“You can spit on your own hair?” Johnny asked. I almost wasn’t sure if he was joking at first. But then he said, “Wow, you’re talented. Maybe you could join a carnival sideshow or something with that.”
I laughed. We didn’t seem to have anything else to say, so Johnny went back to his MP3 player, and I went back to my book. It was hard to focus on reading, though, with all the yelling and clapping coming from the cheery hopefuls bouncing around in the grass. They were kind of mesmerizing, really. I watched for a minute and then spotted Mar weaving her way back through the tryouts. Todd stopped her for a second before she came over.
“Todd wants to see you,” she said.
I slapped my book shut. “What for?”
“I dunno.”
I blew a raspberry, got up, and trudged back to the tryout area. Todd was standing next to this decrepit yellow water cooler the size of a small child. He patted it with his hand. “Here’s your big jug, Princess.” He stroked his chin. “Unless you brought one with you already. Have you got any big jugs of your own?”
I sighed at his tone. “No.”
“No,” he said, staring directly at my chest, “I see that you don’t.” He laughed at himself. I ignored him in a dignified manner.
“Well, don’t worry,” he went on. “It’s not as big on the inside as it is outside. Here, check it out.”
I should have known better than to do anything Señor Shitslacks said. And any other time, I would have. But I was thrown off by the eureka moment I’d just had when I realized that he might actually like me in a twisted, hate-filled way. So I stepped over to the cooler and lifted the lid.
Inside was a wriggling mound of wet, green things. Frogs. Dozens of them. Big ones, leaping all over the place. I shrieked and jumped about five feet backward. Todd burst into hysterics. So did Amanda and the rest of the cheerleader wannabes, along with Todd’s bonehead buddy from the cafeteria (who, judging from the mud on his legs was the dickweed frognapper).
Crap, what about Gabe? Had he seen? He wasn’t on the bleachers anymore. Mrs. O’Toole sure hadn’t noticed anything. Maybe Gabe had missed it too. But no, there he was, walking on the sidelines less than thirty feet away. Laughing. Oh God, no. But then . . .
Gabe winked at me and gave me a little wave. I swear I didn’t imagine it. Gabe Webber winked at me.
Todd yelled, “What’s the matter? I thought princesses liked frogs!”
In fact, I hate frogs. I hate everything about them. Their bulgy eyes, the way they move. They’re like giant, live, jumping boogers. There was no way Todd could’ve known that, but I threw the lid hard at his stomach anyway. He caught it, pretending it knocked the wind out of him. He kept laughing. And after a sec I realized that, despite Gabe seeing it, the prank was kind of good. Pretty funny. So I started chuckling too.
Now, if everything had ended there, with all of us laughing, then things would’ve been just fine. But as soon as Amanda saw that I was laughing along with Todd, she decided to change the game. She waltzed over to the cooler, hoisted it up, drew back, and heaved the contents directly at me. I only had a second to duck and drop and scream again before a mass of slimy bellies and webbed feet slapped and pelted my body.
“Amanda!” In a heartbeat, Todd grabbed the cooler from her. “What the hell are you doing?”
Moments later, someone was next to me, gently lifting me out of my cowering squat. For one sweet second, I thought it was Gabe. But it wasn’t. It was just Johnny Mercer. “Are you okay?” he asked. As he lifted me to my feet, his face was so close that I could see how long the lashes were on his deep-set eyes. I shivered at the frogs hopping every which way around me, but I nodded that I was all right. Johnny said, “Stay there.” He took the cooler from Todd, set it on the ground, and started scooping up the runaway frogs with his broad hands and putting them inside. “I’ll take them back down to the stream,” he said.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. But I did listen. To Todd reaming out Amanda. And she didn’t like it one bit. She referred to me as a few choice synonyms for the female genitalia and then stormed off the field. Todd went after her.
Marcie came up behind me, tiptoeing over the few remaining frogs Johnny was chasing. She went to wipe some slime off my cheek but couldn’t quite bring herself to touch it. “I can’t believe she did that. That was so not cool.”
“That’s Amanda,” I rasped.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
I rubbed at a frog stain on my T-shirt, but it just smeared more. “I would have preferred it if Gabe Webber hadn’t just seen me get slimed, but other than that . . .” I sighed. “I’m fab.” A bigger sigh. “Hey, at least he winked at me. How about that? I got a wink ’n’ wave from Gabe.”
“Yeah? Great.” Mar yelped and jumped out of the way as a frog hopped toward her strappy hot pink sandals. “Um . . . are you . . . gonna stay here? Like that?” she asked.
I figured I had no reason to stick around, since one, I was covered in amphibi-goo, and two, Todd and Amanda had left. Tryouts couldn’t happen without them—they’d been last year’s varsity co-captains, so they were guaranteed a spot, and they also judged tryouts. And I wasn’t about to hang out until they made up.
“Actually, Mar, do you think you and Johnny could drop me home on your way to dance class?” I asked.
Mar managed to pick one wet blade of swamp grass off my shoulder. “Sure, Fee. No problem.”
Good ol’ Mar. I knew I could count on her.
Wednesday, September 25
I haven’t written in a couple of weeks, so I guess I’d better make this a good one. Todd and I have come to some kind of twisted truce wherein we hate each other but don’t. I’m not really sure how it works, but basically, we get done what we need to get done, but in a totally hostile way, which actually isn’t hostile at all. (I just reread that and it makes no sense whatsoever. Oh well.)
Here’s an example. Last week we played against Fallbrook. It was an away game and I, as water girl, had to fill up the ginormous cooler/thermos thingy (a new orange one—not the frog pot). Except, the only place to fill it was from a spigot on the side of their lame-ass school about a mile around the corner from the football field.
So I’m hauling this thing, which now weighs a ton since it’s filled with water. And I can’t carry it that far. It’s too heavy. All the cheerleaders see me and start laughing because I’m having such a hard time. So I, of course, give them the finger. Then Todd says, “Come on! Lift! Use those pecs! Maybe they’ll grow!” And then he pulls out the front of his uniform to make boobs. The girls laugh and go skipping over to the football field. But Todd comes over to me, picks up the cooler, and carries it the whole way to the bleachers for me. Doesn’t say another word. Weird, I know. But what was weirder was that the minute I saw him watching me struggle with the cooler, I knew he was going to help me with it.
I don’t think this is what they call a healthy relationship. Not that anyone really knows what one is. And yet, people still find each other. It’s a freaking miracle, when you think about it.
Take my uncle Tommy. We saw him last weekend when we drove up to visit Nana for dinner. During the appetizers she always serves—celery sticks and Little Smokies (Little Smokies, if you don’t know, are mini hot dogs in a pool of barbecuelike sauce. They look like a bowlful of little severed penises)—Nana announced that Uncle Tommy would be joining us, and that he was bringing a friend. A good friend. She told us that Uncle Tommy had gotten his real estate license and moved into a new apartment, so maybe this woman would be the next step.
Anyway, the doorbell rang, and when Dad opened it, I did a total cartoon-style double take. It was Uncle Tommy, for sure, but he looked different. He looked great. His hair was combed. His face was shaved. He wore a dress shirt and khakis. But it was more than just improved grooming. He was like . . . shimmering.
Nana asked, “Where’s your friend?”
Uncle Tommy says, “Just outside. But first, I want to announ
ce that we’re more than just friends. We’re together. We’re in love.”
Nana flipped out in a good way. “Oh, Tommy! A girlfriend! I’m so happy for you,” etc.
But Uncle Tommy got really quiet. Then he said, “And this person’s name is Alan.” He stepped aside, and this absolutely gorgeous, dark-haired man walked through the door. I swear to God his eyes were the exact color of this jade pendant my mom has. *Swoon.*
So Nana says, “Is this another friend? Where’s Ellen?”
Gorgeous Guy totally stifled a grin.
Uncle Tommy said, “No, Ma. Not Ellen. Alan. Ma, I’m gay.”
Nana ran off crying but came back about five minutes later and eyeballed Alan from head to foot. She said, “Well, you’re no Ellen. Have you got a job?”
Alan: “Yes, ma’am. I’m an architect.”
Nana: “Got any of those diseases?”
Alan: “No, ma’am. Totally clean.”
Nana: “Let’s get two things straight, Mr. Totally Clean Architect. If you ever hurt my boy—body or soul—I’ll break your kneecaps. And second, nobody calls me ma’am. It makes me feel like an old lady. You may call me Agnes.”
Alan: “Thank you, Agnes.”
Nana said, “Go on and help yourself to a Little Smokie, there, Ellen.”
Dad burst out laughing. Alan laughed too, but said, “No, thank you,” because he’s a vegetarian.
“Vegetarian?” Nana cried. “Now that’s too much!” She turned to Uncle Tommy. “You’re not a vegetarian are you?”
“No, Ma,” he said. “I eat meat.”
Dad muttered, “I bet you do,” and Mom socked him in the arm.
Uncle Tommy said, “Ma, I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” she said. “For forty-three years I’ve watched you live a life of misery. And I suffered along with you. That was hurt. Now, after all that time . . . I’m finally not hurt, Thomas Daniel Sheehan. Not hurt. No. I’m relieved. I only wish it hadn’t taken you forty-three years.” She hugged Uncle Tommy and whispered, “My baby boy. My baby boy.”
It would have been a perfect—albeit twisted—Hallmark moment if Dad hadn’t blurted out, “Wait a minute. Are you saying you knew all along he was gay?”
She said, “A mother knows her son.”
Uncle Tommy kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Ma.”
Dad said, “I need a drink.” He helped himself to a large glass of whiskey and slumped on the couch. Mom sat next to him, took his drink, swilled a mouthful of it, and then handed it back. He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. It was like they’d had a conversation without saying a single word. Like Dad had said, I don’t know how to handle this. Then Mom said, I know. This is a tough one. But I’m here for you. And then Dad said, Thanks. I love you for that.
Bizarre.
But wait! It gets better. Several fat whiskeys later, Dad and I were alone at the table. He was absolutely soused. He turns to me and says, “You’re not gay, are you, Fiona?”
I said, “What?”
Drunk Dad: “I mean, you’ve never had a boyfriend. And you’re not exactly . . . girly.”
Me: “Uh, thanks a lot there, Dad.”
DD: “Nononono. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way you are.”
Me: “Ohhhkay . . .”
DD: “I wouldn’t want you to think you couldn’t be who you really are and that we wouldn’t love you for whatever or whoever you are and so you had to be somebody you didn’t want to be just for us, ’cause it’s not what we want for you. Ya know?”
Nope. I did not, in any sense of the word, know. “Dad, what the hell are you talking about?”
He gulped some more whiskey. “I juss don’t want you to be unhappy for forty-three years. Thass all.”
“Dad. Dad.” I thumped the table so he’d look at me. “I’m not gay, Dad. I’m just unpopular.”
Dad wheezed, “Thanggod. I’sso happy to hear that.” Then he passed out on his dinner plate.
Needless to say, Mom drove home.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, you just can’t tell who you’re going to end up with. You might spend your whole life dreaming about one type of person, only to find happiness with somebody completely different. Someone you figured you had nothing in common with just might turn out to be your dream guy. And you know he’s your dream guy because you become a better person. He brings out all these great things in you that you never knew or believed were there. And if you’re really lucky, you do the same for him.
It makes it even more incredible that people find each other, considering most of them are looking in the wrong places to begin with.
CHAPTER 13
BY THE TIME HALLOWEEN CAME AROUND, TODD AND I had already earned a total of forty bucks, giving us a budget of six grand for October, on top of the twenty dollars we’d banked from September’s budget. Six thousand twenty was way more than our September costs had been, so I volunteered to take Sam out trick-or-treating and babysit afterward for free, just to get some time with her without Señor Shitslacks there. Marcie said she wanted to come too, so we decided to make it a “ghouls’ night out.” Get it? Okay, that was bad. Actually, we decided to be zombie princesses. Mar and I went crazy buying makeup and tiaras and glowin-the-dark jewelry and crap. We got so into it. Probably because it’d been a while since either of us had dressed up for Halloween.
When we got to the Picklers’ house, we could hear them from the driveway. The yelling coming from the master bedroom window was probably traveling through the whole neighborhood. She screamed that he didn’t have any respect for her. He bellowed that she overreacted to everything and never gave him a moment’s peace. Mar and I weren’t sure what to do. The yelling stopped the instant I rang the doorbell.
Half a minute later, the door opened. “Oh, Fiona,” Mrs. Pickler faltered. Her eyes darted behind me. “Come on in. Sam’s in the family room.” We followed her inside. “Sam? Fiona and Marcie are here.”
Sam sat curled up in a corner of the couch, reading. She didn’t even look up. She had dark circles under her eyes and her hair was even messier than usual. I noticed she’d chewed the nail polish off her fingers. Mrs. Pickler went back upstairs, so Mar and I sat next to Sam. “Are you okay?” I asked.
Sam stayed quiet and shrugged. Then she muttered, “I guess.”
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Island of the Blue Dolphins.”
“Oh, I love that one,” I said.
“What’s it about?” Marcie asked.
Sam inhaled shakily. “A girl whose parents leave her behind on an island and she lives there by herself and has a great time. Just her and her dog.” Sam wouldn’t look up from her book. I saw a dark spot appear on the page. A tear.
I scooted close to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “Hey Sister-witch, don’t be upset. It’ll be okay. People fight sometimes.”
“They fight all the time.”
“Well, maybe sometimes people fight all the time, but it doesn’t mean they don’t like each other. Deep down.”
“They don’t,” she muttered.
“How do you know?”
Sam turned her puffy-eyed face to me. “Because they say, ‘I hate you,’ and, ‘I hate you too.’ I’ve heard them.” Tears spilled down her perfect cheeks. I couldn’t take it. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed.
Marcie said, “People say all kinds of things they don’t mean. Especially when they’re fighting.”
Sam seemed to soften a bit. “They do?”
“Absolutely,” Marcie said.
I lifted Sam’s face. “Listen, dry your eyes. If they see you crying, they might not go out and we won’t be able to have our awesome night together. Now, let’s talk about something else until they’re gone. Deal?”
She wiped her cheeks and forced a smile. “Deal. Can I stay up until midnight?”
“Nine.”
“Eleven-thirty?”
“Ten.”
“
Deal.”
Sam’s parents finally left, and we started getting into our costumes. I pulled Sam’s shredded lace gown over her. I drew even darker circles under her eyes with some eyeliner, and pinned a bloody rhinestone tiara on her head. “You make a gorgeous princess of the undead,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said.
“All you need is a prince,” Marcie said.
Sam’s face turned bright pink. She stooped down to adjust her torn white stockings, even though they looked fine.
“Are you blushing?” I teased. “Why are you hiding?” She started giggling and shaking her head no. “Samantha Louise Pickler! Spill! Now!” I started tickling her ribs. She wriggled and laughed, and finally said, “Okay!” so I let her go.
“What’s his name?” I demanded.
Sam grinned. “Logan Clarke. He’s in my math and science classes.”
“I knew it!” I cried. “So what’s he like? Does he like you back?”
Sam shrugged coyly. “I dunno. Maybe. He’s nice. Super cute.”
Marcie and I both squealed like we used to in middle school whenever we saw our favorite boy-band on TV. We pulled Sam to the floor between us and peppered her with questions. How long had she liked him? (Only a few weeks.) Did she ever talk to him? (Sometimes.) Did he ever talk to her first? (Sometimes.) Did she know that if he talked to her first, that it meant he probably liked her? (It did? Omigod.) Did he ever seem nervous around her? (No, but she was nervous around him.) Did he ever mention doing anything together? (Actually, he did say maybe they could do some homework together sometime.)
“Omigod, he totally digs you!” I said.
“Do you think?” Sam said.
“Totally!” Mar said.
All three of us squealed this time. We were so hyper. Sam grabbed her trick-or-treat bag and we spilled out of the house laughing and jumping around like total dorks. It was awesome.
We were in such good moods, we even decided to hit Todd’s house for candy. Sam rang the doorbell, and when it opened, this hideous, rubber monster face roared at us. Sam screamed. Todd started laughing and took off the mask. I yelled, “Put it back on! Put it back on! Your hideousness is terrifying!”
A Match Made in High School Page 9