The True Meaning of Cleavage

by Mariah Fredericks

  I’ll say, Really kissing. Like, making out.

  And then Sari will say …

  Sari will say, How do you know what “really kissing” is?

  Sari will say, What do you know about making out?

  And I’ll shoot back, Maybe nothing at all. But I know it when I see it.

  Which sounds dumb even to me.

  Suddenly, I realize, Tm all pissed off at Sari, and I haven’t even seen her yet. I remind myself that she hasn’t said any of these things to me, that its all in my head.

  But she could say those things. She could absolutely say them.

  Because the fact is, she is not going to want to believe any of this.

  So … maybe I shouldn’t tell her.

  I mean, it’s true: I don’t actually know what’s going on. And if I tell her something bad about David that turns out to be wrong, it’s very, very possible that Sari would never forgive me.

  Okay, here’s the plan. I will tell her only if she asks me directly, Have you seen David?

  When I finally find Sari by the lockers, she’s not screaming and throwing things, so I know she hasn’t seen David and Thea.

  As we put our stuff away, she whispers, “Have you seen him?”

  I freeze. Here it is. I said I would tell her if she asked—and she asked. I open my mouth, ready to destroy the life of my best friend….

  But I can’t do it. I just can’t. There are all these people around, for one thing. I don’t want them to see Sari cry. I don’t want to see her cry.

  Without really meaning to, I shake my head.

  Sari frowns, shuts her locker. “He hasn’t called yet.”

  I say, “He probably hasn’t had a chance.”

  “Yeah.” Sari takes a deep breath, rocks on the balls of her feet. “I’m having total withdrawal symptoms. Like, I have to see him, now.”

  I’m thinking: Now is probably a much better time to see David than ten minutes ago.

  People are pushing past us, heading up to the Hall of Happy Thought. In five minutes, there’s an assembly on fire safety. “Let’s go.” I pull Sari by the arm. “Maybe he’s waiting upstairs.”

  All I can say is, if the fire alarm ever does ring, and there is an inferno raging through the building, Sari is going to be in big trouble. She will have absolutely no idea which stairs to use and which exits to look for.

  Sari has not listened to a word of the lecture. Since we got here, all she has done is look for David. The whole time, while Crazy Maisie tells us how to save our lives, Sari’s been standing on her tiptoes, her head up, straining to see to the edge of the crowd, for any sign of her beloved.

  So far, no sign.

  Actually, I too am keeping an eye out for David. But unlike Sari, I dread the thought of seeing him. I dread what will happen when Sari sees him with Thea.

  Luckily—or unluckily—David never shows. It’s not surprising. The truly cool almost always cut out of assemblies. As we file out of the gym, I whisper, “He’s probably down at the park wall. Having a smoke.”

  Which is not a lie. Because he probably is.

  Only with Thea.

  On the stairs, I see Danny Oriel. He’s a few people ahead of me, but as he turns the corner, he looks up and sees me.

  He waves.

  I look away, pretend not to see him. After Erica Trager’s party, there’s no way I am ever speaking to Danny Oriel again.

  And of course, because everything isn’t crazy enough, I have a totally new schedule this semester. Now I don’t know where I am or what time I’m supposed to be there!

  It has been almost three days since the party—Sunday, Monday, and half of today—and David still hasn’t called. Not only that, he hasn’t said a word to Sari. Not even “Hello,” like he used to.

  Last night, Sari asked me to call her to make sure her phone was working.

  It was.

  Then we spent an hour discussing why David hasn’t called. Sari thinks he can’t call, because it’s not safe.

  “Thea’s probably on his case all the time. I bet she knows something’s going on, and she doesn’t let him out of her sight.”

  I waited a second, then said, “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

  Part of me really wanted to tell Sari the truth. But the other part of me, the stronger part, said, No way.

  After I hung up with her, the parts argued until I went to sleep. So this morning, I woke up and made a rule: No more thinking about David and Sari until something actually happens. The second either of their names comes into my head, hit the DELETE key.

  You have a life, I tell myself. You have other things to think about than David and Sari and Thea.

  Oh, yeah? Like what?

  I had to think about that one for a second, but I did come up with something: Ms. Rothstein’s portrait class. Today is the first day, and I am determined not to go into her class obsessing about Sari and David.

  All day, I work on clearing my mind. By the time I have art, which is my last class of the day, I have only thought about David and Sari three times—a vast improvement. As I walk up the stairs to the art studio, I think: You are an artist. Don’t be distracted by blah-blah like love and romance and jerky guys.

  The art studio is next to the gym. When I get to the fifth floor, there’s a class going on, and I nearly get my head taken off by a volleyball.

  I wait for a lull in the game so I can cross the gym. I totally don’t get sports. All these people running after a ball, shrieking, “I got it, I got it!” Got what? What do you have? One team commits the ultimate sin of letting the ball drop. They all groan while the other side jumps up and down and slaps hands. I take advantage of the break to race into the art room and shut the door behind me. The yelling and squeaking of sneakers on the wood floor fade out immediately. All that’s left is the silence of the studio.

  I’m totally psyched about this class. I wonder if Ms. Rothstein will remember that she told me about it. I smile at her as I come in, and she does smile back. But not in any big way, like, Hey, I remember you.

  Which is cool. I get out my sketch pad and take a stool toward the back of the studio. What I really hope is that by the end of the year, I can actually get somewhere in my goal to draw people in a way that captures who they are. What they look like. For a second, I think of my portrait of Sari, but I’m not going to work on that. I want to start with something totally fresh and new.

  Ms. Rothstein is looking around like she’s counting heads. She frowns a little, then goes to the center of the studio, ready to start. Just then, the door swings open and someone comes in. They’re late, so everyone in the class turns to see who it is.

  I look too.

  But I can’t believe who it is.

  It’s David Cole.

  For a second, I just stare. It is utterly bizarre to see David Cole. And here, in the art studio. After all this time with Sari, trying to find him, and now here he is, and here I am, and it’s like some alternative universe where you go, Whoa, didn’t expect that.

  I mean, soccer guys do not do art. They just don’t. I half expect him to say, Oops. Took a wrong turn, and leave.

  But he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles and raises his hand at Ms. Rothstein, like, Hi. And then … he sits down.

  And Ms. Rothstein is smiling at him, like, Good, now we can start. Like she was waiting for him, for God’s sake.

  I cannot believe this. Art. My one refuge, and here’s David Cole, strolling into it just because he needs some cheap, easy credits in his last semester in high school. This totally sucks. I feel invaded. Taken over. Like now the thing that’s more important to me than anything else in the world will be just another reason for Sari to talk about David, David, David.

  I can imagine how Sari will react when I tell her:

  Oh, my God.

  Tell me everything.

  What did he say?

  Did he say anything? Anything about me?

  Frankly, I don’t even feel like telling her. I know I have to
. Sari would absolutely want to know this.

  But sometimes I wonder: Does everything in my life have to be about what Sari wants?

  8

  —Hollow Planet: Destiny’s Sword Rana heard a faint rustling behind her. Senses alert, she curled her fingers around the dagger of Ruhr and listened hard. There it was, the sound. An assassin? Or—she whirled, dagger high, prepared to strike—someone utterly insignificant

  An extremely strange thing happened to me today.

  It was in art class. I got there early and picked a seat all the way at the end of one table. With David Cole in the class, I prefer to sit where I won’t be noticed. It has been three weeks since Erica’s party, and he still hasn’t called Sari. I’m beginning to think he’s never even going to talk to Sari again. Which is cruel and obscene—and why I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

  If David knows who I am, if he even remembers who Sari is, he is doing an excellent job of hiding it.

  Still.

  So, there I am, fiddling with my latest sad attempt, wondering how almost a month can have gone by, and I’m still no better at drawing people, when I am suddenly aware that the stool I’m on has moved. That, in fact, I have moved.

  And that David Cole is standing right next to me, holding another stool in his hands.

  What has happened is this: As David pulled the stool next to mine out from under the table, one of its legs got caught on one of my stool’s legs and turned it.

  David’s frowning down at the stool he’s holding. Then he glances over at me.

  He says, “Oh, hey. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  I say it before I even know I’m saying it. In this voice that does not sound like mine at all. A voice that really doesn’t belong to Sari’s best friend, to someone who knows for a fact that David is King Scum.

  If I could take back that “That’s okay,” I would. Instead I stare down at my sketch pad. I’m sure David notices me not looking at him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see David moving his stool around mine, carefully putting it down a few inches away. Like it matters or something.

  He sits. Puts his elbows on the table, folds his hands together. He looks at them like he’s worried, like they’re stupid and who knows what they’ll do next.

  Then he looks over at me, kind of smiles, like, Sorry again.

  And I kind of smile back, like, It’s okay.

  I have not told Sari that David is in my class. She never asks me anything about my art class, what goes on there, what I’m doing. So, so far, it just hasn’t come up.

  Actually, a lot of the time, I forget I meant to tell her.

  For Friday, I have to write an essay for English. Mr. Barry said it could be on anything we wanted. So, here’s my essay:

  WHY VALENTINE’S DAY SHOULD BE BANNED by Jesse Horvath

  Valentine’s Day should be banned. Why? For the following reasons. One, it divides the world into the Haves and Have-Nots of cuteness and popularity. Those without boyfriends or girlfriends are made to feel inferior when they see some idiot running around with a stupid card with a bunny on it saying I WUV YOU. We are forced to endure squeals and giggling and competitive card comparisons. It is a waste of time.

  Valentine’s Day should also be banned because it promotes the worst aspects of our culture: consumerism and bad taste. There is not a single decent Valentine’s Day card. They are all obnoxious and overly pink. Nonetheless, people buy them in huge quantities. Then they just throw them away. These cards are probably not recyclable, and so end up in some landfill, thus further polluting our environment and taking up precious resources.

  People buy more chocolate for Valentine’s Day than at any other time of the year. Chocolate is full of caffeine and it makes you fat. It is usually imported from poor countries where they are forced to grow cocoa instead of things they need, like wheat.

  Pink is one of the world’s worst colors. Hearts make me gag.

  Next year, I think everyone should just take the money they were going to spend on cards and chocolate and stuffed animals and donate it to some worthy cause.

  VALENTINE’S DAY—JUST SAY NO!

  Barry gave me a B + . His comments were: Original and well-constructed essay. Style occasionally burdened by pedantic stridency.

  Okay, even I know that Valentine’s Day will never be banned. But in my opinion, the powers that be could at least restrict its observance to the twenty-four hours of February 14. At Eldridge, it’s like we’ve been celebrating it since New Year’s. Everywhere you go, there are these revolting hearts on the wall. Little butt-naked cupids swinging from the ceiling. Everyone’s eating those candy hearts that say WILL U B MINE? And, of course, they all keep checking their lockers for Valentine’s Day cards.

  Possibly the only person in a worse mood than me is Sari. That’s because we are now on day I-don’t-even-know-what, and Cole the Cool still hasn’t called.

  And now even Sari knows he’s not going to.

  So that’s it. The great love affair of her life is toast.

  “Excuse me while I puke.”

  Sari nods. “Totally.”

  It is Valentine’s Day. The thing that’s about to make me puke is the sight of the lockers at Eldridge Alternative. They are fluttering with cards, balloons, teddy bears. Even a school as supposedly hip and cool as Eldridge has its Valentine’s traditions. Ours is that you stick the Valentine’s card in the door of the beloved person’s locker. That way, everyone knows who is seriously popular and who is a hopeless loser.

  There’s another Eldridge Valentine’s Day tradition. That is when you walk by the lockers, you check out the cards, who’s got a lot, who’s got none. Check out the handwriting, see if you can tell who’s sent who a card. Everyone does it. Even I do it. And I—supposedly—couldn’t care less.

  Sari is an expert. She can identify someone’s handwriting with one look. As we’re walking past the lockers, she’s making comments like, “How sad is Glen Howard having a crush on Amy?” or “I bet Sarah wrote that to herself. Look, you can totally see it’s her handwriting.”

  It’s good to see Sari being cruel; for the first time since Erica’s party, she sounds like her old self again. I guess I should feel bad that my best friend got dumped by the man of her dreams. But the thing is, if things had turned out differently, the way Sari hoped they would, I might not have my best friend anymore.

  We pass by Thea’s locker. Sure enough, a billion cards. Sari doesn’t have anything to say about that. To distract her, I point out the balloon one of Erica’s friends has left on Erica’s locker. It’s huge and metallic with a big bear on it. I offer to pop it for a dollar. I say, in fact, I will give Sari a dollar if she asks me to pop it. Sari laughs.

  We get to our lockers. No valentines on mine, thank God. But someone has left some article about the filming of the Hollow Planet movie taped to the door.

  “Ooh,” says Sari, pointing to the article, “Cupid has struck.”

  I give her a dirty look. I crumple up the article and throw it in the trash. I know Danny left it. But I no longer acknowledge his existence.

  Then I spot something on the floor under Sari’s locker.

  It’s a card.

  Obviously someone tried to hide it. It’s not stuck in the door, it’s almost shoved under the locker. Picking it up, Sari turns it over. There’s no name on the front.

  Sari looks at me. “Should I open it?”

  “No, let’s just stare at it. Duh, Sari.”

  She starts tearing the envelope. While she does, I think, Please God, don’t let it be from David Cole.

  I look over her shoulder. The card says: Backstage at Little El. Today. 4:00.

  “Little El” is the Little Eldridge Theater. Backstage is where they keep the chairs and stage flats and a lot of other junk. It is very dark and very hidden. At dances, people go there when they want to be alone.

  Sari’s looking at the card like it’s a letter saying she’s won a billion
dollars. She gazes and gazes at it, whispering, “I can’t believe it. I totally cannot believe it.”

  I give her a Wow! look. Followed by a So what? look. I do this because Sari needs me to give her perspective. She is a very perspectiveless person.

  Sari doesn’t notice. “No way can I wait until four—it’s, like, forever.”

  Here’s what I want to ask Sari: What took him so long? How come he’s still hanging around with Thea? Huh? Why is that, if he lo-o-oves you so much?

  Could you please THINK for one second?

  But all you have to do is look at her face to know that rational thought is no longer an option.

  Anyway, maybe he just wants to dump her.

  Except I don’t really think so.

  Half an hour before the Big Rendezvous, Sari drags me into the bathroom. “What do you think?” she asks me. “Do I look okay?”

  I nod.

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  Actually, I don’t know what I think. All I know is what Sari wants me to say. So I say it to her.

  Sari peers at herself in the mirror. “I am so nervous, I think I’m going to vomit.”

  “Oh, that’s romantic.” I look over her shoulder at myself in the mirror. We look like two separate categories of species.

  Humanus Sexus. Humanus Uglius.

  I mean, I’m not ugly. I just don’t look like Sari or Erica or Thea or any of the girls who are pretty and hot. I’m extremely ordinary looking. My features would probably look better on a boy. If I were a boy, I would look okay.

  I ask Sari, “What do you think’s going to happen? What do you think he’s going to say?”

  Sari catches something in my voice. Looking over her shoulder, she says, “About what?”

  About his disappearing act, I’m about to say. But just then, the bathroom door opens and some people come in. Sari tries to look very calm—you know, like she isn’t getting ready for the biggest moment of her life. She combs her hair one way, then the other, then runs her fingers through it so it looks like it always does. She runs a lipstick over her mouth, two, three times. Then she stares at herself in the mirror for a long moment, like, Am I as utterly perfect as I can be?