“I swear, there’s nothing wrong with me,” I insisted, as we pulled out of the bus loop. “I didn’t eat enough, and I got dizzy. That’s all. Can’t we just go home? I’ll take a nap, and I’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich, and…”
“Absolutely not. I already made the appointment, and Dr. Ipcar is expecting you,” the Mental Hygienist persisted, bursting my bubble. “You really shouldn’t take your health for granted, you know. There could be something seriously wrong with you. Whether you know it or not, fainting can be a sign of something as dire as a brain tumor. It’s nothing to mess around with.”
Okay, stop the truck. Since when was it acceptable to threaten your child with the possibility of a fatal disease? I mean, what kind of sick, twisted world were we living in nowadays anyway?
“It’s not a brain tumor,” I said.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, smarty pants. What is it then?”
Even though I knew exactly why I’d fainted, it would’ve taken a stampede of wild horses to drag it out of me. After all, things were complicated enough without inviting my parents to meddle in my personal life.
So I kept my mouth shut and let the Mental Hygienist whisk me off for a totally unnecessary examination. And like I’d figured, the whole stupid thing was a complete waste of time. Because as far as Dr. Ipcar could tell, I was the epitome of perfection. Somehow, though, the news of my good health seriously pissed my mother off. I guess she was rooting for the brain tumor.
I savored my victory in silence on the ride home. But as it turned out, the joke was on me. Because the more time I had to think, the more my brain just tied itself in knots about Lars and Mick.
Mick…
I could hardly believe he was real anymore, yet there he was in the crowded, smelly Punxsy High cafeteria turning my world upside down and exposing me for the schizophrenic basket case I really was. God, I missed him. I missed the way he made me feel like I was the only girl in the universe. I missed his velvet voice and his big, rough hands. I missed his sweet, gentle spirit and his silly sense of humor. And most of all, I missed his sexy little crooked smile. Man, did I miss that smile. I missed it so bad it literally hurt.
And then there was Lars. I fully admit that things between us started out a little rocky. But over the last few weeks, everything had changed. I’d finally let my guard down and given the boy a chance. And I wasn’t sorry. I mean, in his own way, Lars was just as sweet and gentle as Mick. And even though I hadn’t fallen head over heels for him in the beginning, there was something hot building between us that had just started to whip into a frenzy. Who knew, maybe in a matter of days I would have been so intensely bound to my Icelandic prince that nobody on earth would have been able to tear me away—not even Mick.
My mother held the door while I pranced into the house. And since I’d been liberated from school early, I had nothing to occupy my brain for at least another hour—except, of course, obsessive thoughts about Lars and Mick.
But…
“Hey, Mom. What about the Oglethorpes?” I asked, remembering my dog walking commitment. I mean, anything was better than being stuck in the house with the Mental Hygienist or trapped in my own mixed-up mind without a clue.
“I’ll call Mrs. Oglethorpe,” my mother said flatly.
“Okay…” I said, lingering at the bottom of the staircase waiting for an explanation.
“Well, you don’t expect me to let you work today after everything that’s happened, do you?” she said, eyeballing me like I was as strange as a Petri dish full of fungi.
“Pfff. Whatever,” I huffed. “Do what you want. I don’t really care.”
I stormed up the stairs in a fit of…well, actually I didn’t have the energy for a fit at the moment. How pathetic.
Defeated, I collapsed on my bed, buried my face in Mr. Fluffers (he’s the stuffed bunny I won at a roadside carnival when I was six) and wished I could turn back time, rewind my life to a simpler moment. After all, in Mr. Fluffers’ day, the trickiest thing I had to decide was whether to pick the caramel apple or the cotton candy. But now, assuming both Lars and Mick still wanted me (a pretty insane assumption, I know), I was faced with an impossible decision: hot Icelandic prince or sweet, sexy gypsy boy.
Now before anyone hauls out a tiny violin, please remember one thing: I didn’t ask for this. And I realize that, on some level, having two hot studs vying for my affection is an enviable problem. I really do. But the fact that some girl down the street might be willing to trade her left pinkie toe to be in my shoes didn’t make my brain any less likely to explode.
I reached for my overloaded backpack. Who knew, maybe some AP U.S. History reading would kill just enough brain cells to rid my mind of the Lars/Mick dilemma but not quite enough to qualify me as an organ donor.
With Herculean effort, I unearthed the ginormous textbook from a pile of academic rubble. And to my surprise, something else fled the chaos too. Something much more intriguing than a blow-by-blow replay of whose army won what battle on what hill. I mean, who cared really? What was interesting, though, was the perfectly folded sheet of notebook paper—sans ragged edges—that fell onto the rug in front of me when my History and English books parted ways. Just by looking at the thing, I could tell it wasn’t mine. I mean, I am not a neatnik by any stretch of the imagination. But someone was. Someone who must have been pretty eager to get my attention.
If I were a gambling girl, I would have put my money on Mick for sure. He was the soft-hearted, romantic type who’d slip me a love note just because. And since we’d been apart for so long, it made perfect sense that he’d be chomping at the bit to reconnect—the idea of which turned my stomach with guilt over what I’d done.
Holding my breath, I unfolded the flawless rectangle and prayed, Please let it be from Jessie. Something random and inconsequential. Something that won’t siphon off the remaining brain cells that distinguish me from a chimpanzee.
This is what it said:
I want you
I need you
I love you
Beautiful
And guess what? It was from Lars. It had to be—unless, of course, some other kook had developed a mysterious crush on me. I knew for a fact it wasn’t from Mick, because the handwriting didn’t match. And after countless nights of obsessing over the love letter he’d written me, I was an expert on Mick’s handwriting.
Love? Lars? I was flattered, but I wasn’t quite sure I was there yet, especially considering the most recent development in the soap opera that was my love life. But the want part? I got that completely. Because even though it had taken a while to ignite, the sexual tension between me and Lars had finally exploded. I craved him with the hungry recklessness of a wild animal.
I guess if I could reduce my problem to one sentence, it came down to this: I still loved Mick, but I was so sexually smitten with Lars I couldn’t think straight. Further complicating things was the fact that, even though I was officially dating Lars, I hadn’t technically broken up with Mick yet—other than in my own screwy mind. Why had I done that again? Why had I given up on my sweet, sweet Mickey D? Everything was such a blur in my pea brain at the moment I could hardly remember.
So there I was, trying to make sense of my own irrationality, when out of the blue some brave fool rang our doorbell. I tiptoed to my bedroom door and creaked it open a smidge. And what I heard was disturbing, to say the least.
“Flora? No. I’m sorry. She’s not feeling well,” my mother said.
“Could I leave her a message?” Mick pleaded, with the sincerity and politeness of an altar boy.
My heart broke.
“Exactly what are you doing here?” the Mental Hygienist snapped. “I thought we told you not to contact us anymore.”
“I know. But I just need to…” Mick sounded like he was about ready to burst into tears, which actually made my eyes well up.
“You need to what?” my mother spat.
&
nbsp; “I need to talk to her. Just for a few minutes,” Mick explained. “There’s been some kind of…” he paused, searching for the word, “…misunderstanding.”
Even though I couldn’t see her, I was sure my mother’s face was contorted in smug satisfaction. “Like I said, Flora’s not available. And we’d rather you didn’t come around here looking for her anymore. Understand?”
The Mental Hygienist waited a few seconds for Mick’s nonexistent reply before she threw him a bone. And she must have swallowed pretty hard, too, before she said, “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
“And tell her I’ll see her tomorrow at school,” Mick blurted. “At lunch.”
That’s when my heartless mother slammed the door in my sweet, sweet Mick’s face. Or at least I assume she did, since I clearly heard a whoosh, a click, and…silence.
“What’re you doing?!” I rushed down the stairs shrieking. “You can’t just… You can’t just… You can’t just…” My brain was skipping like overplayed vinyl.
My mother ignored me, so I stomped my foot, which rattled all the happy family photos on the wall. And on that theatrical note, she pivoted to face me.
“You can’t just treat people like dirt,” I cried in frustration. Really, I don’t know why I was getting so offended on Mick’s behalf, since he was probably going to end up hating my guts in the very near future anyway. “And stay out of my life!” I yelled. “You suck!”
The Mental Hygienist shook her head and curled her lips in a disappointed frown. “That’s fine, Flora. Fine,” she relented with a sigh. “Your father can deal with you from now on anyway. Because honestly, I don’t have the energy.”
Even though I was still standing there trembling like a crazed headcase, the Mental Hygienist strolled off to the kitchen to chop something, which I guess was probably the best-case scenario considering my fragile state of mind. Brilliant move, Mom: Separate the crazies.
Thirteen
BY the time fourth period rolled around the next day, I hadn’t actually seen Mick. But I’d sure heard a lot about him from just about every red-blooded girl with a pulse. Hell, even Jessie couldn’t shut up about his raven curls, his piercing steel-blue eyes, his oh-so-cute smile—not to mention his muscular, athletic bod and his nice ass. Apparently Mick’s ass was now the number one topic of discussion among the female population of Punxsy High. Ugh. Double ugh. Someone-hold-my-hair-so-I-can-hurl ugh. How hideous.
Now I hate to sound like a whiny, ungrateful bitch, but this wasn’t supposed to happen. Any of it. Mick and I weren’t supposed to break up. I wasn’t supposed to fall for Lars. And, most certainly, Mick wasn’t supposed to show up at Punxsy High to put me in the middle of an emotional tug of war that could very well send me six feet under (or, at the very least, to a prestigious mental hospital).
I demand a do-over, I wanted to scream, as I shuffled into Advanced Math with the attention span of a fruit fly. And what would I do if such a cosmically-impossible opportunity actually presented itself, you ask? I had no freakin’ clue. And that was the problem. Even if I could change things, I didn’t know if I would. Because behind every door lurked heartbreak and pain. And call me crazy, but I was having trouble working up the nerve to make such a sadistic decision, either way, on purpose.
So on the back of the review sheet for our upcoming test, I did one of the dumbest things anyone has ever done. But at least I did it in pencil. And for the record, I wouldn’t blame a soul for denying they knew me. That said, feel free to marvel at my stupidity. It’s legendary. And no, you’re not seeing things. It’s a guy-to-guy comparison.
Mick/Lars
Sexy/Unique
Sweet/Confident
Funny/Hot
Smart/Exciting
Adventurous/Protective
From a simple glance at my useless list, one thing was crystal clear: Both Mick and Lars were boyfriends to die for. No wonder my brain was Swiss cheese.
“I think it’s Mick. Mick Donaldson,” some squeaky little grating voice behind me enthused. I swear, my eardrums almost started to bleed.
“Oh my God! He’s amazing!” Miss Squeaky’s friend gushed, not quite whispery enough for me to ignore.
I glared over my shoulder in their general direction, but of course the duo of ecstatic bimbos didn’t even notice. It figured.
“He’s from like…I don’t know…somewhere far away,” Miss Squeaky said, acting all knowledgeable about my sweet, sweet Mick.
Now even though I’m usually not a violent person, I had a big time urge to correct Miss Squeaky’s know-it-allness with a right hook to the face. I mean, who did she think she was, pretending to be the authority on my maybe ex-boyfriend? The way I saw it, I was the only one who had the right to comment on Mick, because I was the only one who really knew him—despite what these blood sucking little tramps seemed to think.
“Did you hear he’s never been in school before?” Miss Squeaky’s sidekick asked. “He was like home-schooled or something.”
Okay, that pissed me off. Not so much because they were talking about Mick, but because even I had forgotten about that one. And they were right. Unlike the rest of us, Mick had never set foot in a school. It was part of his adventurous, nomadic lifestyle.
So it’s pretty shocking how fast fifty minutes can pass when your mind is so preoccupied with bullshit drama that you hardly have a brain cell to spare for normal stuff, like math. But before I knew it, the lunch bell rang, which meant my love life was about to plunge even further into the Pit of Doom. Because like Mick had told my mother, he’d see me at lunch. Today. And so would Lars.
With the determination of a sea slug, I inched my way toward the cafeteria, carefully tailing a chubby underclassman with more freckles than face. Not that I should talk, really. I had my own share of freakish features and excess Twinkie poundage. How hypocritical.
I don’t know if it was luck or fate, but as I rounded the last corner of my journey to hell, Jessie magically bounded out of her fourth period class into my path. It was the one thing I desperately needed: some friendly—albeit flaky—backup.
“Hey, hey! Stop!” I pleaded, grabbing Jessie’s wrist to slow her down.
In one second flat, she ground to a total halt. “Oh my God! I didn’t even see you there,” she croaked, biting her lip. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t know if she was referring to my physical safety, since she’d almost mowed me down, or my emotional well-being, given my romantic woes.
“Yeah. I’m fine, I guess,” I said.
“So…?”
“So what?”
“So what’s going on? Have you talked to Lars? Or Mick?”
“No. Why? What’ve you heard?” I asked, bracing myself for the worst. I mean, maybe they both hated my guts, so I could just curl up and die already.
Jessie sucked in a deep breath. “Well, Mick’s pretty upset. When you passed out yesterday, Lars kind of swooped in and took over,” she said. “He carried you all the way to the nurse’s office.”
Ouch. That must have hurt. Mick’s feelings, I mean. “But does he know about me and Lars? Like, you know, that we’re together?”
Jessie nodded. “Yeah. And guess who clued him in? One guess.”
Off the top of my head, I could think of two distinct possibilities, the likes of which I collectively refer to as the Plastic Twits. “Tina Miller?” I tried.
“Two guesses.”
Okay, I had this one nailed. “Beth Clarke?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” Jessie said, flashing her Vanna White smile. “Anyway, I heard that after Mick found out about you and Lars, he peeled out of the parking lot at like eighty miles an hour. You can still see two big strips of burnt rubber on the other side of the football field if you look.”
“No thanks,” I said. I could already imagine how much pain Mick must’ve been in. Visual proof was absolutely not necessary. “What about Lars?” I asked. “Does he know?”
“I don’t think so,” Jessie said optimisti
cally. “Ms. Aggie sent him back to class right away, so I don’t think he saw anything that happened with Mick—unless someone stuck their big nose in your business today.”
Well, of course someone stuck their big nose in my business. This was high school, after all. And even if most people were decent human beings, it only took one asshole to really muck things up. There was always one asshole.
“Here goes nothin’,” I said, as Jessie and I crossed the threshold to disaster.
“Relax. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Famous last words,” I joked.
And then we did it. We walked right up to our lunch table, where my two loves sat side by side like they were trapped in a surreal version of The Dating Game.
Let me see… Should I pick bachelor number one, or bachelor number two? I pondered, as if it were that simple. I mean, yeah right. I wish.
“Hi guys,” Jessie said, shimmying into an empty spot between Mick and Carla.
Before I could decide where to sit, though…
“Here,” Lars said, patting the empty space on the bench beside him.
For a nanosecond, I glanced at Mick, but he stared right through me. “Uh-huh,” I mumbled, lowering my ass to the edge of the seat, where I intended to stay. After all, such a handy spot would make for a quick getaway should things spin wildly out of control.
Now, I swear, I must be cursed. Because even though Lars didn’t seem to know about me and Mick, he did seem to know how to throw fuel on an already combustible situation. “How’s my baby?” he asked, leaning in for a peck.
I coughed in his face. “Sorry. I’m sick,” I said, rolling my eyes and making one of those useless index-finger crosses that never actually wards off demons, or vampires, or even invisible germs.
“So, Mick, how do you like Punxsy so far?” Jessie asked, derailing the conversation and, thank God, distracting Lars.
“It’s not what I expected,” Mick said, totally emotionless.
Jessie didn’t miss a beat. “Do you play basketball? Because you’re pretty tall, and we could use a good point guard,” she said, smiling innocently.
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