but she’s obviously heading for Jackson.
When I turn back to him, I guess my disappointment is written on my face because he gives me this look that would be an apology if it were words.
“Give me time, Mary Jane. Please?” he whispers. I feel his hand squeeze my arm. Then he moves around me and strides off to meet her.
The crowd flows by, jostling me. I am the stone in the river of students eager to leave the building.
I’m still standing there, just outside the classroom, when Nicole walks out. I try to ignore her and turn to go, but I’m not quick enough.
Nicole stops in front of me. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Mary Jane,” she says. “And if you don’t know that, you’re the only one in Attila Ill who doesn’t.”
I was expecting anger in her voice, outrage from the ambassador to the Star. Instead, she sounds sad, sorry. Sorry for me. Anger I could handle. But pity?
She comes closer and lowers her voice. “Jackson’s playing you,” Nicole says. “Star’s never going to let him go.”
19
Starless Night
It’s all I can do to drive Fred home without swerving into oncoming vehicles. My eyes are tear-blurred. My mind keeps replaying the image of Star and Jackson together, and the voices in my head won’t shut up.
Plain Jane: I knew this would happen. Girls like you always lose in the end. This is why I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.
M.J.: Hey! Screw him! If he can’t see what he’s missing, then it’s his loss, right? Plenty of fish in the sea.
My cell rings, and I almost go off the road trying to dig the phone out of my pack. I hate the national anthem.
“What?” I say, slamming on my brakes when I realize the light’s turned red.
“Mary Jane?”
It’s Jackson. The nerve! Does he think he can talk his way out of this? Keep a little Mary Jane on the side and a healthy serving of Star as the main entrée?
“Go away!” I shout. And I flip
the lid on my cell.
A second later it rings again.
I check. It’s Jackson. I hit END, hanging up on him.
Again, the national anthem blares. This time I shut off my phone and toss it in the backseat. I will never talk to Jackson House again.
I park Fred in front of the house and run up the sidewalk. All I want to do is get to my room, where I can wail on my bed in private. It’s early enough that Mom and Sandy could still be at basketball practice. But when I open the door, I discover that my luck’s run out at home, too.
“Mary Jane, I’m glad you’re home early!” Mom says, rushing to meet me before I’ve even shrugged out of my coat. “Your boss at the pretzel shop called. He wants you to call him. He’s called twice already.”
All I need to make my day complete is a nice talk with the Pretzel Boss. “Can I call him later? I was just going to—”
“You better call him right away,” Mom interrupts. “He sounded pretty desperate.”
I take the number from Mom and make the call from my bedroom. I try to remember if I told Robbie about my plans to miss THE day. Maybe he let it slip to Pretzel Boss, sending him into a pre-Thanksgiving panic.
Robbie answers the phone. “The Twisted Pretzel. Robert speaking.”
“This is Mary Jane, Robbie. I need to speak to the boss.”
“Wow! This is the first time you’ve ever called me. How are you, Mary Jane?”
“The boss, Robbie?”
“Oh. Sure.”
A full minute later Pretzel Boss is on the phone, panting. “I need you, Mary Jane!” he shouts.
“I don’t work school nights,” I inform him. This is only partly true. A couple of times I’ve gone in after school to fill in for one of the other part-timers. But right now, I’d rather eat my young than twist pretzels.
“You have to come in!” He sounds like he’s under attack.
The thought of spending so much as a minute in that den of pretzels makes me even more depressed than I already am, a state I wouldn’t have thought possible. “Don’t think so,” I say.
“Please!” he cries. “It’s crazy here! I’ve never seen it like this.”
“Very tempting,” I mutter.
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