One of the Guys

by Lisa Aldin

  Ouch. I ignore the pit in my stomach—they’re freshmen girls for crying out loud—and grab my skirt from the lawn. I climb back into my car and settle in behind the wheel. Amy was mistaken. Confused. Loch wouldn’t bail out on a Champ search like this. Definitely not without telling me. Maybe he thought we were supposed to meet at the lake. Maybe he’s there now. I check my phone. No texts. No calls. No big deal. Loch isn’t attached to his phone.

  I hate feeling like this—so out of control. I pull out of the driveway and head toward the lake, the windows rolled down, trying to keep calm. I imagine the guys waiting for me on the dock, laughing, ready to start a new hunt. Bags full of junk food beside them. I bet they’re wondering where the heck I am.

  But when I arrive, Ollie’s pontoon boat is empty, gently bobbing in the water. I scratch the back of my neck as I walk along the dock and study the bordering mountains. After I sit down and pull out my phone, I send a group text: Where are you guys? Champ awaits…

  I set the phone beside me, my knees bouncing, unable to shake away this horrible feeling of abandonment. It grows in my chest like a balloon. Seconds later, my phone vibrates. One. Two. Three times.

  The first, a text from Cowboy: KATIE MORRIS TALKED TO ME TODAY.

  The second, a text from Ollie: A hunt? Today? I can’t make it.

  The third, a text from Loch: I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you that I’m working tonight. Will explain later. Rain check? How was your first day, Winston Girl?

  They aren’t coming.

  They forgot.

  ALL THREE FORGOT.

  I scroll through my saved text messages. Yep. There it is. I’m not crazy. We planned this.

  How could they just forget?

  I collapse face-down on my bed. An annoyed meow comes from my pillow. I look up to encounter Tom Brady the cat. I’ve clearly disturbed his slumber. He glares at me and then begins to lick his black fur.

  “So sorry to interrupt,” I say.

  Like a bad sofa, Tom Brady came along with the stepfather a year ago. Brian’s a huge New England Patriots fan, hence the cat’s horrid name. Turns out, Tom Brady the cat also doubles as an alarm clock. Every morning at 7 AM, he bites the crap out of my hand until I get out of bed and feed him.

  I shower and zone out in front of my laptop for about an hour. I try to forget about the stressful first day at Winston. I try to forget how my friends abandoned me and the feeling that they’re slipping away. That’s the thing though. Unlike them, I don’t forget.

  I shut off the lights, crawl under my covers, and unload panicked sobs into my cat hair-covered pillow.

  four

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I SEND about one hundred text messages trying to organize another hunt. On the days Loch can go, Ollie has to help his older brother, Jason, rearrange the basement. On the days Cowboy doesn’t have a test to study for, Loch is working. It seems impossible to get the four of us together in one place anymore. Are they avoiding me on purpose?

  At least today is Friday. Oh, wait. Friday means it’s time to share my feelings with total strangers. Super.

  “I think we should hear from Tonya Valentine next.” Mrs. Kemper folds her hands over her knees, turning her attention to me, but my mind is back at Burlington High.

  The guys see each other every day—in the halls, in class, at lunch. They don’t have to send a million texts or whatever to communicate. They are together. I want to be with them. Technically, Winston is not a punishment. That’s what Mom said when she and Brian sat me down to inform me of my new educational pathway. I should be grateful and happy to be here. I feel like a total jerk because I’m not.

  “Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper raises her voice, snapping me back to reality.

  I shift my weight, regretting the basketball shorts again, but I’m having a hard time parting with them. “My name is Toni, actually. Hey.”

  The girls study me like I’m something they might be tested on later. The library smells like cinnamon, and comfortable arm chairs form what I’ve dubbed the Circle of Feelings. Beautiful hunter-green walls surround us as we pour our hearts out. Mazes of books that look older than Earth listen to each confession. The snapping fireplace fills awkward silences, which, until now, have been few.

  As everyone stares, I get a wicked itch on my left butt cheek.

  “Tell us a little bit about your background,” Mrs. Kemper says, pushing for more.

  “I’m from Shelburne.” I shift my weight again, hoping that might extinguish the itch. “I used to go to Burlington High. My stepfather wanted to send me here. So. Yeah. Here I am.”

  I don’t know what else to say, other than to express the need to scratch my butt, and that’s probably unacceptable here.

  “Does anyone have a question for Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper scans the group.

  The red-haired girl from my Business Mathematics class, whose name I learned this morning is Shauna Hamilton, raises her hand and asks, “Is your last name really Valentine?”

  “Um, yeah.” What an odd question. Why would I make something like that up?

  “That’s so romantic.” She sighs and crosses her ankles.

  Shauna started off the group session today by proclaiming her love for a boy named Ryan, who goes to boarding school in Connecticut. Ryan has blue eyes. Ryan likes poetry. Ryan smells like fresh linens. That’s already more than I care to know about Ryan.

  I recognize a few other girls from my classes. The girl with the black bob is in my French class. Her name is Lemon, which is easy to remember because, well, I don’t hear that name every day. Emma Elizabeth Swanson, the only girl before now who has spoken to me all week, is sitting directly across from me, staring at her shoes, a sour expression on her face. She’s stayed silent the whole time.

  I wonder what I must look like to these pretty, delicate, poised girls. I itch my knee and lean forward, back aching. I feel beaten down after another long day, and the throbbing behind my eyes won’t go away. There’s just so much freaking work. I’m worried I won’t be able to keep up with it all.

  “A lady should always cross her ankles or legs,” Mrs. Kemper says with a kind smile.

  I cross my ankles, surprised that no one laughs at me. Everyone must be accustomed to posture-corrections, not that any of them need it.

  When the group session ends, I run to the bathroom and scratch my butt in peace. I splash water on my face for a pick-me-up and then slip my cell phone from my sock. My fingers hesitate on the keys as I debate whether or not to text Loch.

  I need more than a text. I need to hear his voice. I need to feel his stable presence beside me as I complain about the demanding expectations of Winston Academy. I need to look him in the eye when I tell him that I miss our hunts, our former lives, which are evaporating so quickly, and that I still believe, will always believe, that Champ lives in Lake Champlain, waiting to be discovered by us.

  I forgot that Loch isn’t home. He’s working. So my after-school routine consists of homework and sulking. After an hour of calculus, my brain feels like it might explode so I watch some Family Guy reruns on my laptop and chow down on Snickers ice cream. But I’m so stressed out that I don’t laugh once.

  “What’re you doing?” Mom asks, leaning in the doorway. “Why aren’t you out with the guys?”

  “Should I be climbing trees or rock-skipping or something?” I set the empty ice cream bowl on my night stand, next to a forgotten pizza plate that’s starting to smell.

  “It’ll get easier.” Mom plops down beside me on my bed. There’s a ketchup stain on the collar of her gray T-shirt that’s been there forever. “Change can be good.”

  I scoff. “Change sucks.”

  “Why don’t we go grab a coffee?” she asks, brightening. “My treat.”

  “You’re my mother. You’re legally obligated to pay for me until March 1.”

  “Comb your hair, smart ass.” She slaps my shoulder. “You’re leaving this room.”

  A few minutes later, we’re driving down Shelb
urne Road on our way to Dunkin’ Donuts. My mom car-dances to an overplayed rap song. I try to ignore this by staring out the window, but I’m offered only crisp, green lawns and places that remind me of my friends. The bowling alley. The drug store. The movie theater.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I switch the radio to the country station. The beautiful sound of Tim McGraw fills the space.

  “I was wondering how long that would take,” Mom says, grinning.

  I wonder if this entire trip is some kind of test. “What’s the point of this outing?”

  “I refuse to let you drop into a hole,” Mom replies cheerfully. “You’ve sulked all week. I allowed that. Today, you move on. And smile.”

  “Ladies don’t smile,” I grumble. “Ladies cross their ankles.”

  Mom frowns as we pull into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. She cuts the engine, unclasps her seatbelt, and turns to me. “Give me the word then,” she says. “One word. And I’ll put you back in Burlington.”

  For a moment, a flutter of excitement, but this has to be a trick. I ask, “Are you serious?”

  She nods, pieces of her curly auburn hair breaking free from her ponytail. The older I get, the more I realize how much our looks differ. Her skin is flushed with colorful freckles while mine is pale and smooth. Her hair kinks into curls while mine is a sleek black. Her eyes? Dark brown, chocolatey. Mine? Light gray, the color of a darkening sky. Everyone says I look like my dad.

  “I want to go back to Burlington,” I say. I hold my breath. Please. Say yes. Set everything right again.

  “Ugh! I can’t let you do that, Toni.” She shakes her head, smiling. Ha. I knew it was a trick, but I’m still disappointed. A simple yes would’ve solved everything. “Winston is an amazing opportunity for you. Burlington was stunting your growth.”

  Annoying. I don’t need to grow. I think I’m good as I am, thanks.

  Inside, we each order an iced latte—I inherited my mother’s taste in all things beverage—and choose a table by the window. I press my head against the glass and sigh dramatically.

  “How did group go today?” she asks.

  Oh, that group and sharing feelings thing. My nightmare. “I’ve been transformed into a woman who eloquently expresses her feelings,” I say. “I’m cured.”

  “We’re not trying to cure you…” Mom stops and takes a break from trying to raise my mood as she sips her latte in silence.

  When a red VW Bug arrives in the parking lot, I sit up a little straighter. My spirits raise. The Bug belongs to Ollie. I wonder if the guys have come looking for me.

  “Wouldn’t you know it. Your gentlemen have arrived.” Mom sounds less than thrilled. “Which reminds me. Have you met any nice girls at school? It couldn’t hurt to have at least one female friend.”

  I’m not really listening. I’m watching Ollie and Cowboy climb out of the Bug, joking around, happy as can be. Ollie puts Cowboy in a headlock. Cowboy wiggles to get free with no success, so he stomps on Ollie’s foot. Ollie howls, laughing as he grabs his neon orange sneaker. Cowboy punches Ollie in the shoulder.

  I chuckle. Those guys. Okay. So now they should march right in here to apologize for flaking out lately. All will be back to normal again. But they don’t even look my way. As they walk toward the pizza place a few doors down, I tap on the glass, confused and a little panicky. I feel pathetic, but I don’t care. I need them to notice me. Finally, they spin around and spot me.

  Ollie walks right up to the window, lifts his shirt, and presses his stomach against the glass, shouting, “McRib!”

  And then he starts sliding down, his belly fat screeching against the glass. Mom almost chokes on her latte. I don’t laugh. I refuse to laugh. I’m mad at them for forgetting me.

  Ollie beats the glass with his fists.

  “Hey! Stop that!” The strung-out man behind the counter shouts. “I’ll call the cops, you punks!”

  Ollie skips to the door, and Cowboy trails behind. I sip my latte, masking my hurt. What are they doing here? Without me?

  “McRib! What’s up?” Ollie announces as the door swings shut behind him.

  “Luke,” Mom says to Ollie and then nods at Cowboy. “Justin.”

  Ollie nods back. “Mrs. McRib.”

  Mom leans back. “Please don’t call me that. Aren’t you all a little old for nicknames?”

  “You don’t mess with tradition,” Cowboy says.

  “Why does my sweet, lovely daughter have to be named after a sandwich?” Mom asks. “Why can’t you call her Princess? Or Daisy? I don’t know. Something cute.”

  “Mom,” I protest. “Do. Not. Give. Them. Any. Ideas.”

  Ollie places his palms flat on the table and says in a low voice, “Your daughter ate ten McRibs in one sitting, Mrs. McRib. She is a bad-ass.”

  “Not my finest moment, Ollie.” I press my lips together, annoyed. My stomach aches just thinking about those sandwiches.

  “Oh, good. You’re acknowledging my presence again.” Ollie sweeps a hand through his dark curls, his signature just-rolled-out-of-the-sack look. In reality, he spends an hour in front of the mirror every morning to achieve such an artful hairstyle. His hair looks longer than normal, wisps of curls flirting with his narrow forehead, a sign we haven’t been seeing each other as often.

  Cowboy shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pretends to be studying the menu. He chomps on a toothpick, squints, and then fidgets with the cuffs of his flannel button-down.

  Why does seeing them feel so weird?

  After the mooning incident, everything changed so quickly. One minute, I was a Burlington High senior. The next, I was accepted into Winston and swept into a different world. I hung out with Loch on his nights off, texted with everyone, but this run-in with Ollie and Cowboy feels so awkward, like I’m seeing them after a year apart or something. Maybe because Loch is missing from the equation.

  Or maybe for a different reason altogether. Maybe we’re growing apart.

  Cowboy’s cheeks appear fuller, more flushed, his blue eyes fresh and bright. I wonder if I look different to them, too. Or maybe this is all just my imagination.

  Yet I feel that little empty space in the middle of my chest. A space growing wider every second, every day.

  I must look uncomfortable because Mom gives me a strange look, clears her throat, and stands. “You know,” she says. “I have to make a few calls. Be right back.”

  She goes outside and pretends to dial a number on her cell phone, stealing glances at me. Yes, she would like for me to collect at least one friend of the female variety, but she knows how much the guys mean to me. Despite her distaste for the old nicknames, Mom approves of the boys. They were beyond amazing to me, and her, when Dad died. I was fifteen when he had his accident. I needed my friends then, and they didn’t fail me.

  Ollie plops down across from me and asks, “What’s your problem, McRib?”

  My latte is empty, but I continue to sip through the straw.

  “You’re pissed,” Cowboy says. He pulls up a chair beside me, the metal legs squeaking against the tile, and leans his elbows on the table.

  “You guys forgot about the hunt,” I say. “Like it was no big deal.”

  Ollie frowns and rubs the back of his neck. “My parents were mad about what happened with Principal Rogers, Toni. I can’t go running off doing whatever I want. I’m in parental suck-up mode.”

  “I’m sorry.” My throat tightens. A rush of guilt hits me.

  We should’ve just gone home that night. Oh, the irony. I’d been trying so hard to hold us together for a few more hours, and now it feels like we’re headed in different directions.

  “You didn’t make me do it,” Ollie says, sighing. “But I have to come up with tuition for this snowboarding camp I want to try out next summer. The parents insist I pay for half now. Something about responsibility, blah, blah, blah…”

  “Snowboarding camp?” This is the first time I’m hearing about this.

  Ollie nods.
“Not sure it’ll even happen anyway. It’s pretty expensive.”

  “And I’m sorry about missing the hunt, McRib. I got distracted,” Cowboy says. “Katie Morris. She spoke to me.”

  Ollie pulls the sleeves of his long blue T-shirt over his hands. “He could barely function after that,” he says, laughing.

  I grin, tasting a hint of the old times again. Maybe he’s forgiven me for the prank. “What’d she say?”

  “Excuse me.” Cowboy sighs.

  I wait for more, but that appears to be it. I shrug. “Well. That’s a start.”

  “She bumped into me.” Cowboy blushes. “It was awesome.”

  Ollie jumps out of his seat. “Anyway. Hope that clears stuff up. I’m starving! Later, McRib.”

  “Wait. Where you going?” Just when things feel comfortable again, they’re leaving. I stand up so fast my chair tips back, hitting the floor with a loud clank. As I scramble to turn the chair upright, the man behind the counter gives me a dirty look.

  “Just getting some pizza,” Ollie replies.

  Cowboy stands, shifting his weight from foot to foot, acting like he wants to say something else to me. I wait for an invitation to join them. Instead, Cowboy nods goodbye, and I watch them leave. They joke around outside and wave goodbye to Mom, laughing and hollering all the way to the pizza place two doors down.

  I feel like Loch’s little sister. The old Amy, anyway. I feel like a shadow.

  five

  THAT NIGHT, I’M DETERMINED to wash away the memory of the horrible week by saturating my mind with horror flicks. Images of stupid teenagers being chased down by indestructible killers mixed with awful special effects and bad decisions will surely lift my spirits. I stack five movies next to my laptop that I know will melt my brain, slide in the first DVD, and settle in for a night of wallowing in misery.

  It’s not even dark out yet, so I close the curtains to create atmosphere.

  I’m about halfway through The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (the original) when there’s a knock on my door. I’m twisted up in my comforter, lying in the fetal position at the foot of my bed, watching the small screen on the floor with vague interest.