by Cynthia Hand
So for an hour each day I secretly watch him, trying to memorize everything I can, unsure of what might be useful to me someday. He likes to wear button-down dress shirts with the sleeves rolled casually to his elbow and the same version of Seven jeans in slightly different shades of black or blue. He uses notebooks made from recycled paper and writes with a green ballpoint pen. He almost always knows the right answer when Mr. Erikson calls on him, and if he doesn’t he makes a joke about it, which means that he’s smart plus humble plus funny. He likes Altoids. Every so often he reaches into his back pocket for the little silver tin and pops a mint into his mouth. To me that says he expects to be kissed.
On that note, Kay meets him right outside class every day. Like she saw the way the new girl looked at her man that first day in the cafeteria, and she never wants him vulnerable to that again. So all I have are the precious pre-class minutes, and so far nothing I’ve done or said has elicited a significant response from Christian.
But tomorrow is T-Shirt Day. I need a shirt that will start a conversation.
“Don’t stress about it,” says Wendy after school as I parade a line of T-shirts in front of her. She’s sitting on the floor of my room by the window, legs curled under her, the very picture of the BFF helping to make a huge fashion decision.
“Should it be a band?” I ask. I hold out a black tee from a Dixie Chicks tour.
“Not that one.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I pick up one of my favorites, forest green with a print of Elvis on it that I got on a trip to Graceland a few years before. Young Elvis, dreamy Elvis, bending over his guitar.
Wendy makes a noncommittal noise.
I hold up a hot-pink shirt that reads, EVERYONE LOVES A CALIFORNIA GIRL. This could be the winner, a chance to play up what Christian and I have in common. But it will also clash with my orange hair.
Wendy scoffs. “I think my brother is planning on wearing a shirt that says, ‘Go back to California.’”
“Shocker. What’s his deal with Californians, anyway?”
She shrugs. “It’s a long story. Basically my grandpa owned the Lazy Dog Ranch, and now some rich Californian owns it. My parents only manage it for him, and Tucker has rage issues. Plus, you insulted Bluebell.”
“Bluebell?”
“Around these parts, you can’t disrespect a man’s truck without dire consequences.”
I laugh. “Well, he should get over himself. He tried to get me burned at the stake in Brit History yesterday. Here I am minding my own business, taking notes like a good little girl, and out of the blue Tucker raises his hand and accuses me of being a witch.”
“Sounds like something Tucker would do,” admits Wendy.
“Everybody had to vote on it. I barely escaped with my nun’s life. Obviously I’ll have to return the favor.”
Christian, I remember happily, voted against burning me. Of course his vote doesn’t count much because he’s a serf. But still, he didn’t want to see me dead, even in theory. That has to count for something.
“You know that’ll just encourage him, right?” Wendy says.
“Eh, I can handle your brother. Besides, there’s some kind of prize for the students who can last the whole semester. And I’m a survivor.”
Now it’s Wendy’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, well, so is Tucker.”
“I can’t believe you shared a womb with him.”
She smiles. “There are definitely moments I can’t believe it either,” she says. “But he’s a good guy. He just hides it well sometimes.”
She gazes out the window, her cheeks pink. Have I offended her? For all her playful talk about how much of a pain Tucker is, is she sensitive about him? I guess I can understand why. I can make fun of Jeffrey all I want, but if somebody else messes with my little brother, they better watch out.
“So, Elvis then? I’m running out of options here.”
“Sure.” She leans back against the wall and stretches her arms over her head, as if the conversation has exhausted her. “Nobody really cares.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been here forever,” I remind her. “You’re accepted. I feel like if I make one wrong move, I might get chased off school property by an angry mob.”
“Oh please. You’ll be accepted. I accepted you, didn’t I?”
That she had. After two weeks I’m still eating lunch at the Invisibles lunch table.
So far I’ve identified two basic groups at Jackson Hole High School: the Haves—the pretty people, comprised of the wealthy Jackson Holers, whose parents own restaurants and art galleries and hotels; and the much smaller and less conspicuous Have-Nots—the kids whose parents work for the rich Jackson Holers. To see the great divide between these groups, you only have to look from Kay, in all her coiffed perfection and French-tipped manicured fingernails, to Wendy, who, though undeniably pretty, usually wears her sun-streaked hair in a simple braid down her back, and her fingernails are polish free and sports clipped.
So where do I fit in?
I’m quickly starting to figure out that our large house with a mountain view means that we have the big bucks, money Mom never mentioned back in California. Apparently we’re loaded. Still, Mom raised us without any idea of wealth. She lived through the Great Depression, after all, insists that Jeffrey and I save a portion of our allowance each week, makes us eat every morsel of food on our plates, darns our socks and mends our clothes, and sets the thermostat to low because we can always put on another sweater.
“Yes, you accepted me, but I’m still trying to figure out why,” I say to Wendy. “I think you must be some kind of a freak. Either that or you’re trying to convert me to your secret horse religion.”
“Darn, you got me,” she says theatrically. “You thwarted my evil plan.”
“I knew it!”
I like Wendy. She’s quirky and kind, and just solidly good people. And she’s saved me from being labeled as a freak or a loner, as well as from the sting of missing my friends back in Cali. When I call them, already it feels like we don’t have much to talk about now that I’m out of the loop. It’s obvious that they’re moving on with their lives without me.
But I can’t think about that or whether I’m a Have or Have-Not. My real problem has nothing to do with being rich or poor but instead with the fact that most of the students at Jackson Hole High have known each other since kindergarten. They formed all their cliques years ago. Even though my natural inclination is to stick with the more modest crowd, Christian is one of the pretty people, so that’s where I need to be. But there are obstacles. Huge, glaring obstacles. The first being lunch. The popular crowd usually goes off campus. Of course. If you have money, and a car, would you stay on campus and dine on chicken-fried steak? I think not. I have money, and a car, but the first week of class I did a 180 on the icy roads on the way to school. Jeffrey said it was better than Six Flags, that little spin we took in the middle of the highway. Now we ride the bus, which means I can’t go off campus for lunch unless someone gives me a ride, and people aren’t exactly lining up with offers. Which leads me to obstacle number two: Apparently I’m shy, at least around people who don’t pay much attention to me. I never noticed this in California. I never needed to be outgoing at my old school; my friends there kind of naturally gravitated to me. Here it’s a whole different story, though, largely because of obstacle number three: Kay Patterson. It’s hard to make a lot of friends when the most popular girl in school is giving you the stink-eye.
The next morning Jeffrey wanders into the kitchen wearing his IF IDIOTS COULD FLY, THIS PLACE WOULD LOOK LIKE AN AIRPORT shirt. I know that everyone at school will think it’s funny and not be at all offended, because they like him. Things are so easy for him.
“Hey, you feel like driving today?” he asks. “I don’t want to walk to the bus stop. It’s too cold.”
“You feel like dying today?”
“Sure. I like risking my life. Keeps things in perspective.”
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br /> I chuck my bagel at him and he catches it in midair. I look at the closed door to Mom’s office. He smiles hopefully.
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go warm up the car.”
“See,” he says as we slowly make our way down the long road to school. “You can handle this driving-on-snow thing. Pretty soon you’ll be like a pro.”
He’s being suspiciously nice.
“Okay, what’s up with you?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“I got on the wrestling team.”
“How’d you pull that off if tryouts were back in November?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I challenged the best wrestler on the team to a match. I won. It’s a small school. They need contenders.”
“Does Mom know?”
“I told her I’m on the team. She wasn’t thrilled. But she can’t forbid us from all school activities, right? I’m tired of this ‘we better lay low, or someone will figure out we’re different’ crap. I mean, it’s not like if I win a match people are going to say, who’s that kid, he’s a really good wrestler, he must be an angel.”
“Right,” I agree uneasily. But then Mom isn’t the type to make rules simply because she can. There has to be an explanation for her cautiousness.
“The thing is, I need a ride to some of the practices,” he says, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Like, all of them.”
For a minute it’s quiet, the only sound the heater blowing across our legs.
“When?” I ask finally. I brace myself for bad news.
“Five thirty a.m.”
“Ha.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Get Mom to drive you.”
“She said that if I was going to insist on being on the wrestling team, I’d have to find my own ride. Take responsibility for myself.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I laugh.
“Please. It’ll just be for a few weeks. Then my buddy Darrin will turn sixteen and he can pick me up.”
“I’m sure Mom will love that.”
“Come on, Clara. You owe me,” he says quietly.
I do owe him. It’s because of me that his life is upside down. Not that he seems to be suffering much.
“I don’t owe you squat,” I say. “But . . . okay. For like six weeks, tops, and then you’ll have to get someone else to be your chauffeur.”
He looks genuinely happy. We might be on some kind of road to recovery, he and I, like it used to be. Redemption, isn’t that what they call it? Six weeks of early mornings doesn’t seem like too big a price to pay for him not hating me anymore.
“There’s one condition though,” I tell him.
“What?”
I put in my Kelly Clarkson CD. “We get to listen to my tunes.”
Wendy’s wearing a shirt that reads, HORSES ATE MY HOMEWORK.
“You’re adorkable,” I whisper as we slip into our seats for Honors English. Her current crush, Jason Lovett, is staring in our direction from across the room. “Don’t look now, but Prince Charming is totally checking you out.”
“Shut up.”
“I hope he can ride a horse, since you’re supposed to ride off into the sunset together.”
The bell rings and Mr. Phibbs hurries to the front of the classroom.
“Ten extra credit points to the first student who can correctly identify the quotation on my shirt,” he announces. He stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back so we can read the words written across his chest. We all lean forward to squint at the tiny print: IF SCIENCE TEACHES ANYTHING, IT TEACHES US TO ACCEPT OUR FAILURES, AS WELL AS OUR SUCCESSES, WITH QUIET DIGNITY AND GRACE.
Easy. We only finished the book last week. I look around, but there are no raised hands. Wendy’s trying not to make eye contact with Mr. Phibbs so he won’t call on her. Jason Lovett is trying to make eye contact with Wendy. Angela Zerbino, who can usually be counted on to chime in with the right answer, is scribbling away in her notebook, probably composing some twisted epic poem about the injustice of her life. Someone in the back of the room blows his nose, and another girl starts to click her fingernails on the top of her desk, but nobody says anything.
“Anyone?” asks Mr. Phibbs, crestfallen. Here he’s gone through all the trouble to have the shirt made, and none of his fine Honors English students can identify a passage from a book they just studied.
Screw it. I raise my hand.
“Miss Gardner,” says Mr. Phibbs, brightening.
“Yeah, it’s Frankenstein, right? The irony in the quote is that Dr. Frankenstein says it moments before he tries to strangle the monster he created. So much for dignity, I guess.”
“Yes, it is quite ironic,” chuckles Mr. Phibbs. He marks down my ten extra points. I try to look excited by this.
Wendy slips a piece of paper onto my desk. I take a moment to unfold it discreetly.
Smarty-pants, it reads. Guess who’s not here today? She’s drawn a smiley face in the margins. I survey the classroom again. Then I realize that nobody’s trying to glare a hole in the back of my head.
Kay isn’t here.
I smile. It’s going to be a beautiful day.
“I brought the brochure for the veterinary internship that I was telling you about,” Wendy tells me as the bell rings for lunch. She follows me as I dart into the hallway, hurry down the stairs, and book it for my locker. She has to jog to keep up.
“Whoa, are you starving, or what?” she laughs as I fumble with my locker combination. “They’re serving the meatball sub today. That and the baked potato bar are the best things on the menu all year.”
“What?” I’m distracted, scanning the sea of passing faces for a set of familiar green eyes.
“Anyway, the internship is in Montana. It’s amazing, really.”
There. There’s Christian, standing at his locker. No Kay anywhere in sight. He puts on his jacket—black fleece!—and picks up his keys. A jolt of quivery excitement shoots straight to my stomach.
“I’m going out for lunch today,” I say quickly, grabbing my parka.
Wendy’s mouth shapes into a little O of surprise. “You drove?”
“Yeah. Jeffrey roped me into driving him for the next few weeks.”
“Cool,” she says. “We could go to Bubba’s. Tucker used to work there, so they always give me a discount. That’s good eating, trust me. Let me get my coat.”
Christian’s leaving. I don’t have a lot of time.
“Actually, Wen, I have a doctor’s appointment,” I say unsteadily, hoping she won’t ask me which doctor.
“Oh,” she says. I can tell that she’s not sure if she believes me.
“Yeah, and I don’t want to be late.” He’s almost to the door. I shut my locker and turn toward Wendy, trying not to gaze directly into her eyes. I’m a terrible liar. But there’s no time for guilt now. This has to do with my purpose, after all. “I’ll see you after school, okay? I’ve got to go.”
Then I practically sprint for the exit.
I follow Christian’s silver Avalanche out of the parking lot, keeping a couple of cars between us so I don’t appear to be tailing him. He drives to a Pizza Hut a few blocks from school. He climbs down from the cab with a guy I faintly recognize from my English class.
I plan my approach. I’ll pretend like I just stumbled into them.
“Oh hey,” I murmur to myself in the rearview mirror, feigning surprise. “You guys come here, too? Mind if I sit with you?”
And then he’ll look up at me with those swimmable green eyes and say “yeah” in that slightly husky voice, and he’ll scoot to make room for me at the table, and the chair will still be warm from the heat of his body. And I’ll somehow untie my tongue and say something amazingly witty. And he’ll finally see who I really am.
It’s not a foolproof plan, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice.
The place is packed. I locate Christian at the back, squeezed into a round booth with five other people. There’s definitely no room for
me, and no way I can casually wander by without making my intentions pathetically obvious. Foiled again.
I find a tiny table in the front corner across from the arcade. I choose the chair facing away from Christian and his pals so they can’t see my face, although I’m sure they’ll recognize my wild orange hair if they give me more than a cursory glance. I need to come up with a new plan.
As I wait for someone to come take my order, Christian and the other two guys at his table jump up and run to the arcade like little boys out for recess. I suddenly have a clear view of them as they gather around a pinball machine, Christian in the center putting his quarters in. I watch him lean into the machine as he plays, his strong eyebrows pushed together in concentration, his hands flicking rapidly against the sides. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy tee that says, WHAT’S YOUR SIGN? in white letters; then there’s a white stripe across the chest with a black diamond symbol, a blue square, and a green circle. I have no idea what it means.
“Oh, man.” The other guys grunt like a bunch of sympathetic cavemen as Christian apparently lets the ball slip past the paddles, not just once, but twice, three times. Pinball is clearly not his forte.
“Dude, what’s with you today?” says the guy from my English class, Shawn, I think his name is, the one with the unhealthy obsession with his snowboard. “You’re off your game, man. Where are the lightning-fast reflexes?”
Christian doesn’t answer for a minute—he’s still playing. Then he groans and turns away from the machine.
“Hey, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now,” he says.
“Yeah, like making chicken soup for poor widdle Kay,” teases the other guy.
Christian shakes his head. “You mock, but women love soup. More than flowers. Trust me.”
I try to summon the courage to go talk to him. In California it was a well-known fact that I could play a mean game of pinball. I’ll be that cool chick who rocks at video games. That’s loads better than showing up at his table like a lost puppy. It’s my chance.
“Hey,” says Shawn as I’m standing up to go over there. “Isn’t that Bozo?”
Who?
“What?” says Christian. “Who’s Bozo?”