by Cyn Balog
“Much.” I grin. I think about doing a little twirl to show off my stuff, but I decide I will probably trip and end up bleeding on the sidewalk. “Do you like?”
“Very much. You did your hair, right?” He reaches out and twists a curl around his finger.
“Um, yeah.” Well, at least he recognized that, even if he didn’t notice the thirty other things I did. I’ve heard men aren’t the most observant when it comes to that.
I climb into his truck. Again, I notice he has the mirrors tilted so that the sun is streaming into his eyes, making them look like pools of chlorinated water. To ward off any more uncomfortable silences, I thought of topics of conversation during most of the two hours I spent getting ready. Nothing heavy, just light, fun things. As he takes off toward the bridge, I see Rick’s BMW in the rearview mirror and pull one out of my arsenal. “So, how are the waves here compared to the ones in California?”
Wish doesn’t answer me. It was a good question, or at least I thought it was. Not too difficult, and it shows I care about his hobbies. In fact, it was at the top of my list of “safe” topics to talk about. Topics like bodily functions, sex, and body parts normally hidden by clothing were on my “extremely unsafe” list, but surfing, well, I figured that to be pretty harmless. Until now.
I realize he’s staring out the rearview mirror, too, at my sister as she hops into Rick’s convertible. “He’s not driving your sister to school, is he?”
“Who? Rick? Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “She says she’s infatuated with his car only, but I don’t buy it.”
He swings the truck into third gear, and I marvel at how manly his hairy forearm looks on the stick. I’m just deciding that there is nothing sexier than a guy shifting a manual transmission when he says, “If I had a sister, I’d never let her anywhere near that guy.”
“Believe me, I’ve warned her. It didn’t do any good.”
He pauses. “I know you did. But she’s not listening, because you’re too nice.” He thinks for a second. “Maybe I should talk to her.”
“Be my guest.”
“Kids these days …” He puts on his best old-fogey voice and pumps his fist in the air. “I feel sorry for her.”
“What for?”
He sighs. “Being beautiful. It’s not fun. People want things from you. They suck you dry.” He gives me a half smile. “So I hear.”
So he has noticed Evie’s beauty, even though he hasn’t noticed my lack thereof. He’s obviously speaking from personal experience. I can’t add anything to the conversation, so I just shrug.
“You’re too nice. I would scream at her to stay away. I would smack it into her,” he says.
“Sure you would.” The thing is, even though he’s calling me nice, he’s the one who should be applying for sainthood. He hardly knows Evie, yet he doesn’t want to see her hurt. And here I am, related by blood to Evie and actually a little excited to see Rick teach her a lesson so I can say, “I told you so.” In fact, I get a small thrill thinking about it. “You think Rick is going to break her heart?” I ask as we sail over the bridge to the mainland. The windows are open, letting in the cool bay breeze, and seagulls are perched on every streetlight, almost like an audience, wondering what stupid question I’ll ask next.
“I think he’s going to show his bad side to her, sooner or later. It always comes through, eventually, but the sooner it does, the better off she’ll be.”
“He already did show his bad side,” I say, thinking about that day in the bakery. “She seems immune.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
“She’s never really dated anyone before,” I explain, kind of embarrassed, since I’m not Miss Experience myself. “She’s only fourteen. It’s all new to her.”
I don’t bother to add that it’s all new to me, too. He doesn’t have to be Einstein to know that, anyway.
We pull into the school’s driveway, and I’m happy I still have almost my entire arsenal of conversation topics intact. Wish and I didn’t have a pause in conversation at all, and I never once felt like I wanted to throw up. Things are going great.
But right then, Wish downshifts to second, then reaches over and puts his hand on my knee. Before I can tell my mouth to behave, I let out a little scream.
He snatches his hand away. “Oops.”
I want to say something smooth, like “Hot hands,” since he did practically burn me the last time with his finger, it was so warm. Or was that just my nutty imagination? But I’m wearing pants, so I have no idea what temperature his hand is. It was just a nice, friendly gesture, something a parent would do to a child, or a teacher would do to a student, Dough. It did not warrant a scream or a shriek or anything of the sort. Moron. “It just … surprised me,” I say, wooden. “You can do it again.”
He doesn’t bother. I don’t blame him. The invitation was like “Oh yes, please stick needles in my eyeballs.” He just slides into a parking space in the junior lot and looks at me. “I know, I know. We can take things slow,” he says, reading my mind. He pats my cheek gently, the heat from his hand radiating over my face, making it burn again. Ouch. He gives the word “hottie” a whole new meaning.
I smile shyly, realizing that no girl in her right mind, Erica or anyone, would need to take it slow. Not with a guy like Wish. She would have jumped on him by now. Ravished his body, stuffed a house key and a slip of paper with her phone number into his pants. I want to grab his hand and put it back on my knee, but that’s when I notice that though it’s again over eighty degrees, he’s wearing the same black shirt he wore yesterday. Or maybe a different one, but it looks the same. For a guy who just came from California, isn’t that weird?
I kind of like it. It’s nice that there’s one weird thing about Wish, as it makes the hundreds of weird things about me seem slightly less apparent.
Just slightly.
Cleansing breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
As we get closer to the crowd of students waiting outside for the first bell to ring, it occurs to me that I don’t look normal. Rather, I look like I’m in labor or doing a stair climb of the Empire State Building. I try to hide it by breathing through my nose, but I know that my nostrils are probably flaring like two big black holes, and then my chest hurts and I begin to feel dizzy. Oxygen. I need more oxygen.
Before I can go looking for a mask and tank, we somehow end up in the crowd. I’m only slightly aware that I’m trailing behind Wish, like some ugly boil on his backside, instead of walking beside him, like his equal. In an echo chamber, to my own heartbeat, I hear someone call, “Wish, yo, Wish!” and Wish turns and starts to head there, so I follow. This time, I’m positive I look like a butt boil. When Wish stops, I nearly step on the heels of his Vans and smack my nose between his shoulder blades. I take a step to the side and the same crowd from Wednesday’s lunch table’s there, in a tight U, open just enough so that Wish can fill the space and make it a circle.
Confidence, I tell myself, quickly attaching myself to Wish’s side before the circle can close. The guy on my right, Skull, elbows me in the boobs. It only hurts like hell for a second.
I don’t think he recognizes me at first, but then he gives me a nod. “Word.”
I’m not sure why, but I take it as an apology. “It’s okay!” I burst out really loudly, grabbing his massive, muscle-bound arm and squeezing it a little. I never knew this, but the Confident Me likes to touch people. A lot. It doesn’t cross my mind that Skull might be one of those people who hate being fondled by strangers until I catch him looking at my hand, on his arm, with dark, murderous eyes. Slowly, I release my grip, and it becomes obvious to me that all eyes in the group are on me.
“Oh, hey, all!” I say, giving a big wave. Again, I’m loud enough for residents of China to hear. Terra’s standing across from me, biting her lip in a rare speechless moment. “Wow, fantastic …” My eyes trail down her body as I look for something to compliment. What? Blouse, jeans, shoes. What? They’re all pretty fantastic. I can take my
pick. Nails. Bag. No, nails. Wait, bag. I finally spit out, “Nag.”
She stares at me. Destiny snorts, then looks at Erica. “Did she just call her a fantastic nag?”
“I mean, bag,” I say more softly so the entire continent can’t hear me this time. I move into the center of the circle, which I think might be against their Laws of Social Interaction, from the way they’re all staring at me, open-jawed. But Confident Me makes her own rules. I start to touch the rough fabric. There I go again, Miss Happy Fingers, fondling everything that doesn’t belong to me. “What is it?”
She gives me a look, and I know she’s on to me. The Hanes wardrobe I’ve sported over the past four years might have given her the tip-off that I’m not exactly a member of the Versace family. She says a name, something obviously foreign, probably spelled with a bunch of accents and squiggles and silent letters.
It must be a big deal, because Destiny raises her eyebrows, and suddenly, even she can’t keep her hands off the bag. “Seriously? Love it.”
It’s freaking burlap. But I don’t bother to mention that it looks like something horses would eat out of. After all, I’ve already called Terra a nag. Considering her unfortunate resemblance, it’s best to avoid any more horse associations for the rest of … well, for the rest of forever.
“Trés chic,” I find myself saying. What the … I don’t speak French. But Confident Me can speak in many tongues, I guess. I might have gotten that from an episode of Project Runway.
Strangely, none of them thinks it sounds as pretentious as I do. Erica looks me over, and right when I’m sure she’s about to point out my rolls of flesh, she says, “Speaking of chic, nice top. It’s Marc, isn’t it?”
Oh my God. Erica the Amazing just complimented me. Me! I fish for the sarcasm in her voice, but there is none. She’s genuinely admiring my blouse. But who is Marc? Marc, Marc, Marc. I think there was a kid in our class in second grade named Marc, but he moved away. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s somehow magically reinserted himself into the circle, but there’s no one new there, just Skull and Wish, discussing something sports related again.
The confusion on my face must be a glowing beacon, because she says, “Jacobs? The designer?”
“Oh. Yes.” Obviously it’s not but I can’t stop my head from nodding like it’s on a puppet string. I can’t even tell you my own name right now.
Destiny’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t know Marc made things that size.”
Terra snorts. But Erica waves her off. “Stop it, Des,” she says, moving closer to me. “It’s really nice. Brings out the color in your eyes.”
My heart starts to twitter. She has seen past my designer shirt, to my eyes. To me. And not the part of me that’s immediately obvious, either. I have to fight the momentary compulsion to leap into her arms. “Thanks,” I gush.
Then silence. Crap.
“So,” I say, making the word really long and loud, mentally sorting through the topics of conversation I planned. I’m on her radar. This is my moment. I have to pounce on it now, before I become invisible again. “You guys going to the party tonight?”
Terra laughs. “Well. I guess I should. Since it’s at my house.”
“Oh. Right,” I say as Destiny giggles into her fist. I point at her and Erica. “I meant these guys.”
Erica nods. “We’ll be there. You?”
I nod back, maybe a little too eagerly. “Oh, yeah. I need to wind down. It’s been a tough week.”
Destiny grins wickedly at Terra. “Great. You’ll have to do some of the Goldbar family’s famous Jell-O shots.”
Terra nods in agreement.
I swallow. Not only do I not particularly like Jell-O or any food that bears such a striking resemblance to my butt, I’ve never had a drink in my life. Ever. Not even a taste of champagne at a family wedding. And I’ve never really felt the desire to have one, either. “Okay,” I say, as brightly as possible.
“What are you wearing?” Terra asks Destiny, and Destiny launches into this long-winded description of every piece of merchandise that will be on her body, filled with many more foreign names with squiggles and accents. Terra then does her rundown. I make a mental note that everyone is going to be wearing sundresses, and pray I have something suitable in Melinda’s magic bag.
“What about you?” Destiny asks me. The snootiness hasn’t disappeared from her voice.
I’m about to say I’m still thinking about it when Erica chimes in, “You can just wear what you have on. It’s hot.”
A hand appears on my shoulder. It’s Wish. I’d somehow, in my lovefest with Erica, forgotten all about him. But Destiny hasn’t. She gives him a smoldering look and then catches sight of his hand on me and shakes her head in dismay. “Would you ladies like to begin another day of learning?” he says, bowing and directing us to the front door.
They all giggle at him. He hooks his arm through mine, and I don’t have to worry about trailing behind him. For the first time that day, I almost feel safe.
20
IN HOMEROOM, I expect things to deteriorate quickly. I expect Terra and Erica and Destiny to ignore me. Destiny turns her back on me and starts to inspect a lock of her platinum mane for split ends, but Erica offers me a stick of gum. It’s a new, funky passion fruit–smoothie flavor that only cool people like Erica would possess. I take it like it’s a bar of gold and for a second think about preserving the wrapper in my diary. Terra must have decided that since Erica finds me suitable enough to share her gum with, I’m worthy of conversation. She starts snapping her gum and talking faster than an auctioneer.
“So, like, you’re friends with Wish, huh? He’s my cousin. Did you know? Well, he is. He’s, like, a really cool guy. How long have you known him?”
It’s thrilling and dizzying at once. These girls are buzzing around me, asking me questions about Wish, like I matter. But they’re acting like I just appeared out of nowhere. Like I haven’t been sitting in class with them for the past four years. It’s like I’ve been wearing an invisibility cloak. I say to myself, No, it’s because they’re so busy doing Jell-O shots or texting messages to each other or whatever they do that it’s only momentary forgetfulness. They have to realize I’ve been in classes with them all these years, even if they did ignore me, right? I’m about to answer, “Hello? I’ve known him since first grade?” when Erica speaks. She leans over and says, “So, did you move here from California, too?”
Unbelievable.
Okay, there are over fifteen hundred kids in the school, and since I’ve always been in the advanced curriculum, I haven’t shared a lot of classes with these girls. Erica has school-wide fame for the sex-kitten thing she has going on, and though she’ll never be a Rhodes scholar, I thought that having the occasional homeroom or lunch with her meant I was at least on her radar. And I always assumed that Terra knew I had some connection to Wish, because they’re cousins. She must; she’s thrown enough icy glares my way to freeze the equator. She’ll straighten Erica out.
Right now.
Okay, now.
Instead, Terra looks expectantly at me, waiting for an answer.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out, so I look like part of a bad ventriloquist act. “No, I …,” I begin. What do I say? I’m the doofus who sat behind you the past few years, and you just never noticed because I was too doofy to breathe your air? I swallow. “Um. Uh. Yeah.”
“Cool, L.A.?” Terra asks, oblivious to my mouth, which is hanging open wide enough to swallow her head.
“Um.” I turn and look at Destiny. She’s suddenly interested in the conversation again.
She drops her hair over her shoulder and gives her head a shake, like she’s the lost child of the Pantene family, and her lips curl over her teeth. “I thought everyone in Southern California was thin,” she drawls.
“Um …,” I begin, emotions flooding me so quickly that I can’t even bother to be insulted by Destiny’s fat comment. I’m well insulated against fat comments, I guess. The only thi
ngs going through my mind are that 1) none of these girls realize I have been part of their class since the beginning of junior high, and 2) this is the absolute best thing that has ever happened to me.
I mean, before Wish, I wasn’t just a random nobody that everyone detested. No! I have no history at Cellar Bay. I could have partied with Britney and Paris in L.A. for all they know. I could be George Clooney’s love child. No past embarrassments, like the time I threw up on my teacher’s head or the time I wore white pants over my hot pink Tuesday undies. Nothing! I am free!
“We’ve been dating for a few years,” I say vaguely, still not convinced that they won’t suddenly go, “Hey, waaaait, I remember you.…”
Erica leans in. “Seriously? So tell me. Wish must be really good, right?”
I gulp. Yeah, sure he’s good, but that’s probably not the way she means it.
“Ew,” Terra gasps, and stuffs her fingers in her ears, preschool-like. “I am so not listening to this. He’s my cousin.”
Erica seems to enjoy making Terra squirm. “He has such fantastic lips. He’s a great kisser, right?”
Destiny narrows her eyes. “Have you done it with him?” She looks at Erica. “I think she’s still a virgin.”
What about all color draining from my face screams “virgin”? I wonder.
Erica crosses her arms and addresses Destiny like she’s a mental patient who’s just been caught wearing her pants on her head again. “She said they’ve been going out for a few years. You do not go out with someone for that long and not do it with them.”
There it is, the Erica Proclamation. Sex must happen if you date a person for a few years, and if not, you are obviously a candidate for hanging from the neck until dead. As she says it, trumpets sound. I half expect a little scribe to come by with a very official parchment scroll and take down every last word. So let it be written, so let it be done. It’s strange; I thought that to win the undivided attention of these three, I’d have to, I don’t know, gnaw off my own foot or something. I didn’t realize all I’d have to do is make up a sex life with Wish.