“He’s watching you again.” Krista speaks without moving her lips.
I follow her gaze and Jake grins, beats his chest Tarzan-style, then turns to talk to the guy beside him.
“Do you like him?” she asks.
“He has an outstanding exterior.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” murmurs Krista. “But do you like him, because he clearly has his eye on you.”
“Well, I don’t really know him that well—”
Krista laughs. “Oh, cut the crap, Nora. You know all you need to know about him. He’s the hottest thing on two legs and he’s dumb as a post. But Dex says he’s a lot of fun. And he seems sweet. Face it—there isn’t a girl at Riverbend High who wouldn’t give up a full bra size to get to hang with him.”
She’s right.
“I know you’re smarter than him,” Krista says. “But brains aren’t everything.”
I stare out at the field. Krista knows I’m smart—she wouldn’t have made it through algebra one without me helping her in the library after school last year. What she doesn’t know is just how important academics are in the Fulbright household, where brains are, in fact, everything. She’s eaten dinner at my house a few times, but thankfully it was always when either Mom or my stepdad, Bill, was out, so she’s been spared mealtime brain fest.
I picture Jake at our dinner table. My mother, the women’s studies professor, regaling him with her latest research on the effect of large-breasted female anime characters on the male teen brain, and Jake guffawing at the mention of the word breast. I envision Bill, the calculus teacher, requiring Jake to solve a math problem before he’ll pass him the salt. I can just see Joshie challenging Jake to identify by domain, kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus and species one of the residents of his bug tank. And if my older brother, Phil, happened to be home on break from Harvard that day? Forget about it.
Dating Jake would send my popularity quotient to the moon—but could it work?
Krista keeps going. “We could all go out together. You and Jake, Me and Dex. Go talk to him.”
Krista takes my hand and pulls me down the bleachers. She gives me a little shove when we hit the field, and I practically fall into Jake’s arms, which are massive.
“Hey! Nora, right? Looking good out there!” He places a playful punch on my upper arm, which will likely require ice when I get home. “So I don’t remember seeing you around school last year. Are you new?”
“Sort of.”
“Hang on.” Jake grabs a set of poms off the bleachers. He sweeps a shock of summer-ized light-brown hair out of his eyes. His off-kilter smile is achingly cute. In a high, girly voice he does a little impromptu cheer, swinging his hips, waggling his butt, sweeping the pom-poms back and forth across his extra-wide chest. I can’t help laughing.
“Nora, Nora, she’s so hot. Shouts out cheers—”
He stops. Looks at the sky, down at the ground. “Shouts out cheers—”
He knits his brows together and stares off into the bleachers.
I look at Krista, who beams encouragement.
“Shouts out cheers with all she’s got?” I offer.
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s it! Nora, Nora, she’s so hot. Shouts out cheers with all she’s got!” He gives me a little punch on the other arm. At least the bruises will match. “Excellent rhyme!” he says. “Right on time! Slime!”
The hottest guy at school, with the highest PQ imaginable, and direct lineage to Ogg the Caveman. Maybe cavemen aren’t so bad once you get to know them?
Two
IT’S CLOSE TO ONE O’CLOCK when Chelsey calls it quits. We overhear her flinging Vanessa another load of crap as we leave the field. Chelsey reminds Vanessa that the first game is three days away and that she had better spend all her free time working on the dance steps that she messed up today. If you want to get Chelsey angry, mess up a cheer.
“How did Vanessa even make the squad?” I ask. “She was as lame at tryouts as she is now.”
Krista is as clueless as I am. Meanwhile, Chelsey makes another crack about Vanessa’s smarty-pants classes. How does she even know the details of Vanessa’s schedule? Maybe she has the inside scoop about all of our schedules? Oh god. What will she think about mine?
I can just see Chelsey in her cheer uniform and fluffy slippers, a pair of cat’s-eye reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she pores over a stack of cheerleader schedules.
“Becca? Check. Gillian? Check. Jazmine? Check. Nora—” She peers at my schedule over the top of her glasses. “So many As and Ps!”
As we head toward the school, I have the brainstorm equivalent of a mental tsunami. I know what needs to be done. “Hey, Krista. I need to get something fixed on my schedule. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“Sure. I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.”
I jog down the freshly scrubbed hallways to Ms. Ostweiler’s guidance office. Her door is wide-open, and I find her sitting at her desk working at the computer. A small boxy window fan makes a steady whir but offers little relief from the heat.
“Come in if you can stand it,” she says. “The AC isn’t working. Again. I swear it’s always way too hot or way too cold in here.” She gestures toward the two chairs across from her desk. One is a poofy spill-your-guts-out chair, the other is hard backed and means nothing but business.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I go for nothing but business.
“So what brings you here today, Nora?”
I take a deep breath. Ms. Ostweiler’s office smells like graham crackers and apple juice. “I need to make some adjustments to my schedule.”
I glance around the room. Books about educational theory and psychology, and assorted college preparation guides fill the bookshelves that line her walls. A table at the back of her small office is littered with fidget toys and little plastic figurines of nurses, farmers and tiny bathroom fixtures.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.” Ms. Ostweiler brings my schedule up on her computer screen and turns it so that we can both see it:
Period 1—Precalculus
Period 2—US History
Period 3—Honors English
Period 4—AP French
Period 5—PE
Period 6—AP Biology
“This schedule looks pretty perfect for you. What were you hoping to change?”
“Well, I think I’ll have a better semester if I switch out the AP classes and just take regular French, regular biology and algebra two instead of precalculus. I mean, that’s what most sophomores take, right?”
Ms. Ostweiler slowly brings her hand to her chin and strokes it like she has an invisible beard. She looks at me like I’m a puzzle with a piece missing. “You’re not like most sophomores, Nora. Is there something else going on that you want to tell me about?”
How lame would it be to tell her that I want to be a Monarch butterfly, not a Cabbage White? How embarrassing would it be to admit that I want to make my PQ soar, and that if Chelsey’s reaction to Vanessa’s schedule is any indication, those As and Ps are going to get in my way? I scratch the back of my neck.
“No, there’s nothing going on. It’s just that I’m on varsity cheer this year and I’m worried about having the time it’ll take to ace those classes. I mean, an A in biology is probably better than a C in the AP class, right?”
Ms. Ostweiler wobbles her head from side to side as she considers. I jump in to keep her from thinking about it too much. “I know most people take regular biology, then they take the AP class. So I would really be setting myself up for a more successful experience by taking the regular class first, right?”
She shakes her head. “But you tested out of the regular biology class. And haven’t you already done the summer reading in preparation for the AP class?”
“Well, yeah, but the reading I did will help me in the regular class, too.”
We go back and forth.
“The school does encourage students to choose their own classe
s,” she says, wavering. And in the end, I win. Those pesky As and Ps are gone, and I leave her office with a copy of my new and improved schedule:
Period 1—Biology
Period 2—French
Period 3—PE
Period 4—English
Period 5—Algebra II
Period 6—US History
From Ms. Ostweiler’s office I swing by the car and toss in my gear bag along with the plain white envelope containing my new schedule, then head to the courtyard to find Krista.
“How did it go?” asks Krista. “That took a while.”
I give her two thumbs-up. “All good. Molly Moon’s for double dips?”
“You know it!”
This is it! The last day of summer break.
“Too bad we can’t take your car,” says Krista as we walk toward the bus stop. What good is it to be a sophomore with a car if I can’t take my friends places with me? Of course, with my August birthday, technically I should be a junior, but my parents opted to start me a year late. Anything to gain an academic edge, and they figured my edges would be sharper as one of the oldest kids in the class instead of the youngest. We walk a couple of blocks to the bus stop. The bus is a hassle, but it’s the only way into Seattle. Krista and I have the date circled on our calendars— five months and twelve days from now—when I can legally drive with passengers who are not members of my family. When I’m allowed to drive with a friend in the car and we don’t need to hassle with the bus? Krista and I will go into Seattle for double dips every single day.
Molly Moon’s is packed. Krista goes for Salted Caramel and Vivace Coffee with sprinkles. For me, it’s Theo’s Coconut Kiss all the way. We finish the day on a high note at Pike Place Market, with a side trip to Nordstrom, where we give ourselves makeovers, dabbing on a little of this and a little of that from about thirty different cosmetics counters until we are stunning. We bus it back to school, where Dex picks up Krista, and I head home. Summer is officially over.
I pull into the driveway and park behind Mom’s Prius. At six o’clock it’s still warm out, and the sun hasn’t even begun to think about taking a break.
“Nora!” Joshie, my biggest fan, flies across the front yard and wraps himself around my lower torso as I climb from the car. Our dachshund, Copernicus, yips and jumps, pawing at my kneecap. I hug Joshie, scratch Copernicus.
“Do a cheer for us!” Joshie begs. Not one to disappoint my fans, I grab the pom-poms out of my gear bag and do an impromptu cheer.
Joshie! Joshie! He’s the best!
Cutest brother in the West!
He’s fun, he’s smart, he’s super cool.
He doesn’t bark! He doesn’t drool!
Ya-aay, Joshie!
Joshie laughs and takes a turn shaking my pom-poms. He follows me to the mailbox, where I sift through the mail. There are things for Mom from NARAL, Planned Parenthood and the university. There’s a martial arts magazine for my stepdad, Bill. Some science magazines for Phil, even though he’s lived in Boston since he started school there last year. Shuffled into the mix is a cheesy postcard featuring historic Boston landmarks. I turn it over and find a message scrawled by Phil:
Happy first day of school. Word to the wise re:
AP bio—skip breakfast on pig dissection day.
XOXOXOX Phil
Crap with a snout! What will Phil say when he finds out I’m skipping AP bio altogether?
It’s too late to worry about that now. Instead, I check the mailbox to make sure I really got it all. I’d thought there might be something for me from Dad. It’s been weeks since my birthday, and though we’re not exactly in regular communication, not even a little bit, he usually still sends a card with some cash. It looks like he forgot me this year. I slam shut the mailbox door.
“Anything for me?” Joshie asks. I hand him the latest issue of Phil’s Scientific American.
“But, Joshie, that’s not all there is for you.” I pull my phone out of my purse. “I got something cool for you at cheer practice today.” I show him the picture of the butterfly.
“A Checkerspot! Euphydryas editha—they’re one of my favorites.”
The truth? Everything that creeps or crawls is one of Joshie’s favorites.
“Look at what I found today.” He rolls down the cuff of his sock so that I may admire his caterpillars. He used to bring them inside in his pockets, but Mom found him out. He is nothing if not resourceful.
I feign amazement at his bugs. “Make sure you dump all those things out before you put your socks in the wash, okay?” I dread the day that my underwear and Joshie’s socks commingle in the washing machine.
“I’m going to put them straight into my tank,” he says. “Want to play soccer with me and Copernicus?”
“Not right now.” I tousle his hair. “I want to start getting my stuff together for tomorrow. And I think it’s probably almost dinnertime.”
Inside the house I set my gear bag by the front door and wander to the kitchen, where streamers and balloons hang from the light fixture above the table. “What’s in the oven? It smells great.”
Mom is at the sink, washing artichokes. “It’s just some chicken.”
I drop the mail on the counter. “What’s with the festive décor?”
“Nora!” Mom turns from the sink, stricken. “It’s the twenty-sixth of August.”
She dumps the artichokes into a pan of water on the stove and cranks the heat.
August 26—how could I have forgotten? Some families whoop it up on Saint Patrick’s Day, or maybe Cinco de Mayo. For us, party time is August 26, when we toss it up for Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and the rest of the gang who worked their feminist butts off to pass the Nineteenth Amendment.
“I find it a bit ironic that of all the rooms in the house, you choose to decorate the kitchen,” I say. “I mean, sure, it was about the right to vote, but wasn’t it also about getting women out of the kitchen?”
Mom tapes a fallen streamer back into place. “Even suffragettes had to eat. Maybe next year I’ll decorate my office.”
She gives me a peck on the cheek and picks up the mail.
“How was practice?” She removes the reading glasses from the top of her head, settles them into place and begins riffling through the mail.
“It was great. Look what we got today.” I unzip my gear bag and pull out the new uniform that Chelsey handed out after practice.
“Pretty fancy. But don’t you already have a uniform?”
“Yup. These are special uniforms just for homecoming.” They’re totally glitzy, like something a figure skater would wear—but they’re also insanely cute. “They were donated by an über-rich alumnus who’s some kind of cheerleading freak.”
“It seems like a little much,” she says.
Everything that has to do with cheerleading seems like a little much to her. “So—” she says. “Still enjoying cheering on the boys?” Hard emphasis on the word boys.
“Yes, I’m still enjoying cheering on the boys. You know, cheering is a varsity sport, Mother. It’s hugely athletic, and Chelsey thinks we have a really good shot at winning the county-wide championship again this spring.”
As she glances at each piece of mail, she sorts it into one of two piles, keep and recycle. “Gymnastics is a varsity sport too, Nora. And with all those years of lessons I paid for, you’d be the star of the team.”
She’s probably right. I was definitely a force to be reckoned with on the JV squad, and the coach had more than once assured me that my gymnastics future was bright—possibly with a college scholarship looming. Every time we have this conversation, I can’t help wandering down the path I’ve been down a zillion times before—was the switch to cheer ridiculous? But I turn back when I remember how it felt out on that field today, the applause from the football team, the kudos from the other cheerleaders.
“You’re not being fair,” I say. “It’s because of all the gymnastics that I get to be the flyer in my stunt group. A
nd as far as metaphoric celestial bodies go? Flyer is pretty stellar.”
Mom slaps a couple more pieces of mail into their appropriate piles. “I’m not saying that you’re not good at cheer, it’s just—” She pauses and examines the last remaining envelope in her hand. A plain white envelope. “What’s this?” She turns it over.
Oh, crap. Crap, crap and crap to the hundredth power.
“That’s mine!” I lunge for the envelope, but Mom has already removed the printout of the schedule I revised this afternoon with Ms. Ostweiler.
Outside, Joshie laughs and Copernicus barks as the soccer ball thuds against the side of the house. Usually Mom would be out there in a flash reminding him that the house is not a soccer goal. But Mom is not going anywhere.
“Nora, what the hell is this?” She flicks the paper with her finger.
“It’s my schedule of classes.”
On the stove, the artichoke pot is starting to leak steam. Mom marches to the refrigerator and thumps a piece of paper held in place by a magnetic banana.
“This is your schedule of classes.”
I correct her. “That is my old schedule. I revised it today.”
“You dumbed it down! Standard biology? Regular French? Algebra two? What were you thinking?” She holds her hand up like she’s stopping traffic. “Wait. I’m sorry, I implied that you were thinking. Clearly you were not. At least not about your future.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond.
“You are fully capable of an accelerated schedule, young lady. Your brother Phil took all AP classes as a sophomore. Even after skipping the eighth grade.”
“My brother Phil did nothing but schoolwork and as a result he was a friendless nerd.”
Mom’s jaw snaps open and stays there. “He was not friendless. He had Louis. And Zeebo.”
I roll my eyes. “Please. And some people have leprosy and herpes—that doesn’t send them sailing up the rungs of the high school social ladder. Louis and Zeebo were social outcasts just like Phil. I mean, I love him and all, but seriously, Mom.”
“Seriously?” Mom’s voice goes up an octave. “Need I remind you that your brother, the ‘social outcast,’ is pulling a four-point-oh GPA at Harvard?” She doesn’t stop. “And need I remind you that if you want to pursue a career in the sciences, you’ll go further faster if you get AP biology and precalculus out of the way as a sophomore?”
How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend Page 2