by Tish Cohen
I can see now my mother was wrong about Charlie’s being unmotivated when it comes to his career. There was something in his face as he scrubbed the pan. It was fear. My father hasn’t been a janitor all these years because he’s lazy. My father is terrified to try for more. He’s convinced he is exactly where he should be, convinced if he pretends nothing is broken, it isn’t. Just like he did with my mother.
It was early June, the sixth, to be exact, and I was sitting at my desk in my old bedroom pretending to be studying for my English test the next day. Really, I was drawing pictures of myself wearing the most spectacular prom dress ever. My first formal dress ever, for that matter. It was officially the best day of my life. Jeremy Gleason—an actual twelfth grader—stopped me on the way to health, waved me into a stairwell, and blurted out, “Wanna go to prom?”
It was the first time I’d been asked to go anywhere with a boy, let alone prom. I wasn’t the type of girl Lundon guys even looked at, other than when they were flunking math and needed an afternoon of tutoring. Mom was going to die of excitement.
I looked up from my doodles and sniffed the air. Something wasn’t right. The house should have been filled with the smell of my roasted chicken. You know, the kind of aroma that made you feel you were living in a real home, where sisters squabbled over bathroom time on school mornings and brothers thought the whoopee cushion was funny for the fifty-eighth time. Where a mother was there waiting for you when you got home from school with the best news ever.
But 67 Norma Jean Drive didn’t smell like any of that. It smelled lethal, like chemical soup. I hurried down to the kitchen, stuffed my hands into oven mitts, and pulled the roasting pan out of the stove, praying the fumes weren’t coming from the chicken I’d so carefully prepared to celebrate my news. As soon as I lifted the lid, it was pretty clear what I was dealing with. Toxic chicken.
I flipped through the recipe book to see where I’d messed up. I had washed the chicken, rubbed salt into the puckery skin. I stuffed a quartered onion into the revolting cavity—wait a minute. I touched my right index finger. No! Quickly, I spooned out what was left of the onion. Sure enough, twinkling from under the mashed onion was a hunk of blackened, once-gold metal sticking out of a melted pool of swirly black goo.
My mood ring.
Just then, a key jiggled in the front door. My parents were home. Quickly, I dumped my bejeweled stuffing into the trash and lifted the chicken onto a platter. I scattered a few handfuls of baby carrots onto the plate and placed it on the table I had set when I got home from school. Nothing, not even a baked mood ring, was going to ruin my big announcement.
It was pathetic to be so excited over a prom invitation. I was fairly sure other tenth-grade girls didn’t rush home to cook a celebratory family dinner after being asked to prom.
Dad walked into the kitchen, kissed my cheek. Then he grinned and looked from oven to chicken to me. “Did you cook it in a rubber boot again?”
“Not funny. I slaved over a hot stove.”
He sniffed the air. “Did you season it with erasers?”
“Rushed home from school …”
“Smells a bit like fertilizer.”
“Plunged my hands into a raw chicken, risking salmonella poisoning, risking death by parasite …”
“Or is it toilet sanitizer?”
“All so I could announce to my adoring parents …”
“If anyone knows toilet sanitizer, it’s me.”
“That I got asked to prom!” I said with a squeal.
Dad’s response wasn’t exactly what I’d been hoping for. “Prom? You’re only in tenth grade.”
“Jeremy’s a senior.”
“I don’t know. You’ve never even been to a school dance before.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Sorry.” He opened the cupboard and pulled out a bag of pretzels. “Are you—and this boy—going alone or with a group of kids? And does he drive? More importantly, does he drive well? Because I could drop you off and pick you up.”
Oh, God. This was going to be a disaster. I needed my mother to intervene; she’d understand that having Dad peering at us from the front seat would be an absolute prom killer. I’d rather walk.
“When’s Mom coming home?”
“Should be any minute now.” He sat at the table and poked at my chicken with a butter knife. “Traffic is terrible out there.”
The phone rang. Dad picked it up. “Hey. You might want to hurry home. Our girl has outdone herself in the department of Roasted Chickens Gone Wild.” His face darkened slightly and he turned away, lowering his voice. “Seriously? Again? You worked late three nights last week.”
I walked to the sink and pretended I wasn’t listening. And while I was at it, I pretended it wasn’t happening again. Pretended it wasn’t killing me that my mother wasn’t coming home to my meal. Didn’t care to hear my … whatever.
It wouldn’t matter. Not compared to what would follow.
“It’s not me you’re disappointing,” said Charlie. A long pause, then, “All right. Don’t wake us when you get in.” He hung up and sat himself at the kitchen table in front of the noxious chicken. For a moment he said nothing. Then he picked up his knife and fork and smiled as if nothing had happened. “So, should we see if this bird tastes any better than it smells?”
chapter 10
cinnamon hearts
Other than the scrubbing of the frying pan, all was quiet on the OCD front over the weekend. I studied, Dad played with the van with no mention of door locks, and we shared a few games of Scrabble, most of which I lost to Dad’s fussy vocabulary.
Monday morning Dad goes into “the office” early, so I get myself to school on a bus that takes forever to show up. For the first time, I step onto campus looking like a true Ant. With thick black socks that hug the backs of my knees. With bare thighs so cold they ache. With dark, sleepy, under-eye smudges that have puffed up into tiny pillows.
I have no idea what to expect today. What will Carling do now?
Trotting up Arlington Street, I realize I’m later than I thought. The sidewalk is completely empty of kids. A car pulls over and a boy dressed in jeans jumps out and races through the great carved doors. He might as well turn around and race home. From what I heard last week, forgetting your uniform is akin to showing up at school naked. They whisk you out of sight and place a swift and stern phone call to your parents.
The moment I walk through the doors, I spy two more kids in street clothes: a wannabe jock in cut-off sweats and a Red Sox T-shirt, and a tall girl in the Ant yoga pants and matching hoodie. On her feet are brown sheepskin boots. She looks me up and down and giggles as she passes. A sick feeling scrabbles down into my stomach.
Inside the classroom, no one is in uniform. I feel as if I’m in a bad dream. Guys are in ancient polo shirts, jeans, baggy shorts, sweatshirts, flip-flops. Girls are wearing blue, black, or colored jeans; jeweled ballerina flats or Vans slip-ons.
Some wear pastel Lacoste dresses with sheepskin boots. Willa, usually so buttoned-up and tucked in, wears a multipurpose sequined minidress that looks like a computer chip from afar. Isabella is ready for stripper pole or pop equestrian event in a plunging wraparound sweater, tan breeches, riding boots, and a velvet baseball cap. Poppy is even more versatile. In her grim reaper– colored taffeta dress, broken tiara, shredded fishnets, and knee-high combat boots, she’s prepared for the exhuming of graves, the attending of brides, and the invading of unsuspecting countries. Sloane looks like she’s just climbed out of bed in her thermal undershirt and plaid jammie bottoms tucked into sheepskin boots.
Hair, it seems, has exploded into ironic ratted, matted, teased, curled, pigtailed, or faux-hawked statements of rebellion; Willa’s demure ponytail being the only exception.
I try to slip into my desk without anyone noticing. I fail. Some people roll their eyes and turn away, bored by my unwillingness to participate in the fun. Others giggle and nudge their neighbors. But the worst is
Isabella. She looks me up and down as if I just don’t get it. As if I’m just too different to bother with.
I slide into the seat behind Carling, who is wearing a flaming orange fitted blazer, skintight faded jeans, navy ankle boots. It’s pretty clear she’s braless since the jacket buttons well below her breasts and she didn’t waste any energy slipping on a camisole or a tee. Maybe her days-of-the-week panties got the day off as well. She turns around and looks right at me but I can’t read the expression on her face.
Mr. Curtis turns from the board, where he was calculating an equation I just figured out in my head, and smiles. “Saint Sarah. Welcome. How befitting that you don’t stoop to the wanton anarchy of your classmates. Your mythical parents would applaud you.”
I start to explain, “I didn’t know today was—”
He waves away my words. “Not only do I admire your extraordinary grooming, but I refuse to send you to the office for a late slip, on compassionate grounds.” A ripple of giggles flows across the room.
I can feel my cheeks burn.
“I want you all to clear your desks. We’re going to have a pop quiz so I can see how badly your brains were fried by the summer heat.”
As soon as everyone turns around, groaning, I tug off my vest and tie, stuff them into my backpack, and pull out a pencil. Carling, I notice, slides her desk about an inch closer to Isabella’s and gives her an appreciative smile. Once the tests are passed out and Curtis gives the word, my mouth falls open. Carling Burnack is copying Isabella’s answers onto her own paper.
We’re let out of class a few minutes early because Mr. Curtis has to take a phone call. Carling and Isabella head for their lockers in the near silence of the hallways, their heels ticking along the floor like cinnamon hearts clattering into a porcelain dish, while Sloane slides along behind them as if she’s crossing a frozen pond. Knowing full well my locker is on a different level, I glide along in their wake and pretend I’m not listening to their mumbled chitchat.
They arrive at their lockers and Sloane dumps her books inside, then pauses to examine her fingernails. “Whenever I’m in Curtis’s class, I fantasize about dropping out. I don’t even know if I want a career. Sometimes I think my sole ambition is to fall in love and have babies.”
Carling and Isabella stare at her, horrified. Then Carling bursts out laughing. “I totally thought you were serious.” When Sloane doesn’t react, Carling loses interest. “Thank God for Izzy’s brain. If I didn’t have the most brilliant eleventh grader as my bud, that class would destroy me.”
Isabella’s eyes widen. “I’d never let that happen. My brain is your brain.”
“My brother said Curtis was an easy marker a few years back,” says Carling. “I don’t know what gives.”
“That’s what my cousin said,” Sloane says. “The guy used to be a softie.”
Without thinking, standing at a locker about four doors down, I blurt out, “Midlife crisis.”
They’re silent for a moment, staring at me as if a homecoming poster has just sprung to life and dared to address them. Carling reacts first, tossing me a half nod.
It’s enough to make me bolder still. I say, “Teachers can’t afford fancy convertibles or hot women. So what do they do when they realize they’re falling apart, bit by bit? They lord their power over the very ones whose youth they covet.”
Like a group of wild rabbits I’m trying to get close to with a handful of celery sticks, they’re wary of me but don’t quite shut me out. Sloane, digging through her locker now, actually says, “Yeah. And since Curtis has a full head of hair, it must mean his winkie is malfunctioning.”
Just as I’m planning my next approach, Poppy strolls by, sucking on a mint.
“Hey, Poppy,” says Carling. “Can I see your camera for a sec?”
Poppy wiggles her hand out of the camera strap and hands it over. “Be careful. It cost me a lot of money.” Then Poppy notices me and flashes the peace sign. “Hey.”
I smile. “Hey.”
Carling flicks on the camera and pans around the hallway, slowing on Sloane, then me, then a pair of ninth graders walking by, then Isabella. She moves closer to her friend and, without taking her eye from the screen, starts unwrapping Isabella’s sweater with her free hand.
Isabella grabs her sweater, clearly distressed. “What are you doing?”
Carling laughs. “Let’s send Mrs. Middle-Aged Curtis a flesh tape and pretend it belongs to her husband. Then she’ll dump him and he’ll shut himself away with a bunch of cats and stop coming to work.”
Isabella says, “Not with my flesh!”
“Give the camera back,” wails Poppy. “You’re going to drop it!”
Carling looks hopefully at Sloane, who flips her off, laughing. Carling shrugs. “Whatever, I’ll film myself.” She undoes her top buttons and angles the camera down her shirt, then sashays in a slow circle. Dropping her voice even deeper, she says, “Hey there, pop-quiz boy …”
“Gross!” Poppy snatches up the camera and wipes the lens on her sleeve. “You think I want my camera equipment touching your sweaty body parts, Burnack? You owe me a new lens.”
“You’re insane,” Isabella says to her. “Your camera never had it so good.”
“Yeah,” says Carling, laughing. “I charge big bucks for peep shows like that.”
“Exactly what I’m afraid of,” Poppy says. “Your STDs on my lens.”
Carling Burnack does not need a hero. She’s a big girl. A wild girl. A girl who leaves people like me wishing I could spend five minutes being her, if only to truly understand what I’m missing. Still, I jump to her defense. “Don’t trash-talk her,” I snap at Poppy.
Poppy steps back as if I’ve pulled out a gun. “What?”
“She was just goofing around.”
“Ohh, I get it.” She starts nodding in recognition. “Right. How could I have been so stupid? You were never going to be friends with me. You wanted to be one of the Carlingettes.”
I don’t have to look to know the girls are staring—I can feel their curiosity crawling across my skin. Not wishing to appear as if I’m trying to be one of them, I spin around and busy myself trying my combination on someone else’s locker. Though, even if this were my locker, my fingers are shaking too much to open it.
Isabella speaks first. “That’s not your locker, London. It’s Willa’s.”
I look around as if confused. “I might be on the wrong floor.”
Carling walks over, glancing down at my uniform. “You’re quite the spirited little Ant, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “Number one rule about being the new kid. Be sure to make an ass of yourself.” My voice echoes loudly in the long hallway. I hate the sound of it.
Sloane yawns into her hand, then runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ears. “The first Monday of every month is Grub Day. No uniforms. No dress code. No exceptions.”
“That’s cool. Thanks …”
But they’re already walking away. Just before they disappear into the stairwell, Carling looks back. “Losing the tights was your first good move.” And they’re gone.
chapter 11
damsel in distress
It’s official—I’ve survived two whole weeks. Now that we’re into late September, autumn weather has settled in. Tuesday is unusually cold and windy, so after school I make an ill-fated attempt to study in the library so I can catch a ride home with Dad after five o’clock. In spite of its high ceilings, this is probably the coziest room in the school, with its ancient wooden shelving, tabletop task lighting, and chairs covered in nubbly fabric anyone’s grandmother would adore. As soon as I step through the metal doors, I know coming here is a mistake. There doesn’t seem to be a table or desk surface in the entire place that isn’t six inches deep in textbooks, binders, graph paper, and—though I pretend not to notice—miniature cheat sheets.
Oddly, very few people are studying. They’re mostly passed out atop their work in various stages of desperately
needed sleep. Some have their faces buried in folded arms. Others are sprawled back in their seats, chins resting on books pressed to hunched chests like armor. But the best are the ones using their open textbooks as pillows, faces turned sideways, mouths agape, saliva pooling on defenseless paragraphs.
It’s as if terrorists have pumped anthrax through the air vents and the librarian and I are the only survivors.
Eventually, I find an empty seat near the librarian’s station and dump the contents of my backpack—about six hours of work—onto the table. My old school gave very little homework. If a high school’s expectations of students’ future accomplishments can be measured by the weight of their backpacks, it was fairly clear Finmory expected us to turn out pretty much like our parents—unfettered by the encumbrances of higher learning.
No such lighthearted attitude here. Anton’s expectations could crumple a young girl’s spinal column. I’m not even sure I’m still five foot six. Willa has been complaining school pressure is already so intense that even when she’s done her homework, she can’t sleep. I’m the opposite. With only four or five hours a night to sustain me, when not studying, walking, or talking, I’m having serious trouble staying awake. I fall asleep all over the place. During slide shows in history class. At the table eating cereal. I even dozed off on the escalator on the way to math yesterday. That’ll teach me to skip my morning coffee.
After setting myself up with notepad, highlighter, and pens, I flip open my books and get to work. But not for long. Like the others, I’m way too sleep-deprived to resist this atmosphere. There’s something too soothing about it—maybe it’s the hum of overhead fans, or the clickety-whir of the photocopiers. Or maybe it’s miasmic off-gassing from what smells like newly laid carpeting. Whatever the reason, it’s impossible to fight off sleep. Just as I drop my head onto my arms for what I promise myself will be a ten-minute snooze, I hear the sound of labored breathing and look up to find myself being gawked at by none other than Griff Hogan.