God, I wish Mr. Lawrence understood the unbearable irony. My heart flutters when I hear Dylan’s name pass over my teacher’s lips. His opinion is the only one that matters to me, and I’m dying to hear his response, though a part of me feels like I already know the answer.
“I think it’s stupid.”
Well, there you have it, my mind relays to my heart. He thinks it’s stupid. Does that mean that he thinks my feelings for him are stupid, too? No, the voice in my head answers. He thinks it’s selfish.
“But why?” I ask, all of a sudden overcome with a mixture of sadness and rage, my mind replaying the scene from the mall again. He cuts his eyes toward me, warning me not to overstep my bounds, but I push the matter anyway. “What makes you think that?”
“Because he’s in a lose-lose situation from the moment he walks into her life. No matter which side he chooses, he’s going to have to sacrifice something. He’ll lose a sister—and a family—if he chooses to love her romantically. He’ll lose a partner if he chooses to ignore his feelings for her. It’s an inescapable catch-22.”
“Good point, Mr. McAndrews.”
The bell rings before I can dispute his words, but part of what he says stays with me well into my next class. It’s an inescapable catch-22. I’m dying to know whether Dylan thinks of me in that same way: if he chooses me, he’ll lose my family, and if he chooses my family, he’ll lose me. Maybe he really did like me, but was in too sticky a situation to follow his heart. Maybe he just chose the option that would cause the least damage for him, even if it meant hurting me in the process. I guess I’ll never know.
* * *
Apparently, when you make the dance team at Cedar Pointe High, you also sign up for torturous after-school running sessions on the track with Karmin. We start off every practice with a one-mile run to “build stamina” and get our legs warmed up, but, if you ask me, I think it does more wearing out than warming up.
“Almost there, girls. Push it!” she screams into the wind, leading the pack. From behind, she doesn’t appear out of breath or even look like she’s breaking a sweat in the eighty-five-degree heat—which, I’m sure, frustrates every girl on our team. We’re drenched in sweat from head to toe, our cheeks are rosy with heat exhaustion, and we can hardly breathe, let alone hold a conversation, when she finally calls time. “Five-minute water break and then we’re heading inside to start practice.”
Taking a seat on the grass, I watch her long, thin legs carry her petite-yet-optimally-curvy frame to the water fountain. Confidence exudes from every inch of her body. I pull at the grass beneath me, imagining how different I would be if I had her life. For starters, I’d have a boyfriend—cute and popular—and a bunch of fabulous friends to surround myself with. I’d never have to eat lunch by myself. There would always be a spot ready to clear for me at the good lunch tables. Life would be so much glossier.
“So, Emma,” Karmin says, plopping down beside me as I lie back, closing my eyes, “what’s been going on with you and Dylan?”
My eyes snap open, wide like a doe’s right after it sees the headlights of a car coming its way. Oh, God, she knows! How could she have found out? “W-w-what do you mean? There—there’s nothing ‘going on’ with us.”
She fans at her tan cheeks, the heat from outside finally starting to affect her. “You sure?” As far as you are concerned, very sure. “You guys were so close at the beginning of the year, and now, you’re … well … not. What happened?”
I happened, that’s what. “I’m not sure. Now that he has his own car and has made a few friends in art club, I guess he doesn’t need me anymore or something.”
“Hmm. That kinda sucks,” is all she says, pulling at the grass now, too. She doesn’t push the matter, and I realize that she isn’t trying to pry, but rather just keep the conversation flowing. “So, have you heard that the theme for homecoming is ‘An Evening in Paris’?”
“I had not, but thanks for letting me know.” Truth be told, I don’t really care. I’m not going anyway.
“Yeah. I heard they’re going to make a balloon Eiffel Tower in the center of the gym and everything. I’m so excited!” She squeals, I guess thinking about how much fun it’s going to be, but I can’t feign the same enthusiasm. “Sam and I are going together, as usual. Are you going with anyone special?”
“Nope. I don’t really do homecoming dances. Or … any dance, really.”
“But why?”
“It’s just not my scene. Watching girls grind up on their dates to music that I don’t really listen to doesn’t exactly sound like a fun time.”
“It’s all about the people you surround yourself with. I’m telling you, going with your crew is key to having a good time.” Mulling it over for a moment, I almost consider asking her if I can be in her “crew,” but on second thought, that sounds a little lame. “I know you don’t have a date … yet … but please tell me you’re at least thinking of going.”
“Sorry,” I say running my fingers over my damp hair. “I’ve gone three years without attending a homecoming dance. What’s one more?”
She pouts and gives me a green-eyed puppy-dog stare.
“My answer is still no.”
“Why? Is this about not having a date?”
“No. I just—”
“Because if it is, I know plenty of guys who’d be happy to accompany you. There’s Paulie Guzman, Jason Kingsford, Daxton Waters. I mean, the list goes on and on. All it’ll take is one phone call, and you can have a date like that.” She snaps her fingers in front of my face. I want to ask her how she knows that all of these guys are dateless right now, but I know that’ll just make it sound as if I’m interested, which won’t help my case.
“No, thanks.”
One thing I admire about Karmin is her stubborn, never-gonna-give-up attitude. She doesn’t take no for an answer: “You sure? Like I said, all it takes is one phone call.”
“I’m sure. I don’t even know who those guys are, and besides, if I wanted to go—I’m not saying that I do, but if I wanted to go—there’d only be one person worth going with.”
“Ohh, I get it,” she says, raising an eyebrow at me. “You like someone, don’t you?”
My first thought is to lie, but then I figure, what’s the harm in admitting that I have a crush? As long as I don’t say Dylan’s name, my feelings for him are still under wraps. “Maybe.”
I thought her squealing was obnoxious before, but when she rolls onto her back, giggling and screaming like a five-year-old who’s just learned that she’s going to Disneyland, we’ve reached a whole new level of crazy. “Spill everything.”
“There’s nothing to ‘spill.’ He’s a guy, and I like him … and that’s about it.”
“What’s his name?” She’s so close that I can see the microscopic gold specks around the edges of her irises.
I shake my head. “Not going to tell you. Knowing you, you might track him down and threaten to key his car if he doesn’t go with me.”
“As if.” She laughs guiltily. “I’d threaten him with a lot more than just that.”
“Which is exactly why I’m not telling you his name. You’d scare him away.” I push her shoulder playfully, and she lets out another giggle.
“It’d be for a good reason, though. I mean, you’re freaking gorgeous.”
“Eh. If you say so.”
“Oh, I know so. You could use a little extra mascara here and there, but gorgeous nonetheless. Blue eyes, blond hair, smooth skin, hot body. God, I’d kill for your looks.”
Funny, I’d kill for yours. I’m not sure if she’s trying to flatter me so I’ll open up more, but I don’t fall for it. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll at least think about going to the dance.”
“Yay!” She slaps her hands around my shoulders and squeezes me until I can no longer breathe, her sleek brown ponytail slapping me in the face. “So does this mean that you’ll go dress shopping with me, too? My mom put my brother in charge of my shopping
budget, so he has to tag along”—she mimes sticking her finger down her throat as if the thought of her brother tagging along makes her want to puke—“but I’m going to need a friend’s honest-to-God opinion if I’m going to buy a dress that’ll outdo that stunning ruby two-piece that I wore last year.”
I wasn’t at the dance to see the gown in person, but I remember seeing pictures. Her dress exposed her flawlessly flat stomach, and it fit so well with the Arabian Nights theme that they featured her in several photos on the Homecoming Dance page in the yearbook.
“Okay. I’m in.”
“Perfect! It’s a date,” she says, running off to resume practice, leaving me there with a clownish smile plastered to my face. God, it feels good to finally be a part of something.
chapter 9
BECAUSE WUTHERING HEIGHTS is the only overlap in the regular and AP English syllabi, Mr. Lawrence has been getting us through it slowly, I guess to buy the school more time to find a replacement for Ms. Harper. So even though I want to be invested in his review of chapter eleven—yeah, I know, it’s been a month and we’re only on chapter eleven—my mind is elsewhere, searching for a way to help Dylan shake off the two jackasses. For the past couple of days, they’ve been looking for Dylan before fifth period and harassing him for no reason. Dylan’s not a fighter, so he takes every blow without retaliating. He ended up skipping class today to hang out in the nurse’s office—he’s milking his “upset stomach” excuse for all it’s worth—and I know he probably wants me to stay out of it, but I can’t.
Helping him should be the last thing on my mind, given how reckless he can be with me, but I feel morally obligated to do it. Not as the girl who likes him, but as the girl who will eventually become his sister.
Fourth period chemistry doesn’t last long enough, though, because when the bell rings for lunch, I still haven’t found a way to get Dylan out of this.
“Who pissed in your cereal this morning?” Karmin asks as she approaches the lunch table where I’ve settled in.
“Huh?”
“You’re scooting your peas around your plate, and you have that whole resting bitch face thing going on, too. So clearly, something is wrong. Now, out with it.” Karmin places her tray of shepherd’s pie and corn down next to mine, giving me time to admire it. The portions on her plate look significantly bigger than what I have on mine, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s in with the cafeteria ladies, too. She seems to have everyone at this school wrapped around her French-tipped finger.
“Just deep in thought is all.”
“Hopefully thinking up ways to make our routine better. Our first game is this Friday, and if things aren’t perfectly perfect, I may lose my mind.”
“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth.
I’m a little worried about Karmin; it seems that up to this point, her main focus has been on dance. And I’m almost certain that she thinks she will be a famous dancer one day, too. Now, I’m not trying to kill her dreams, but I think she has a better chance of getting struck by lightning than achieving that. But who am I to tell her so? We’re barely friends. She probably wouldn’t even know my name if I hadn’t wowed her at the CPD benefit last year.
“Karmin, I’ve got some bad news,” a brown-skinned girl with thick, curly hair—Peyton from the dance team—says after putting a folded-up turquoise shirt on the table. “I’m really, really, REALLY sorry, but I can’t work at your family’s sub shop anymore. I love working there, and your mom is the coolest boss ever, but it’s interfering with Bible study, and if I miss one more time, my parents are going to flip the freak out.”
I’m not sure what I find more annoying: her tedious string of reallys, or her attempt to fake curse.
“Okay, Peyton. No big deal. I’ll call my mom and tell her later. Thanks for letting me know.” Karmin picks up her fork and starts eating. She’s obviously done with the conversation, but Peyton, who’s still standing at attention at our lunch table, isn’t.
“And I know I’m scheduled to work tonight, but again, I can’t miss. My dad’s the pastor, and apparently it looks bad if I don’t show up to…”
I zone out. I’ve only known Peyton for a couple of weeks, but I know that once she gets started on her church life, we might as well take a seat, because she can go on and on and on.
“Peyton.” Karmin stops her after a minute or so. “It’s fine. I got it. I’ll call my mom to let her know.” She waits until Peyton leaves to say, “It’s great that she loves Jesus, but she needs to chill with all of that.” I can’t help but wonder if she has any secret frustrations about me.
While my head is still spinning from Peyton’s mini sermon, I see the two boys from the hallway fling open the cafeteria doors. I dart my eyes toward the table in the far corner, where the art kids usually eat; Dylan is in a conversation with someone and hasn’t noticed them walking his way yet.
“Can you postpone that call to your mom for like a minute? I’ve got an idea,” I say, picking up the T-shirt. I only have a small window of time to put my plan into action, but if I can make this work, I’ll kill three birds with one stone—two of them being the brutes nagging Dylan for being a “freeloader,” and the other problem encroaching on the Ortega family with Peyton deciding to quit and leave them shorthanded tonight.
“Hey, Dylan,” I manage to get out as I hurry across the cafeteria to him. “I think Mom put your work shirt in my dance bag by mistake. Here you go.” Before he can say anything, I speak again, this time so only he can hear me. “I got you a job at Karmin’s family’s restaurant. If you’re ever going to get me a replacement copy of Wuthering Heights, you’re going to need a job to make some money.” I wink, projecting confidence to mask my urgency as I see the two bullies move closer. They might lay off him if they hear that he as a job now and a little more local cred, but that depends on whether or not Dylan wants the job. “You have ten seconds to tell me if you want the job or not before I give up on this plan. So what do you say?”
“I’ll take it.”
“Perfect.” I slide the shirt across the table to him and prance back to my seat, waving at the two boys, who respond with questioning eyes.
“What was that about?” Karmin asks mid-bite, when I reclaim my seat next to her.
“Nothing. Just tell your mom to add Dylan McAndrews to the payroll. You guys just hired him.”
* * *
“Looks good to me,” Denise, our dance team coach, says when we finish practicing the routine she taught us. She’s a spunky little dancing powerhouse with gorgeous brown eyes, full lips—compliments of her Mediterranean background, I’m sure—and long red-velvet-cake-colored hair that she always pulls into a messy bun before practice begins. Her voice makes up for her lack of height, though; it’s so commanding that sometimes I think I’m at military boot camp, instead of dance practice.
“Just good? We don’t want to be ‘good.’ We want to be great,” Karmin says as she pulls herself off the ground. “I think we need something extra to show off how far we’ve come. Homecoming is around the corner, and I want to blow everyone away. I want it to be a teaser of what we’re gonna do when we get to competition season.”
“You’re right,” Coach Denise says after a few minutes. She’s very young and has the demeanor of a levelheaded coach, but I can tell she’s easily influenced by Karmin; whenever Karmin questions Denise’s ideas, she always second-guesses herself and changes her mind. Then again, maybe she’s just trying to find her footing. After all, this is her first year at Cedar Pointe. “Anyone have something that they’re dying to add to the dance?”
“Something that says, ‘Look at us, we’re hot shit’—I mean ‘stuff,’” Karmin corrects quickly; she knows that she’s not supposed to curse in front of the faculty. “Any ideas, anyone?”
I’ve never been one to publicly contribute ideas; I’m more of a follower than a leader. Something about stepping into that spotlight scares the crap out of me. If you make a mistake, people blame you for po
or judgment; if your followers make a mistake, they still blame you, but for poor leadership skills. Basically, you’re screwed either way.
Still, the need to contribute an idea right now gnaws at my insides. Just do it. What’s the worst that can happen? I raise my hand slowly, and when Coach Denise calls on me, I have to take a breath before I speak to calm my nerves. “How about we put emphasis on our turns and leaps by doing side aerials after three à la seconde turns? One group goes to the right, one to the left, and then the spotlight dancers can come up the middle.”
The girls all tilt their heads to the side as if they are imagining how the dance steps will play out in the routine. I get nervous the longer they stay silent, and when Coach Denise finally speaks, I jump.
“Love that idea. Now, that is the kind of innovation I’m looking for in you girls. Take notes, because I sure am.” She dismisses us, but some of the girls stick around to practice the moves with my changes in them.
“I knew you were a good pick for the team.” Karmin smiles when we finally exit the gym. “You’re a natural.”
“Well, I did take a couple years of tap, jazz, and ballet back in the day at CPD.” I shrug. “Some things you just never forget how to do.” As I’m explaining, I see her wave to a guy across the parking lot. “Who’s that?”
“That’s just my twin brother. You know, the one who’s coming dress shopping with us.”
“And he’s on the baseball team?”
“Yep. Outfielder, if I remember correctly. But he’s not important right now. Our routine is.” As she continues to rave on and on about the dance team and how excited she is for our first game appearance and the upcoming competition season, I can’t help gazing over at her brother.
I see him toss his bag over his shoulder and nod goodbye to his friends on the field. For someone who’s not important, he sure is cute. Out of fear of letting this slip to Karmin, I part ways with her and head for my car.
After getting in and strapping on my seat belt, I put my key in the ignition and turn. Nothing. Maybe I did it wrong. I take out the key, then put it back in and turn. Nothing again. Every time my mom used to have car troubles, she would get out and go look under the hood, so I do the same. I open the hood and put my hands on my hips. What am I supposed to do now?
Wrong in All the Right Ways Page 9