by Tom Leveen
“Nice,” Clone #1 says when it’s over. They release the girl and drop the marker to the floor.
The three of them muscle past me, writing me off as they go. I didn’t interfere, and they don’t think I’ll tell, because no one tells, I’m pretty sure about that. It wasn’t in the student handbook, but I still know. Brianna looks back once, at the end of their procession. She meets my eyes, super, super fast, and looks away again. I can’t tell if she feels guilty, or embarrassed, or what.
The girl stays against the wall, eyes still shut, breathing shallow through her nose.
“You okay?” I ask.
The girl doesn’t move, doesn’t answer.
“I could get you some paper towels and soap. Here.” I go to the sinks and start pulling out handfuls of paper towels, as thick and crisp as colorful kindergarten butcher paper. Seriously, who buys this stuff? “We can try to wash it off,” I say. “While it’s still fresh. Do you want some help?”
Her eyes have been replaced by orbs of hard, black ice when she opens them, freezing me in place. Then she breaks her gaze to reach down into a red backpack. She takes out a black beanie and pulls it carefully over her curly brown hair so that the rim meets her eyebrows, covering the graffiti on her forehead.
“That works,” I say. “But really, we can—”
She shoulders the bag and makes her way to the door.
“I’m gonna go ahead and report them,” I say.
“Don’t,” the girl whispers. Then she’s out of the bathroom.
“Nice to meet you,” I say after the door has closed. Sad face. Why do people do that kind of thing to each other? I mean, really, who feels better about themselves after something like that?
I consider reporting them anyway. I’m pretty sure I’m right about Brianna Montaro’s name. I could bust her, if not the other two.
But it’s their three words against me and the other girl’s two. Three against one if the girl with the fresh Sharpie tattoo doesn’t speak up. And I get the impression she won’t.
So there’s nothing I can do. Man that sucks! People suck sometimes.
But my day gets better when I come out of the bathroom a few minutes later and see Zach wandering down the hall in my direction. At last! I wave.
“Hi, Zach!”
He smiles right away. I could find my way in the dark by that grin.
“How’s it going,” he says, “um … Katie?”
“Cadence.” I fall into step beside him. “But you could call me Cadie for short.”
“Cadence, right,” he says. “Cadie, Cadence. Got it. So what’s up?”
“Some girls just wrote slut on this other girl’s forehead in the bathroom,” I say, since he asked.
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Really does,” I say. “I would have done some sweet ninja moves on them, but I’m out of practice.”
“I’d pay a lot to see that.”
“Cool! I’ll set up a demo. What’re you doing out of class?”
“Taking a message to the office. What about you?”
I hold up my green hall pass. “Bathroom break.”
“What class are you in right now?”
“At this very moment, I’m in Walking Zach Down The Hall class.”
“Don’t take this wrong way,” he says when we reach an intersection. “But you’re kind of a doofblatt.”
“What’s a doofblatt?”
“Not sure. My mom says it all the time. I think it means, you know … a little crazy.”
“I’ll take it!”
“I’m heading this way,” Zach says.
“And I’m heading that.”
“All right. See you around, Cadie.”
“See ya, Zach! I’m glad I got to take a class with you today, finally.”
He laughs and goes off down the hall. I think he’s shaking his head a bit, probably because I’m a doofblatt. I turn and walk back to my earth science class, thinking about the girl with the black beanie and wondering if there was anything I could have done different. I decide to ask Dad and Mom and Johnny when I get home, during dinner. They’ll know.
VIVI
The boy in the red button-down from Mrs. Garcia’s class is also in my seventh-period math class. Our teacher, Mr. Donelly, lets us sit anywhere. I want to sit in the back, farthest corner, but AP potheads have already staked it out. I end up in the middle of the row, closest to the door. It’ll do.
In hindsight, I realize the boy usually sits a few seats away from where I am. Today he gets there earlier and sits across from me. He could touch me from his desk.
“No hats in class,” he says to me.
He smiles, too. He has 8.4 zits. They are the small kind that probably hurt when he touches them.
“I know,” I say, then sink down in my seat.
He might be someone’s boyfriend. Dangerous.
He must be someone’s boyfriend. He knows answers in both classes. He is cute. Not hot. Brady Culliver is hot. I know his name now. So is Donte Walker, whose name I also know now.
But this boy next to me is cute. I have never seen him in jeans, not from the first day of school to now. It would be weird to see him in jeans, I think.
“I’m Sam. Well, Samuel, but only my grandmother calls me that.”
I nod. Conversation must end.
“Are you going to leave your hat on?”
My hat. I have to leave it on. Can’t take it off. Can’t let anyone see. Should have gone home. Daddy hasn’t gotten me a car yet, but he swears he will. I might drive it back to my real neighborhood if he does, where it’s less safe but at least I know the rules. Maybe I could go live with his sister instead, my Aunt Marlene.
“There’s something on your forehead,” Sam says.
I pull my hat down further. It’s slipped up a little, probably revealing the black markings. “It’s nothing.”
Sam reaches across the aisle and rests his fingers on the edge of my desk. “Are you okay?”
I nod. But I have to keep my mouth closed very, very tightly so I don’t cry. It didn’t help in the Dez; it won’t help here.
“Hey,” Sam says, quietly, like a secret. “You want to ditch? Go get coffee or something?”
Ditch?
The word feels like a spike. I don’t ditch. Bad kids ditch. Dad will kill me if I ditch.
Except he’d have to be able to get out of bed first.
I scan the class. Will anybody notice? Will anybody care? What about Mr. Donelly? He’ll take roll. He’ll know I’m not here. He’ll call my dad. I’ll get in trouble.
Sam stands up, pulling his backpack over one shoulder. “Come on.”
I shrink back. People look at him. He doesn’t care.
“Come on,” he urges again. “I know a place. You obviously need sugar. Probably chocolate.”
My fingers tingle. Ditch. It sounds so bad. And chocolate … it sounds so good.
My forehead itches where the black ink is sinking in like a tattoo. Will it ever come off?
I pick up my bag. “Okay.”
“Cool,” Sam says.
We rush for the door and out into the hallway. I look at him for guidance.
“This way,” he says, and holds out a hand.
I stare at it.
Then I take it.
Sam smiles, and we run. He guides me through hallways and breezeways until we reach the parking lot, and then we waltz right off campus and onto the street outside. I don’t see the security guards anywhere. It’s warm, but I don’t care. Sam lets go of my hand.
“You haven’t actually told me your name yet,” Sam says as we walk.
He’s right. Now that we are away from school, I can feel my throat loosening.
“Vivi.”
“Civvy?” Sam says. “Like, a civilian?”
“Vivi.” I try to be louder. “Vivian.”
“Oh, Vivi,” Sam says. “Okay. Cool. Vivian. That’s a pretty name.”
I tuck my chin into my neck for safety.
I nod.
“Where are you from?”
“The Dez.” I answer automatically, not thinking of how Sam might react. The Dez, a neighborhood with the city’s most dense population but not a grocery store in sight, is mostly known for its bustling drug trade.
So I quickly add, “Desert Guadalupe.” The G comes out as an H. It’s the only trace of an accent I’ve got. My mom used to say that my Spanish words come out with “Mexican flair,” like my dad’s. All my English words sounds like I’m from the Midwest, like Mom’s.
“Desert Guadalupe,” Sam says, with the hard G. “That’s not anywhere near here. How’d you end up at this school?”
I shouldn’t even have spoken. “Where are we going?” I ask instead.
“Just over there. Jamaican Blue. Really good coffee and pastry stuff. You don’t want to tell me how you wound up here?”
I shake my head.
“Okay,” Sam says. “You’re very mysterious—anyone ever tell you that?”
I shake again.
“Well, I’m pleased to be the first. Are you in any clubs at school?”
Shake.
“Oh. Well, I’m in debate. I’m really quite good.”
He glances at me. I guess to see if I smile. I think I do, because Sam looks pleased.
“So don’t ever argue with me. Also, I can talk a lot. I don’t have to, but I can. Do you want me to keep talking? Because you don’t seem to be in the habit of saying much.”
I’ll have to speak. I can’t just keep answering with a yes-nod or shake-no.
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “Say much.”
“That’s okay,” Sam says. “Because I rather like the sound of my own voice. I could go on and on and on. Here’s the shop.”
We stop in front of a single large window that reads JAMAICAN BLUE in painted letters. He holds the door open for me, the way Daddy used to do for Mom. Sam orders for me, something listed on the menu as a CHOCOLATE F*CKING EXPLOSION. It appears to be a kind of milkshake, but he orders it by saying, “She’ll have a Chocolate Explosion.” Then he wrinkles his forehead.
“Shoot. I just ordered for you, didn’t I? Sorry, I’m trying to quit doing stuff like that.”
“I’ll forgive you this time,” I say, hoping it’s funny.
Sam does in fact smile. “Okay. Thank you. Won’t happen again. Where do you want to sit?”
I wander off in search of a good spot while he places his own order. I already like this shop. It’s dark, but cool in both senses of the word. I could get used to being here instead of school. I pick a tall table in a corner and sit down. Sam joins me a minute later.
“Okay, so now I’m plying you with chocolate and I rescued you from a boring math class,” Sam says, kicking one foot up over his knee. “Now I get to cross-examine you. All right?”
I shrug. Sam starts to ask me something, but then a barista comes to the bar and holds up two cups.
“I’ve got a large Chocolate Fucking Explosion for Vivi and a large caramel latte for …” She hesitates. “He Who Shall Not Be Named!”
Sam gets up and takes the cups from her, then returns to our table. For the first time in many weeks, maybe months, I start laughing.
Sam looks pleased. “Did you like that? It’s my favorite name to use.”
I just keep laughing.
I do like that.
I might like him.
Grinning, Sam says, “So. Vivian. What brings you to our fine school?”
“My daddy. Dad! My dad.” I look for a place to hide. But Sam doesn’t seem to notice my idiocy.
“What about him?”
I drink my Explosion for strength. It works wonderfully. “He got hurt. At work. A beam fell on him. Like, one of those metal beams at a construction site.”
“Wow, sorry. I’m going to be a lawyer—you want me to sue someone?”
“We did.”
“No kidding. Are you rich now?”
“He bought a new house.”
“So that’s a yes.”
I drink instead of answering. It is a yes. A huge yes. A seven-figure yes.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I shouldn’t be asking you stuff like that, that’s rude.”
“It’s okay.”
Sam squints at me. “If it’s really okay, then I have one more question. Were you this quiet before the money?”
I sip. Savor. Then shake.
“Was it the money or the move?”
“Money, move … and Mom.” I peer into my tall glass of Chocolate F*cking Explosion, mesmerized by the swirls of chocolate sauce.
Sam urges me to keep talking with his sincere brown eyes.
“She left. Just before the accident.”
“So she got nothing? That must make her mad.”
“It does.” I finish my drink. “Can I ask you something?”
“I’d be amazed and delighted.”
“Why do you think that girl Brianna is so popular?”
“THE Brianna Montaro?” Sam says, and in that moment, I want to kiss him. “Is she?”
“Is she what?”
“Is she actually popular. I mean, by definition, that would mean a lot of people like her. What’s a lot of people? Half the campus? Three quarters? She doesn’t actually hang out with that many people. Too busy, for one thing.”
“Okay, well … maybe popular is the wrong word.”
“Sorry, I get hung up on specificity,” Sam says. “It’s a debate thing. I know what you meant. I was just thinking, popular means adored by many. I don’t think that quite fits her.”
When he smiles again, I do, too. I decide right then to be friends with Sam the rest of my life.
DREA
I wonder if either of my parents ever wake up in the dead of night in cold sweats, thinking, Just how badly have I screwed up my kid? If they don’t, they should. They really, really should.
My dad resents me. I can’t prove it. It’s just one of those things you pick up on by the time you’re fourteen. Both of my parents are screwed up—but then, doesn’t everyone think that? Plus, if it’s true, what does that make me? I don’t think they even wanted me, but I’m not quite stupid enough to ask and know for sure.
My father is a hypocrite. To supplement his income from running a community theater, he writes for health websites—articles with titles like “10 Reasons Water Is Good For You!” and “Exercise Right!” and “Why Forgiveness Is Healthy!” while smoking at least half a pack of Winston Lights per day, sometimes more during tech week, the week before his newest play opens. He never drinks water, and he never exercises, except taking our dog—a knotted, bedraggled thing named Gertrude—out for a walk once a month or so. And even then, it’s probably to get away from my mother, and I can’t say that I blame him.
I try not to bitch about them. Not to Kelly or anyone else. I know some people have it a lot worse than me. In junior high, my friends, who all went to a charter high school instead of here, they sometimes played up the bad stuff at their houses so they could have more drama to gossip about. I thought that was dumb, you know? Everyone has their thing or things that are wrong, so what? These are mine. They belong to me. I mean, it’s not like my parents are alcoholics or beat me up or anything.
But it’s like Dad can only think about what’s important to him, and Mom keeps putting up with it, at least in small bursts, until she has a meltdown. My mother is supposed to be on medication for some kind of personality problem that I don’t understand, but she rarely sticks to it. I also wonder about her diagnosis, because Mom has never actually been to a psychiatrist, just our family doctor. Her mood swings trace epic pendulum arcs from day to day, and it’s only gotten worse. They don’t look at each other much. They look at me, sometimes, and they look at the dog, and that’s about it.
This is what I’m thinking about as I draw the point of an unfolded paperclip down a b
lank area of my right arm. The left is too scabbed right now; I needed a fresh canvas. The paperclip drags my flesh into miniature skin mountains, not cutting so much as scraping. Still, it hurts a little, and that’s all that matters, you know?
“Are you going to take all day?” Kelly calls from outside the bathroom stall.
“Almost done,” I say, drawing another ragged scratch down my forearm.
Instantly my stomach muscles unwind and the mental pictures of my parents dissolve. I refold the paperclip to something like its original shape and come out of the stall, rolling down my sleeves.
Kelly, in baggy brown capri pants, sandals, and yellow-and-white baseball tee, is standing against the sinks, arms crossed. I think, but would never say, that a skirt and blouse would make a huge difference in Kelly’s presentation.
“You know that I know what you were doing in there, right?”
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
“Instead of being sorry, you could just not do it.”
Kelly doesn’t sound angry, or even disappointed. She sounds matter-of-fact, and I’m kind of grateful. Kelly’s tone strikes me as respectful, somehow.
We leave the girls’ restroom together and walk to the parking lot. We get into Kelly’s green pickup truck with the rusted fenders.
“What kind of music do you like?” Kelly says.
“All kinds.”
Kelly turns on the radio. Something poppy comes on. “This?”
“I guess.”
Carelessly, Kelly launches into singing along, startling me. Her voice has a depth and tenor to it that I never would have anticipated. She should have a YouTube channel, at the very least, where she just covers pop songs a cappella or something. The song ends, and Kelly stops singing.
“Do that again,” I tell her.
“What, sing? No.”
“How come?”
“You heard it, you tell me! Silly freshman.”
“It was good.”
“Aw, you’re sweet,” Kelly says, but obviously doesn’t believe me.
I spend the rest of the drive begging and teasing Kelly to sing again, but she won’t. When she pulls up to my house and I start to get out, she says, “Hey, freshman. Put some Neosporin or something on your arms, okay? It’s all fun and games until you get a blood infection and die.”