I happily discover a pleated white skort, a pale pink shirt, and a matching cardigan that I’ve never seen before. These must be for golf. Good. One problem solved.
I put them on, find a pair of sport socks in my drawer, tie my hair back into a low ponytail, and hurry downstairs for a cup of coffee.
I pull my arms and shoulders back and swing. Not only does the ball connect with my club, but it goes soaring over the lush green public course.
I am a golf natural. It’s so weird. I don’t consciously know what I’m doing, but my body does. As soon as I felt the club in my hand, I knew what to do. Apparently I have a handicap of ten. I have no idea what that means.
“Great shot!” my dad says, giving me a thumbs-up.
So far, we’re having a great day. A wonderful day. The sun is shining. My dad and I are bonding. We haven’t had such a nice time together since … well, I don’t remember the last time.
The tip of my nose feels hot and I reach into my bag and dab on some extra sunscreen. “Dad, come here. The back of your neck is burning.”
He strolls over and turns around. “What would I do without you, kid? I’m really going to miss you when you’re at UCLA.”
He knows about L.A.? Of course he knows about UCLA. If it’s on my wall, then it’s in my life. “I’m going to miss you too.” I’m just getting to know him again and now I’m moving to the other side of the country!
“And I don’t want you to worry so much about the tuition. I’m sorry the golf and academic scholarships didn’t come through, but it’s the right time to sell anyway.”
Huh? I close the lotion and put it back into my bag. “To sell what?”
“The house,” he says, and then pulls his clubs along.
My jaw drops and I chase after him. “You’re selling the house?”
“Not again,” he says. “We’ve been through this. Your mother and I just don’t need four bedrooms anymore. Your sister rarely comes home, and with you on the other side of the country—I’m sure the two-bedroom condo in town will be just fine for us. Cozy.”
Uh-oh.
chapter thirty-four
Monday, September 19 Freshman Year
When I slide into my seat for the first period of the day, Madame Ritale purses her lipstick-smeared lips (she tends to get it on her teeth) and says in French, “I hope you all did your homework, because we are having a pop quiz!”
Um … I never got around to doing my homework this weekend. I needed to decompose. I mean decompress. I mean … I forget. I did not review my SAT words this weekend either. I did spend four hours on Sunday at play practice and another four hours researching golf. Yup, Ivy got to play golf with Dad while I had to research it. When I heard the news, the jealousy felt like a lit match in my chest.
I stare at the test paper. I blink. I look up. I look back down.
If no one was watching, I’d take out my phone and text my future self: Aidez-moi!
Or maybe: Au secours!
If I knew which one, I wouldn’t need help, would I?
“Please pass your homework assignment up to the front,” Mr. Durst, my chemistry teacher, tells us. I probably should have done that, huh?
Ms. Lux scans the entire room.
Don’t pick me, don’t pick me, don’t pick me.
She stops on me. “Devi, can you please describe for us three ways to deal with scarcity on a national level?”
Ivy is going to kill me.
I accidentally-on-purpose leave my cell phone in my locker for the rest of the day so I won’t have to hear Ivy screaming at me or read any nasty text messages. When the final bell rings, I brace myself before opening my locker.
“Wanna go to the mall?” Karin asks me.
“Oh, um … maybe. Let me just check if my mom called…. She needed me to … um …” I take out the phone. “Clean my … teeth today.”
Karin laughs. “What? Clean your teeth? What are you talking about?”
No new messages! No new texts! Yes! I unclench my shoulders and turn to Karin. “Oh, I meant my braces. I thought I might have an orthodontist appointment, but I don’t. Never mind. I’m good. I’m all for the mall.”
No new messages means nothing has changed. Yet.
And maybe nothing will change. It was only a few assignments. One little day of mistakes. How much damage could I have done in one day?
chapter thirty-five
Monday, June 2 Senior Year
Congratulations on your acceptance to Hofstra! I read.
Huh? Hofstra? What the heck? I was two acceptance letters up from Hofstra! Yesterday we were going to UCLA! My parents were selling the house so I could go to UCLA, so it wasn’t an ideal situation, but still. They were not selling the house so I could go to Hofstra.
I pick up the phone to call her, and I see there’s only half a bar left. My palms feel sweaty. Why isn’t it charging? I need to go to a MediaZone store. I was planning on going yesterday, but by the time I got home from golf, it was closed.
I hear some static. “Ivy? Now’s not a great time,” she says. “Can you call me in a few hours?”
Excuse me? My body stiffens. “How can now not be a good time? We’re running out of battery. Now is the time. Now might be the only time. And you need to explain to me why I lost my UCLA acceptance. And what could you possibly be doing that’s more important than talking to me?”
“Going to the mall,” she admits.
“The mall? You’re going to the mall?” I draw out the word like it’s a disease. How could she be shopping at a time like this? She should be sitting around waiting for me to tell her how to fix the big fat mess she’s made. “Can you try to be responsible, please? We have a slight disaster on our hands. There’s time for the mall later. Where are you exactly?”
“At the bus stop,” she says. “Karin, Tash, Joelle, and I are waiting for the bus, and—oh, wait, here it is—”
“You’re not going,” I order. Why does she have to be so selfish?
“It’s only for an hour. We’re gonna look at jeans and get a Cinnabon. Can’t we do our stuff later?”
“I have other things to do later! And what if the phone dies later? Huh? What then?” I know I sound like a big whiner, but I can’t help it. I need her to tell me what happened.
“Okay, okay,” she says.
I hear Karin ask, “Dev, you coming?” in the background.
“My mom needs me at home,” Frosh lies. “You guys go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Everything okay?” Karin asks.
“Everything’s fine,” Frosh says, sounding miserable.
“Now, can you please tell me what happened?” I ask.
“Why?” she asks nervously.
“We’re going to Hofstra again! What happened? Did you drop out of the play? Or golf? Or yearbook?”
“No! I’m still doing all three,” she says, her voice cracking. “Plus Interact!”
“Well, you did something,” I huff. “The admissions letter on my wall is not lying.”
She sighs. “It started with a pop quiz.”
“In what?”
“French.”
I throw my free hand up in the air. “So? You speak French.”
“Barely! And I didn’t have a chance to do my homework this weekend.”
Is she trying to kill me? We have a plan! “Why not?”
“Because I was burnt out! And I needed to relax! Last week was really busy and I needed some time for myself! And the cell phone might be magical, but it doesn’t make me more time! I can’t do everything! I relaxed on Saturday but I spent all day Sunday at play practice and researching golf!”
“Well, you have to learn how to balance your time properly. It’s one of the lessons of life. I’ve learned to balance mine, haven’t I? It used to be all about Bryan, and now it’s—”
“All about bossing me around?”
“Nooooo. It’s all about school. And friends.” And making sure she doesn’t screw up. I close my eyes
and rub them so I don’t have to look at the sad letter on my wall. “This is really bad, Frosh. Do you want Mom and Dad to sell the house?”
“No,” she squeaks.
“Then you have to work even harder to get a scholarship now that the whole lottery thing isn’t going to come through. Do you think you failed the French test?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice as deflated as a week-old helium balloon. “I’m pretty sure I did. And I also handed in some algebra homework that may have had a few mistakes in it. And Ms. Lux called on me in economics and I didn’t know the answer.”
Eeeeeeeep! I close my eyes.
“Haven’t you charged it yet?” Frosh asks.
“It’s not working, okay?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know! I’m trying to fix it!”
“So you think this could be it? The phone could die and then we’d never speak again?” Is it my imagination or does her voice sound hopeful?
“Not if I can help it,” I say. “But if our talking time is going to run out for good, you have to listen to me while you can.”
“Okay, you’re right,” she says with a sigh. “So what should I do?”
I take a deep breath. “For one, you have to be careful with Ritale. She loves those pop quizzes. I think she gave one a week. She also loves getting lipstick on her teeth. Have you noticed?”
“Yeah. And thanks for the quiz warning,” she grumbles. “That would have been terrific info yesterday.”
I should have thought of that earlier. I probably have that quiz somewhere too. “Wait a sec. I bet I kept it.” I drop to my knees and rummage through the drawer under my bed.
There are papers. Many papers. At the bottom of the stack are the ones from ninth grade. I rummage through the ones that are in French. Quizzes. Two per week, on Mondays and Fridays. “I kept them all,” I say. “The quizzes from June. May. April. March. February. January. December. November. October. September. September nineteenth.”
“That’s today!”
I fall back on my behind. “It certainly is.” The red F stares me in the face. “And you certainly failed.”
“How do you know?” she asks.
“Hello? I see it. A big fat F, with a note that says Devorah, la prochaine fois, faite ton devoir! Which means ‘Next time do your homework.’”
“Blah.”
I flip through all the other quizzes and read out the marks. “C, D, C, D … Ahhh! What’s wrong with you? I didn’t get crap marks like this!” Sure, I had Bryan to help me, but still. These marks are bad.
“I don’t know why,” she whines. “I’m just not good at French. And anyway, you have me doing too many things! I can’t keep up!”
“We need to fix this.”
“How?”
A fluorescent lightbulb pops on in my head. I look at all the papers. Ninth grade. Tenth grade. Eleventh grade. Twelfth. All here. All in my hands. “Oh. My. God. I have everything. All the tests. All the papers.” But can I do it? It’s definitely morally wrong. But what are my choices? If I don’t, I may never get to go to UCLA. And my parents might have to sell the house. “Frosh, do you know what this means?”
“We need to be better recyclers?”
“Or …” My voice drifts off.
Silence. “You’re kidding,” Frosh says. “Right? We can’t look at your old papers and tests.” She giggles nervously. “You’re the one who was so worried about cheating.”
“I know it’s risky. I know the lottery fiasco scared us. But this is different. This is all my work. I’m just cheating off myself. It’s not really cheating. I did all the work, so you don’t have to. And who knows how much time we have left? Normally my phone dies less than a day after the beeping starts. I know this phone is … special, but it could die at any second. It’s our responsibility to take advantage while we can.”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“You said you were burnt out. Now you don’t have to be. What would you rather be doing tonight? Watching TV or studying for …” I flip to the freshman section and rifle through the tests. “American history. You have a test tomorrow, you know.”
“I know!”
“So which is it?”
She hesitates. “Watching TV.”
“Exactly. We were wondering how to fit everything in. Now we figured it out.” I figured it out. See, Bryan? I don’t need you. I can make it on my own. “Take out your notebook and get ready. Your entire life’s about to change.”
“Let’s hope not,” I hear her mumble.
chapter thirty-six
Tuesday, September 20 Freshman Year
“Devi, can you hold on a second?” Ms. Fungas, my American history teacher, asks me as I’m sprinting to get some lunch before yearbook.
My heart starts hammering immediately. I mean, why would Fungas want to talk to me? A teacher should not want to talk to me a few hours after I cheated on a test. This is a very bad sign. I’ve had a frog in my throat ever since I copied all the questions and answers for today’s and tomorrow’s tests and assignments last night, but would Ivy listen to me? No.
Instead, she dictated my essay on Jane Eyre. I had to type fast, because she didn’t want to waste the battery. She tried plugging the phone in while she used it, but it still didn’t charge.
“Yes?” I ask, timidly approaching her. My heart races. What if the answers to the test changed somehow over time? Or what if Fungas knows? But how could she know? Maybe she hasn’t even marked them yet. Or maybe I failed. Maybe—
“I took a look at your test paper,” she begins, looking at me over her moon-shaped eyeglasses, “and—”
I bombed. I must have. Ivy’s going to kill me.
“—you got an A. By far the highest mark in the class. And I was wondering—”
If I cheated? My heart might explode.
“—if you would be interested in being a peer tutor.”
Huh? “Sorry?”
“I have been asked to recommend top students to help other struggling students. Would you be willing? You’ll only have to see two students a week and you’ll get extra credit. What do you think?”
“Oh, um …”
Tutor in history? I would never have passed the test if Ivy hadn’t fed me the questions. Plus I have no time. When am I supposed to do this? My after-school hours are pretty much all booked up.
But I can’t just say no to something without discussing it with Ivy. She’d kill me.
“Why would you want me to be a tutor after only one test?” I ask.
“It wasn’t an easy test,” she says, smiling. “And I have a good feeling about you.”
You wouldn’t if you knew my study practices.
“If you’re interested, just pop by the peer tutoring room and tell the guidance counselor. Take the night to think about it. And congratulations. Well done.”
It doesn’t feel well done. I hurry to my locker to get my lunch money. Then I hurry to the cafeteria; grab a turkey sandwich, an apple juice, and a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips; and dash to yearbook.
And skid to a halt before I smash right into Bryan.
“Good stop,” he says with a smile. “We nearly had another collision.”
I can’t help smiling back. “I’m learning.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Yearbook meeting,” I say, slightly out of breath.
“Good for you,” he says. “I guess that means you don’t want to come outside with me and enjoy the gorgeous day? I have my very own bench that I’d be happy to introduce you to.”
“You do, do you?”
“I do. I’d be willing to share it, though.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I can’t.” For many, many reasons.
“You sure? It might be one of the last nice days,” he says. “What about after school? Want to get an ice cream?”
“Bryan, I—”
He smiles again. “A purely platonic ice cream.”
I laugh. “I would, but
I have play practice.”
“You are busy. What are you doing tomorrow? Soccer?”
Golf practice won’t start until next week. Think fast, think fast. “I’m peer tutoring. American history.”
“All right, but if you change your mind, my bench would love to meet you. It even likes salsa.” He waves and heads to the cafeteria. Yeah, I know Ivy hasn’t given me the okay for tutoring yet, but I don’t need a future-telling device to predict that she’d rather I tutor than have ice cream with Bryan. Even though I really like … ice cream.
chapter thirty-seven
Tuesday, June 3 Senior Year
On my way to lunch, I spot Tom heading out the front door. He’s very tall. I’m definitely going to stop by the mall and get some higher heels. I wave. He hesitates before waving back.
Hmmm. I buy a plate of mac and cheese and then I almost drop my cafeteria tray when I see Nick Dennings sitting at our lunch table. How did that happen?
Go, Frosh! He’s sitting right between Joelle and Tash, so Frosh must have made it happen at the party and forgotten to tell me. Forget prom limo! I might be taking a prom plane!
“So,” I say, smiling at Joelle, “who’s getting picked up first on Friday?”
“Karin and Stevey at Karin’s then Tash and Nick—at Nick’s—then me, then you, then the prom.”
Au revoir, Tom. I guess I’m going stag. Probably less painful than making conversation with a guy I don’t even know. Maybe I’ll buy myself a pair of awesome flats. Wait. Tash and Nick? I look back and forth between the two of them. Who knew? How did I miss that before? They’re the perfect couple!
“I guess I have to accept that Jerome just isn’t going to ask me, huh?” Joelle says, leaning her chin against her palm. “Maybe I should have said yes to Kellerman.”
“Too late now,” Tash says. “He’s bringing Elle Mangerls—you know. The sophomore.”
Gimme a Call Page 16