And I hate the fucking thing.
I want to say something back, to growl, to fight, to defend myself, to plead, but Jackson’s cheeks are pinker than usual. And he’s blinking a lot. And there is a tiny line of water threatening to spill over his beautiful lashes. He’s not mad. He’s hurt. The sun is still blinding bright, but he’s not. He feels, I think, like I feel.
“Why didn’t you just say you didn’t want to go in the first place?” he asks the window.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him. I did, I say, only in my head, I do.
And I leave.
This time when I get home and close my door, I don’t take off my bra and lie flat on my back. This time I curl up in a ball. And I cry.
CHAPTER 58
The good news is that when Tyler got hit in the mouth with a hockey stick, his braces cut up his mouth so badly that he got some freaky infection.
Let me start again.
It’s not good news that my brother is suffering. I am not a monster. It’s pretty bad. And gross. You’re not supposed to be able to get infections in your mouth unless they do oral surgery, but apparently Tyler is a human petri dish. The bacteria were happy to colonize inside his lip. It swelled up to his forehead and he spiked a fever. Urgent care sent him to the emergency room, which put him on an IV drip for a few hours. Now he’s home on a massive dose of antibiotics that is also killing all the good bacteria in his intestines, so he’s got diarrhea and Mom’s making him eat yogurt.
I realize that doesn’t sound like good news. It’s just that it’s had this unintended silver lining, which is that my mother has been so consumed by Tyler’s maxillofacial/gastrointestinal emergency, she has left me alone. When I originally told her I was going to the formal, I told her it was as a favor to Jackson because he didn’t know a lot of people. She gave me a smug “Huh, Greer, that’s so generous of you” that I chose to ignore. Then this weekend I told her I had good news: He found someone else and I was off the hook.
It was possibly the least convincing lie I’ve ever told (and one time I told her that I had just found baby Ty inside her rolling suitcase with all his clothes packed and a pacifier to keep him quiet). It’s the kind of thing she might have hounded me about, if it weren’t for Tyler coming down all red faced and puffy and saying, “Can yoo yoock at my yip a sec?”
Monday, I dawdle outside of math, trying to strike a look that says I’m waiting for Jackson if he wants to stop and talk, and that I’m standing out here for some other reason if he does not. It turns out not to matter. When the bell rings I haven’t seen him at all.
Tuesday, I wait almost as long, then creep down the hall to peek into the German room. He’s in the class already, sprechen with a group of Studenten (including you-know-who).
By Wednesday I just head straight into math to judge Kurtis and Omar’s daily homework argument like I used to.
Now I understand that we are officially avoiding each other.
* * *
σ
Maggie’s current crusade is against the “anti-feminist behaviors, wealth-biased culture, and implied measures of self-worth embedded in the outdated, unaffordable, but still prevalent practice of high school formals.” She complains about it to anyone who will listen, which is mostly just me and Rafa. You would think she would protest by not going, but Maggie likes to make her objections more visible. She and Rafa are going to the dance, but she is spending lunch searching the web for a medieval dress to demonstrate how old-fashioned the whole thing is.
I had told her that it had been obvious that Jackson felt obligated to ask about the dance, and that I didn’t really want to go except that I felt obligated, and that once we both realized that everyone was off the hook. I didn’t have to go and he could ask whoever he wanted.
“That was the conversation you had?” she had said.
“It wasn’t like a whole conversation or anything.”
“But did he ever actually say he didn’t want to go? Or that there was someone else he wanted to go with?”
“I mean, not exactly word for word, but it was obvious.”
“It was ‘obvious’? So, it wasn’t about the dr—”
Before she could finish, I shut down FaceTime on my computer, then texted that there was something wrong with my Wi-Fi. That was three days ago and she hasn’t tried to bring it up since.
I lean over to look at the site she’s got pulled up. There is a whole page of beautiful, flowing gowns in deep burgundy and emerald, with long, drapey sleeves and gold embroidery. Most of the models are wearing crowns of flowers around their heads and one has a pair of wings that, I’d like to point out, is not historically accurate. Prices range from eight hundred fifty dollars to more than a thousand.
“So, basically you’re trying to dress like you’re working at the Renaissance Faire.”
She chews on the side of her pinky. “Yeah, I see that now.”
“Makes sense, since you’re both in theater.”
“Ha-ha.”
“What’s Rafa going to wear? Chain mail? Is he going as a knight?”
“I get it, Greer.”
“Plus it’s like a thousand dollars. Oh, sorry—it’s a thousand Coin of the Realm.” I use a Ren Faire turkey-leg-seller voice.
“All right! I know! Not the right era. What should I look for? Maybe Victorian? Women were oppressed in Victorian times, right?”
“Sure.”
She does an image search for “Victorian dress” and we get a page full of poofy, ruffly hoopskirts with high-necked tops.
“They definitely say ‘old-fashioned.’”
“Right,” she says. She scrolls through the pages, looking like she’s eaten a booger-flavored jelly bean. She clicks on a purple one that buttons up to the chin, with long sleeves and layers and layers of fabric. The only skin showing is the woman’s face. Black lace edging gives the whole thing a Walmart/Bride of Frankenstein feel. “That’s, uh—”
“Hideous.” I wonder if Maggie’s convictions are strong enough to make her wear something that ugly.
“What’s another time in history women weren’t treated equally?”
“All of them?” I say. “Yesterday? Next Thursday?”
Maggie laughs. She tries “Biblical dress,” which gives us mostly things you see Mary wear in nativity scenes. “Pioneer dress” is basically her costume for the play. I lean over her and try “1950s cocktail dress.” My parents have been watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Mom can’t stop fawning over the dresses.
“Ooh. Some of these are cute,” she says.
“Definitely.” I pull up a photo of a woman in a short, full dress with a wide boatneck. It’s lime green, with little cap sleeves. There’s another one with a wrapped sleeveless top and contrasting belt. I feel a pang in my stomach, wishing for a second we were shopping for me.
“I wonder what kind of shoes you’d wear,” Maggie mumbles to herself.
We find a bunch more dresses from the fifties and sixties. The thing is, if your goal was to look ridiculous so people would know you were essentially mocking the whole dance, these dresses would not do it. They are too cute. I can see Maggie make a mental shift.
“You know, if I was going to get one of those medieval dresses just to make a point, my parents would end up spending hundreds of dollars, and that’s a big part of what’s so wrong about the whole thing, isn’t it? The amount of money you have to spend on a thing you’re going to wear once? The consumerism is just as bad as the chauvinism.” While she’s talking she’s typing “vintage clothes shop near me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean, if I could find a vintage dress it would be reusing. It would still be a rejection of the whole prom-industrial complex.”
I tug her fading green ponytail. “You’d really be making a statement,” I say.
She’s chewing her lip, t
rying to decide if she’s betraying her ideals to get excited about a dress. I don’t think Maggie’s wanting to make a statement and wear a cute dress at the same time means she is less of a feminist.
All I want is to wear a cute dress and not have it make any statement at all. To blend in with all the other people in all the other dresses. What does that mean about me?
CHAPTER 59
Thursday, there is a sub in math. Ms. Tanner is the advanced math curricular lead for the whole district, so we end up with a lot of subs while she’s consulting with the administration. The subs are usually not qualified to teach calc, so they hand out a worksheet at the beginning of the hour and play on their phones the rest of the time. Some kids scratch away at the problems (the Ashers and Anithas), but for Kyle Tuck and his stupid friends, it’s free time. (Remember this is an honors-level class, so they aren’t stupid in a technical way, just in a who-do-you-want-around-in-a-civilized-society way.) The little pod of Orcs hovers together laughing.
They might be making memes about the sub, not that she’d care. You have to have a thick skin to be a sub, and I bet this one has worked up some good calluses playing Candy Crush while the AP Bullying students teach themselves.
One by one, they keep looking my way. If they catch my eye, they whip back around. My shoulders hunch more than usual. I cave inward, crossing my arms in front of me on the desk. I know in my head that it’s stupid, that I’m better than this, that what they think is as unimportant as the spray of toast crumbs Tyler leaves behind and I sweep out of the way every morning. I try to focus on working ahead through the next week’s learning targets so I won’t have to do it after practice. But Kyle and company keep snorting.
I’m two steps out the door before the bell even stops ringing. I don’t want to play this game with them again, the game that is only fun for them. I don’t have it in me today. Not this week. But I’m not fast enough.
“Hey, Greer!” I should keep my head down and keep moving, but I turn back. Kyle is standing in the doorway holding out a sheet of paper. “Do you want to try our crossword puzzle?”
“Word find, stupid,” one of the other goons corrects him.
Jackson is coming down the hall. I accidentally make eye contact and he stops short and looks at the floor. This must be his strategy, to get to class extra early and run out afterward so he doesn’t have to see me. I’ve upset the pattern by rushing out today.
“Do you want to try our word find?” says Kyle. His tortoise-turd eyes are bright with joy, like a dog that’s just found a dead rabbit to roll in. He’s trying to hold in a laugh as he waves the paper. It’s a big handmade grid of letters and I’m pretty sure I can guess the words without even looking. Seems like a lot of extra Os in that grid. Plenty of Bs. More than an average amount of Ts.
My part of this game is supposed to be a witty comeback that proves I’m above this but you know what? It turns out I’m not. It sucks. It hurts. It makes my shoulders wilt. Instead of my usual pretend superiority, I slap the page out of Kyle’s hand. “Fuck off, Kyle.” The whole hallway hears. The word find drifts to the floor in front of Jackson.
I catch his look of surprise before I’m gone but he can fuck off, too.
CHAPTER 60
After practice, a bunch of us are lined up on the stone wall waiting for rides. It’s January, but we were running around the gym for two hours and the crisp air feels good. Anyone with a car or a friend with a car or who lives close enough to walk is gone. Sylvie is holding one DynaFreeze instant ice pack against her knee with her elbow and another around her middle finger while she tells Nasrah about her plan to take a gap year on an olive ranch so she can get in-state tuition in California. Mena is trying to show me how to do a fishtail braid on Khloe Vang-Ellis, but Khloe’s hair is too short. At least that’s the excuse Mena is making, but really, I’m just no good with hair. I’m only half paying attention to her instructions, listening to Jessa give a pep talk to Kaia Beaumont.
“You’ll get it. You’re really fast. You really got under some of those balls today.” I know Jess is stretching here, because Kaia is the biggest disappointment on the team this year. Her serves are decent, which is good because serving is the only time she’s not afraid of the ball. Once it comes back toward her, she panics. She looked good in tryouts, but after you get nailed a few times, you either accept it as part of playing—like Sylvie, who is now icing the finger and the knee together with one pack so she can drink Mena’s Gatorade with the other—or you shrink. To a player like Jessa, who would not be afraid of a ball if it were made from a wasp nest and shot out of a cannon, this Kaia situation must be maddening. But Jess looks sincere. Kaia’s part of the team and as long as she shows up, suits up, and sweats, Jess is on her side.
Khloe’s mom pulls up. She unthreads the mess I made of her hair as she heads to the car. “I hope you weren’t planning on going to cosmetology school, Greer.”
“Ingrate!”
Soon the others are gone, too, except for Jessa. My dad is picking me up, which means I’ll be waiting for another twelve hours. Jessa’s parents are late, too.
“The only way to get my dad to show up on time is to lie to him about when he’s supposed to be there,” I say.
“Do you do that?”
“No,” I admit. “Mom and I always say we’re going to, but then we worry it will be the one time he’s actually on time.”
“And then he’d be mad.”
“Actually, no. He’d just be early.” I think about this for a minute. Maybe there is no downside to telling my dad that practice ends at five instead of five thirty.
“Too bad you can’t make him run laps if he’s late. That motivates people.”
“I wonder what motivates people who run track? I mean, if you’re going to be running laps anyway . . .”
“Ha!” Jessa likes even my dumbest jokes. For a while I thought her family must be very serious, and that’s why she laughed at everything, but I’ve met the Timmses and I think they’re just people who appreciate the effort.
Jessa hops off the wall and dribbles a volleyball a few times. She sets it up, gently, then gets under it and pops it up again, over and over. When it flails out to the side, she catches it and starts over again.
“Is everybody in your family good at sports?”
“I guess so. Maddie thinks she’s the best.” She tries to twirl the volleyball on one finger. It doesn’t make a single revolution, but she tries again.
“The one in college?” Jess’s big sister plays soccer for Ohio Northern University.
“Yeah. She probably would have been good at anything she played, but she always loved soccer.” She tries to bounce the ball on her knees, like a soccer player, but she can’t get more than two bounces. “I was never into soccer. I’m not that good at running. She’s more like my mom. I’m more like my dad.” Jess goes back to setting the ball to herself.
“How do you mean?”
“She’s fast and skinny. I mean not skinny-skinny. Just on the skinnier side. Which I am not.” I watch Jess carefully as she says this. She is eyeing the ball. There is nothing in her voice that sounds like envy. Nothing in her face that looks like regret. Just facts. “She and my mom are good at speed and endurance, but they don’t have power, you know?” She’s looking straight up at the ball, calculating, moving, getting it right, again and again. She looks happy, like she’s where she’s supposed to be. Like she’s who she’s supposed to be. “My dad and my little sister and me, we’ve got power.” I realize that this is exactly how Jessa understands herself. She doesn’t think of herself as “not skinny.” She thinks of herself as strong. Powerful. And she is exactly right. “Plus, we work our asses off.” The ball arcs wide and comes down eight feet from her. She lunges and dives, getting her fists under it just before it hits the ground. She lands on her knees on the concrete, but the volley is saved.
When Dad finally p
ulls up twenty minutes late, I offer Jess a ride, since her parents seem to be MIA. “No, thanks. My dad’s here.” She waves at a car at the edge of the parking lot. Mr. Timms leans his head out and waves back, all smiles. I didn’t see him drive in, so he must have been here the whole time. “See you tomorrow!” She jogs to the Highlander, ball under one arm, and climbs in the passenger side.
She wasn’t waiting for a ride. She was waiting with the team.
CHAPTER 61
My dad prefers painting with me.
Tyler is too sloppy. Even when you think you’ve covered every possible surface with a drop cloth, he’ll step in paint and leave a dotted trail of Spring Fawn or Whispering Walnut or whatever other on-trend beige my mother has picked out.
Mom’s an excellent painter—meticulous about taping and prep, never leaves globs, edges like a razor. But she’s too bossy. She considers us her apprentices.
So Dad prefers me. I never swing the roller like a lacrosse stick, and I don’t tell him that he should trim the windows in a counterclockwise direction because the sheen pattern deflects light outward that way. I’m good, but not obsessive. And I like his music.
Mom’s at Pilates and Ty is still in bed, watching old Parks and Rec episodes on the iPad. He says his mouth still hurts too much to brush his teeth. Dad and I are just about to pop open the first gallon of paint when the doorbell rings, which usually means an environmental activist with a petition or a neighborhood kid selling cookie dough.
It’s neither. It’s Maggie with a Vitaminwater.
“We need to talk.” She’s wearing her business face, which could mean she has just found out that our high school uses three hundred thousand gallons of water on the football field or that rich people pay less taxes than their chauffeurs, but I kind of doubt that. I think this one is about me. “And I’d hate for your FaceTime to crap out again.”
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