"Let's get back to The Catcher in the Rye." Ms. Everley turns to the board and starts writing the word PHONY in capital letters. A line of chalk residue runs across her rear, making it impossible not to stare at her ass.
For a second, I think I feel Lil's eyes on me. I sit up straighter in my desk, chest out, shoulders back. After all, this is Honors English.
***
For the rest of the day, I keep my mind focused on school. The only time I let myself drift to my awkward conversation with Lil is after gym, when I put on an extra layer of perfume because I'm worried my virgin stink has grown stronger with physical activity. It's irrational, but I can't stop myself.
By the time the final bell rings, I'm anxious to go home, even if that means riding the bus. It's the only thing I would change about high school. It seems criminal that I have a license, but I still have to ride next to freshmen who forget to put on deodorant and talk too loudly about stupid things. I guess one good part is that it's the only time Sarah and I have to us. Her schedule is the exact opposite of mine; we don't even have lunch together. It's the orchestra's fault. It takes up two periods in the morning. I don't want to be needy, but by the end of the day, I'm dying to talk to someone.
Even though I'm the nicest person in Minster, I don't have a gaggle of friends. I've found that most people like to be associated with me and the things I do, but very few actually want to get to know me. That's okay. My mother says you make your best friends in college anyway.
On the bus, Sarah and I usually sit all the way in the back and try to ignore the armpit smells and squeaky voices. At least once a day, one of us will mention that we're in desperate need of a car.
I'm waiting for Sarah when a blue car like something my Grandma Martina would've driven, a long boat-looking thing that eats more gasoline in one block than a modern car would in a hundred, pulls up in front of me.
Lil leans over the passenger seat and rolls down the window. "You want a ride, Pollyanna?" she asks. Her voice is loud to compensate for the blaring music coming out of the speakers, and her skull ring glints through the windshield.
I can feel people's eyes on me, waiting to see what I'll do. I bite my bottom lip; the anxiousness from earlier rumbling in my stomach, like Lil planted a seed and something foreign is growing inside me. If I say no, I'm being mean. I'm the president of WelCo and it's my job to make her feel good.
"Sure, but I need to tell my friend I won't be on the bus," I say, smiling and swallowing my apprehension.
"Whatever." Lil waves her hand through the air like she's brushing away my words.
I find Sarah just walking out of the school building. I'm a nice girl, I repeat in my head. This is why I'm getting in the car. If I say it enough, maybe I can convince myself it's the truth. Maybe I can squash the feeling Lil brings out in me, a crazy new feeling that makes me want to scream and burst into a million pieces.
"Um, I'm going to catch a ride with Lil," I say, wringing my hands together.
"You're what?" Sarah snaps.
I bend into her to whisper. "She's new and I feel bad."
"More like suicidal," she scoffs.
"It's one ride. I'm WelCo president, for Pete's sake."
"Getting in a car with that," Sarah points at Lil's boat and cringes, "is taking your job too far. She looks like a vampire, Marty. You don't even know her."
"I'll text you later, okay?"
"It's your funeral," Sarah says.
I gape at her. This isn't that big a deal. People give rides to people all the time, I tell myself. And again I push down the rumble that tells me otherwise, that's quietly screaming at me that Lil is new. Uncharted territory. A blank slate who speaks her mind and wears a dead person's face as an accessory.
"I'll text you," I repeat as I walk toward Lil's car.
I open the door and slide into the seat. Old Taco Bell wrappers and empty cigarette cartons litter the floor. A pine tree air freshener hangs from her rearview mirror; it's stinking up the car, so I keep the window rolled down. Outside feels like September instead of November.
"Seat belts for safety," Lil says.
I reach behind me and snap the belt into place. For some reason, even with it on, I don't feel like Lil is safe. Almost everything in my body is telling me to get out of the car, like this one singular moment is going to change my life forever.
Everything except some small part of me, hidden behind layers of skin and bones and manners and rules, a deep part that goes all the way to the back of my soul where things turn black and light never shines, a part that begs me to stay put.
I look out the window and see Sarah just making it to our bus. She's carrying her flute case and a water bottle. Everything about her looks right. Her hair's half pulled back so her cheekbones show, and her short brown skirt falls exactly mid thigh, not too short, but not too long. Sheet music sticks out of her backpack. She's the exact person I've known for twelve years.
Sarah looks at me and shakes her head. I know what she's thinking. That I look ridiculous in Lil's car. That the music coming from the speakers is horrendous. That I need to get out now before it's too late.
Lil pulls the gear shift down into drive, her tires screeching on the asphalt, and peels out of the parking lot. Too late.
CHAPTER 3
"My house is on Washington Street," I say as Lil pulls away from the school.
"Who said anything about going home?"
"But you offered me a ride?" I ask, panic rising in my throat. This doesn't feel comfortable, like the part in a scary movie before something pops out all bloody and dead.
"I offered you a ride. I didn't say I would take you home. I need to go somewhere. Do you think you can handle that?"
I nod and gulp down the lump in the back of my throat. Lil's just a girl. The new girl, to be exact. So what if she's dressed all in black, like some sort of gothic Johnny Cash? Instead of judging, I should be getting to know her, like I was supposed to do today.
"What band is this?" I ask. I attempt to make my voice sound comfortable and inquisitive. Showing someone you're interested in what they like makes conversation flow, even if you're totally faking it. The truth is that as much as I try to act like I know about popular music, I know nothing. Musicals are more my speed.
"The Violent Femmes."
"Interesting." It's the only word I can think of to describe the noise coming out of the speakers, like monkeys on cocaine singing.
Lil lights up a cigarette. I don't want to be rude, but I lean my face closer to the window. I may have put up with it this morning, but right now my eyes hurt and it's taken all day to get rid of the stale smell on my dress.
"Is this bothering you?" she asks, looking at me sideways.
"My mom has the nose of a drug dog."
"Do you care that much what your mom thinks of you?"
I nod and speak the truth. "Yes, I do."
Seeing disappointment on another person's face is the worst thing I can imagine. Last year, my mom found out that Sarah and I stole liquor from Sarah's parents' cabinet and got drunk. I just wanted to try it and see what all the fuss was about. I figured doing it in a contained environment with no danger of taking off my shirt and letting an entire party see my boobs was a good idea. We learned in Health that alcohol lowers your inhibitions and makes you do impulsive things. The last thing I need is a rumor spreading around Minster that I'm a lush.
Sarah poured water in the vodka bottle to cover up the amount we took. We drank in her basement until the ceiling was spinning and both our heads were in the toilet. It was a terrible feeling, but worse still was my mom's blank expression when I went home the next morning, plagued with a headache and green-faced. It was like all the expectation drained from her eyes and I was a stranger. She didn't talk to me for a week. She still gets skeptical when I sleep over at Sarah's.
Lil throws the barely-smoked cigarette out the window and turns the music up. I don't ask her where we're going. I doubt she'd tell me. I just sit bac
k and look out the window at the passing fields.
I've always liked living in Minster, where fresh food grows all around us. My grandma used to say that farming reminds us about the circle of life. That people are born and blossom and shrivel and die. You can't stop the seasons from changing, she'd say, so you'd better enjoy the summer before you end up looking like me, a dried-up raisin with fake teeth and an adult diaper.
Lil drives, letting the wind push her hand through the air like a wave. She'd almost look innocent, if it weren't for the nose ring and the dead face on her finger. I move closer to the window and let the sun warm my cheeks. The sun's starting to shift, hanging low on the horizon, a sign that the seasons will eventually change, even though the air is warm with remnants of Indian summer.
Some days, I wish I could force myself to blossom, like my grandma said, instead of constantly feeling like I'm encased in a bud.
We pull into Minster's town square and drive past Bob's Barber Shop and the wedding dress store that's only open two weekends a month and has had the same dress in the window since 1999.
"This place is like a fucked-up Mayberry," Lil mumbles and shakes her head.
"Where?" I ask.
She looks at me, sunglasses propped on the top of her head. "Have you ever even seen a penis?"
I blink, shocked. PENIS!
"Sure," I mumble. I've seen lots of penises in Health class.
Lil parks on Main Street in front of Vinyl Tap, the only record store in town. It stands out from all the other establishments like a hippy at a cocktail party. I've never actually been inside. Sarah dared me once, but I refused. I was worried everyone would start laughing the moment I walked in, like a sign would go off over my head that said 'poser.' Plus, they don't carry the stuff I like to listen to.
"This is where we're going?" I ask as Lil cuts the engine.
"Do you have a problem?"
"Can I just wait in the car?"
"No." She gets out and slams the door behind her. I want to stay put in protest, but it was my decision to get in the car when I could've just gone home on the bus.
Vinyl Tap smells exactly like I expected, like rotten cardboard and incense. Tapestries hang on the walls beside posters of Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan and the Beatles. I may not be into rock music, but I know the big guys when I see them.
Lil heads straight to the back of the store, disappearing into a sea of records and old cassette tapes, while I stand by the front door, arms crossed over my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. I debate walking around and scanning the music, but I'm afraid someone will ask me a question. I'd look foolish, stumbling through an unintelligent response. Instead, I stay still like a statue and wait for my ride.
If I'd gotten on the bus, I'd be home by now, finishing my homework and watching TV before dinner. It's my favorite time of day. With my dad at the office and my mom at her afternoon volunteer work, I have the house all to myself. My mom visits Shady Willows Retirement Community and Nursing Home, heading their bingo games and changing their sheets. I'm not built for bedpans and vomit, but making a bed with properly tucked sheets I can do, she says.
In the afternoons, I get to walk around the house singing at the top of my lungs or watching whatever I want on TV. Once, I spent an entire afternoon practicing kissing. I watched myself in the mirror and analyzed my technique and proper head position. I even snuggled with a pillow, imagining what it would feel like to have a boy put his hands on my face and gently touch his lips to mine.
I've only been kissed once, not including the stage kisses I had to do with Jim Parker last year in Guys and Dolls. It was in eighth grade at a birthday party. We played Seven Minutes in Heaven and I went into the closet with Brandon Schulz. We stared at each other for six minutes before he said I was the kind of girl he hoped to marry some day, but for right now, he was looking to date someone with bigger boobs. Ten seconds before the door opened he leaned in and kissed me. It was a fleeting, slightly off-center peck that was so quick I thought I imagined it. He walked out shouting that it was the nicest kiss he'd ever had. I couldn't be mad after that. At least he didn't lie and tell everyone he touched my boobs.
I think about kissing all the time lately, like my body is begging to be touched. I tell myself to wait for the right person because that's what girls like me do. I can't just go around groping anyone I want. But some days I worry that maybe I'm not good enough to have someone love me. To have someone want to place their lips on mine and know the taste of my skin, the way I know the taste of theirs.
The door dings, announcing a new customer and breaking my thoughts into pieces. I blink and realize I need to find Lil so I can go home. It's getting late.
"My Hart in Vinyl Tap. Never thought I'd see the day."
I turn around and come face to face with Matt James-Morrison-Walker, the guitar-playing, free spirit rock God of Minster High School. He's the only person that every girl would die to date, even though he comes from a broken home and it's rumored his mom is a pot dealer. For some reason, none of the girls care. I think it's the way he's always speaking slowly and squinting, like he's searching your soul and melting your heart in the same glance. Or maybe he's just smoking his mom's pot and it takes his brain a long time to process things. Either way, he might be the coolest person I've ever met. Plus, he has three hyphenated last names, which only adds to his mystique.
"Matt," I say unsure of how to get my mouth to keep forming words. I tutored him last year in Algebra, even though I'm a year younger than him. I got all mixed up inside every time he looked at me with his brooding green eyes and surfer blonde hair. When he found out my last name is Hart, he started calling me My Hart. That was about the time I started daydreaming about kissing him and writing Marty Hart-James-Morrison-Walker all over my notebooks. My mom would kill me if I ever dated him. He is so not acceptable and yet, my lips always seem to angle themselves toward his when I'm in his presence. I gulp and choke at the same time, my mind pummeled with visions of making out, only this time Matt is the star.
"Suddenly into good music?" he asks, flashing his famous lopsided grin. He looks goofy and gorgeous in the same beat. He tucks a loose piece of hair behind his ear, displaying the leather armband with brass buckles decorating his wrist. On his other wrist are stacked black jelly bracelets, the kind you put in your mouth when you're younger and pretend are retainers. They haven't changed since last year.
I used to stare at Matt's hands when he wrote down algebraic equations and wonder what his fingers would feel like tangled in my hair. He's the only guy I know who can wear something other than a watch around his wrist and get away with it.
"Just here with someone from school," I smile and play with my hair, twirling it around my pointer finger like a toddler. My mother would tell me to stop fidgeting and stand up straight. "What are you doing here?"
"I jam in the back room on Thursday nights. You should come listen to us sometime."
I blink and stare at the Wonder Bread vintage t-shirt he has on before my eyes flutter down to his tight jeans. Did I hear him correctly? Did he just invite me out? More kissing images cloud my brain, but before I can say anything Lil reappears.
"Ready to go?" She's carrying a brown shopping bag and doesn't even acknowledge Matt.
"Lil, this is Matt James-Morrison-Walker. He goes to our school."
"Hey." She waves her hand through the air like she's shooing away a fly and says again, "Ready to go?"
I nod and say to Matt, "It was good to see you. I hope math is going well this year." The second the words come out, I cringe. Couldn't I have thought of something cooler?
"Think about Thursday. I'd love to see you here more often." And then Matt winks at me. A deliberate, slow, super-sexy wink that makes his hair fall in his face again.
I don't realize until we're out on the street that I'm holding my breath. The cooler night air shocks my senses and I exhale, but my mind can't stop repeating his words. Matt Three-Last-Names just said I and l
ove and you in the same sentence—a sentence directed at me.
"Are you going to get in?" Lil asks as she puts on her red sunglasses.
"Huh? Oh, yeah," I say as I fumble with the door handle.
"Oh my God." Lil stops and pulls the glasses down to the end of her nose. "You like that guy."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say. The door won't open even though I'm tugging on the handle to a near-violent extreme.
"You like that guy, Matt. It's written all over your baby face."
"I don't have a baby face." I rub my hands over my hot cheeks, praying they aren't as red as I think they are.
"You're a liar."
The second Lil says the words, fury rises in my throat so high I couldn't choke it back if I tried.
"You don't even know me! You say you'll give me a ride and then you make me go to some stupid record store. I try to be nice and all you do is smoke cigarettes and play bad music. You won't even tell me where you're from in Florida!" I smack my hand over my mouth, shocked. What I've just said is out of character for me. I never lose my temper.
At first, Lil doesn't flinch. She just stands still, staring at me. I wonder if she'll get in the car and drive away, leaving me alone outside of Vinyl Tap. I've completely failed as WelCo president. Rule number one is be friendly at all times.
And then her face breaks into a huge, teeth-showing grin.
"There you are, Marty Hart. I knew a real person existed under all that politeness."
"What are you talking about?"
She pushes her sunglasses back up. "Just get in the car. I'll take you home."
"You're not mad?" I ask, finally getting the passenger's side door open.
Lil slides into the driver's seat. "You said Washington Street, right?"
I nod. We pull away from Vinyl Tap as the sun begins to set over the western horizon. I've missed any chance of freedom from my parents today.
Playing Nice Page 3