How Not to Spend Your Senior Year

by Cameron Dokey

  “I can tell you in two words,” I said. “Alex Crawford.”

  Elaine stared for a moment, an expression I couldn’t quite read on her face, then dropped down flat on her back. “You’re insane, you know that, don’t you? Any girl on this campus would love to have your problem.”

  “Including you?” I asked, images of the scene from Romeo and Juliet dancing through my mind.

  “And come between him and Khandi Kayne?” Elaine answered promptly, her tone sarcastic. “I don’t think so. Personally, I’d like to live to attend my own graduation.”

  “So I was right.”

  “About what?”

  “I thought she spent most of lunch period trying to figure out how to stab me in the back with her plastic salad fork.”

  Elaine gave a sputter of laughter. “You know she’s taking him to the dance this Friday night, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” I said. “She told me so herself. Apparently she thinks this means he’ll ask her to the prom.”

  “Traditional, but not foolproof,” Elaine informed me.

  “I have a question,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Do you think her dress will have red-and-white stripes?”

  “God, I hope so.”

  There was a beat of silence. Then, at precisely the same moment, Elaine and I turned our heads to look at one another. I’m not sure who laughed first. The next thing I knew, both of us were roaring.

  “My stomach hurts,” I said when I could speak again. I pushed myself up to sit crosslegged, and Elaine followed suit. “I’m sure it’s all your fault.”

  “Is not,” Elaine said promptly.

  I could feel the laughter begin to well up once more. “Don’t,” I said. “If you do, I’ll have to hurt you.”

  “You mean you’ll have to try,” she said. But she turned her head to look at me, her hazel eyes thoughtful. “You know, I’ve been trying all day to figure out whether or not I liked you. Or even if I wanted to.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Now there’s a surprise.”

  Elaine smiled slowly, but her eyes stayed serious. “I’ve known Alex for years, but I’ve never seen him completely lose his head over anyone.”

  “For the record, it’s not exactly in character for me either,” I said, matching her serious tone. “Though I realize you’ve only got my word for it.”

  Elaine continued to regard me for a moment. “I think I believe you, New Girl,” she said.

  “Will you please knock that off?” I inquired. “I have a name. If we’re going to be friends, you might learn to use it.”

  “Are we going to be friends?” Elaine Golden asked quietly.

  “I hope we are,” I answered, meeting her gaze steadily. “Don’t let it go to your head or anything, though. It’s just that, with Khandi Kayne around, I figure I could use one.”

  Elaine’s smile spread slowly. This time it reached her eyes.

  “It’s always nice to be needed,” she said.

  “Ms. O’Connor, Ms. Golden, the name of this class of Physical Education, not Study Hall. I don’t want to have to remind you again.”

  The voice of the teacher, Ms. Nelson, barked from behind us. Guiltily, Elaine and I scrambled to our feet. At that moment, the bell rang. I had done it. I had survived my very first day at Beacon High.

  “Okay, girls! Shower up!” Ms. Nelson shouted.

  I grinned at Elaine as we started toward the locker room. “Is that what they call being saved by the bell?”

  Elaine nodded. “You know it. And speaking of being saved, how about if I protect you from Khandi Kayne by walking you home?”

  “What about Alex?” I asked.

  Elaine shrugged. “He has to practice some team sport. I can never remember which one.”

  I felt some emotion move through me then. Relief or disappointment, I honestly couldn’t tell.

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re on.”

  “This is a nice neighborhood, isn’t it?” I remarked several moments later as Elaine and I walked along. I suppose, for someone who’s spent their whole life living on streets containing houses with lawns in front of them it might not seem so special. It was a new experience for me, though.

  Now that I think about it, I should have expected that my first day at Beacon High School would be out of the ordinary. Seattle had already changed an aspect of life that had been the same for as long as I could remember. We were living in a house instead of an apartment.

  Furnished, of course.

  It was big, two stories plus an attic and a basement. A bank of front windows faced the street, staring out over a wide front porch. There were hooks for a hammock at one end. I could already imagine myself swinging in it, lazing away a summer day.

  “Oh, wow,” Elaine exclaimed as we headed up the front walk. “Now I know who you are. You’re the people who moved into Old Mrs. Calloway’s house.”

  A remark which prompted me to trip on the steps and sit down abruptly on the porch.

  “Walk much?” Elaine asked.

  “What did you just say?” I inquired. “I mean, who did you say used to live here?”

  “Old Mrs. Calloway,” Elaine repeated obligingly as she moved to sit beside me, apparently having decided to cut me some slack over the tripping moment. “Though, actually, I have no idea how old she really was. That’s just what all the neighborhood kids always called her. She was kind of a recluse. Never went out much. I think she even had her groceries delivered. She gave out great treats on Halloween, though.”

  She cocked her head and looked at me consideringly. “Didn’t you know her? When you guys moved in right after she died, I thought you must be related or something.”

  “Not that I know of,” I said, my mind doing its best imitation of a hamster on a treadmill. Perhaps I should just remind you why.

  Calloway is a part of my name. Josephine Claire Calloway O’Connor. And the thing that’s significant about that was that Calloway had been my mother’s maiden name. Her own last name before she’d married my father.

  “I hear it’s really cool inside,” Elaine went on. “All the neighborhood kids used to dare each other to try and sneak in. I don’t know anyone who actually did it, though.”

  “It is pretty great,” I said. “My bedroom has a windowseat. And the bed has this old pink chenille bedspread on it. Our first day here, I fell asleep on top of it and ended up with this weird pattern all over my face.”

  “Sounds nice,” Elaine said.

  “I’d ask you to come in,” I went on in a rush, “but it’s kind of messy since we’re still unpacking and stuff.”

  “That’s okay,” Elaine said. “I understand.”

  A thing that made me feel like a jerk, as I’d just told her an outright lie. I never had any boxes to unpack. My belongings were in my suitcases, just like always.

  Friends do not lie to friends, particularly brand-new ones. For the record, this is a thing I know. But, sitting beside Elaine on Old Mrs. Calloway’s front porch, I also knew I’d had enough. Enough surprises for one day.

  Before I could invite Elaine inside my first house ever, there was something I had to do. Something I didn’t think she’d understand, as I wasn’t entirely sure I did myself. Something important.

  “Maybe later in the week,” I temporized. “Hey, how about Friday night? We can get all girly and have a sleepover while Alex and Khandi are at the dance.”

  “What makes you think I’m not going?” Elaine inquired blandly.

  I dropped my head down into my hands. The day seemed incredibly long all of a sudden.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think,” I said. “Are you?”

  “No,” Elaine said. “I just didn’t want you to make any assumptions.”

  I gave a strangled laugh. “If ever there was a day to put a stop to that activity, this has been it. Trust me.”

  “Okay, then,” Elaine said as she stood up abruptly. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” She clomped down the
porch steps and moved off down the front walk. “Bet you a latte Alex calls you tonight,” she called over her shoulder.

  “In your dreams,” I said as I scrambled to my feet. “I never gave him my phone number.”

  “A grande,” Elaine specified. She turned back as she reached the sidewalk. “Be ready to pay up, New Girl,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, my house is that one there.”

  She pointed to the house next door.

  Shaking my head, I turned around, dug out my keys, and unlocked the front door. As I stepped inside, my eyes automatically performed the first action they always do, a thing they’ve been doing for so long they now do it completely on autopilot.

  They searched for and found the photograph of my mom.

  I think I’ve already mentioned that the first thing Dad and I do when we move to a new place is to find the perfect location for Mom’s photo. Out of all the places Dad and I had ever lived, Old Mrs. Calloway’s house had the very best spot for it: on the wall right above the center of the mantel.

  Other pictures on the wall were undisturbed, but there had been a space in the very center, as if one thing had been taken down. A thing that had been up for a very long time. Its removal had left the wallpaper underneath a different color. Newer, fresher, brighter. There was a faint outline on the wall. An outline that exactly matched the contours of my mom’s picture.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said softly as I crossed the living room to stand in front of her picture. I look a lot like my mother, though I do have my dad’s brown hair and eyes. But the shape of my face, the way I smile, all you have to do is look at her photograph to know where those things came from.

  Was it just a coincidence that the very first house we’d ever lived in belonged to a woman with mom’s last name? Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to think so.

  “I’m home,” I whispered. “But I bet you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  Five

  That was the moment I secretly changed my name.

  To Josephine D. O’Connor.

  You’re familiar with D, fourth letter of the alphabet.

  In this case, it stands for Denial.

  Because, as I stood there, staring up at my mother’s photograph, I suddenly realized how I was going to handle the fact that I’d just discovered I was living in Old Mrs. Calloway’s house.

  By doing absolutely nothing.

  I suppose you think this makes me a great big wimp, and, under other circumstances, I’d have to admit you might be right. But as I continued to stand there, I swear I began to hear Old Mrs. Calloway’s house whispering all around me.

  “Unpack your suitcases,” it seemed to say. “You got it right. This is your home now, Jo O’Connor.”

  “Old habits are hard to break,” I said right back. “Besides, for all I know, you won’t last any longer than any of the others.”

  I thought I heard the house laugh then.

  “We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

  “Darn straight, we will,” I said. If there was one thing I wasn’t, it was a pushover.

  “Who are you talking to, Jo-Jo?” my dad’s voice suddenly asked.

  I jumped and spun toward him. I’d become so engrossed in my dialogue with the house that I’d failed to hear my father coming in the front door.

  “Myself,” I said. “No one.”

  “Make up your mind,” my father said with a grin as he tossed his laptop case on the nearest couch and came to give my hair a quick tousle. “Hey, I got the scoop on where we should get our pizza tonight,” he continued as he moved on toward the kitchen. “There’s a place right in the neighborhood that delivers.”

  I heard several drawers being opened and slammed shut. “Do you remember where the phonebook is?” my father called out.

  “That would be in the drawer right by the phone, Dad,” I called back. “What’s the matter? Photographic memory out of order?”

  My dad really does have a photographic memory, by the way. I’ve always been sort of bummed that I didn’t inherit it. I’m thinking it would be a really great attribute on pop quiz days.

  The sounds of rummaging ceased as my father stuck his head out the kitchen door. “Don’t be a smart aleck, Josephine, or I’ll have them put anchovies on your half. You want the usual?”

  I grinned. “You bet. And a root beer, don’t forget.”

  “Have I ever?” asked my father.

  Having pizza on my first day of school has been a tradition since our very first move. Originally I think my father did it in self-defense. When I was younger, pizza was the one food I could always be counted upon to eat no matter how recently we’d had it, and an extra large would feed us for several days.

  We always get a combo, everything on it but the kitchen sink. Then Dad adds anchovies to his half. Gross, but then there’s no accounting for grown-ups.

  “I’m going to get a salad, too,” my father said.

  “You’re not going to get all health food on me, are you?” I asked as I joined him in the kitchen.

  My father never got a chance to answer. At exactly that moment, the telephone rang.

  I could feel the color drain from my face. Dad’s went completely blank. I saw his eyes widen.

  No, I thought as my heart began to pound in hard, fast strokes. No, it’s too soon. Not now. Not yet.

  “You’d better answer it,” I said.

  My father started as if I’d poked him with a pin.

  “Yes, okay,” he said. He lifted the receiver and the shrill ringing ceased. “Hello?”

  I held my breath.

  My father listened, a strange expression coming into his face. Just for an instant, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were dancing with laughter, and something that looked an awful lot like relief.

  “Just a moment, please,” Dad said. Then he held out the receiver toward me.

  “It’s for you, Jo-Jo.”

  “Jo, it’s Alex,” the voice on the other end of the phone said. “You know—Alex Crawford?”

  I took a breath, determined to come up with a snappy reply. Unfortunately for the success of this plan, my mind went blank at precisely that moment.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Alex echoed. There was a pause that probably only lasted about five seconds but felt like about five hours. “So, you’re probably wondering why I called.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “The thing is,” Alex said, “there’s this dance Friday night. It’s girl-ask-boy. Maybe you heard about it during the day today?”

  “Maybe I did,” I said. I could feel my father, hovering just on the far side of the kitchen door.

  “So, the thing is . . . ” Alex said again. He’s nervous, I thought. This probably reveals something incredibly dysfunctional in my psyche, but all of a sudden, I felt much better. The Big Man on Campus was nervous about calling me, New Girl Jo O’Connor.

  “I’m going,” Alex said.

  “That’s nice,” I replied. I heard him expel a breath into the phone. I thought he was laughing, but I couldn’t quite be sure.

  “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding,” Alex plowed on, “about the fact that I might have to, you know, take things slow.”

  At that moment, I got the reason for the call. He was trying to tell me why he felt he couldn’t pursue our attraction right away. Not only that, he’d accomplished the impossible. He’d done this without making it sound as if he was dissing Khandi Kayne behind her back.

  “I won’t misunderstand, Alex,” I said softly. “And just for the record, I think you’re a really nice guy.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I wish you hadn’t said that,” Alex said at once. “I have it on very good authority that girls never fall for the nice guys.”

  “Guess you’ll just have to see, won’t you?” I asked.

  “Guess so,” said Alex Crawford. There was a second moment of silence. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow
,” he said.

  “Alex,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where’s the closest Starbucks to campus? I owe Elaine a latte.”

  Late that night I stood in my bedroom, staring down at my open suitcases and listening to the sounds Old Mrs. Calloway’s house made as it settled all around me. This was a phenomenon that had startled me at first. Apartments simply do not make those sounds. But now that I was used to it, I had to admit I kind of liked the way the house began to sigh and rustle as night came on. It was just one more thing that made it feel like the thing I’d never really had but had always secretly wanted. A home.

  I think it was sometime in the middle of my third piece of pizza that I’d realized the truth.

  Old Mrs. Calloway’s house had won.

  I was tired of being the girl who couldn’t put down roots. Who moved from place to place without ever knowing why. What I wanted was to be the girl I’d so unexpectedly caught a glimpse of today. The girl I’d suddenly discovered I could be, if only I was brave enough to try. A girl who had a boyfriend who called her on the phone. Whose best friend lived right next door.

  A girl who didn’t have to figure out how to blend in, because she didn’t have to. She fit. She belonged.

  “Go on,” Old Mrs. Calloway’s house seemed to say. “Take the first step. It’s not so hard. You can do it, Jo.”

  I stared down into the first of my suitcases. My very favorite sweater was folded neatly, right on top. This was the item of clothing I chose first when I was feeling warm and snuggly, just as it was my first when I was blue and needed cheering up.

  Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, I picked it up, carried it across the room, and placed it in my bottom dresser drawer. As I did so, I heard the house sigh. I swear it was with approval.

  I returned to the suitcase for the next item.

  Six

  When I think of the next few weeks, I’m reminded of a flashback sequence in a romantic film. The edges of the images are all slightly blurry. The colors are soft. The light, nostalgic and golden. I know it didn’t really look like that. But that’s the way it feels in my memory. Those were special days, carved out of time. Days during which it seemed nothing would ever change. Nothing would ever go wrong.