I shrug. “It’s like eating a stick of butter.”
“I like butter.”
“Yeah, well, I like being able to see my feet.” I pick up my fork and shake it at him. “Do you actually enjoy being this irritating?”
“Kinda.” Miguel sighs in a way that makes him seem way older than he is. “Crap. I royally suck at this.”
“At what?”
“At apologizing.”
“This is supposed to be an apology?” My voice rises an octave, and I sound more pissed than I really am.
“Well, this plus my thousands of texts have to count for something.”
“They make you seem like a stalker. One or two texts would have been plenty.”
“A stalker? I am not familiar with that term.” And it’s déjà vu, because he’s used this line before. I roll my eyes, but he pretends not to see. “I’m buying you dessert, and I’m telling you that I’m sorry I overreacted. I care about you, Gabi. I couldn’t stand by and watch someone try to overpower you.”
I nod. I trace the napkin holder with my finger.
“So I’m sorry.” He lowers his eyes.
“I’m all done being mad,” I say softly. “And I never got a chance to say thank you. Not for hitting him, but for getting him off me.”
He looks up suddenly, as if he’s surprised. But not as surprised as me, because that waitress is back with four of her cronies, belting out “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. It is not my birthday. It is six months from my birthday.
I start to explain that this must be a mistake, that they have the wrong table, to turn away the perfectly good piece of brownie à la mode, and then I catch Miguel’s expression. He looks like he’s about to burst.
My cheeks are hot as hell, but I manage to smile at the waitresses, accepting their birthday wishes. When they disappear, I point my finger at Miguel. I’m not even sure what to say.
He grins. “There’s no good reason Garth and Janae should have this prank thing all to themselves. I can pull a prank as good as anyone.”
I shake my head, still searching for the right words.
“Apology accepted?” Miguel asks, curving a fork into the soft brownie. He brings it to my lips. It’s still warm. I accept the bite and it just might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Oh, what the hell,” I tell him, exasperated. “You know it’s on though now, don’t you? You better watch your back.”
“I’m ready,” he says, looking happier than he has all night.
23
LATE DECEMBER
My hands are on the steering wheel, and the music’s pounding. Chloe’s got the flap to the mirror up so she can recheck her eye makeup. Chloe usually gets a ride to school from one of her friends, but they had an argument last week, so she begged a ride from me. I’m glad.
I turn down the volume. “So tell me about your boyfriend,” I begin, thinking how strange it is that I don’t know how to start a conversation with my own sister.
She turns the music back up.
I turn it back down.
“Come on, Chloe!” I scold, sounding way too parental as she turns it up again. “I want to talk to you.”
“Fine.” She turns it back down. “I was just messing with you anyway. That’s what I do to Mom when she corners me in the car to talk.”
“Nice. Well, I didn’t corner you, and you were the one who asked me for a ride, remember?” I flip on my signal to pull into the parking lot.
I turn my head to peek at her and she’s grinning. Wide.
“So spill,” I command.
“Okay. I’m still figuring him out, but he’s a hottie.”
“Define ‘hottie.’” I see a parking spot up ahead, a good one, and I speed up to nab it.
“Yeah, well, your hottie and my hottie are definitely different.” She holds on to the door handle as I accelerate.
“Clearly,” I agree, thinking of the guys she’s dated in the past. “Define your hottie.”
“Great eyes. Quirky sense of humor. Older.”
My antennae perk up. “Define ‘older.’” I ease into the spot. It’s tight, but oh well. We’ll just have to be careful not to open our doors too wide.
“God, who are you? Mom? He’s older. Not like illegal older, just older.”
“Got it.” We are parked now, car still running, but I don’t want to shut off the engine.
“He’s got his own style, kind of grunge. Brilliant underachiever, just like me.”
I laugh. Not because she’s not smart. She is. But because somehow being a “brilliant underachiever” is a compliment in her mind. “Sounds like a winner.” My voice is a teeny-weeny bit sarcastic.
“He is.” Apparently she doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm.
“How’s your boyfriend?” she asks.
“Great.” And it’s true. Ever since my pseudo-birthday à la mode, Miguel and I have been hanging out almost every day. I tell Mom I’m going to study group. She buys it, which makes me feel a little guilty, but whatever.
“Maybe we can double date to prom,” Chloe teases. I turn to look, and she socks me in the arm. “Just kidding. You know I hate school events.” She flashes me a smile. “Okay, okay. Enough with the bonding, Gabi. You’ve done your sisterly duty. I feel loved, okay?” Chloe wraps her arm around my shoulder for an awkward hug. “Turn off the car, already. Haven’t you ever heard of global warming?”
I take the keys out of the ignition. She’s right.
Miguel’s waiting for me by the flagpole, so Chloe rushes off ahead, her left eyebrow arched high. She flips around after she passes him and walks backward for a moment, giving me a thumbs-up. So now she knows Miguel is my boyfriend. I need to figure out hers. I wonder why she’s being so secretive about it.
“Hola, bonita!” He greets me with a smushy peck on the lips. Why does that always make me tingle? But now whenever he kisses me in public, I think of Eric and wonder if he’s nearby. God, I really messed that up.
The warning bell rings, and Miguel gives me a second peck. “Adiós, bonita!” He spins around and walks backward for a moment, nearly crashing into two clueless freshmen, who narrowly escape his path. Then he turns on his heel and books it toward the math wing. I have to laugh.
When I round the corner to my locker, Beth’s leaning up against it. “What’s up?” I ask her, sort of breathless.
“Oh hey,” she says all casual, like she wasn’t just standing here waiting for me.
“Hey.” I set down my backpack. “Can you scootch over while we talk?” I ask. “I just have to grab a book.”
She does.
“So what’s up?” I ask again, while I twist the combination lock.
“I know things have been weird between us.”
A little. No—a lot. I crack the locker door open so that nothing spills out.
She goes on. “But we used to be close, and I just have to tell you that I’m worried about you.” She leans in when she says it, and something about her tone is insulting.
“About me?” I close my locker.
“You’re acting strange, Gabi. You’re changing. Don’t let some stupid puppy love make you forget what matters.” She fiddles with her backpack strap. “Don’t forget who your friends are.”
I’m not forgetting. I’m just changing my definition of “friend.” “You’re still my friend, Beth. I’m not ditching you. Let’s all eat lunch together.”
“Gabi, come on.” She lowers her voice. “You’re hanging out with losers.”
The L word catches me like a fish on a hook. “What is your problem?” I snap.
“What?” Beth turns to me, her eyes wide, like she seriously has no clue what just happened.
“God, Beth. What do you think gives you the right to pass judgment on all kinds of random people? Just ’cause they’re not like you? That somehow makes them less worthy as human beings? What kind of holier-than-thou shit is that?” My voice is too loud. I try to rein it in, but fail miserably. “You�
�re mean. And I’m mean for listening to you all these years and not telling you what I really think.”
Beth’s face turns white, and I worry she might pass out. “Are you serious? Ask anyone on this campus. They’ll tell you how nice I am. You know that.”
I can’t stop myself at this point. All that I’ve wanted to say is just bubbling out like a science experiment gone wrong. “Yeah, but they don’t know you. Not like I do. You think that because you took Bruce under your wing, that somehow gives you license to talk shit about everyone else? What a hypocrite!”
“Bruce is special. You know that.” Beth whispers this all softly, like she doesn’t want anyone to hear.
“Sure, Bruce is special. And so am I. And so is my sister. And my boyfriend. And every person on this freaking campus. We’re all special.” For a brilliant person, she sure is stupid.
“Come on, Gabi. I shouldn’t have to censor with my best friend, should I?”
“What makes us best friends, Beth? Because I’ve sat here and listened to you spout off social commentary for the last four years? Because we cram for tests together? When high school’s over, what are we gonna remember? How we aced a physics test? God, I hope there’s more to me than that.”
Then Beth’s eyes completely well up, and she flees to the girls’ restroom. My eyes burn with tears. Shit.
I jerk my locker open again, this time all the way, and a landslide of loose papers floats down to my feet. I bend to gather them up, and as I stack them, two playing cards slip out of the pile, face down. I turn them over slowly, my heart thumping.
Two queens.
Same as before, black Sharpie scrawled over the images, making the bottom halves of both queens look like ducks. And their hair drawn long and flowy. Just like mine. And Chloe’s. And Beth’s. And eighty percent of the girls at Central.
Printed in neat capitals around the top edge are the words pretty sitting ducks.
I glance around to see if anyone is watching. The halls are empty. Who put these here? Did someone get here before me and slip them in through my locker slats? I try to remember who was near my locker when I walked up. Well, Beth, of course, but was there anyone else I recognized? Miguel and I have this prank war going on, but this isn’t prank material. It’s heart-attack material. I stand there, leaning against the side of my locker, chewing the heck out of my lip.
The tardy bell rings, scolding me.
I drop the cards in my backpack and stand there with my hand on the door, frozen.
I can’t remember which book I need for class.
The helpline office is looking more like a college dorm room every week. We all keep adding to it—our own decorations, posters, our bracelet peace sign, and so on. Janae’s on a call. She’s got this reflection thing down and she sounds like a pro. She ends the call by giving some referrals for low-fee counseling centers. The girl is a natural.
Miguel jams out for a bathroom break. Shortly after, the phone rings again. Janae scoots away from it, and I pick up. “Helpline, this is Gina.” I write down the name Gina at the top of the page.
“Gina.” The voice is fake gruff, like a teenager trying to talk like a man. Or disguise his voice. “Is that your real name?”
This catches me off guard. I fumble around for an answer. “I’m here to listen.”
“Gina, were you on campus for the lockdown?”
I don’t see any harm in answering this one. “I was.”
“Where were you?”
I don’t like the way this is going. I try to shift directions. “What exactly did you want to talk about tonight?”
“I want to talk about how scared you were. Were you scared enough to piss your pants?”
Okay, so now this totally freaks me out. Because I did, you know. Piss my pants. Just a little, but still. “Why do you want to talk about that day?”
“Because I need to know if it worked.”
“What?” My voice is shrill.
“Did it have the effect I wanted?”
Omigod. I am talking to the bomber. Or someone pretending to be him. Help! I write to Janae. It’s HIM. Use RAPP to call the police. Can we have this call traced?
Janae writes back with a question mark.
I ask, “What do you mean?” I think immediately of the two playing cards I found this morning, still sitting in my backpack.
“I think you know,” the voice speaks quietly. “And I don’t think your name is Gina. Although it just might start with a G. Funny thing with aliases. People usually pick a name that has the same first letter as their real name.”
My mouth dries. Does he know who I am? “What made you decide to call tonight?” I’m stalling.
“Your voice is familiar,” he says.
“I just have one of those voices.” If he knows me, do I know him? “Let’s get back to talking about what made you decide to call tonight.” I point at the sentence I wrote on my paper, and I nudge Janae. I need her to call the police.
“I told you. I need to know if it worked.” He pauses. “Can I stop now? Or do I need Phase Two?”
“Phase Two?” I ask. Janae leaves my side and I hear her picking up the RAPP line.
“The second act. I have it all planned out. The question is, can you stop me?” Now he laughs, sarcastic. “You are a helpline, aren’t you? Can’t you help me?”
“You need to talk to someone about what’s going on.” Garth is scribbling on my paper, wanting more info. I ignore it.
“I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you.”
“No, I mean, a professional.”
“What I need to do is hang up the phone.”
“No, wait.” I plead.
“I know your tricks, and I’m smarter than you. I’m smarter than everyone.” Then he clicks off. And I am stuck with two thoughts in my mind. The first—does he really know who I am? He called my bluff about my name. He recognized my voice. The second—Phase Two?
Janae whispers loudly, “Did he hang up? I don’t have anyone on the line yet.”
“Never mind,” I tell her. “He’ll call again and we’ll be ready.”
Stranger’s Manifesto
Entry 14
Do you remember
Pressing your nose up
Against the toy-store window?
Wanting something so bad
You’d swear your heart was about to
Shatter into a zillion pieces
Just from the sheer pain of it?
And everywhere you looked,
Other kids had just the thing you wanted.
You watched, you craved, you seethed with the wanting.
You ached with the unfairness of it all.
I see it happening around me still.
People laughing. Kissing. Playing around.
And here I am, wanting that for myself.
Too bad it’s no longer simply toys I want.
What I want is a little harder to come by
Than an overpriced toy-store buy.
In my world, I’ve learned that
No amount of pretty-pleasing
Does a damn thing.
That’s why I’ve taken the situation
Into my own hands.
24
EARLY JANUARY
I wait until everyone’s asleep except for Dad. I pad down the stairs quietly, my pajama bottoms soft against my legs. He’s sneaking a massive bowl of ice cream from the carton he hid in the back corner of the freezer behind the frozen chicken that’s been sitting in there so long it’s crusted with ice.
“A little hungry?” I tease.
He startles, then smiles a guilty smile and holds out the spoon. “Want a bite?”
“Okay.” I take it from him, and for a second it feels like we’re doing something really taboo, like sneaking a smoke. It makes me want to laugh. I want to ask him how a man who runs an entire police investigation has to sneak a bowl of pistachio ice cream in his own kitchen. But I don’t. Instead I hold out the two sitting-duck cards.
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His face changes instantaneously. He sets down the spoon. “Where did you get these?”
I lie. I don’t know why. Something about the way he asks me makes me wish I hadn’t brought them. “In the school parking lot.”
“Where in the parking lot?” He’s in interrogation mode, and now I fumble, afraid of getting caught up in my lie and not sure why I’m lying in the first place.
“On the ground. I just picked them up.”
He turns them in his hands, holding only the edges, and I notice right away how clean they are. They don’t look like they’d been dropping in a parking lot. Does he know I’m lying?
“Did you show them to anyone?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he says, seeming relieved. “Thank you for bringing them to me. I’ll see if there are any fingerprints on them besides yours.”
He turns and heads to his office, leaving his bowl of ice cream on the counter to melt.
Chloe and I veg on the couch. She is painting her nails black. They were purple yesterday. I’m trying to cram for physics, but her T-shirt of the day keeps distracting me. Light yellow with two half-eaten chocolate Easter bunnies facing each other. The bunny with the bite out of his rear says, “My butt hurts.” The other bunny has the bite taken out of his ears. He says, “What?” Every time I look at it, I want to laugh.
“Don’t you ever crack a book?” I grab the polish, wondering if I can pull off black nails.
“Not if I can help it,” Chloe says. “How ’bout you just do my homework for me? I’ll let you borrow my ‘Smile if you’re not wearing undies’ shirt.”
“Tempting.” I spread the polish along the toenail, but the black clumps in the corners.
“Here,” She takes the nail polish from me. “I’ll fix your nails and you do my math.”
“Even more tempting. Go find your math book.”
An hour later, Chloe holds scissors up to my forehead. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” Painting my nails somehow led to cutting my hair.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do it either. I must have completely lost my mind.”
She wets my hair and combs it straight, then pulls it out between two fingers, measuring it against itself. “I won’t go that short. That way even if I screw up, there’ll be room for a professional to even things out.”
Are You Still There Page 12