Having friendly neighbors is nice when you need to borrow a cup of sugar, but I’ve always thought it was strange waving at someone just because they live down the street or around the corner. One of us could be a serial killer. I mean, not me, of course but when you think about it, even serial killers have neighbors. You could be smiling at a murderer every time you leave your house. This is the foundational reason I have for refusing to succumb to the neighborly wave. You never know. Perhaps it makes me smart. Perhaps it makes me the Boo Radley of Forest Meadows. Either way, I’m hoping it will keep me from becoming buddies with a potential psychopath.
Forest Meadows’ houses are newly built in an urban style with a serious lack of charm and character. They are spaced out and surrounded by enough Doug Firs and Birch trees in between each house to have their privacy. It’s only now, in autumn that you can see the faint flickering of soft yellow lights from the neighbors’ windows through the trees. Our street is lined with matured Cherry Blossoms that are now, in the beginning of fall, turning orange.
The breeze from my Toyota blows up a whirlwind of these green, yellow and bright orange leaves as I continue down the street.
My mind wanders off as I drive up the narrow winding roads, singing along to Bob Dylan’s Shelter From the Storm[1], thinking about my paper cut and falling in front of Ryan. I hope this isn’t an omen for how the rest of my birthday will be. I decide to stay positive and believe that it can only get better.
No doubt, the worst of today is behind me.
***
I’M FILLED WITH ANTICIPATION for the day when I pull into the Mount Saint Mary’s parking lot, eyeing the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. The tinted walls of glass moonlight as a peephole into the after-school debauchery that occurs on campus. The grey glass walls surrounding me are paired with tan brick and more towering clear walls. Every wall that touches the outside world on the top floor classrooms possesses the same, monotonous darkened glass.
Crossing through the over-sized doors into the cafeteria, I inhale the mouth watering scent of warmed croissants and toasted bagels. Although the smell is inviting, I’m thankful to have a mom that will cook breakfast for me, it allows me the freedom to sleep in a few minutes later. Sure, her actions the night before could leave her moody or sick in the morning but I’m grateful nonetheless.
I decide to skip my morning locker trip and get tea instead. As I step up to the drink station and begin prepping my Earl Grey, Brett Dixon walks up and starts fixing his coffee. “Hey, Ramona,” he pleasantly greets me. “Going for tea instead of coffee this morning?”
“What am I, thirty? I don’t drink coffee.” The words fly out with more attitude than playfulness, which is not what I intended. Luckily, Brett and I have known each other for a long time and he knows I’m only joking. He gives me a boisterous fake laugh.
“Good one, Ramona. Wait–” he adds, panicked, “Do I look thirty?” His seriousness is actually very endearing. I smile.
“With that baby face? No way, José. You have nothing to worry about. Except, maybe...is that–is your hairline receding?” I squint at his hairline, inspecting it.
“Oh, ha ha, very funny, Bean. You wanna talk about age? What’s it like being eighteen, ya old maid?” he asks, elbowing me.
“Me, an old maid? Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m-Turning-Nineteen-In-Two-Months.” Brett got a nasty case of scarlet fever when he was young and started school a year late. He turns nineteen in December. “And how did you know it’s my birthday?” I’m starting to wonder if there was a PSA that I missed.
“Deductive reasoning, just like Sherlock Holmes,” he says, pointing to his temple. He lifts my dad’s card off the counter.
Oh, right.
I forgot I was carrying it around. I never even finished opening it.
“But, in all honesty, of course I know it’s your birthday, Bean. We’ve been friends since we were seven. Happy birthday,” he adds with a grin as he embraces me.
His uniform sweater’s black sleeves are a little rough against my face, but his arms instantly create a safe familiarity. The smell of Downy floating off the fabric carries me all the way home.
I’ve missed his hugs, I realize, surprised.
They’ve stopped regularly happening since we’ve started high school. My face starts to get pink when I finally notice that I’ve been squeezing him awkwardly tightly.
I reluctantly pull away from him, careful not to spill our drinks. “Thanks!” I take my card from him and shove it in my bag so I don’t forget it. I place the lid on my tea and cautiously slip a sleeve under the cup.
“Oh, hey, your Band-Aid is falling off. What happened? Paper cut?” he asks, plucking off the tiny remaining corner of the Band-Aid that was precariously clinging onto me. He turns and tosses it in the trash.
“Uh...yeah…” I stare at him, stunned by his gesture.
“I hate paper cuts. Doesn’t it suck that something so small can hurt so bad?” he casually asks. He looks back at me and notices my face, now frozen from recalling my conversation with my Mom this morning. “What’s wrong?”
“Yeah...it is weird.” I shake my head to clear the uncannily similar words. “I can’t believe you just took off my bloody Band-Aid and threw it away for me. That’s so gross.” He laughs.
“Well, it would’ve been a lot grosser if it had gotten stuck on the drink counter.”
I smile, nodding my head. “You’re right. Thanks for throwing away my gross, bloody, paper cut Band-Aid. Say that ten times fast!”
“Glosblurdypapebutblanaid!” He laughs, almost spitting as I fall into a fit of giggles.
Composing myself, before I start to walk out of the cafeteria and tell him over my shoulder, See ya, Brett!” Before I get too far away, I casually add, “And watch that hairline.”
He shakes his head, smiling and says, “Later, Bean.”
I walk away smiling because Brett has nothing to worry about in the looks department. He has dark brown curly hair that falls to the right in the best way possible. When he goes too long without a haircut it falls into his eyes a little and it still looks good. He has a solidly built frame of over six feet, perhaps a testament to his slightly older age. Brett plays lacrosse so I imagine he has a hot bod hiding under his school clothes. He isn’t as smokin’ hot as Ryan Applebaum but he certainly doesn’t have an issue attracting female attention.
He’s one of those guys that’s simply “cute” now but will definitely get more handsome with age. When he is actually thirty he will be pretty damn sexy even if he does have a receding hairline. I squash the thoughts of a Sexy Brett from my mind. Brett and I haven’t hung out in long time but even so, it’s better to imagine your friends with their clothes on.
The bell rings and I pick up my pace to make it to History class on time.
CHAPTER 2
RYAN APPLEBAUM, OF Applebaum Family Stables, is a senior just like me. Up until today, he had long blonde hair that he pulled back into a man bun.
A mun.
He plays baseball and even under his uniform khaki pants and oxford shirt you can tell he is ripped. He doesn’t have massively scary muscles like Jet McCoy (who probably takes steroids) but his muscles are more proportionate to his size, like Brett. He isn’t very tall, only a couple inches taller than my five foot six inches.
His new haircut intensifies his facial attributes. It’s short on the sides, longer on top, parted on the side, and then all combed back. Somehow, it makes his clear gray eyes pop even more than usual. I may be biased, given I fell in love with him the first day of high school, but he is exquisite.
It was love at first sight.
Today he is wearing his white oxford uniform shirt, like me, except he is wearing a tight, thin, black long sleeve athletic shirt underneath it. I don’t think it’s uniform code, but nobody seems to care. Currently, I’m sitting in History class exactly one seat behind him and one row to the left. He’s twirling his pen in his hand and copying notes from the white boa
rd. I can’t believe I never noticed he is left-handed until right now.
He has big hands with pronounced knuckles. His skin isn’t dry like a lot of guys; it’s smooth and his nails are trimmed and clean. My eyes travel up his arm. The fabric of the his athletic shirt looks like satin to touch and I think about what it would feel like to run the tips of my fingers slowly up his strong arm to his shoulder. I imagine reaching my hands up to play with the now-short hairs on the back of his head just above his neck. I wonder if they’re as silky as they look. I imagine his hands grabbing my hips and pulling me against him...
I didn’t realize I was staring so intently at the backside of his head until our history teacher, Mrs. Ratzenberger, pointedly asks, “Ms. Scott? Earth to Ms. Scott? Please stop drooling and answer the question.”
I snap out of it and instinctively put the backside of my hand to my mouth.
Yup, there is indeed a minor glob of saliva in the corner of my lips.
My heart plunges painfully to my stomach causing me to wince.
“Can you repeat the question?” I swallow hard, trying not to turn red even though for me, it’s unavoidable.
Please, God, let me know the answer.
“Queen Elizabeth beheaded her cousin who was...?” She caught me zoning out and even though I do know the answer I feel ashamed for not paying attention. I take in a shaky breath and answer.
“Queen Elizabeth beheaded her cousin, Mary Queen of Scots, because it was suspected that she wanted Elizabeth’s crown. In reality, it’s not what she wanted at all,” I answer with an increasing amount of courage.
My heart always breaks for Mary Queen of Scots. She was imprisoned for nineteen years before she was killed. Everyone accused her of wanting to commit heinous crimes to steal her cousin’s throne, but all she really wanted was the love of her family (of which she had a complicated one). She lived most of her life in this despairing state of impossibility, her hope breeding an eternal misery.
Answering above and beyond boosts my confidence but I’m still embarrassed and can feel the heat in my cheeks. When Mrs. R is in one of her “moods,” I don’t know what she’s capable of. She’s either stern but fair or out to eat your soul. I brace myself for her response hoping I’ll be able to keep my soul (since it’s my birthday after all).
“Thank you. You’re a smart girl, Ramona. Imagine how smarter you would be if you stopped swooning over Mr. Applebaum.”
Wham.
It’s done.
My soul is devoured and my dignity gets kicked to the curb.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grimace loudly. I’m certain my brightly shining red complexion can be seen from outer space. My guess is that the entire class has their mouths gaping open in shock since there are about two achingly long seconds before the first laugh bursts out.
Then, giggles spread like a wildfire.
I dare to sneak a peek at Ryan. He too, is a little pink in the face and neck. His head and his finger meet half way to scratch his left eyebrow. He refuses to glance back at me and is also softly chuckling at the humiliation he undoubtedly feels. I wince and grunt while burying my head in both my hands. This could possibly be The Most Embarrassing Moment of my Life. Of course, it would happen on my eighteenth birthday. I really didn’t think it could get any worse than him witnessing the travesty I suffered through on my driveway earlier.
But this...this is worse.
By a lot.
Mrs. R claps loudly and quickly regains control over the classroom in a matter of seconds.
Seconds that, to me, feel like an eternity.
“That’s enough class! Don’t laugh at Ramona. You’ll all need her to tutor you if you want to pass our pop quiz next class. Not to mention, your final.” Everyone groans.
I’ve never understood some teachers’ habit of announcing pop quizzes days before they happen. There’s not much of a pop if they tell us beforehand.
If there’s no pop, then it’s just a quiz.
A normal quiz.
The bell rings and I run so fast out of that classroom I ram directly into my best friend and my one and only favorite cheerleader, Veronica Wilder.
“Oh, thank God it’s you,” I say with relief. I pull her towards our lockers.
“Wow, slow down Bean. I haven’t even seen you yet today. Happy Birthday, for starters.” I refuse to stop to hug her so I’m dragging her along as she hugs me from behind. She’s about two or three inches taller than me so it’s not an easy feat.
We make it to my locker and I notice that stuck on its corner is a dark blue bow with multi colored ribbons flowing down. I turn to her and smile.
“Thank you! It’s super cute.” As I open the door to my locker, something pops out and masses of gold glitter bursts everywhere. My face freezes for a second until I process that…
I’ve been glitter-bombed.
Glitter floats in the air before diving down, littering my skirt and shoes with gold speckles. Laughs erupt out of me unabashedly.
“Surprise! Happy Birthday, Ramona Bean!” Jimmy Wilder screams, appearing out of nowhere. Given Veronica and Jimmy’s identical height, emerald eye color, button nose, thin lips, and round bone structure it’s obvious they’re twins. “Do you like the glitter?”
“I love the glitter. It was a nice touch. Thank you, guys.” I give them both a hug and they share that bewitching Wilder family smile; a smile that makes even my worst days brighter. “You guys would not believe what happened to me this morning.”
“Oh my god, is that Ryan Applebaum?” Veronica questions blatantly as he walks by.
“Shhh!” I turn, hiding immediately even though that puts my face a foot away from the wall and makes me look like a crazy person.
“Oh relax, he can’t hear me. Have you seen his new haircut? Ramona, he hasn’t looked this hot in the entire time you’ve been in love with him. Seriously. You’re going to flip.” She yanks on my arm so I can turn around and look at him walk down the hallway. “Look at him. I barely recognized him. I’m glad he cut it. The mun had to go.”
“I’ve seen him, trust me. The most embarrassing thing happened to me in History class, V.” I loop my arm with hers and rest my head on her shoulder. Jimmy links my other arm with his. I tell them my story as we walk toward our respective classrooms.
Veronica is disgusted and Jimmy assumes that, “Mrs. R isn’t getting laid and is clearly becoming a dried up old prune.”
Veronica and I try to get most of our classes together, but this semester we only managed Spanish and Gym together. There aren’t a lot of people in Spanish since it’s an elective and most seniors like to choose the easy classes as their electives. Or they choose to take French instead. Though I chose Spanish because it seemed more “practical,” the romantic in me still wishes I took French.
Today, I have History, Math and then Spanish and Gym after lunch. I’m pleased that my birthday happens to fall on a day Veronica and I have our classes together. I part ways with them after saying goodbye and walk into Math.
I have the pleasure of sharing this class with Jet McCoy.
I wanted to like Jet when I first met him.
Really, I did.
I tried to accept him.
I swear.
He’s just an absolute asshole. Maybe I should feel bad for him because most bullies have major insecurities or some messed up issues but...
Dammit, it’s hard.
You can imagine how happy this makes me when I walk in and the only open seat is next to him. Now I know that it’s finally true:
My birthday officially cannot get any worse.
“Oh hey, Bean,” he bellows sarcastically as I sit down.
I mother effing hate it when someone I dislike calls me by my middle name. It’s reserved solely for the people I’m close to. My mother gave me the middle name Bean because she was in love with Kurt Cobain when he named his daughter Francis Bean. It would be an utter waste of time trying to explain a Kurt Cobain homage to someone who thinks tec
hno is good music. Jet has probably never even heard of Nirvana[2].
“What kind of name is that anyway? Bean?”
If I had a dollar for every time he asked me that, I would be as rich as Beyoncé.
“Did you get that name because you fart all the time? Do you just walk around farting uncontrollably?” He puffs out his chest and laughs, causing his face to turn an ugly shade of purple. He’s clearly pleased with his cleverness.
Jet is the last person I want to deal with on my birthday. Lucky for him, I’m too exhausted to argue. I take a deep breath and simply reply, “Hey, Jet.” I set my backpack down and tiredly drop onto my chair. Due to my lackluster reaction to his lame recycled joke, he scoffs and goes back to talking sports with the guy in front of him.
Mr. Kovsky begins class and I do my best to focus on copying the equations from the white board to my notebook.
I get so absorbed in taking notes that I don’t even realize that Brett is sitting in front of me. He leans back in his chair, fakes like he’s stretching and drops a note on my desk. I don’t think we’ve passed notes since middle school.
Don’t let him get to you, Ramona.
I scribble back a “thank you” and push the note into his elbow that he has purposely hung over the front of my desk. He grabs the note, scribbles something and drops it back on my desk.
Come to my LAX game next Friday.
I smile at the proposition. He’s never asked me to come to one of his games before.
Sure, I’ll ask Veronica and Jimmy to come too.
Awesome. My number is 37, you know, in case you want to make me a poster and paint your face. Game starts at 7.
NOT painting my face. Keep dreaming.
He lets out a short, quiet laugh, quickly coughing to mask it when Mr. Kovsky shoots him a quick glare.
Oh, I will. Hope you’re having a good birthday, Ramona Bean Scott. P.S. I like your name. Always have, always will.
Ten Times Fast Page 2