“Why?” Jessie asked in her are-you-okay voice.
“Because they’re completely cruel and insane,” I said. “Because they told me I can’t talk to Mick anymore. And because they told him to leave me alone behind my back.”
“Shit, that is messed up. What’s their problem anyway?”
“I wish I knew,” I said with a sigh. “Honestly, I have no freakin’ clue. They just hate me, I guess.”
“What did they do when you went ballistic?”
“Not much. I think they were afraid of me.”
Jessie chuckled. “I forgot. You’re a psycho criminal. They must’ve thought you were gonna turn on them next.”
“Very funny. Ha-ha. They’re not that smart. If I really was crazy, they’d never see it coming.”
“Ooh, you’re scaring me,” Jessie joked. Then she went quiet for a second, so I seized the opportunity to shove another Twinkie into my mouth. And while I chewed covertly, she jump-started the conversation again. “So whatever did happen with the whole getting arrested thing anyway? You never really told me the story. Maybe that’s why your parents don’t trust you.”
Through a garbled mouthful of cake and cream, I said, “Shouldn’t be.” I swallowed hard to clear my throat. “It wasn’t my fault. Like I said, Mick has a bunch of cousins who travel around with him and sell things.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And two of them—Donny and Cal—were actually stealing things from stores, selling the stuff on eBay, and returning the empty boxes for cash,” I explained. “Mick didn’t know. He thought they were running a real business selling antiques.”
“And…” Jessie said, sounding eager for me to continue.
“Well, what happened was, they tricked me. They said Mick was missing and they wanted me to help look for him, but then they basically kidnapped me and made me participate in their scam.”
“Did they have guns?” Jessie asked, dead serious.
I couldn’t help laughing. I mean, it was true that Donny and Cal were criminals. And it was also true that they’d tricked me. Hell, it was even true that I was a little afraid of them. But the Goofball Goons simply didn’t have enough brain cells between them to be legitly menacing, even to a naïve, gullible girl like me.
“No. No guns,” I said, still stifling the giggles. “And I think they were gonna take me back to camp—that is, until I got arrested.”
“Really? Huh.”
“But the store security guards caught on to the scam, took me upstairs, and grilled me,” I continued. “Then I passed out. After that I don’t remember much besides walking out of there in handcuffs.”
“Wow, you did have a crazy summer,” Jessie said, clearly amazed—and probably even a little impressed—by my vacation misadventures.
I sighed. “No kidding.”
“What about Mick’s cousins, the guys that kidnapped you? Did they escape?” Jessie wanted to know.
Trust me, I know how stupid this sounds, but I still sort of felt bad about what had happened to Donny and Cal. “Uh, well…they got away at first. But my parents hired this voodoo lawyer who talked me into ratting them out,” I said, cringing at the thought of being a snitch. “They’re in jail now.”
“And you cut a deal?”
“I guess so. The lawyer got my charges reduced to disorderly conduct, and my parents paid the fine—which I’m repaying in blood, sweat, and tears,” I declared dramatically. “Especially tears.”
Jessie paused like she was thinking about something, a rarity for her (not the thinking, just the quiet). “I don’t get it,” she finally said. “Why would your parents flip out now? Weren’t they a lot more pissed when you got arrested?”
“I don’t know. Can we change the subject?” I asked. Suddenly the weight of what my parents had done was suffocating me. Until I could get in touch with Mick, I needed to pretend everything was okay. I loved him and he loved me and that was all there was to it.
“Sure,” Jessie readily agreed. “Hey, did I tell you I was thinking of getting a tattoo?”
I swear, the girl has the attention span of a goldfish, which in this case turned out to be a good thing.
“No. I don’t think so,” I said. “Of what?”
“Well, I haven’t really decided. I was thinking maybe something Asian, like an orchid or a lotus flower,” she mused. “Or I might spell out Lars in Scrabble letters on my stomach. What do you think?”
“I think you’re insane. Certifiably insane,” I said, cracking up at her over the top impulsiveness. “You just met the boy today. Why don’t you give it at least a week before you permanently splash his name all over your body?” I suggested. “I mean, I doubt your parents will go for it anyway.”
“You’re probably right,” she reluctantly agreed. “But you could have at least humored me.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. And I was just about to tell her how I admired her guts (since I’m totally petrified of needles) and that if she did get a tattoo, she should go for the lotus flower, when…
My heart stopped. Literally. And my breathing quit too. I was a lifeless mannequin. A bronze statue. A pillar of stone. And it was the most inconvenient time for my bodily functions to abandon me, too, because I needed to be able to think, to speak, to move. Otherwise, the call from my sweet, sweet Mick that had just magically appeared on my phone would disappear into oblivion, and I may never, ever hear from him again.
With effort, I forced my lungs to expand. And, all on its own, my heart went from zero to sixty in two seconds flat. “Jess! Jess!” I squealed. “I gotta go. It’s Mick!”
Jessie must have heard something on her end, like a little click or a vacant pause, because right away she seemed to understand. “Okay! Go!” she squeaked.
I had absolutely no idea what to expect when I pressed that button and opened my heart to the man I loved, but I was ready. “Hello?” I said, feeling the slightest hint of anxiety (and a rushing wave of pure happiness).
The pause that followed was excruciatingly long and silent. “Flora?” Mick asked uncertainly.
“Yeah. Hi. It’s me,” I sputtered.
“Thank God. I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you?”
“Oh…I’m good, I guess,” I lied. “But I miss you.”
“I know. I miss you too. Did you get my messages?”
“Sort of. I mean, I just found out you called, but…”
Mick read my mind. “Your parents don’t like me, do they?” he asked outright.
Well, that was a thorny question. I couldn’t very well tell the love of my life that my family thought he was scum, that they were sure he’d ruin me.
“It’s not you,” I said. “They’re just very protective, that’s all. They think I’m some fragile little china doll.”
“Don’t they understand that…that I’d do anything for you?” Mick asked, like he was crushed by the thought of anyone questioning his loyalty to me. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”
A peep of disbelief escaped my lips. “That’s a pretty tall order,” I pointed out, “considering my klutziness and all. I get hurt all the time. In fact, I just fell down the stairs like an hour ago.”
“You said you were all right. Are you hurt?”
“Not really. Just a sprained ankle and a bump on the head,” I said breezily. “Nothing major.”
“Are you sure?” he persisted. “Did you see a doctor?”
“Geez, you sound like my parents. Stop worrying about me so much,” I demanded. But even though I’d chastised him, I was secretly sort of tickled Mick cared so deeply about every little thing that threatened me.
“I will not. It’s my job to worry about you.”
I sighed. “Have it your way. But that’s a lot of stress you’re signing up for, you know. I hope you realize that.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I must say, being in love is great, especially the mushy, goo-goo ga-ga, wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve kind of lov
e Mick and I had.
“So when am I going to see you again?” I asked, hoping for the impossible. After all, there really was no guarantee that two sixteen-year-olds on opposite sides of the country could find a realistic way to hook up.
“That’s why I called actually,” Mick revealed. “I wanted to fill you in on a few things.” He sounded tentative and restrained, which made me sort of nervous.
“Okay…”
“First of all, I found a job. I’ve been there about two weeks,” he said. “It’s at an organic bakery in Portland.”
“You bake?” I asked, only mildly surprised. I mean, he had made cookies for my birthday, so the baking thing wasn’t that farfetched.
“Uh-huh. I love it.”
I couldn’t help teasing him just a little. “Do you wear one of those puffy white chef’s hats?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he admitted, without a hint of self-consciousness. “It’s the best part of the job.”
“I bet you look super sexy in it,” I joked.
“Oh, definitely. It’s my best look. All the old ladies love it.”
I could only imagine how those biddies were drooling over my hunk of a sex-god boyfriend in his tasty baking uniform.
“You never answered my question,” I reminded him. “When can I see you?”
“I was getting to that. Not only do I have a job, but I’m scheduled to take my license test on October fifth. So, most likely, I’ll have my license within a month.”
“And…”
I was still waiting for him to connect the dots that would lead from him to me.
“Well, that means I should be able to get a car right away. I’m working overtime at the bakery, so I’ve already got some money saved.”
Could it possibly be true that my sweet, sweet Mickey D was going to make good on his promise to visit me? I could hardly believe any boy could love me enough to drive thousands of miles across the country just for the chance to see my plain old ordinary face.
“Are you coming here?” I asked, with childlike anticipation.
“That depends,” Mick teased, “on whether the most beautiful girl in the world wants me to.”
“Ab-so-freakin’-lutely!” I squealed. “Hell, yes!”
“All right. I’ll do it then. On one condition.”
“Like what?” I said. I didn’t like the sound of this mysterious condition, and I hadn’t even heard it yet. Usually, conditions suck. It’s a rule.
“I don’t want you getting into any more trouble with your parents,” Mick said. “They already hate me enough.”
“I’ll try,” I promised half-heartedly. “But no guarantees. I mean, they’re insane, so you never know. They could flip out at any moment over nothing.”
“That’s why I’m going to make it easy for you.”
“Okay. Like how?”
“I’m not going to call you again until I get on the road. That way your parents will leave you alone.”
“But… But…” I stammered. Clearly, I was right about the absurd condition. It bit the big one. “Can I call you then?” I begged.
“I don’t think so. Your parents might find out,” Mick replied, sounding all logical and rational. “Plus, I don’t really have a phone.”
“Huh?”
Apparently he understood my confusion right away. “I’m calling from the bakery with a calling card,” he explained. “But I can’t make a habit of using the phone here, or I could get fired.”
“That sucks.”
“I know. But it’s only for a little while. We’ll be together soon, and it will all be worth it. You’ll see.”
Somewhere in the back of my brain, it finally registered that footsteps were creaking up the stairs in my direction. “I gotta go,” I blurted. “My parents are coming.”
Mick didn’t hesitate. “I love you,” he declared. “See you soon, sweetness.”
“Love you too,” I squeaked in, just under the wire.
As my bedroom door opened, I flipped the phone shut and slid it under my pillow. Somehow I had escaped detection.
Seven
FOR some nutball reason, I was determined to make the second day of junior year better than the first, which meant I had to kick things off in the Guidance Office, since the root of my problems, or at least the schedule-related ones, was Ms. Aggie’s computer.
“Uh…hi,” I said, as I approached Mrs. Hobbs, the ancient Guidance secretary. “I need to talk to my counselor.”
“Fontain?”
“Yup. That’s me.”
“Ms. Mills?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mrs. Hobbs craned her drooping neck toward the clock in slow motion. “It’s almost time for the bell,” she informed me in an uneven whisper.
“I know, but it’s important,” I claimed, keeping the details to a vague minimum.
“I’m sure.”
Was it just me, or was the old bat being rude and sarcastic? I could hardly believe my ears.
“Can I see Ms. Aggie, or not?” I asked impatiently. My ankle was still throbbing in unpredictable bursts, and it had just cranked into overdrive again.
I guess my sharp tone must have convinced the Guidance Gatekeeper that I had serious problems, because she immediately picked up the phone and dialed Ms. Aggie’s extension, which was kind of comical, really, since her desk and Ms. Aggie’s office couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet apart.
“I have Flora Fontain here to see you,” Mrs. Hobbs said. “Shall I send her in?” Like she was casting an evil spell, she flicked her spindly fingers toward Ms. Aggie’s door. “Go ahead,” she said, with a hint of disappointment. “She’ll see you now.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, when I really wanted to say, Thanks a lot. Thanks a whole hell of a lot. For a change, though, I bit my tongue.
As I stepped into Ms. Aggie’s perky, plant-filled lair, I ticked through the mental list of topics I needed to discuss with her. The biggest issue, of course, was my disastrous schedule. But if I had time, I might also hit her up for some advice on how to repair my tarnished image. After all, I really didn’t want to be known as the Queen Slut of Punxsy High for the rest of my life, even if Jessie had already forgiven me.
“Good morning, Flora! Come in! Come in!” Ms. Aggie chirped, like she hadn’t seen another human being in eons. “Have a seat.”
Trying not to tweak my ankle, I hurled my backpack to the floor and shimmied into the chair sideways.
“What can I do for you?” Ms. Aggie asked, with wide eyes and a kind smile.
I don’t know what it was, specifically, but something about Ms. Aggie put me immediately at ease. It was like she had a bag of secret tricks for solving life’s most perplexing problems. A bag of secret tricks a sad sack like me desperately needed.
“I’ve gotta get out of AP History and Honors English,” I declared, with total self-assurance. “And I really wanna take Photography instead of Theater.”
“Okay, let’s see…” Ms. Aggie said. She typed away until my schedule popped up on her computer. “Now why don’t you tell me why you’d like to drop History and English,” she suggested.
“Because they’re too hard.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, shooting me a you-can-do-it smile.
“But I don’t need them. It’s not like I’m going to some hoity-toity Ivy League school or anything.”
Big mistake. I shouldn’t have brought up my college plans at all. If there was one thing these guidance types salivated over it was college.
“Where are you planning to go, if you’ve thought about it?” Ms. Aggie asked.
“I don’t know. Will’s at Temple,” I said, like maybe I was considering the same college my brother attended.
“Have you selected a major?” Ms. Aggie asked. She punched a few more keys. “It says here that you want to be a veterinarian.”
How moronic. The middle school counselors had made us fill out some career worksheet at the end of eighth grade, whi
ch apparently had followed me to Punxsy High and Ms. Aggie’s office.
“I used to,” I said. “But my mother wants me to be a nurse.”
“What do you want to do?” Ms. Aggie perceptively asked.
This was not the plan. I was not there to chitchat about my career aspirations or my college plans—not that I really had any. “Can’t we just fix my schedule?” I whined.
“Well, it helps for me to know where you’re headed, so I can make sure you’re charting the right course,” Ms. Aggie explained.
“Okay. Fine. I want to be a photographer. So I don’t really need AP History, or Honors English, or Theater, right?”
Ms. Aggie smiled. “A photographer? What kind?”
“Like for weddings and senior pictures and stuff like that,” I said, expecting a lecture on the impracticality of the idea.
“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” Ms. Aggie exclaimed, as if I’d just shown her my latest finger-painting. “Do you have a portfolio?”
“Uh, no. I hadn’t…”
“You know, art schools are very selective nowadays. You’ll have to build a strong portfolio before you apply.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that,” I promised. “If you get me into Photography.”
By some miracle, Ms. Aggie was on my side—and without a fight even. Before I knew it, my new schedule was sputtering out of her printer. But as she handed it to me, she noticed the lump that still lingered over my eye like a volcano threatening to erupt.
“My Lord, Flora. What in the world happened to your head?”
I was kind of surprised she hadn’t seen the thing before, but I guess the cockeyed way I’d sat down had put the injury out of her view. “I fell down the stairs,” I reported matter-of-factly.
Her eyes narrowed. “What stairs? Are you all right?” she asked, all soft and concerned—and suspicious.
“I’m fine. I’m just a klutz, that’s all,” I said. “I tripped on, well, nothing actually. I hurt my ankle a little too, but it’s starting to feel better,” I lied.
“Do your parents know about this?”
“Uh, yeah. They were there when it happened.”
Film at Eleven Page 5