Bad Girls in Love

by Cynthia Voigt

  “We never watch if it’s R for violence,” Margalo told the group.

  “But you don’t even watch the news,” Tan said.

  “Not the six o’clock,” Margalo said. “Not when the little kids are around.”

  “I don’t blame your parents,” Frannie said. “Mostly, the news scares me.”

  In life as in tennis, Mikey kept her focus. “Just because everybody says it’s only looks that gets boys, that doesn’t make it true,” she pointed out. “Have any of you asked them about it?”

  They howled in protest, and laughed at her naïveté, and called loudly over one another’s voices, imagining how such conversations might go, which created another round of rowdy laughter from their table, causing more attention to be temporarily paid to it. Mr. Schramm took a couple of steps toward them, then caught Margalo’s eye. He smiled, the mischievous smile that always lifted Margalo’s spirits. She smiled back. He turned away then, and she wondered why, until she saw him shake his head at Mrs. Sanabria who now stood behind the table where Louis Caselli and his friends sat, a standing warning to the boys that whatever they were thinking of starting had better get itself forgotten.

  Once her friends had finished making fun of her, Mikey persisted, “We should ask Ronnie. That’s a good . . .” With Mikey, thinking was doing, so she got up to go over to the table where Ronnie Caselli sat among some of the most popular preppies and jockettes, with the other seats occupied by half the boys’ basketball team. In Ronnie’s whole huge family there was only one girl near her age, her cousin Sophie, a tenth grader—who was, in fact, the person who’d introduced Ronnie to her boyfriend, Doug. Most Casellis were male, which meant—as Ronnie often told them, to justify her popularity with boys, and apologize for it, and boast, too—she understood boys and knew how to get along with them.

  While Mikey was gone, Frannie raised a question. “Doesn’t there have to be more than just one thing boys like about girls? There is for girls, and boys can’t be that different from us, can they? It’s not only the good-looking boys who have girlfriends. And besides, nobody has just one reason for doing something. I think there’s a lot the same about boys and girls—there has to be, we’re all just human beings.”

  “You believe that?” Cassie asked, doubting. “Do you listen to the way they talk? And do you see the kinds of things they do? And call it fun?”

  “Some of them care about other things than looks,” Frannie maintained. “Probably a lot of them, if we knew.”

  “Like intelligence,” Casey said. “Being interesting to talk to.”

  “Who do you think you’re kidding?” Cassie laughed.

  “Or athletic ability, because then you can understand how they feel about sports,” Tan said.

  Casey tried again. “In Rebecca everybody falls in love with her—even though she’s horrible, she’s really a horrible person—because she has the je ne sais quoi.”

  “What’s that?” Mikey demanded, sitting down again.

  Casey hesitated, trying to translate. “It,” she tried. “You know.”

  “You mean she slept with them? You mean sex? Can’t you speak English?” Mikey demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I didn’t mean—it’s just a French phrase for—Margalo?” Her eyes filmed with tears. “I read it,” she apologized.

  “You read too much,” Mikey told her. “When you read too much, people look more complicated than they really are. You and Margalo, you both do that.”

  “Margalo understands people,” Casey said, her voice only a little quivery.

  “Margalo doesn’t know anything about this,” Mikey maintained.

  Tan disagreed. “She’s got brothers, so she knows more than you. Or me.”

  Mikey said, “Brothers isn’t what I meant. I meant this.” Words having failed her, she jabbed her finger at the place in the cafeteria where Shawn Macavity was moving over to the seat Ronnie was vacating, then jammed the finger into the center of her own chest. “You probably think it has to do with earth science,” she told Margalo.

  In fact, that wasn’t what Margalo thought, but she defended the position anyway to see if she could. “Well, it is biology. Reproduction. Natural selection and survival of the fittest, and that’s Darwin. Breeding for selected characteristics.” Groans and laughing protests greeted her argument.

  So she continued. “We’re animals, after all.”

  “They’re the ones who are animals,” Ronnie said, sitting down. “Take it from someone who lives with them. Luckily”—she smiled smugly—”I’m an animal lover.”

  Cassie pointed out to Ronnie, “They’re only animals if you use your looks as bait. I mean, have you seen the way Heather Mac is dressing this week? It’s as if—like all of her sweaters got shrunk. At least you don’t dress like that,” she told Ronnie. “Although, with a bod like yours, you could probably dress the way I do and still get noticed.”

  “You get noticed,” Ronnie argued.

  “For myself, who I am,” Cassie said. “Or my artwork,” she added. “But not for my good looks.”

  “Nobody could look good in what you wear,” Ronnie said.

  “My prune costume, you mean?” Cassie laughed, pulling her black sweatshirt out from her torso to show it off. “It keeps me out of trouble—which is more than those turtle-necks and khakis do for you with the famous Doug, if what I’ve heard is true.”

  “And I hear Jace doesn’t dare try anything with you.”

  For a minute Cassie glared at Ronnie, then she shrugged. “I guess I’m the new breed, and you’re not. Lucky for Doug, isn’t it? He’s got it easy.”

  Ronnie snorted, to mean Ha! and to say, You think you’re so smart. She didn’t glare; she smiled in a kindly fashion, as if Cassie were her idiot little sister. “Do you really think it’s any easier for them than us? If you do, you’ve got a lot to learn, Cassie Davis.” With that line she rose and left their table.

  “I plan to be a slow learner,” Cassie called after her, then turned to the people remaining at the table. “Things I don’t want to get As in, at fourteen. Number one, sex,” she said, counting on her fingers. “You’ve got the right idea, Casey, falling in love with Maximilian de Winter.”

  “I’m not in love with him,” Casey protested.

  “Who?” Tan asked.

  “It’s that book,” Frannie explained. “Rebecca.”

  “I might have guessed,” Mikey said.

  “I know the difference between stories and reality,” Casey told Cassie.

  “But what stories?” Margalo asked. “And whose reality? I mean, I know some people whose reality is pretty delusional,” she said. “Ms. Barcley,” she named one.

  This reminded Mikey, “And I have to go there this weekend. To my mother’s,” she told the group. “She went back to her maiden name.”

  “We all know that,” Cassie said. “And none of us care. Why should she take her husband’s name in the first place, and especially, why should she keep it when they’re not even married anymore?”

  That subject didn’t get discussed, however, because Tan asked, “Has anyone else been asked to this party at Darlene’s? Tonight.”

  “Rhonda’s having one too,” Frannie said, “and she’s got Shawn Macavity coming to it so I expect everybody else will want to. Does Darlene know?” she asked Tan.

  “Probably by now she does. Do you think she’ll cancel? Maybe not,” Tan decided. “I’ll still go.”

  “You’re going to Heather McGinty’s tomorrow, aren’t you?” Cassie asked Frannie, who nodded.

  “Me too, oh good,” Casey said. “Shawn’s going to be there.”

  Mikey’s alarm grew.

  “Shawn’s going to Rhonda’s tonight? And Heather’s tomorrow? I wonder if I can get my mom to bring me home Saturday afternoon in time to go to Heather’s.”

  “Were you invited?” Margalo hadn’t been.

  “Of course not,” Mikey said. “She’d never. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go.”
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  “You’d crash it?” Cassie asked, and when Mikey nodded all she said was, “Cool.”

  “Shawn’s probably why all the parties are happening,” Frannie said.

  “Well, dunhh,” they told her.

  “Because he doesn’t have a date for the dance,” Frannie continued.

  “I bet I could make Rhonda ask me to her party,” Mikey said. “And put off going to Mom’s until tomorrow morning.” She thought about this. “Or Margalo could. Could you, Margalo? Will you? Figure out how to make Rhonda ask me?”

  Margalo was gathering her books because the bell was about to ring. The lunch duty faculty had already left the room, and many of the students had too.

  “Will you?” Mikey demanded. “Are you paying attention?”

  No, Margalo wasn’t, but now she started to. She thought about Mikey’s request. She thought about how much Rhonda would hate having Mikey at her party, and considered ways for Mikey to get there. If, for example, Mikey just went up to Rhonda and asked, “What time should I tell my dad the party will be over?” Probably Rhonda would answer the question before she understood the implications, and that would be as good as an invitation.

  It might be fun, getting Mikey to Rhonda’s party.

  But—”It’s too late this time,” Margalo realized. “Because you know how your mother is about changing her plans.”

  “Inflexible,” Mikey agreed. “I know what you mean. It makes her really hard to deal with,” Mikey acknowledged, then demanded, “What are you all laughing at?”

  6

  TELEPHONE MADNESS

  All that week Mikey had tried to get Shawn’s phone number. What was wrong with calling him up, anyway? If she was the boy, and he was the girl he (really she) wanted for a girlfriend, it would be a perfectly OK thing for him (really her) to call her (meaning Shawn).

  For the first couple of days she’d tried just asking him. “Hey, you know? I don’t know your phone number,” she said in the hall between classes, and “That’s right,” he said. Next time she was more direct. “What’s your phone number?” He didn’t answer, just went on talking to whoever he was talking to at lunch, some preppy in a little short skirt and a little short sweater. He ignored Mikey.

  Or at least he tried to ignore her. “Yeah, but what is it?” Mikey asked. She figured out later that maybe she should have waited until he was alone; but since he was never alone, what was the point?

  “Why do you want my number?” he asked.

  “If I want to call you up. So what is it?”

  “Umm,” he said. And then, “It’s unlisted.” And then, “My parents don’t want me giving it out.” Until finally she figured out that he didn’t want to tell her.

  And that was sort of embarrassing. But she refused to be discouraged. He just needed to get to know her better.

  And she finally did find out his phone number. There weren’t that many Macavitys in the phone book, so what she did was: Call each one until some man said, “Shawn’s out. Who’s this?”

  Mikey hung up. Fast.

  It was almost a relief to be at her mother’s for the weekend. It was a breathing space, like the changeover time in a tennis match, when you can sit down and gather your resources, think, get back in gear so when you return to the court you can blast through whatever defenses the opposition tries against you. Mikey was ready for a little time-out, to focus her mind and formulate a game plan. Despite her mother’s hot news item, that was what Mikey did.

  As soon as she got home on Sunday afternoon, Mikey planned to telephone Shawn. But her father wanted to talk. Luckily, he didn’t want to tell her much about the two dates he’d gone out on that weekend—to a movie on Friday evening (“Do you realize that according to Hollywood, I should be dating someone your age?”) and out to dinner on Saturday (“A bistro-style place, not as upmarket as the ones your mother’s dates take you to”)—with two women he’d asked out but probably wouldn’t see again. “I don’t know, there just wasn’t anything going on between us, you know?” He didn’t expect Mikey to know and didn’t pay attention when she nodded her head, Yes, she did know.

  Equally luckily, he had to go to work. There was a project due to be completed by midweek and he’d promised to meet one of the members of his group at the office, if that was all right with Mikey?

  That was fine with Mikey. She’d have the house to herself for a couple of hours. She’d have the phone to herself.

  “Maybe we’ll order pizza for dinner. How does that sound to you?”

  It sounded fine to Mikey. She’d have full use of the kitchen, too.

  Then, “Everything go OK for you in the city?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Because I think she’s up to something,” he said.

  “She is. Do you want to hear about it now?” she asked, hoping he’d say no. He didn’t disappoint her.

  By the time the door finally closed behind her father, Mikey had used up her scant supply of patience. Then she had to wait until she got calmed down about calling Shawn up: It would be just the two of them talking—almost the same as being alone with him. She felt jittery, the way she did before a tennis match, excited. She knew that pre-match jitters upped her adrenaline level, which gave her more energy and better focus, but for a telephone call, who needed them?

  Although, these jitters were more fun than the tennis ones. They had Maybe-maybe promises and what-ifs. Maybe today was the day Shawn Macavity would start to like her back. What if he asked if he could come over? Should she ask him to stay for dinner? What were they having for dinner? Not pizza, if Shawn was coming. If Shawn was coming for dinner she wanted to cook something really good. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.

  But first she was going to have to call him up. Get to call him up.

  There was no question whether or not Mikey remembered the number. The second she knew which Macavity it was, that number was memorized. So she sat down at the desk in their living room and took a diaphragm-deep breath, letting the air out slowly as she counted to twelve. Then she picked up the phone and punched in Shawn’s number.

  It rang once, twice, three—

  “Hello?” he said.

  Mikey swallowed and couldn’t find any words in her head. She couldn’t reach any words to pull up out of her throat. Sewage! she thought.

  “Hello? . . . Hello?”

  Mikey held the phone up against her ear and did not say one word. She wet her lips, trying to speak. What’s wrong with you? she demanded.

  “Who is this?”

  When she didn’t answer, he hung up.

  Mikey listened to the dial tone, then held the phone out in front of her and glared at it. “Sewage and garbage,” she muttered. Now she could speak. “S! and G!” Furious, she tried again.

  She chose not to punch redial, because she liked touching the digits of his telephone number, one after the other, like saying the letters of his name.

  “Hello!” he said, the voice of someone expecting trouble.

  “Shawn?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You might have a brother.”

  “So what if I do? What do you want?”

  She thought fast. “Are you taking seminar?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just because. I just—just because—I just wondered if you were,” she said. She knew how dumb she sounded, but she was so busy hearing his voice—talking just to her, just the two of them—that she couldn’t remember to say what she’d called him about.

  “Well, now you know,” he said. “Who is this?”

  She hung up.

  Mikey got up from the desk and went out to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and looked inside. She closed the refrigerator door. She took down a jar of peanut butter and a box of Ritz crackers but then didn’t want those, either, so she put them back into the cupboard. Then she slammed her hand down—hard—slamming the palm flat against the countertop, and went back
to the desk.

  This time she did punch redial. Enough fooling around.

  “Hello,” he announced, the voice of someone who really wished his phone hadn’t rung.

  “I meant to say, before, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “Hunh?”

  “About how stupid it is to get into fights.”

  “Is this Mikey?”

  “And I think you’re right. Except in self-defense, of course—but in general, I’ve decided I’m not going to fight. I wanted to tell you that.”

  “Oh. Well. OK. Good-bye.”

  He hung up.

  Before she had to think anything about that conversation, Mikey punched speed dial 1. She had a sudden urge to talk to Margalo. Of course it was answered by Esther, Margalo’s younger stepsister.

  “Hello?” Esther said.

  “I want to talk to Margalo,” Mikey said.

  “Hi, Mikey. How was your mother?” Esther asked.

  “Is she there?” Mikey asked.

  “Ladybug is going to have kittens. Did Margalo tell you?”

  “Are you going to get Margalo, or what?”

  “Then we’re going to have her spayed. Because the shelter will do it for just five dollars, so we’re going to have them all spayed.”

  “MARGALO!” Mikey yelled, yelling right into the phone as if she could yell loud enough for her voice to go in one of Esther’s ears and out the other to where Margalo would hear it, and come out of her room or wherever she was in that crowded little house, and Mikey could tell her about the phone call to Shawn.

  “Or neutered,” Esther continued.

  Mikey took a big breath. “That’s good,” she said. She smiled, as if Esther was in front of her and could see her face with its This-is-your-last-chance-before-I-blow-up smile and respond appropriately by running for the hills, or—much better—running for Margalo. “That’s nice,” Mikey said, smiling, “and I’m glad we had this little chat, Esther, but now GET MARGALO OR THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOU YOU’LL BE SORRY!”

  “Are you coming over today?” Esther’s voice rang with hope.

  “No. Not today. Today I’m calling. On the telephone. TO TALK TO MARGALO!”