Chasing Boys

by Karen Tayleur

  When I say “says,” I mean he breathes the words into my ear and I shiver as his words race around my body.

  “No way,” I say. “At least half an hour.”

  He shakes his head. “Trust me,” he says.

  A trickle of water is inching its way down the back of my sweater but all I can think of is how I wish this would last forever.

  I think I love you, Eric Callahan.

  Love.

  Of course I don’t say this. Instead I stand next to Eric and watch as the rain pounds down. After about five minutes, the rain backs off to a slow drizzle. By then, Eric and I are standing close together sharing body warmth without touching.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  I wonder who put him in charge, but the thought disappears quickly.

  When we reach the corner of my street, I realize I do not want Eric to see exactly where I live.

  “Thanks,” I say, holding out my hand for my bag.

  Eric hands it over.

  “Well,” he says.

  “Well,” I say. “Say hi to Angelique.” It kills me to say this, but I am suddenly having a reality check. This is Angelique Mendez’s boyfriend.

  “Sure,” he says.

  As I walk down the street he yells out at me and I turn around. Eric’s holding his palms upward to the sky. The drizzle has stopped.

  “I told you to trust me,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

  47.

  At home I can’t stay still. I definitely cannot sit down and finish my science assignment. Instead, I rush around picking things up from one room and putting them down in another. I have dinner cooking by the time Mom and Bella arrive home and they look suspicious.

  “What have you done?” says Bella. Then she sniffs the air. “Is that tacos?”

  I show her the jar of taco sauce and nod, my nose in the air. “Of course,” I say. “Nothing but the best for my family.”

  “Have you been taking drugs?” says Bella.

  And it’s true. I am on a high. Every time I think back to my time with Eric after school, I get another kick of something that surges through my body.

  I notice Mom’s looking tired as she gives me a little pat on my shoulder—the kind of pat you might give a wild dog—and I wonder if that’s what I’ve been lately. For a long time.

  “You’ve got time for a bath before dinner, Mom—” Then I realize we don’t have a bathtub.

  “I might just have a shower,” says Mom.

  Bella sets the table with a tablecloth and a large square orange candle that has already collapsed down one side from previous lighting.

  “It’s the best I can do,” she says crossly when I give it a once-over.

  “I’ll get some flowers,” I say.

  It’s dark outside and hard to see what I’m pulling up. Someone comes down the stairs, two at a time, and I see a flash of dark curly hair and a ragged T-shirt.

  “Good night, Peggy,” a male voice calls out.

  Nearby a cat hisses and yowls at me. I wonder if it’s the cat lady’s pet. She’s standing outside her door with a bag of dry cat food. She’s shaking it like some witch doctor warding off evil. The food inside the bag is making a racket and I think I’m going to get away with sneaking inside, but she spies me and stops shaking.

  “Hello, dear,” she says.

  “Hello,” I mumble.

  She’s looking at the flowers in my hand and I look down at them in surprise as if I don’t know how they got there.

  “You haven’t seen Bolt, have you?” she says.

  “Bolt?”

  “My cat. Captain Thunderbolt is his full name, but he answers to Bolt.”

  “I think I might have heard him over there,” and I wave in the direction of the bushes.

  “He loves his treats,” says the cat lady.

  “Okay,” I say. I open our door and the smell of onions fills the air.

  “Now, what is that interesting smell?” she asks.

  “Tacos,” I say.

  She makes an “o” with her mouth like it’s the most decadent thing.

  I’m not really sure how I invited her for dinner. I hadn’t meant to. One minute she was talking about boiling up an egg for her dinner, the next she’s seated at our table admiring the lopsided candle and flowers.

  “Now isn’t this nice,” she keeps saying.

  Mom, Bella, and Peggy, Cat Lady’s real name, are having a nice little chat while I serve up tacos and rice. Bella has shoved the stolen flowers into a glass and they actually look pretty in the middle of the table, even though their roots are still attached. Mom’s put on some old music that I haven’t heard for years.

  When I sit down, Mom opens a bottle of wine and pours everyone a drink.

  “For a special occasion,” she says, when she pours some into my glass.

  We all clink glasses.

  Peggy says, “To good neighbors.”

  Bella says, “To Monday nights.”

  I want to say something about Eric Callahan. Instead I say, “To tacos.”

  We all look at Mom, waiting for her announcement. She gives a little smile then raises her glass high.

  “To my wedding anniversary,” she says.

  This is what happens: time stands still.

  Well, not all time. The music continues to play softly in the background. It’s a song I remember singing to in the car when we were all together. Dad, Mom, Bella, and me. The Marini family. Peggy looks confused. Bella looks like she’s tasted something bad and wants to spit it out. But Mom looks serene.

  You can’t celebrate a wedding anniversary if you’re not married anymore. I mean, get with the program, Mom.

  Of course I don’t say this. Instead, time speeds up from where it left off and Mom says, “Two, four, six, eight,” which is her version of saying grace at the dinner table.

  “Dig in, don’t wait,” Bella finishes off, though her voice is low.

  “Now isn’t this nice,” says Peggy.

  I shove a forkful of rice into my mouth so I don’t have to answer.

  “By the way, Ariel,” says Peggy, and I silently curse Mom for introducing me as Ariel, “your friend dropped by on Sunday.”

  “My friend?” I say.

  “The pretty girl. Dark hair,” says Peggy, picking at her food like a bird.

  “Sunday?”

  “We were out grocery shopping,” says Mom.

  “I asked her if she wanted to leave a message, but she said not to bother,” says Peggy.

  “That’s okay,” I say. I think I will call Angelique tomorrow night if she isn’t at school tomorrow.

  Then Mom and Peggy talk about curtains and everything is normal again.

  In bed that night, all I want to think about is Eric. Eric in the rain. Eric carrying my bag home from school. Instead, I think about Mom. And wedding anniversaries. And how much I hate Dad.

  Dylan Shepherd pops into my head, then the upstairs man—Angelique’s brother, Tony—turns on his shower and the water pipes bang loudly as the hot water kicks in.

  I get up for a midnight trip to the fridge. On the way I pass Mom’s room.

  “Happy anniversary, Mom,” I whisper.

  48.

  The next day, I get a lunchtime detention for not handing in my science assignment and not handing in a note to explain why.

  Desi thinks this is really harsh, but as I explain to her, there is a little more to the detention than a late assignment.

  “I think it was the ‘whatever’ factor,” I explained between classes.

  “The ‘whatever’ factor?” asks Desi.

  “When Droopy said she’d be deducting five points for each day the assignment was late, I said ‘whatever.’”

  Desi groaned. “You’re lucky she didn’t slap you.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  We giggle all the way to the next class.

  In geography, Mr. Ray gives us the lowdown on our second field trip. There is a general buzz in the air. Not because w
e love geography so much, but the thought of escaping school is making everyone happy. Make that most people. When I look at Dylan sitting at the back, he is balancing a pen on one finger and looking out the window.

  “Poor Margot misses out,” says Desi.

  “That’ll teach her for getting into history,” I say dryly.

  At lunchtime I head off to the coffin room. I consider not going, but I know that this could end up causing even more trouble, so I just go. The place is packed. There must be some group detention situation going on because it is almost standing room only. The only seat left is at the back, two tables away from Dylan Shepherd. I wonder why he is here and think that maybe I’ll ask him. I settle myself then lean forward to give him a smile, but he just stares at me. It’s like he doesn’t even know me. I sink back into my seat.

  Note to self—first impressions do count. Bored.

  Macho. Thick.

  The fact that I’d turned to him for help not that long ago left my cheeks burning with shame. I spend the entire session keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone. I make a list of things to do after school.

  1. Call Angelique

  2. Finish my science assignment

  3. Visit Margot if I have enough time

  When the bell rings, I scoot out the door, but Dylan is lurking in the hall and catches me as I go past. Other bodies push past me, forcing me to stand beside him out of the way.

  “She’s okay,” says Dylan, his eyes burning into mine.

  “Angelique?” I say.

  He gives a curt nod.

  “I tried calling her.” It sounds lame.

  “I just thought you should know,” he says.

  Then he disappears up the hall and I’m left feeling ashamed. Then I feel angry.

  When I get to my locker I make a decision. I grab my phone and call Angelique. After three rings, she answers and sounds happy to hear from me. We talk a bit, I promise to visit her, then I head off to my next class. I slip into the room just as Mr. Graham, my teacher, is sliding the door shut. I have escaped a late pass by seconds. Desi and Margot are sitting together and I dump my books on the desk next to theirs and smile.

  “Whatever,” whispers Desi.

  And we laugh.

  It turns out that my science assignment only takes a couple of hours after school. It’s amazing what I can do when I put my mind to it. After I finish, I ask Mom for a ride to Margot’s house.

  “How will you get home?” she asks. “I don’t want to go out twice in the car.”

  “I’ll get a ride back,” I say.

  I toy with the idea of taking my school clothes and staying the night, but it’s a weeknight and I know Mom won’t be up for it. As Mom drives, I realize that I haven’t checked whether Margot will be home. Maybe I should have called first?

  Then I think about all the things I need to tell her, including the hospital drama on Friday night.

  “What movie does that remind you of?” I hear her asking.

  Or maybe not.

  Mom drops me off at Margot’s gate and I wave as she leaves.

  As I get to the front door, it opens and Steph says, “Oh hi. Margot’s in the dining room.” Then she walks to her car and I close the front door behind me.

  “Margot?” I call out.

  I walk up the hallway and notice that the dining room door is slightly ajar.

  What I see makes no sense.

  49.

  Eric and Margot are bent over a textbook. As I’m standing there, Eric points at the page with his pencil and Margot nods. Then he gives her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. She smiles.

  “Hello?” I manage.

  They look up. Eric looks a little confused, and Margot gives me her bored look.

  “Eric’s helping me with advanced math,” she explains.

  “Hi, El,” says Eric, and smiles. Then he looks at his watch. “Is that the time?” He shoves a book, some pens, and a calculator into his backpack. He picks up a white envelope off the table.

  “Sorry, Margot, gotta run,” he says. “See ya later, El.”

  He slams the door behind him.

  And that’s when it hits me. I guess I always was a slow learner. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry or what. Margot has seen that I know and she tries to walk away but I grab her arm and spin her around to face me.

  “How long?” I demand.

  She looks at me. The bored look has left her face.

  “Eric’s been giving me extra help. With math. Just a couple of weeks—”

  “How long have you liked him? How long have you liked Eric Callahan?” I demand.

  Then she doesn’t try to pretend. I give her points for that. She raises her chin a little.

  “A while—,” she begins.

  “How long?” I shake her arm.

  She just shakes her head.

  “You’ve liked Eric Callahan for ‘a while’ and you never bothered to tell me? Never once bothered to mention that while I was gushing over him—going on about how cute he was, how smart he was, how utterly perfect—you wanted him too.” I try to grasp what was now the truth. Had always been. “But you used to say he wasn’t your type. Boring. You said he was boring.”

  Margot shrugs.

  “You just let me go on and on . . . You were laughing at me! You were just taking your time, just waiting for the right moment, then,” I snap my fingers, “you’re going to snap him up. My God! What kind of person are you?” I back away from my best friend, Margot—make that ex–best friend—as she reaches out to me.

  “I never wanted to feel this way,” she says lamely. “I wanted to tell you. I came to talk to you on Sunday, but you weren’t home. I needed to—”

  “Angelique! What about Angelique?” Suddenly I’m sorry for the girl who has everything. I look at Margot’s clothes and she’s wearing her regulation red and black, her bird necklace. “Do you know he likes pink?” I say with a strange laugh. “Maybe you could accessorize in pink—”

  “Eric doesn’t know,” says Margot.

  “You’re pathetic,” I say. “You make me sick.”

  Then I run outside just in time and I really am sick. I throw up behind a well-trimmed hedge, then I throw up again. All the bad, confused thoughts and feelings have finally found somewhere to escape. At one point I feel Margot’s hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off.

  “Get lost,” I say.

  It’s a long walk home.

  50.

  When I get home, I grab the phone and slink into the bathroom. I call Leonard’s office and listen to his answering-machine voice. Then I dial his cell phone number and wait. He picks up at only four rings.

  “Hello?” he says. “Hello?”

  I want to say, People let you down, Leonard. Just don’t trust anyone ’cause people let you down. Fathers, friends, the whole world if you let it.

  Instead I say, “Sorry, wrong number.”

  I don’t want him freaking out that he’s got someone suicidal on the line.

  I hang up but feel slightly better. We may have a strange relationship but Leonard is never going to pretend to be my best friend and then go off with my boyfriend.

  Leonard is never going to make promises and break them.

  That’s the thing about Leonard—he is solid.

  51.

  I start hanging out with Angelique. Just like that.

  One day it’s the three amigos and then there’s only two. Desi stands by Margot, which is fine by me. Mind you, she looks miserable. Every now and then we come face-to-face and she says, “Hi, El” and then walks away quickly. I don’t blame her for being loyal to Margot. I wonder if she knows the truth about Margot’s secret crush on Eric, but I doubt it. I wonder what lies Margot has told her.

  Margot, on the other hand, is being a total bitch. In class, she keeps close to Desi and as far away from me as possible. Outside class, she looks through me, like I’m nothing—no, less than nothing.

  Life with Angelique as a friend
is different. I’m not sure how I got here. Suddenly I’m in the high-profile crowd. I have a lot more numbers in my phone. Her friends are nice enough, but the in-jokes I had with Desi and Margot don’t exist in this life.

  I follow Angelique’s friends’ cue and start calling her Angie. Angelique’s friends are more like my friends at Regis.

  There is Laura, whose pale skin and red hair make her look like a model.

  There is Tess, who is short, pretty, and sweet. Everyone wants to look after Tess like she’s a little pet.

  There is a couple I call the Katrina twins, though they’re not twins and only one of them is called Katrina. They look so much alike, I can only tell them apart if they are together. I am sure they were separated at birth.

  Then there’s Jessy, who’s loud and funny and who doesn’t like me much. I can tell she doesn’t like me by the way she watches me when I talk to Angelique—sorry, Angie.

  And then there’s Eric. I get a chance to see a lot more of Eric these days.

  I’d been thinking about what Dylan had said—about how Eric would never go for a girl like me. But I could change—I know it. So Eric doesn’t like loud girls. No big deal—I don’t have a lot to say right now.

  I get through my second geography field trip with Dylan and his number counter. Sarah is off somewhere with her camera taking pictures of who-knows-what. I have a clipboard and feel like a total loser with Dylan a few steps away from me. We have to work closely together. Our job is to write down how many cars use our part of the road, including a breakdown of buses and large trucks.

  It’s so boring that after a while I say something just to break the monotony.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” he says.

  “How’s your number counter going?” I ask.

  “Okay.”

  He starts with “yes” or “no” or “okay” answers, but I keep talking and soon he joins in and we’re having a conversation. He tells me about his little brother. I tell him about my big sister and her fast-food chicken job. He tells me his grandfather used to be a sign painter. I say that might be where he gets his talent from. He tells me about his last school and I tell him about mine. We don’t mention Eric or Angie.