The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  “I’ve kept it safe all these years. I thought you might like it back — for sentimental reasons.”

  “I’m not sentimental. You know that.”

  “It would look lovely here.” She pushed the stuffed toy to the center of the chest of drawers. “It brings a bit of life, see? Your room is so bare, so sterile.”

  “It’s not bare. Or sterile. It’s tidy.”

  I loved my room. It was my very own space where I could relax and be myself. I kept it clean and neat — compulsively so according to Chloe, who had a theory that I might be mildly OCD. I loved the simplicity of the furnishings: pale, dove-gray bedding and drapes, and one huge purple velvet cushion perched at the head of the bed. The walls were free of posters and pictures, and I tried to keep the surfaces clear. It wasn’t the typical messy environment of your average feral teen, and I guess to my mother it seemed pretty spartan. But it was my refuge and retreat.

  “What are you sewing?” my mother asked, eyeing the small puddle of sky-blue chiffon beside the Singer.

  “I’m trying to make a scarf.” Trying was the operative word. The presser foot and needle plate kept jamming, snarling great knots of thread in the sheer fabric.

  “I used to sew when I was a young girl, you know. I could help you out.”

  “No thanks, I’ll figure it out.”

  “I could buy you some fabric,” my mother continued, while Chloe glanced anxiously from one to the other of us.

  “No, thanks.” My mother already spent more than we could afford shopping online.

  “I found a great site called Sew Happy — like S-E-W — clever, isn’t it? And they’re got a massive sale on, so —”

  “No.”

  Instantly she looked hurt again.

  “I’d like to choose my own patterns and colors, and there’s a great little store downtown that sells fabric scraps and offcuts.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Remnants and offcuts — not very nice.”

  “They’re fine. And cheap.”

  “Well, I’ll let you girls get back to whatever you were doing before I interrupted. Goodbye, Chloe.” My mother pulled the door shut behind her.

  “You left the flipping monster,” I called after her, but she didn’t return. “Every time!” I snatched the toy and flung it into the trashcan before I turned the key in the lock.

  “She was just trying to be kind,” Chloe chided me. “Maybe you could be a bit more patient with her?”

  “You try living here and see how patient you feel.” I puffed out a breath. “Now can we get back to the tall-boy list?”

  “I’ll leave it to you, I need to get going — Dad’s grilling chicken for supper.”

  Once she’d disappeared over the window sill, I rolled the rope ladder back up and stowed it in its spot behind the drapes, then went back to staring glumly at the list. I doodled in the margin while racking my brain for more names, but could only come up with one other.

  My eye fell on my sketchbook, and soon I was cutting one of Chloe’s candy wrappers into the shape of a skirt and sticking it on a sketch, all the while mulling about tall boys and trying not to dwell on one tall boy in particular.

  I twisted a square of indigo foil into a scarf and positioned it on my sketched figure, so that it billowed out behind her, as if she was walking into a stiff headwind. By this time tomorrow, if all went well, I might have my first tall-boy date all set up.

  I’d start with Tiny Tim. He was in my World History class, and I sometimes let him copy my homework, so at least we knew each other’s names. I didn’t know much else about him except that he had a reputation as a stoner and a slacker. He never volunteered anything in class, and when a teacher called on him to answer a question, he gave the dumbest answers.

  But perhaps he was being ironic — what did I know about being cool?

  ~ 8 ~

  The Tall Boys List:

  Jay Young

  Tim Anderson

  Mark Rodriguez

  Dylan Jones

  I ate nothing at lunch the next day, provoking a disbelieving look from Chloe. It wasn’t often I went without food. But at that moment, the thought of eating made me feel queasy.

  Last year, on a dare, one of the lunch ladies had smooshed together about twenty meatballs into one giant lump of protein, plonked it on a bed of spaghetti and sauce, and served it to the captain of the football team. That’s what my stomach felt like in the period after lunch — a heavy meatball of dread.

  I glanced over at Tim Anderson, whose long legs were wound around the legs of his desk, and wondered how on earth boys did this? How did they find the courage and confidence to ask a girl out when she might laugh, or sneer, “No way!”?

  The end-of-period bell rang — time to put on my big-girl panties and pop the question. I reminded myself that I was the fearless girl who’d asked Jay Young for a kiss. And gotten it. By comparison, asking Tim for a date should be as easy as tripping over my own feet, which I tried not to do as I headed over to his desk.

  He was yawning and blinking sleepily. Had he been napping through Hitler’s invasion of Poland?

  “Hey, Tim.”

  “Hey …” Judging by his blank stare and the sickly sweet smell still clinging to his clothes and hair, Tim had spent his lunch period getting blazed.

  “Peyton,” I supplied.

  “Yeah, Peyton. That’s right. That’s your name.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” He dropped his blank pad of paper into his book bag, unwound his legs and stood up, stretching. He was tall — at least five inches taller than me.

  “Um …” Just say it already, Peyton. “I just wondered if — if you’d like to go out sometime?”

  It took a few moments for this to percolate down through his brain. Then he blinked in surprise and said, “With you?”

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought that maybe —”

  “S’cool,” he said, interrupting my embarrassing gabble. “When? Where?”

  “Jumping Jim’s Diner?” I got a staff discount there. “Friday night, at seven?”

  “I’ll be there.” With another bone-cracking stretch, he ambled out of the room.

  Asking Tim out had been so easy that I figured the date would be, too. If he was as ultra-laid-back as he seemed — kind of stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-on — then maybe four dates with him would be doable. Fifteen minutes into our first date on Friday evening, though, I knew I’d been wrong.

  Finding something to talk about with Tim was harder than tracking down a pair of elegant shoes in a size thirteen medium.

  “What kind of movies do you like?” I’d asked for openers.

  “Action ones. Like the Fast and Furious series — those cars, dude!” For a moment a tender, dopey look softened his features. He looked like a man in love. “Too bad about Paul Walker.”

  “Who?”

  “The lead actor — he took a one-way ticket to the great street race in the sky. He was the finest, man.”

  “Right.”

  Jim arrived with our drinks then — coke for Tim and my favorite double-thick chocolate milkshake for me. “On the house!” Jim told us happily.

  As soon as he walked off, humming Elvis’s Hound Dog, Tim pulled a miniature bottle of rum out of his jacket pocket and poured a slug into his Coke, before offering me a shot. When I shook my head, he emptied the bottle into his soda and took a long drink. His bloodshot eyes told me it wasn’t his first use of mind-altering substances that day.

  “Those are my best movies — I’ve got the full collection at home. The first was the best of course, though the sixth wasn’t bad. ‘Ride or die, remember?’”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a line, from the sixth movie. Which one was your favorite?”

  “I’ve never seen them,” I admitted.

  “Never seen them?” Tim said it like it was the most unbelievable thing he’d ever heard.

  I shook my head.

 
He took another long pull on his Coke. “Like, any of them?”

  “I prefer old movies.”

  “Yeah, there were some cool movies in the 90’s. The Matrix, The Crow. All the Die Hards.”

  “No, I mean I like old movies. You know, like Ninotchka, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Vertigo and Rear Window — well, all the Hitchcocks, really.”

  Tim stared at me blankly. “Huh,” he said finally.

  There was a silence. Not a comfortable one. Tim finished his drink, slumped back in the seat and stretched out his legs. I had to move mine to one side — there wasn’t a lot of room under tables when you had two sets of long limbs.

  It had been a novelty walking into the diner beside such a tall guy, and I’d seriously enjoyed giving Tori an I-told-you-so look, but once we were seated, it didn’t seem to make much difference that Tim was a Tall Boy. He was just like any other guy, except that his legs took up more room.

  “So-ooo,” Tim said next, puffing out his cheeks on the word, “you into sports?”

  “Not unless you count reading as a sport.”

  “Yeah. Not so much.”

  “Music?” We must have something we had in common.

  “Rap?”

  “Indie Rock.”

  More silence.

  Tori arrived with our burgers. I would have been grateful for the interruption, but she winked broadly at me and said loudly, “Caught yourself a tall one, then, Peyton? A bacon and cheese burger with fries for you” — she plonked a plate down in front of Tim — “and a bacon and cheese burger with fries for you. Wow, you two sure do have a lot in common.”

  “Bring me another coke?” Tim said. “You want something, Peyton?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “I’ll bring just the one,” Tori said. “But I’ll bring two straws so you can share.”

  Tim grabbed the ketchup bottle and squirted zigzag stripes over his pile of fries. When his hand hovered over my plate, offering to do the same for me, I squeaked, “No!” and took the bottle, squeezing a neat blob to the side of — but not touching — my fries.

  We ate in silence for a while, with me wondering whether this was the most awkward I had ever felt in my entire life and him, no doubt, wondering if I was the most uptight, boring girl he’d ever met in his.

  “Peyton,” he finally said when he’d hoovered up his burger, “tell me something interesting about you. Surprise me, quick.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Yeah, something that might actually interest me. What is the most amazing thing about Peyton Lane?”

  He slid even lower in his seat and yawned widely. He obviously wasn’t expecting anything too fascinating, which was a good thing, because the most interesting thing about me was not something I wanted to tell anyone, let alone Tim.

  “Well?”

  “Um, well, I work here — at the diner — and I make a mean double-thick shake.” It came out sounding like a question.

  “Man, if that’s the most interesting thing about you, then your life is sad.”

  More than he even knew.

  “Tell me something interesting about your life, then,” I challenged.

  “Fine. I have a job, too, and it’s way cooler than yours. I’m a spy. A spy for hire.”

  He was right — this was more interesting.

  “Who do you spy on?”

  “Anyone in Longford High.”

  “No way!” I laughed.

  “Yes, way. Tell me something you wanna know about the people at our school.”

  “Okay.” There was something I needed researched. “I want to know the names of all the males in our school who are six foot three or taller.”

  “Too easy!” he scoffed.

  He extracted a tablet from one of his pockets and started tapping away enthusiastically. For the first time that night, he looked animated — I’d been upstaged by a device.

  “I can just run an extract on height. Sort the results from tallest to shortest, like so. And … there you go!”

  I stared down at the tablet’s screen, amazed. There were six names, including that of Longford High’s newest tall boy, and one I hadn’t thought of when I’d made my list — Robert Scott.

  “Mr. Washington is a teacher,” I complained.

  Tim shrugged. “You said males. Didn’t specify age or occupation.” He deleted the name. And then there were five. “Want me to send a screenshot to your phone?”

  “Sure.”

  His thumbs tapped a few more keys. “Done.”

  “Wait — how did you know my number?”

  He canted his head and gave me a smug smile.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. I was also a bit worried — what other information might he have on me?

  “Anything or anyone else you’re curious about?” he asked.

  Oh, yes.

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “For a very reasonable price, I can, for example, get you the full lowdown on your worst enemy. Or your latest crush — his class schedule, extracurricular activities, relationship status, GPA, when and where he eats lunch, and what his most frequent cafeteria purchase is, the make and model of his car, and plenty more besides.”

  “You can do that?” I asked, shocked.

  “Sure.”

  “Where do you get all the information?”

  “I have connections, informants, access to databases.” He made it sound like he was CIA or NSA. “So, is there someone you want me to research?”

  “There is this guy …”

  I might only share a couple of classes with Jay, but I was forever bumping into him in the hallways, and whenever I went to my locker, he seemed to be there at his. It wouldn’t surprise me if he thought I was stalking him in the hopes of wangling another kiss. It was so embarrassing. Every time I saw his head above the throng of approaching students, I fought the urge to duck into the restroom. It would be great to have his schedule so I knew where not to be.

  “He’s not a crush or anything,” I said hastily, because Tim’s lips were twisted in a knowing smirk. “He’s someone I’m trying to avoid. I just want his class schedule. It’s not like I’m interested in all that other stuff.” My ears burned at that last statement, as they always did when I lied.

  “Sure, whatever. The full profile comes as a package deal.”

  “How much?”

  “Two crisp C-notes.”

  “Two hundred dollars?”

  “Making more bets you won’t win and can’t afford to pay, Peyton?” Tori was back to collect our plates, even though neither of us had finished our fries.

  “Tim’s still waiting for his soda,” I snapped.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt the lovebirds. Not when it looks like the date is going so well.”

  “What bet?” Tim asked. He asked casually, as if he had no real interest in hearing the answer, but now I knew he was an information-collector — and dealer — I had no desire for him to know my secrets.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Shut up, Tori.”

  “Yeah, get lost. We’re doing business here,” Tim said.

  “I’m not surprised Ms. Man Hands here has to pay for it,” Tori retorted, but at least she left.

  I tucked my hands under the table.

  Tim asked, “Pay for what?”

  “Nothing. And forget about the report — there’s no way can I pay two hundred dollars for some information.”

  He ate some ketchup-covered fries. “I’d like to have your business, Peyton. I’d like to assist you in your boy-avoidance.”

  “I can’t afford your services,” I said glumly.

  “I prefer hard cash, but I’m open to payment in kind.”

  In kind — just what did that mean? I squinted at him suspiciously. “I’m not going to sleep with you, Tim.”

  “Jeez, man! Who asked you to?”

  Tori had finally arrived with the soda, just in time to overhear this last exchange. She laughed loudly and said, “No one, that’s who. I rest m
y case.”

  She thumped the glass down so hard on the table that some coke splashed over the side and onto my plate. My last three fries — the most perfectly brown and crispy ones that I had been saving for last — were now drowned.

  Tori gave me an evil smile and sauntered off.

  I moved my gaze from the sad, soggy mess on my plate, to the last fry on Tim’s. If we were destined for happily-ever-after — or even just for three dates plus the prom — he’d offer me that piece of potato.

  He picked up the fry and paused. I leaned forward expectantly, mouth slightly open. “You,” he said, pointing the fry at me, “are a cynical so-and-so.” He popped the fry into his own mouth, and I slumped back in my seat. “I don’t trade information for sex.” He paused, frowned, and seemed to rethink what he’d just said. “I mean, I could, if you want.”

  “I don’t. No offense.”

  He nodded. “What I meant was that I’d be happy to trade for a couple of history papers. You write that one on the causes of the second world war for me, plus whatever paper Perez gives us next semester, and in exchange I’ll give you a report on your guy.”

  “I’m hardly a gifted student. I’m happy to get a B- in history.” It seemed only fair to warn him.

  “’S’cool. Perez’d get suspicious if I suddenly did too well, given that I usually get a C. So, have we got a deal?”

  “Yes.” We clinked our glasses. “When can I expect the report on your sleazy dealings?”

  “Give me a week. No, wait a sec —” Suddenly all business, he checked a planner on his tablet. “I’ve got a big order due on Friday. Three girls on the cheerleading squad. Let’s meet Wednesday after next, before school, in those trees behind the parking lot. You bring the history paper, and I’ll bring my report.”

  “Fine. I’ll be the one in the trench coat and fedora, whistling As Time Goes By.”

  “Huh?” he said, clearly mystified.

  “It’s from Casablanca. Because, you know, spies and secret meetings?” He still looked bewildered. “Forget it,” I said.

  I gave him the name of the subject to be researched, and after that, we lapsed back into a silence which was broken only by Tim ordering a double-chocolate brownie and ice cream, and me calling for the bill before he added any more munchies to my tab.