“Sam,” I said. I was about to tell her how great she was when we heard my dad’s voice outside getting closer and closer.
“Sure, Jake,” he yelled extra loud. “You can borrow the snow shovel. It’s right here in the shed.” The door flung open and there stood Dad and Mr. Pickler with phony looks of disbelief on their faces. But this time, I kept my mouth shut about the fakes and phonies. I played like I was as shocked as they were.
“Samantha!” Mr. Pickler cried. “Here you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He shoved me aside as he reached in to embrace his daughter. She fought him a little, but not with too much conviction.
“Oh yeah?’ she said. “Well, if you were looking so hard, then why are you here to borrow a stupid shovel?”
Mr. Pickler stroked her hair and lied right to her. At least I figured it must be a lie. “Because your mother is so worried, she’s pacing the sidewalk outside our house in her bare feet. She refuses to come in. I wanted to shovel the snow for her. Then I was going to go back out looking for you.”
“You were? She is?” Sam seemed to buy it. Or maybe she just wanted to.
“Of course, Monkey-child.” He hugged her tighter. “We couldn’t live without you.”
As the proclaimed queen of detecting fakes and phonies, I could tell that this was not a lie. Sam knew it too, because she hugged her father back.
“Please come home,” he said.
“Whose home?” she asked. “Mom’s or yours?”
“You know what? Wherever you are is home. You make it home. Now will you come?”
Sam tossed her hair. Dramatics. A good sign. “Maybe just for tonight. Ape-man.”
Of course we all knew—Sam probably, too—that it wasn’t just for one night. But we let Sam have the last word. She needed to know that her message had been heard loud and clear.
We piled out of the shed. Sam headed off through the snow with her dad—his arm pulling her close. My dad did the same move on me and we walked toward the house. “You’re a good person, Fiona,” he said. I didn’t fully buy it. But to my surprise, I didn’t deny it, either.
Progress, I thought.
CHAPTER 22
MONDAY MORNING AT SCHOOL, JUST AFTER FIRST period, I heard this earsplitting screech of feedback from outside, then someone shouting through a bullhorn. There was no mistake; it was my mother’s voice. I ran to the window. Outside, a group of people marched around in a circle. Carrying signs. Picket signs. The bullhorn screeched again and I heard my mother shout, “Hey, ho! Hey, ho!” and then the rest of the picketers—whom I hoped to hell were other parents—shouted, “Marriage ed has got to go!”
This, evidently, was her Elizabeth Cady Stanton–inspired “great idea.” A full-on, strike-style, picketing protest in the snow. If it hadn’t been my mother, I might have thought it was kind of cool. But . . .
“Is that your mother?” Callie Brooks was suddenly at my side with her upper lip curled in obvious disgust.
I was not about to expose my seething humiliation to her. “Yeah, it is! Where’s yours? Why isn’t she out there helping?”
Callie glanced sideways and smoothed the front of her argyle sweater. “She works,” she mumbled. “But she signed the petition. Sent a letter.”
“Oh,” I said, because there was really nothing else to say, hostile or otherwise.
The picket line kept going the whole day. When Principal Miller tried to do afternoon announcements, they could hear her on the outdoor speakers. So the picketers cranked those bullhorns up to ten and drowned her out. After the last bell, Mom and PTA president Cybil Hutton stayed behind to relive the good times, so I rode my bike home. When I got there, there was a voice mail from Zinnman’s Ophthalmology saying that my contacts were ready. Not that I needed them anymore for cheerleading. But I’d already paid for them, so I figured I might as well pick them up. Dad was home early from NIU, so I grabbed the car to run out to the mall.
I pulled into a parking spot and slushed through the grimy snow to the entrance. Inside the glass vestibule, I kicked the dirty dreck off my Chuck Taylors. When I looked up, I saw Marcie standing on the other side of the interior doors. Watching me.
Oh, crap. First Monday of the month. Nail appointment. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten.
There was no way to avoid her. I took a deep breath and pulled the door open. I got hit with the cinnamon-scented air from a pretzel shop nearby. “Hey Mar,” I said. I’d meant to say “Marcie.”
“Hey Fee. What’s up?”
Even though I was inside the warm, gleaming mall and not outside in the freezing muck, I pulled my coat tighter around me. “Just picking up some contact lenses.”
“Oh,” she said. She hiked her purse higher on her shoulder. “I thought you liked your glasses.”
I turned a palm up. “I ordered them a couple of weeks ago for cheerleading. I have to pick them up anyway.”
“Yeah, Ga—” She stopped, and then started again. “I heard you weren’t doing cheerleading anymore.” She looked beside me, above me . . . anywhere but at me.
I huffed. “I don’t think you could ever call what I did cheerleading.”
Silence. The only sound between us was the instrumental Christmas music playing over the mall speakers. I could tell she didn’t know whether to laugh or not. That tore me up. The old Marcie would either have laughed along with me or told me to shut up because I was great for just trying. Suddenly, all the fight drained out of me. I was done with it.
“Marcie, listen. About Gabe . . .”
She reached out and stepped toward me. “You don’t know how sorry I am for going behind your back. And I’m so sorry for calling you selfish. I was just so frustrated because I couldn’t tell you about Gabe.”
I took a step toward her. “No, Mar. I’m the one who’s sorry. I was being selfish. I was a total self-centered brat—you were right. I had no claim to him. It was all a fantasy. Just pretend. Gabe Webber never gave a crap about me and never would have, either. But he cares about you. I should have been happy for you. I know that you were only trying to protect me.”
Tears filled Marcie’s eyes and tumbled down her perfect peach cheeks. “I was, Fiona. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
I said, “I’m sorry too!” Then I bawled, and we hugged.
Hurried shoppers eyed us as they tramped out the door. When Marcie and I were finally done blubbering, we decided to hang out for the rest of the afternoon. Her appointment wasn’t for another half hour. So she sat with me while the doctor showed me how to put in and take out my contacts and told me how long to wear them each day.
Then we went over to the nail salon, where Marcie wanted to treat me to a French manicure as a peace offering. And as a peace offering to her, I agreed to get it. I had to admit, even though my nails had been torn and stubby, the technician magically made them look . . . well, girly, as my dad would say.
As our nails dried under a purple UV light, I told Marcie about Dad getting drunk and asking if I was gay. She laughed out loud like it was the funniest thing since stink bombs.
Mar was back. Damn, I’d missed her.
When we were done at the salon, we wandered over to the food court. She got a Diet Coke. I got a regular. We sat at the least filthy table we could find.
“I have to tell you something,” she said between sips.
I mocked surprise. “You’re dating Gabe Webber? How could you?”
She cocked her head and raised one eyebrow. “Ha, ha. Too funny. No, something else.”
“What?” I couldn’t take my eyes off my fancy fingernails. They looked so grown-up holding my plastic cup and straw. I pretended the cup was crystal—I lifted my pinkies and sipped my drink like the Queen of England to make Mar laugh.
But instead of laughing, she said, “Johnny Mercer wants to bang you, bad.”
I froze mid–queen sip and gulped. Then choked and sputtered. Coke came out of my nose, which, if you’ve never had the pleasure, actually kil
ls. The bubbles are like tiny razor blades slicing up your mucous membranes. I grabbed my nose and a couple of napkins at the same time. Marcie just sat there laughing at me.
I mopped up my face and the table. And my shirt. And the floor. “Omigod Mar, you are so NOCD.”
“He’s actually a very sweet guy. What do you think?”
“Think about what?”
“About going out with him.”
I looked at Marcie like she’d just asked me to join her cult because the mother ship was returning for them soon. “You’re not serious.” It was more of a begging question than a statement, really. I thought about Johnny telling me he liked me at the bonfire. Then his note. And even though I found myself glad to hear he might not hate me . . . “I’m really not interested,” I said.
“A phone call, then. Just give him one call. I’m telling you, Fee, he’s a great guy. You know that prank you pulled that he took the blame for? The announcement one? Did you know he got in huge trouble for that?”
“What? No! He said everything was okay.”
“Well of course he’s not going to tell you he got in trouble. He likes you, Fiona.”
He was the second person I’d treated like garbage after they’d tried to protect me. First Mar, now Johnny. “How much trouble?” I asked.
“He’s had to stay after school every day for a month, filing papers for Principal Miller to earn back your iPod and speakers. Actually, I think today was his last day.”
I set my cup down. “What?”
“And that’s not all. She’s making him go to this interpersonal-skills-slash-anger-management workshop over winter break. And he has to pay for it. Can you believe that?”
I leaned my elbows on the table and held my forehead in my hands. “No, I can’t. Oh, Mar, I feel horrible.” I sat up. “I’m paying for that workshop. And he can have my iPod and speakers.”
Mar waved me off. “He won’t take them. I know he won’t. He’s that kind of guy, Fee. Now, Gabe? Gabe would take your money. But not Johnny. No way.”
I picked up a napkin and started shredding it slowly. “How come I’m only hearing about this now? This has been going on for a month?”
“He made me swear not to tell anyone about it. And you and I weren’t talking, so . . . Don’t tell him I said anything, okay? He only told me because it ran into our ballroom dance lesson time. Otherwise I bet no one would know. He has never complained once, Fiona. I think he actually enjoys it because it’s for you.”
I got that same skin-full-of-bees sensation I’d had when Todd found out I’d had a crush on Gabe. Like every single nerve in my body was a strand of those fiber-optic light balls you get at the novelty store next to the lava lamps, and someone was running their hand over me. The closest thing to it I could think of was absolute, pure, life-threatening terror. Only, not scary.
I crumpled up the napkin shreds into one hard lump.
Marcie leaned toward me. “Come on, one phone conversation with him won’t kill you. One call. You said yourself you think he’s a riot. If it’s his size that’s bothering you,” Marcie said, “then honestly, I’m surprised.” She sipped her Diet Coke. I knew she was pausing to dare me to deny it.
I didn’t.
She chopped at her ice with her straw. “You know, Fiona, sometimes the best-looking guys are the ones with the most bottom-feeder mentality toward girls. Looks only go so far. Trust me.”
Hold on a tick. That was the second shady comment she’d made. Was there trouble in Gabe Webber paradise? Should I pursue this obvious invitation to investigate? Nah. I decided to leave it for another time. I’d filled my drama quota for the day.
“Yeah, but looks have to get you on the road first.”
“Johnny’s not bad-looking! He’s just . . . husky. He has gorgeous eyes, you know. And you’ve got to admit his voice is sexy. But mainly he’s just a good guy, Fee. He’s thoughtful, sensitive. He’s funny and super smart.”
I swung for the obvious joke. “If you like him so much, then why don’t you maaaarrrry him?”
“I am married to him—that’s how I know,” she zinged back.
“Seriously,” I said, “would you go out with him? I mean, if you were available?” I was trying not to say Gabe’s name out loud.
Marcie lifted her chin and declared, “Sure. Of course. In a heartbeat.”
It almost seemed like she was sincere. Almost like she really would go out with Johnny Mercer. “But the fact is, he likes you, Fiona,” she said. “Oh well. At least I got to learn to swing dance. You know, Johnny’s actually pretty good.” Her eyebrows danced up and down.
“All right,” I said. “I get the message. Johnny Mercer is totally crushworthy. Fine. I feel like a fifth-grader. Maybe you should pass him a note for me. Do you know he actually did pass me a note in calc? Folded up like a football, no less. Have we accidentally slipped back in time to junior high or something? What are you grinning at?”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
I chucked one of my Coke-and-snot-sogged napkins at her, missing on purpose, of course. “Screweth you, Suzy Shakespeare.”
She giggled and slurped the last of her soda.
“You are totally enjoying torturing me, aren’t you?” I said. “What, is this some kind of payback?”
She got quiet and set her cup down. “Nah. Never.”
“How can you be such a decent person to me?” I asked.
“Because we’re friends.”
She said it exactly the same way Sam had in the shed. And that was how I knew we’d solved the problem correctly.
CHAPTER 23
THE NEXT MORNING, MAR PICKED ME UP FOR SCHOOL like always. But she spent the whole time before homeroom making out with Gabe. I saw them kissing, and frankly, it was disgusting. He was giving her the Roto-Rooter action with his tongue so deep that I thought he was going to burrow right inside her throat and pitch a tent in there. Talk about NOCD.
I escaped into homeroom and decided to take this opportunity to pull a twelve-step on Todd. What can I say? I was feeling humble. I spotted him sitting in the back over by the window. I zigzagged my way through the rows and thumped down in the chair next to him. I slid my backpack onto the desk and leaned on it with my elbow. “So, Marcie and Gabe are dating.”
Todd doodled on the cover of his notebook and didn’t look up. “I heard,” he said.
“I found out about it just before the bonfire thing,” I said.
“So?”
“So . . .” I drummed my fingers on the desk. I figured he could fill in the blanks. Apparently not.
He quit drawing but still didn’t look at me. “What do you want, Fiona?”
He called me Fiona. I didn’t like it at all.
“I’m trying to apologize,” I said.
Todd huffed and started doodling again. “Oh yeah? Well, try a little harder. Usually apologies contain the words ‘I’m sorry’ in there somewhere.”
I sat up, took a deep breath, and leaked it out slowly like Maggie Klein did. I breathed in again, glanced around to see who was about to hear this, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m sorry for tearing into Amanda in front of everyone, and I’m going to tell her that when I see her.” I closed my eyes and took another long breath. Opened my eyes. “I’m also sorry for how bad I did in the cheers. Especially for blowing the mount at the end. Marcie had just told me about Gabe the second before we went on, and I was . . . upset.”
Todd stopped drawing and sat, bug-eyed and still as a stone.
“So that’s it,” I said. “I’m . . . really sorry.”
Todd didn’t move.
“Todd?” I said. “Nothing? No response at all?”
He shook himself. “Sorry, did you say something after ‘blowing’ and ‘mount’? I got a mental picture of you having sex, and my brain shut itself down.”
I smiled. That, I knew, meant apology accepted.
He said, “I guess I probably shouldn’t have ca
lled you names either.”
I held up my hand to stop any apology he might be headed toward. “No, I deserved them.”
“Still . . .” (Subtext: He was sorry.)
“Whatever . . .” (Subtext: I accept.)
Time for a subject change. Sort of. “So, did you already know that Marcie and Gabe had been together?” I had to find out if he’d known about them all along.
“Nah, not until the pep rally. After you took off, he was all over her. Mauled her like a grizzly bear. I saw them and figured your lesbo lover had switched teams, and that must’ve been the reason for your Night of the Living Dead cheer performance.”
“It was,” I said.
“Still doesn’t excuse you taking it out on Amanda.”
“No, it doesn’t. Not my best moment,” I said. I ran my finger back and forth over the corner of my desk. “At least she must be having fun with this. Seeing me humiliated by my best friend. Who has she told? As if I even have to ask. The whole school. If loose lips really sank ships, that girl could be a weapon of mass destruction.”
Todd leaned to the side and said, “Is this your idea of personal growth?”
I froze. Bit both lips for a few seconds. Then said, “Sorry. Old habits.”
“Hmmm,” he said, giving me a scrutinizing look. He went back to doodling. A couple of girls sashayed into the classroom. A few bleary-eyed guys lumbered in. He said, “Well, as it happens, Amanda doesn’t know that you want to spread your hot creamy butter all over Gabe Webber’s dry toast.”
I leaned toward Todd and lowered my voice. “Okay, one, want-ed, not want. Two, you’re a pig. And three . . . what do you mean, she doesn’t know? You never told her?”
Todd stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry. “It never came up in conversation.”
I straightened up. “Never came up in conversation?”
He shrugged and kept drawing. “I decided it wasn’t interesting. It’s not like it’s breaking news.” He tipped his head and looked at me. “I hate to shatter your dreams, but the whole school does not care about your lack of love life. You’re not that popular.” Back to doodling.
This time, my mental gears ground to a halt and burst into flames. Why would Todd pass up a perfect opportunity to humiliate me? Especially after I’d ripped Amanda a new one. But he had. That made no sense. Yet all the signs pointed to the absurd possibility that Todd had . . . what? Protected me, too? Was that insane?
A Match Made in High School Page 15