I select more pictures for today’s blog and watch the second hand on the clock bounce. My mind skips through the rabbit trail of items to bring to Seung’s. Deodorant, free perfume samples, and sandwich bags. I bought Ziploc bags with another ten-dollar bill I found beneath my locker. Someone’s lack of responsibility has become a passive income. I plan to stash leftovers from dinner in the plastic bags and stuff my backpack with refreshments from the dance. If I don’t, the weekend will be long and hungry.
Seung and I haven’t spoken since yesterday. If we weren’t best friends, I might think he was avoiding me. I spotted him this morning at his locker. He didn’t notice me, though. He was all ears and smiles, talking to Bea as she pointed at a page in her trigonometry book. As if Seung could help. How stereotypical. I wanted to yell, “Just because he’s Asian doesn’t mean he’s good at math.” Maybe I’m overly sensitive.
Bea is popping up this week more than usual. Unannounced. Even in my dreams. She glares when I pass Seung’s locker and stares when I wait for him in the hall. She mouths “Trailer Trash Bitch” a couple of million times in class, one million more than usual. She thinks I care for all the wrong reasons. I want to say, Bea, we have more in common than you know, or Bea, vulnerability is a place of strength. But I don’t think of these things until after I’ve mumbled how much I hate her, then yell at myself the remainder of the day.
I turn off the computer and collect my blank paper. Nothing’s worth noting on the blog except homecoming. The only buzz at Hinderwood High surrounds the royalty ceremony. I scratch down a title: Who Will Be Our Next King and Queen? Then I draw a line through the words and scribble, Who the hell cares?
I flip the page of my notebook and write my name at the top. Linden Rose, Editor. I draw five bullet points to make Mr. George smile.
I stare blankly at the white space that should be filled with research notes. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the scholarship opportunity. I’d love to win, especially if it makes Mr. George beam with pride. He’d feel satisfied as a teacher and I’d feel the burden of paying for school lift.
I scratch the words Gender-Based Violence beneath my name and eyeball the letters, forcing them to sink into my brain. I rapid-blink to block the words from blurring. Only Violence loiters on the page.
Linden? Would you hand me that necklace, those earrings? I’m going to be late.
Where are you going tonight, Mama?
On a date. Can you believe it? A real date. With someone sweet. Maybe even special.
Who’s the lucky guy?
He’s in my new computer class. Asked me to go to the library, of all places. I guess I’ll take my books.
Will you be out long?
I’ll be back before you wake.
The library, huh? Wear these. They’re library approved.
You’re sweet, Linden. Sweet like honey.
I love you, Mama.
I love you more.
If only my mother had made it to the library that night. If only she’d left early.
I doodle stars on my paper that turn to spirals, and within moments my eyelids drop and I drift to sleep.
I wake to someone clearing her throat and saying, “Shouldn’t you sleep at home?”
I wipe my chin and instinctually zoom in on my backpack at my feet, zipped and secure. I scoot my bag between my legs and squeeze it tightly in place.
“Shouldn’t you be anywhere but here?” I ask.
Bea turns her back to me and snatches an umbrella hanging on the wall. “Forgot this,” she says in the most normal tone she’s ever used while speaking to me. No hiss, no snicker.
My mouth should be filled with words. I’m Linden Rose, Editor. Words are my job and the subject of my story is in front of me, alone, and speaking in a half-normal tone.
“You going to homecoming?” I blurt out. It’s the only question willing to jump from my mouth.
Bea frowns.
“You’ll no doubt be queen. Right? Queen Bea.” Bad joke, Linden. Incredibly bad.
Bea tilts her head and slow-nods. “Why do you care?”
I flick my notebook. “Story. You know how Hinderwood loves homecoming.”
Again with the slow nod. Then, “I assume you’re going with Ham?” she says flatly.
I laugh. “Well, actually—”
Bea interrupts, “I don’t have a date.”
My eyes widen. “You mean, yet?”
She shrugs. “So who’s Seung going with, and don’t tell me you?”
My eyes are literal plates. And when I’m about to ask, WTF? Mr. George bursts through the door and marches to his desk.
“Linden,” he says, opening and shutting drawers. “You were asleep.”
“Uh, yeah, sorry.”
Bea scoffs at me, then turns and leaves.
Mr. George picks up a stack of paper from his desk and heads back toward the door. With a hand on the light switch he says, “Do you want the room dark?”
I shake my head. Not at Mr. George, but at the thought of Bea and Seung. Is Bea planning to ask Seung to go to homecoming? She has a boyfriend. A larger, meatier boyfriend, who’s already tried to assassinate Seung for no reason. Why actually give him a reason?
Mr. George smiles and winks and squeezes the door shut softly.
I tap my phone two hundred times. I should be thinking about the broken railroad tie I need to wedge beneath the fire-escape door. But Bea’s words buzz in my brain, make me second-guess why Seung hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday. Maybe Seung changed his mind. Maybe Bea knows exactly who he’s taking to homecoming, and maybe it isn’t me.
I draw an oversized X on my notes. Why even consider this article? Bea triggers something, that’s for sure, but not inspiration. This whole idea was Ham’s, not mine. I slap my notebook closed. At least I have the weekend before Mr. George begins breathing down my neck for research notes and outlines.
“Hello?” a voice says at the door. “I’m looking for Mr. George.”
The bouncy blond reporter from Cheese Country stands in the doorway, her blown-out bangs popping inside the room before the rest of her body. The back of her hair is twisted high on her head in the shape of a hoagie, and her lips are the color of cherries.
“Hi. Hello. Mr. George went to class.”
She taps her phone. “No problem. I’ll wait.” She strolls beside Mr. George’s desk and unloads a compact tote. She glances my way. “Ignore me. Don’t want to interrupt your work.”
I scoot closer to the computer and try not to stare. “Editor of the school blog. That’s me,” I say with my back to her. Time to fish for information. “Sort of on assignment right now. You?” I shift sideways so I can watch her.
She half smiles and tilts her head. “Assignment? Not really. But maybe.” Her shoes clomp until her silhouette shows up in my computer screen. “What’s your assignment?” she asks, crouching over my shoulder.
I shift sideways to get a closeup of the woman who’s been asking questions about me. I want to say, I’m Linden, the girl you’ve been asking about, but instead I rattle off words I’m trying to avoid, like I’m an expert in the subject. “Gender-based violence. A big problem at this school.”
She arches an overpenciled eyebrow and says, “Hon, it’s a problem everywhere.”
I nod and there’s silence. She smiles and looks comfortable, like she lives for the long pause.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for homecoming? My sister said it’s kind of a big deal around here. Right?”
I laugh. “Believe me, I have plenty of time.” Then I ask, “So, Principal Falsetto—I mean, Principal Falls—is your sister?”
Now it’s her turn to laugh. She holds a finger to her lips and whispers, “Don’t let it get out,” then smiles and picks at her plum-colored tights.
“You look nothing like her.”
She chuckles. “Sweetie, I adore my sister, but you’ve made my year.”
“How long are you visiting? Your sister, that is.”
She licks her top front teeth and adjusts her lipstick. It’s as if she’s readying herself for the camera to switch on. Last-minute touch-ups, preparations. She puffs air up to relocate a loose strand of hair slipping into her eyes.
“Not long.” She pecks her phone screen with her finger. “So, do you have a name, Editor of the School Blog?”
I suddenly feel like I’m being interviewed, maybe interrogated. Principal Falsetto’s sister swirls her phone with her finger, waiting, checking email with eyes locked on her screen. She’s showing me she’s not really interested in my answer, or at least pretending not to be. I don’t need a college journalism class to be an expert on that old interview trick. I decide to wait until she makes eye contact, force her to work harder at her job. My mouth shapes my name and she looks up, all ears, and Ham barges in the door.
“Why aren’t you home getting pretty?” he shouts, and plops on top of a table, swinging his backpack between his legs. Ham glances at the journalist and nods. “We meet again, Miss Sunshine.” He holds out a hand.
She nods and says, “Franklin.”
I jump to my feet and announce we’d better go and get ready.
Ham says, “You’re probably the only girl on earth who’d rather work on a story than get ready for homecoming.” He holds his phone in my face. “Three hours until go time and you need three hours of work.”
I tug at Ham’s sleeve and pull him toward the door. He looks over his shoulder and says, “Good-bye, Miss Sunshine.”
She wiggles her fingers in the air, still staring at her phone. “Good-bye, Franklin. Let’s talk soon, Linden.”
My chest tightens. She knows my name. Is this a big-city-journalist tactic, or is she just being coy?
“You know who I am?” I ask at the door.
She unlocks her eyes from her phone. “Linden, right? Editor. Isn’t that what you said?”
I nod. “I’m the one you were asking my friends about?”
She smiles, and there’s another long pause.
“Was there something you needed to talk to me about?” I run my fingers along the doorjamb. Now it’s my turn to act coy.
Again, the pause. “Nope,” she says. “Not today. You’re getting ready for homecoming. Maybe the next time I’m in town. We can chat about journalism. According to my sister, you’re damn good.”
I snap my fingers. “Sure. Journalism. Next time you’re in town.”
She waves, still smiling. “Until then.” She glances back at her phone.
I swing the door shut and slap Ham’s chest. He falls against the lockers like he’s been shot.
“What the hell, Linden?” he shouts, and rubs his chest.
“That’s Principal Falsetto’s sister. Miss Sunshine? Is that really her name?”
“Nickname I gave her,” Ham says, his arms beginning to whirl. “Fitting, I think. When I first met her, I was like, ‘Damn. What’s that smell?’ and she was all, ‘My perfume, perhaps.’ She has a scent like oranges and caffeine and something else I can’t quite figure out.”
“Sunshine?” I mumble, my annoyance meter plunging off the chart.
Ham snaps his finger. “Exactly. If sunshine had a smell—”
I shush Ham’s lips with my finger, the way a mother hushes her infant. Only my big baby won’t take the hint.
“She’s that lady on TV. KOIN 6. You know, that Portland news station with the slogan ‘Watching out for you.’ Like if they don’t, who will?”
I interrupt Ham’s ramble. “What do you mean when you first met her? Why did she meet with you, and not me?”
Ham’s cheeks droop and his voice rises. “Are you being condescending? Like I’m not good enough to speak to Miss Sunshine? Like I’m not the blog editor, so why is she talking to me? Nice, Linden. Real nice.”
“Hammy.” I tap his shoe with mine. “That’s not what I meant.”
Ham stares at his feet and shuffles his steps.
“I’m sorry,” I say to his back.
Ham turns sideways. “Well, I was going to have my dad take you to Seung’s, but now maybe I won’t.”
I chase after him and snake my arm around his waist. “I’d love your dad to take me to Seung’s if it means spending more time with you, buddy.” I tickle his stomach and he giggles. “Can we talk about this later? I just didn’t understand why Falsetto’s sister was talking to you and Kristen about me. Why didn’t she just talk to me?”
“She didn’t talk to me about you, Linden. Wow! Your ego. She asked me about me.”
I nod, somewhat satisfied with Ham’s answer. Maybe she wanted to know who the journalism team was at Hinderwood High. Maybe her sister was the one who started the conversation. Principal Falsetto’s always been the biggest supporter of the school blog. Maybe I’m worrying for nothing.
The front doors of the school blow open and wind whips my hair. I shove my hand into my pocket and jam my nail on metal. Shit. Could I be more forgetful?
“Wait for me, Ham. There’s something I need to do.”
Ham grunts, but I’m already racing toward the gym, skipping up the stairs.
At the top landing, I shove the metal shank into the fire-escape door and fold my hands like I’m saying a prayer. I need this door to stay cracked so sneaking in after midnight is a cinch.
On the way down the stairs I stomp on an unopened pack of fruit snacks, reach down, and smile. I tuck the packet into my bag for later. I don’t even care that they’re grape flavored.
At the front of the school, I’m met with a white SUV parked beneath the overhang. Ham’s dad beeps the horn twice to signal he’s here, although he’s the only car in the entire parking lot.
Ham’s already in the front seat, so I slide into the back.
“Hello, Linden,” Mr. Royse says at the rearview mirror.
I smile and mouth, “Hello,” slightly out of breath. My mind’s smacking me with questions I could have, should have, asked Miss Sunshine. But Ham’s right. I need to settle down and focus on homecoming.
“Take Linden to Seung’s,” Ham orders in a stern dad voice. “She’s getting ready there.”
Mr. Royse nods and puts the SUV into drive. We turn onto the highway and Ham flips around in his seat. “I have plans for tonight.”
I slow-nod and say, “Yeah, Ham. We all do. Homecoming.”
Mr. Royse interrupts: “Ham says he has a date tonight. How about you, Linden?”
Ham slams the side of his head into the headrest. “Interrupting, Dad. Please stop.”
Mr. Royse chuckles.
I tap Ham’s shoulder and mouth, “Who’s your date?” and he shakes his head like an animal.
“Homecoming is such a memorable event,” Mr. Royse rambles. “Who’d you say your date is, Linden?”
Ham shouts, “No! Nobody’s talking about dates, Dad. We just need you to drive. You have one job.”
Mr. Royse smiles at Ham, although I’m not sure why. I sort of feel sorry for him, but then Ham says, “Sorry, Dad,” and pats his arm. “I just need to talk to Linden and you pretend you’re not listening.”
Mr. Royse’s mouth droops. “Sure, Son.”
“Look,” Ham says as he turns around, his seat belt cinching across his neck, “we’re going to make Toby Patters wish he’d never fucked with me, I mean, with us. The whole Triangle.”
My face scrunches and Ham amps up.
“Don’t give me that confused look, Linden. He’s already tried to kill Seung.” Ham points at his dad. “You’re not listening, remember?” Ham yanks the seat belt and inches forward. “He tried to kill me when I was a kid, and we’re pretty sure he’s trying to kill Bea. Am I right, or am I right?”
I nod.
Ham sighs. “It’s time we get him back. Make him pay for all the pain he’s caused us.”
“Interrupting,” Mr. Royse announces, and Ham and I break our gaze. “Your destination, Linden.”
I swing my bag over my shoulder and Ham grabs my arm. “Are you in?”
I stare at Ham’s shiny face, the sparkles in his eyes. “Sure. I guess. I’m in.” And suddenly, uneasiness settles in my stomach.
Ham slaps the seat. “I knew it, Linden. You’re always on my side.”
As I slip out of the SUV, Ham motions me to his window.
“So,” he whispers, “I do have a date. But I need you to just be cool.” He reaches for my hand on the door and squeezes. “Don’t overreact. In fact, don’t react at all.” He pats the top of my hand and winks. “We’ll chat more tonight.”
I hitch my bag over my shoulder and say, “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Royse.” I pat Ham’s hand and head toward Seung’s house.
Ham shouts, “You guys don’t be late picking me up! Remember, Dough Boy in tux!”
When I wave at Ham from the steps, he’s drawing a heart around his name written on the fogged-up glass.
Chapter Eleven
MRS. RHEE OPENS THE DOOR before I ring the bell and sweeps me away to the master bedroom. The borrowed black minidress is spread on the bed, complete with three pairs of shoes in different sizes and an odd-looking strap that’s supposed to attach to my bra, then make it disappear on my back.
On the bathroom vanity sits a makeup bag full of color. A curling and flat iron are near the sink. Seung shared more information than I thought he knew, because everything, I mean everything, is here in the bathroom, waiting for me. I feel like Cinderella minus the mice, pumpkin, and prince.
I ask Mrs. Rhee if I can shower, and she scurries to a cupboard to retrieve two towel sizes, both full and fluffy, not lifeless and limp like the overbleached ones from the locker room. She promises to return to help with my hair if I want her to, and of course I do.
My plan for Kristen and me to put on makeup together didn’t pan out. It took convincing for Kristen to even agree to join us at homecoming. She said she had decorations to fuss over, last-minute tickets to sell, and chaperones to direct. Finally I promised her one dance with Seung, and she agreed right away to meet us at Ham’s place.
The shower is hot, steamy, everything a shower should be. I smell like a lemon soaked in vanilla, different from the mildew freshness that sometimes lingers on my skin after a locker-room shower. Water streams massage my shoulders instead of jab at my muscles like pins and needles, and I feel like I could stand here, on this one square foot, forever.
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