I got in line for said hotdog and pulled out Pride and Prejudice. I pretended to read as I tried to calm down. I told myself the picture was just a joke. I could deal. Probably no one had seen it, anyway. And if they had, maybe they hadn’t understood. Or didn’t remember second grade. Of course, the shifty eyes Johnny Mercer had given me pretty much shot that theory to hell. He’d seen it for sure. But who cared what he thought, anyway? No biggie.
I had just convinced myself that the stupid picture was so beneath my contempt, when I noticed Todd Harding line up about five people behind me. I tucked my book in my backpack, took a “cleansing breath,” as Mar would say, and decided I would say hello. Just to make sure he knew about the appointment on Friday and all. I pride myself on my maturity.
When I got to the entrée counter, I stood back, like I didn’t know what I wanted. “Go ahead,” I said to the girl next in line. And the next: “Go on, I’m still deciding. Go ahead.” Right up until Todd was next to me. Then I stepped forward. “Pardon,” I said smooth as cream. “Just need to grab a hot do—Oh, hi Todd.” Like I hadn’t even noticed him.
“Yeah. Uh, Fiona, right?”
I chuckled. “Uh-Fiona. Yep that’s me. Uh-Fiona. So, I guess we’re married, huh?” I squeezed some ketchup on my hot dog. It splurted all over my tray.
Todd made that pus face again and said, “Look, nothing personal”—which of course always means something personal—“but I’m not spending my senior year hanging out with you. It’s not happening.”
“Um, it’s not?”
“Nope. Sorry to ruin your wet dreams.”
“Uhhh . . . ’scuse me?”
He smirked. “I mean, I’m sure you need the money and all.” He cocked his head to the side and eyeballed my outfit. “For a pair of socks that match, maybe. Or a bra, once your tits start to grow. But I don’t need it. I’m good.”
I just stood there, limp and rigid at the same time. Like a rag doll with a broomstick stuck up its ass.
Todd’s bonehead buddy sniggered next to him and nudged him along the line. As they pushed past me, Todd leaned over to his friend and whispered, “Poor horse.”
Then he whinnied.
And that’s when I knew. Todd had drawn the picture. That was why Pony had been wrong: because Todd thought it was a horse. Amanda hadn’t done it. Todd had. Just to publicly humiliate me.
That asshole.
I picked up my hot dog and hurled it at the back of his pretty-boy white-blond head. SPLAT. Ketchup everywhere and a greasy wiener tumbling down his back. Bull’s-eye.
“What the . . . ?” Todd spun around.
“That was for your little piece-of-crap artwork,” I said.
Todd took two giant strides toward me, leaned in to my face, and growled, “You want to play, Princess Pisspants? Fine. We’ll play. See you Friday morning. Welcome to married hell.” Then he stalked away, leaving me standing there with one thought in my head.
Game on.
CHAPTER 4
THAT NIGHT AT DINNER WHEN I TOLD MY PARENTS about marriage ed, my mom said, “That is absolutely ridiculous.” She sliced through a piece of spicy Thai chicken.
“Why?” my dad asked.
“What can they possibly hope to gain by forcing these kids together when they barely even know each other? It’s not like they got to choose their partners.”
“So?”
Mom set her knife and fork down on the pottery plate she’d bought a set of at an art fair last year. “So how is it applicable to real life? How does it teach them about choosing a good mate when they didn’t get to make the choice themselves?” she asked.
Dad leaned in. “How do you suggest the course should work?”
Now, let me take a moment to explain something about my father. He’s a political science professor at Northern Illinois University, and he likes to teach using the Socratic method of basically just asking questions. That’s it. Anything a student says, my dad simply turns around and puts it back on the poor sap in question form. He could teach an entire hour-long lecture using only the words, “Why?” “How?” “So?” and “What do you think?” Sometimes I wonder if he knows anything at all about political science. But he’s one of the most popular professors on campus. Unfortunately, he tends to bring his teaching method home, which makes him not-so-popular with my mom and me at times.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your pupils,” Mom said. “I can have my opinion without needing to defend it.”
“Okay, if you want to have an unfounded opinion, go right ahead.” He stabbed a bite of spinach salad and popped it in his mouth.
“My opinion is not unfounded; it’s just none of your business,” she said.
“You made it my business when you said it out loud,” he mumbled through chewed green stuff.
“Are you kidding here?” Mom asked. “Because you’re starting to actually piss me off.”
Dad swallowed, smiled, and grabbed my mom’s hand. “Of course I’m kidding. Don’t get mad.” He leaned across the table and kissed her. “I’m just playing with you.”
That’s what my parents call playing. It’s twisted, but they seem to love it. Whatever steams your clams.
“Mom’s got a point,” I said. “These random matches are a disaster.”
“Why?” Dad asked. “What happened; did you get a dud?”
I slowly spun my knife on the table. “Not a dud. The opposite. Extremely popular and a total jerk. There isn’t one thing about this guy I find at all appealing.”
“Hey now. Come on. Don’t be mean. Popular guys have feelings too,” he teased.
“Not this one. Unless you count feeling up his girlfriend in the hallway before class.”
“Feeling up a girl always counts,” he said.
Mom swacked him with her cloth napkin, “Ethan—”
“It’s true. I’ve counted every single time.” And I swear to God, he reached over and honked her boob right in front of me. “Six thousand, two hundred, eight.”
I leaned back from my parents as far as possible. “Ethan,” I cried, “this is the dinner table.”
Dad toggled his head at me. “Pardon me, Your Ladyship.”
My mother struggled to compose herself. “Fiona, Principal Miller really said you can’t graduate if you don’t take this course? And the school board okayed it?”
“That’s what she said.”
“I find that objectionable,” Mom said.
“For once, we agree,” I said. I flicked grains of jasmine rice around my plate with my fork. I lined them up into a little T for Todd, and then smooshed it with the back of the fork tines.
“Well, I’m not standing for it,” Mom said. “I’m calling Principal Miller tomorrow. Then the school board. Maybe I’ll even write a letter to the paper.” She drained her wineglass. “Ridiculous.”
“Uh-oh,” Dad said. “Hide your daughters. Viv is on the warpath.”
Mom swacked him with her napkin again.
“Yeah, that’s all well and good, Mom, but it’s not going to change anything. Meanwhile, I still have to deal with this jerk.”
Mom picked up her plate and took it to the sink. “Fiona, I think this course is absurd. But for the time being, you’re going to have to play along. Just try to find one thing about this boy that you like, or respect, or can at least stand. Just one thing. That’s all you need. Focus on that one redeemable quality, that one thing you like, and you’ll be surprised how long you can stand him for.”
“Is that how you and Dad stay together?”
“What can I say? He makes a mean chocolate milk shake.”
“And she can really sing,” Dad said.
“I’m a terrible singer,” said Mom.
“You are? Well, in that case, I guess we’re through.” He shrugged. “Hmmm . . . I wonder who I was thinking of who can sing.”
“Your mother is a good singer. Perhaps you should go live with her.”
Dad said, “At least she lets me feel her up.”
I stood up. “That’s it; I’m done. And I’m not even going to ask to be excused, because you two are sick and depraved and no longer hold any authority over me. I’ll be in my room.” I set my plate in the sink and left them giggling behind me.
Upstairs, I sprawled out on my bed and pulled out the marriage ed packet. I grabbed the journal and a pen. Figured I might as well record this horrific day.
Wednesday, September 4
I thought today would be the first day of a fantastic senior year. Instead, it sucked. Now I have to spend the whole year SHACKLED to a person (who shall remain nameless, but his initials are TODD HARDING) whom I despise. I have been advised to try to find one redeeming quality in him to focus on. So far, the only thing I can think of is that he is breathing. But even that is questionable, because he is very likely a zombie or some other form of the undead. I would seriously rather spend my entire life as a virgin spinster than spend it with Todd Harding. I’d be perfectly happy living as the crazy cat lady. I have an uncle (Tommy) who is totally the male version of the crazy cat lady, and he’s happy enough. Actually, come to think of it, he’s really not.
Like this one time about three years ago, we went up for my Nana’s seventy-fifth b-day. We ate at this restaurant, and I got stuck sitting next to Uncle Tommy. I tried to make polite small talk, but he started snapping at me, saying that one of his two cats was sick. Some kidney problem or something. He asked me if I had any pets. I said no, and he said, “Good. They’re heartache. I bought Sarsaparilla and Knee Hi this year for my fortieth birthday. They just remind me of how old I am. And now, Knee Hi’s sick. I don’t know what Sarsaparilla would do without her sister.”
I said I was sorry to hear that, and he said, “Well, it’s par for the course for my life. God forbid I have one small thing that isn’t a disappointment.”
Ooooohhhhkaaaay.
What the freak could I say to that? Luckily, the appetizers came out, and I could suddenly develop an all-consuming interest in the construction of shrimp puffs.
That was Uncle Tommy three years ago. I can only guess how bitter and frightening he is by now. I hope to hell the cat didn’t die. I have no idea what any of that has to do with marriage education, but at least it took up a couple journal pages.
CHAPTER 5
FRIDAY MORNING. FIRST PERIOD. THE SENIORS WERE gathered in the auditorium. Up onstage stood this crappy white archway left over from last year’s production of Much Ado About Nothing covered in fake pink flowers and lit up with a spotlight.
Principal Miller’s fingers fluttered at her hair and neck as she walked to the podium next to the arch. “All right, seniors. Settle down, now. Let’s get through this ceremony and you can go to class. I’d like the young women to line up on the right side of the auditorium according to the alphabetical order of your last names. Young men, you will line up on the left side of the auditorium across from your partner.”
This took several minutes, as many of the senior girls had not yet mastered the intricacies of the English alphabet. Plus, none of us was in too much of a hurry to get to the actual wedding part. Principal Miller tried to help out as best she could.
“No, Maja, Bjorkman comes before Bloomberg. Catherine, is it McHenry or MacHenry? Okay, that means you’re after Juliana. Rhiannon, I know you and Joscelin have the same last name. Line up according to first name, then. No, that means you’re behind Joscelin, not in front. There you go. No, Elizabeth, you do not have to kiss. In fact, you should not. No kissing! Do you hear me, everyone? No kissing! Rashmi Kapoor, get back here! Well, too bad, you’ll have to hold it.”
There’s a saying about herding cats. Like how impossible it is. But that would have been a piece of cake compared to this. Finally, we slid into place, and so did the guys. I looked across the expanse of green vinyl seats to the line of them huddled against the wall. They looked like game animals that had been shipped in for a controlled hunt. Some oblivious to their fate. Some bucking and kicking against the enclosure. Some resigned to their impending demise. But all trapped.
I scanned the line. Johnny Mercer was toward the front, leaning up against the wall with his arms folded above his stomach. He was completely motionless except for his right black boot, which kept tapping and tapping furiously on the floor.
Gabe stood about halfway down the line. His tangerine shirt made his skin look like burnished bronze. He chatted with the guy next to him and laughed casually, showing his perfect white teeth. It reminded me of how he’d tried to make me laugh on the way to the nurse’s office in third grade so I wouldn’t think about the pain in my ankle. His smile was still the same.
All of a sudden, Gabe turned and looked across the auditorium toward the girls. I could see his eyes passing down the line. In a second he’d be looking right at me. Should I let him see me watching him? Would it surprise him? Or should I look away and appear coy and delicious? Should I wave? Try to hold his stare? Try to send him psychic messages?
I caved. I dropped down and pretended to tie my checkered Chuck Taylor sneakers. I didn’t know what to do. What a wimp. And as a reward for my cowardice, when I stood up, my gaze fell on someone much less savory. Toady Todd. (I was trying out new nicknames for him. So far I’d rejected Todd the Clod, Hard-head Harding, and “TH” pronounced in the form of a raspberry. He wasn’t smart enough to get that one.) Todd turned to his buddy and whispered something. At least, it looked like he was whispering. All bent over and shadylike. And then I watched with dread as he looked and pointed at me, and then started laughing. His buddy laughed too, and I felt all my blood drain into my feet. Todd was up to something.
He saw me watching him, shook his head, and smiled his sinister grin. I tried not to look scared, but what could I do? I couldn’t say anything to him; he was way across the auditorium. I did the only thing I could think of. Gave him the finger.
Well, that just pleased Todd to no end. I’d egged him on. I’d accomplished the social equivalent of poking a bear with a sharp stick.
“Is everyone ready?” Principal Miller said, adjusting her glasses. “Everyone? Okay, let’s begin. When I call your name, please come up onstage, meet your partner behind the arch, hold hands, and pass through the arch and down the risers in front of the stage. Then you may continue up the center aisle and exit to class. Does everyone understand? Yes? Fine.” She waved to someone in the back of the auditorium. “Please bring in the underclassmen. Ah . . . and women.”
Suddenly, the double doors flew open and a wave of students poured into the auditorium. Judging from the expressions on the seniors’ faces, it was safe to assume that none of us had dreamed we’d have an audience for this. But there they were. Freshmen, sophomores, juniors—witnesses to the execution. Sophia Sheridan nudged me. “What are they here for?”
“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe Principal Miller wants to scare them into switching schools so next year the faculty can retire to Buenos Aires.”
She snorted. “I doubt it. I mean, who’d want to retire in Mexico?”
I blame the educational system; I do. It wasn’t poor Sophia’s fault that she’d never been taught the geography of North and South America. Or maybe she had, but the information had somehow gotten lost between the teacher’s lips and her hair spray–fumed brain. Either way, I decided to let it go. She clearly had missed the point, anyhow.
Principal Miller flapped her hands above the podium. “Take your seats, please. Take your seats.” When the room settled, she cleared her throat, tossed her head back, and gave a crooked smile. “We are gathered here today to join—” She stopped. Blinked a few times. Forced the smile wider. “To join these young men and these young women in—” She swallowed. Breathed. “Matrimony.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “A marriage is not something to be entered into lightly. It is a commitment made between two people. A commitment that is—” She tossed her head back and snorted. “Well, it’s supposed to endure.” Her voice wavered. She stopped again and dabbed at her eyes. Then she grabbed the podium. “Yo
u should stick with it through adversity. Not just run off at the first temptation like a kid who’s just discovered candy. Sure, candy is sweet. But candy offers no sustenance. Meanwhile, the solid, nourishing potato that you married lies rotting in the cupboard. Make the choice before you make the commitment, ladies and gentlemen! Don’t choose a potato if what you really want is candy. Do you understand?”
It was pretty clear that none of us did. Even though she studied our stony faces for an answer. A tear dribbled down her cheek. She swiped it away.
“So. Marriage. Yes. Marriage is a commitment between two people . . . a commitment that . . . that . . . Oh, you know the rules. Let’s get on with it. When I call your name, come up on the stage, join hands with your partner, and I solemnly declare you united for the purpose of marriage education for the year. The end, goodbye. Mr. Evans? Music, please. Carla Adams and Peter Hauser.”
Pachelbel’s Canon in D started blaring over the sound system as Carla and Peter climbed the stage steps. They joined hands, walked under the arch, and stepped down the risers at the front of the stage. As they strolled up the aisle, the underclassmen started clapping and hooting. Now I understood why they were there. It was a gauntlet of humiliation.
Two by two we climbed the gallows. Two by two we descended into hell. Okay, maybe I’m overdramatizing it a bit, but I can tell you this much: I used to like Canon in D. It used to sound like hope and beauty and purity and joy all rolled into one. But suddenly, and from that moment on, Canon in D sounded like a death march. A dirge. A slow, inevitable spiral toward the grave. Without a doubt, I would never, ever like Pachelbel again.
A Match Made in High School Page 3