I study my eyes next. Unfortunately, they’re pretty puffy from all the crying I’ve done lately. But at least I have good lashes. They’re fairly thick and dark, and I don’t even need to use mascara, although Abbie always said I should anyway. I’m sorry to say my eye color is rather boring. My mom says it’s hazel like my dad’s, but it looks like a muddy mix of green and brown to me. I sometimes toy with the idea of getting those tinted contacts, maybe in teal, but my mom is not in favor of this idea. And right now, after my crying jag, my eyes look red and bloodshot. I sure hope they’ll look better by lunchtime tomorrow.
Suddenly, I remember a trick that Abbie taught us—how to use cucumber slices on your eyes to reduce puffiness. I’ve seen her do it before but haven’t tried it myself. So I depart from this pitiful inventory of my less-than-wonderful appearance to retrieve some cucumber slices from the refrigerator. Our apartment is dark and silent now. It appears that Bree and Mom have already gone to bed.
Finally, I get ready for bed myself. I place the cool cucumber slices over my puffy eyelids and tell myself to breathe deeply and think happy thoughts. I also tell myself that everything will return to normal soon, probably tomorrow. I even remind myself of one of Jordan’s old seventies posters. It says: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Yes, I feel certain that things will be better.
But then, I’ve been tricked before.
five
ALL MORNING I FEEL NERVOUS, ANTICIPATING WHAT WILL HAPPEN AT lunch. I tell myself not to be so neurotic, but it does no good. It seems the only time I actually relax and forget about everything these days is during art class. It’s like I can almost be myself in there.
Despite Jordan’s opinion on art class—she thinks kids who take it are either freaks or geeks or just plain losers—I’ve decided I actually like it. A lot. This kind of surprises me since I’ve never considered myself to be particularly artistic, although I do keep a sketch pad at home that I like to draw in occasionally. I suppose this has something to do with my dad, but it’s something I’ve never thought about too much.
“Why do you want to take art with all those weirdos?” Jordan asked me during class registration a few weeks ago.
“I don’t know,” I said, which was basically true. “I guess it’s mostly because I’m not into the other elective options.”
“Why don’t you take speech?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, sure. Like I want to stand up in front of everyone and talk.”
“It’d be good for you.” She poked me in the ribs with her elbow. “You know what they say: You need to face your fears head on.”
She might’ve been right about that, but I am not and never have been a head-on kind of girl. Besides that, I am just not into public humiliation. As a result, I signed up for art.
So now, having reached the conclusion that I really do enjoy art, I’ve decided I’d better keep this news to myself, at least for the time being. I doubt that Jordan would get it. And once again I am surprised when I hear the end-of-class buzzer and realize that I’m still not done with the pencil sketch.
“You can stay during lunchtime to finish it,” says Amy Weatherspoon as she bends over to examine my work. I glance up at her. Now Amy’s really into goth, which I thought went out of style ages ago. But Amy’s hair is dyed jet-black, and she wears nothing but black, paints her nails black, and has thick lines of black around her eyes, which makes her look slightly like an anemic raccoon. The only thing that isn’t black is the silver safety pin that goes through the right side of her lower lip. I wonder if she did that herself.
I am already putting my pencils and stuff away and thinking about joining Jordan and her friends for lunch. “That’s okay,” I tell Amy, “I’ll finish my sketch later.”
She nods. “It’s pretty good, you know.”
I am totally surprised by this unexpected compliment. For some reason I didn’t think Amy was the kind of girl to say anything nice.
“Thanks,” I tell her without looking up. I want to say that her praise actually means something to me, since I’ve noticed how gifted she is in art, but the truth is, her dark appearance is fairly intimidating. Besides that, I’ve been out of the habit of functioning in a normal conversational manner.
“You staying during lunch, Amy?” calls Edgar Peebles. Now this is the kind of guy who actually lends credibility to Jordan’s “art geek” theory. I mean, he wears the same light-blue sweatshirt almost every day, and his thick, red hair looks like someone covered it with a bowl before cutting it. But at least he’s kind to everyone, even the kids who are anything but to him. This is the first year I’ve seen him around school, and although he seems younger than me, I think I heard someone say that he’s a junior.
“Yeah, I wanna work on my pen and ink,” says Amy as she returns to her corner by the window.
Amy’s pen and ink is a grotesque rendition of a “rock” wall that is mainly constructed from skulls and bones and small dead animals. Not really my thing, but I can tell her drawing skills are far superior to mine—and everyone else in art class for that matter.
“See ya,” calls Amy as I shoulder my backpack and head for the door.
“Yeah,” I call back. “Later.”
I try not to think too much about Jordan’s new friends as I head for the cafeteria. I remind myself of the things that Jordan suggested I do. Smile more, laugh at their jokes, be nice. I can do that, I tell myself as I pick up a sticky tray and get in line. Today I make sure to choose food that is (1) easy to eat, (2) not likely to spill, and (3) looks like something Jordan’s new friends might eat. Passing up the tacos, which look messy though tempting, I go for a tossed green salad and wheat roll. It seems fairly safe. I pay for my food and proceed to “the” table. I can feel my chest tighten and my heart beginning to race as I remember the last time I sat there and drenched my best friend in the remnants of my lunch.
“Hey, Kara,” calls Jordan, “come sit here.”
I smile at her, thankful that she actually extended an audible invitation. I am not ready to just walk right on over there and sit down. The cheerleaders are wearing their new uniforms today. That alone makes their table look like the elite club, although a few other girls are dressed in civilian clothes. But mostly the table looks like a small sea of red and blue.
“Thanks,” I say, instantly questioning whether I should’ve said that or not. It’s not like I want to appear too needy—or nerdy—as it would seem.
“I like your sweater, Kara,” says Jordan as I sit down in the empty space across from her, right next to Ashley Crow, who is thick into conversation with Amber Elliot.
I try not to register surprise at Jordan’s comment, since we both know she’s the one who picked out this particular sweater in the first place. “Thanks,” I say in what I hope sounds like a casual voice. I pick up my fork and stab a piece of lettuce.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” says Shawna. “Where’d you get it anyway?”
“The Gap,” I answer, quickly remembering to smile before I take a bite.
The conversation moves swiftly to clothes and I am, fortunately, able to simply nod and smile and act like I’m completely enthralled with their opinions on fashion, which basically amount to a what’shot-and-what’s-not discussion.
“Did you see what Megan Erickson has on today?” asks Betsy Mosler. She makes this horrified face. “It’s this awful pink number. She looks just like a Power Puff Girl.”
This makes everyone laugh. And, like a puppet, I laugh right along with them. Yet, at the same time, I feel slightly bad for Megan.
“How about Goth Girl,” says Amber Elliot.
“Who’s that?” asks Jordan, looking around the cafeteria for the next victim.
“Oh, she’s not here,” says Amber. “Goth Girl may not have any fashion sense, but at least she has the sense to lay low.”
“She’s talking about Amy Weatherspoon,” Shawna explains to Jordan, who’s still looking slightly confused. “Now t
alk about your fashion disaster. That girl dresses like every day is Halloween.”
Everyone laughs like they’re reading the audience cue cards on the Letterman show, and despite the fact that Amy Weatherspoon just said something kind to me, I laugh too—feeling like a complete hypocrite as I do. Still, I realize that if I don’t laugh, these girls might very well target me as the brunt of their next fashion joke. In fact, as I watch the girls interacting with each other and virtually ignoring me, I realize that I probably already have been. Often, I’m sure.
I’m certain that the cafeteria clock has stopped now, because lunchtime is running twice as long as it normally would, but I am determined not to be the first one to leave this table of red and blue. I feel fairly certain that such a move would only invite open season on me. And so I smile and nod and laugh when appropriate and just stay put. I manage to eat about half of my salad, but my stomach is feeling more and more like it’s tying itself into tight little knots.
“Have you guys heard the latest?” asks Amber suddenly. The tone of her voice says this is breaking news and the entire table becomes instantly hushed. “Clarise Owens just told me that Brett Hawkins asked Gwen Morris out.”
“You’re kidding!” declares Betsy as if this must be illegal, immoral, or just plain ignorant. “Brett is really taking her out?”
Amber nods. “It’s true. Ask Clarise.”
“You’re just jealous, Betsy,” teases Ashley.
“No way!” says Betsy. “I am not jealous of Gwen Morris. Everyone knows she’s a fat, ugly cow.”
“Apparently Brett doesn’t think so,” says Amber.
“Yeah,” says Ashley as she squares off her shoulders and sits a bit straighter. It looks like she’s trying to show off her overly large chest. As if she needs to. “Some guys like a woman with curves.”
“Yeah,” says Betsy. “You should know.”
Ashley narrows her eyes now. “Are you calling me a cow?” Thankfully, the lunch bell finally rings and the table begins to clear, although Ashley and Betsy are still going at each other. I have to wonder about this as I dump my tray. I mean, if these girls are that hard on each other, how tough might they be on an outsider like me?
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” asks Jordan as she catches up with me.
I shrug. “I guess not.”
She smiles. “You did great, Kara. Just keep it up and everything will be cool.”
I don’t mention to her that it feels like I’m getting a serious stomach ulcer or high blood pressure or that I’m freaked that my antiperspirant has probably failed me today.
“You coming to the game tonight?” she asks as she adjusts the skin-tight top of her blue and red uniform. “It’s our first one, you know. And then there’s the dance afterward too.”
Normally Jordan and I would always go to games and dances together—when we went, anyway, which wasn’t always. “I don’t know,” I say.
She stops right in the middle of the hallway and just stares at me like I’m totally losing it. “You have to come to our game tonight, Kara. You’re my best friend and this is my first night to cheer. I can’t believe you’d considering ditching me like that.”
I force a goofy grin. “Hey, I’m just kidding, Jordan. Of course I plan to come.”
She smiles now. “Well, that’s better. Sheesh, you were really starting to worry me.”
“Sorry.”
“I’d offer you a ride,” she says lightly, “but the cheerleaders are supposed to get there early to set some things up.”
“That’s okay.”
“But my parents are going to be there. Of course, they’ll be sitting in the general admission section, but I’m sure you could sit with them if you want.”
So now I am wondering how I can possibly manage to pack up the nerve to go to a football game by myself. I mean it’s nice to think I could sit with the Fergusons, which would beat sitting all alone. But isn’t it kind of lame to sit in the adult section? But if I don’t, who will I talk to? I am not good at this independent thing. I even consider inviting my little sister to come along with me just so I won’t have to sit by myself. Now tell me, how pathetic is that?
six
I DO NOT KNOW WHY I WASTED MY TIME COMING TO THIS STUPID FOOTball game. First of all, it’s freezing cold out here, and besides that our team totally sucks—it’s forty-five to three in the second half. But the icing on the cake is that Jordan has completely ignored me.
I thought she might come over and say hi at halftime. But no. She didn’t so much as wave to me. I feel like a complete idiot coming to a moronic football game just to watch my “best” friend (or not) cheerleading. What in the world is wrong with me? And even when I searched the general-admission crowd until I finally spotted her parents, it was plain to see that they were having a great time with several other couples. I would definitely not fit in.
And so I decide to leave at the beginning of the fourth quarter. My hands and feet are numb with cold, and no one has said more than two words to me all night long. I think there is nothing as lonely as being alone in a crowd. And I know that I cannot take it for another minute. I invited Bree to come with me, but she had plans to go to a slumber party. I considered asking Mom, just so I could have an excuse to sit in the general admission section and possibly hang out with Jordan’s family, but Mom had already made plans to go out with friends. As I walk down the stadium steps and across the parking lot, I cannot help but think I am a pathetic loser.
I notice what appear to be Amy Weatherspoon and some of her weird friends. They are hanging like dark shadows on the perimeter of the parking lot, huddled together around a bench, and I can see a circle of cigarette—or perhaps it’s grass—smoke rising above them like a halo or perhaps smoke from a campfire. I wonder why they even came here tonight since none of them appear to be serious football fans. Then I realize that they probably plan to go to the dance afterward. And at least they don’t have to walk in by themselves.
Fortunately (or not, depending on how you look at it), it only takes a few minutes for me to get home. I unlock the deadbolt on the door and let myself in, eager to get warm again, although our apartment is cold since Mom always turns the thermostat down when we’re not home. I make instant cocoa in the microwave, telling myself that perhaps if I can just get warm and regain some confidence, then perhaps I can somehow manage to make myself go back to school in time for the dance. Or not. I’m still not sure. I sip my cocoa in the silent, semidark apartment, feeling (I hate to admit) extremely sorry for myself.
It seems like everyone on the planet has a life and friends, everyone except for me, that is. I sit on the stone sofa and look out the front window. I can barely see the school, or rather the lights in the parking lot, from here. I notice a few cars beginning to leave now and figure the game must be over. Some people, like parents, will be going home to call it a night. But others, like Jordan and her cheerleading friends, will be dashing out to get something to eat, or perhaps to change from their uniforms into something “cooler” to wear to the dance. Others, who don’t have access to cars, will just hang out in the parking lot, visiting with friends and snarfing down the bargain hot dogs left over from the game, before they head over to the cafeteria, unfashionably early, for the dance.
What is wrong with me anyway? Why am I sitting up here in the dark all by myself on a Friday night? When did I become such a hopeless loser anyway? Or was I simply like this all along but didn’t even notice? Perhaps I’ve never been anything more than Jordan Ferguson’s shadow. But maybe I don’t care either. After all, it was a good life. Everything was a lot more fun when Jordan was around, and so much easier too. Is this all my fault? Do I just need to try harder? Take control of my life?
I can just imagine Jordan saying, “Get off your rear, Kara Hendricks! And get yourself on over to the dance right this minute!”
Instead, I meticulously fix myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I take time to make it just the way I like, even t
rimming off the crusts. Then I pour myself a tall glass of milk and stand over the kitchen sink and quietly consume my little feast.
I go to the bathroom now and stare at myself in the mirror. I took some extra time before the game to really fix myself up. And to my surprise, I still don’t look half bad.
“There are lots of kids who are way worse looking than you,” I tell the sad-eyed image in the mirror. “But they’re not afraid to get out there and have a good time.” I lean forward and scowl at my reflection. “What is your problem anyway?”
And so, amazingly, my little motivational speech works, and I find myself marching back over to the school. I pay my three bucks and walk boldly into the dance where I am surprised to discover that although the music is booming, there aren’t very many kids there yet. It seems I am one of the losers who showed up unfashionably early, and Jordan and her friends are nowhere in sight. Even so, I go and get a soda and find a chair in a dark corner. If you have to be a wallflower, it’s best to do it as inconspicuously as possible. But at least I have a clear view of the door from where I’m sitting, and I figure I can head straight for Jordan when she gets here. I even decide to use this time to design the perfect greeting.
“Hey, Jordan,” I will coolly say. “I just got here too. I had to leave the game early, but you did really great tonight.” I know how Jordan likes compliments, and I figure that my praise should ingratiate me to her.
Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content Page 3