“Hello?” Mom answered.
“Hi. It’s Athena,” I said. As if she didn’t know.
“Hi, baby,” Mom said. “I’m in New York!”
“Awesome!” I said, then cringed. She hated when I used awesome to mean cool. She always said it was a bastardization of the word’s true meaning. “How’s the job?”
“It’s fantastic, Athena,” she continued. “Lower teaching load, much more research focused, and an extra year on my tenure clock. Isn’t that amazing?”
I had no idea what most of that meant, but sure.
“Yeah, amazing!” I said anyway.
“So, your father and I have talked,” she said.
When had they had the chance to talk? I didn’t even know that they did talk. My whole body tensed at the idea of what that might mean, because it couldn’t be good.
“Really? About what?” The words came out strangled.
“Oh, it’s good news, sweetie,” she told me. “He and I have decided that, since I’ll be in Rome over winter break for a research trip, you and Helen should each visit me in New York for your birthdays.”
“But we were supposed to go to Rome with you,” I said. “And my birthday is in November and Helen’s is in April. That...doesn’t seem fair to her.”
The disappointment hit me right in the chest. I should be used to this by now, but somehow it always hurt. And while it didn’t explain Helen’s outfit change, Mom’s decision did explain why she was egging me on more than usual. This news sucked for her even more than it did for me.
“I know it’s not what you wanted,” she said. “But I wanted to make sure I could spend some quality time with each of you individually, and because of my schedule in Rome, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I promise it’ll be better than Eugene. I almost never saw you this summer. The two of you were always off together, plotting something.”
I didn’t believe for a second that she didn’t notice that when we left her house, we generally biked in opposite directions. She was only saying that because it made her feel better, not because it would make me feel better. She couldn’t tell me the truth, which was that she was cutting down our visits because in New York, it would be too hard for her to keep an eye on both of us.
I twisted the phone cord around my finger, trying to convince myself that New York in November for a few days would be as cool as Rome for two weeks at Christmas. I knew if I tried to say something, I would cry. So I didn’t.
“You’ll love New York,” Mom gushed, filling in the silence. “When you get tired of all the wonderful museums, we can go shopping at those stores you’re always complaining aren’t in Baton Rouge.”
I snorted a cynical laugh. Mom’s perception of teenage taste included lots of bright colors and Italian leather. Even Helen, Queen of Fashion, had balked at the weird patchwork leather clothes she’d sent us from her last research trip to Italy.
I considered telling Mom about the Cute Boy in my physics class because he was the most exciting thing that had happened to me all day. I couldn’t do it, though. She’d probably get the wrong idea and send me a box of condoms or another copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves.
So I settled in and let her do the talking—it was much easier that way anyway.
4
Melissa’s rusty blue Subaru wheezed as she drove me and Helen to dinner after orchestra auditions. We were supposed to be celebrating. My dad, convinced that our Saturday afternoon would yield first-chair victories for the two of us, had given me money to take Melissa out to dinner, as long as we picked up Helen after the auditions and took her, too. Sean was also meeting us at the restaurant for our first group hangout since I’d gotten back from Eugene.
Instead, we rode in miserable silence. Melissa didn’t even bother to play anything in the tape deck or turn on the radio. It didn’t feel right to listen to music under the circumstances. We had both been robbed, and neither of us wanted to talk about it. Melissa ended up second to Tommy Roberts, violin genius of Baton Rouge, and I was second to Aaron Cormier, Dr. Walsh’s favorite orchestra player in the history of ever. I didn’t care as much as Melissa, since being second chair to his precious Aaron meant Dr. Walsh would yell at me less. Melissa had been winning competitions since her dad started teaching her Cajun fiddle when she was four, though, and she deserved to beat Tommy Roberts, a Suzuki-obsessed automaton.
By the time we pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, we were the two glummest people ever. Melissa went in to put her name on the waiting list, while Helen and I stayed outside. Helen stood next to me, leaning casually against the building, one of her legs propped up stork-like against the stucco wall.
“Is Sean coming?” Helen asked, staring out toward the road.
That was weird. Helen never asked about Sean.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Is he bringing her?”
“Probably.”
We lapsed into silence again.
“She’s a bitch,” Helen said after an eternity. She shifted uncomfortably next to me, a fidget that turned into a reworking of her slouchy form.
“Yeah, I know. Don’t use that word, though. It’s sexist.”
Melissa and I were trying to weed the word out of our vocabulary, except in cases of irony or humor, and then only with each other, not about other people. Melissa often made an exception for Leah, but as Sean’s friend, I tried to stick to the B-ban for her, too. To do otherwise would be hypocritical.
“Whatever. You hate her, too.”
My feelings toward Leah rarely approached hate. I classified them more as a studied indifference, with a side of banal dislike and a soupçon of fear.
“What’s she done to you?” I searched Helen’s face for any telltale signs of trouble. Something about this conversation didn’t feel like her normal dislike of Leah, which was usually more obligatory than deeply felt.
She looked at her studded black shoes, as though they would offer some answer to my question. Slouching down the wall didn’t help Helen shrink away from the question, and neither did her platforms. From the side, she looked like a stretched-out, curved comma, her legs sticking out far in front of her and her head hanging low.
“Nothing, I guess.” Her mopey, quiet reply didn’t sound like nothing.
She had to be lying. In my head, I flipped through all the things she could lie about. Maybe she liked Sean, despite all of their teasing and back-and-forth jabs that never ended. Or maybe going to school with Leah had brought this out.
“Do you like like Sean?” I scrutinized her face for any sign of emotion. She flinched slightly, but that was it. “Oh, my God! You do!”
“Ew!” Helen blurted. “No!”
I didn’t quite believe her, but something about her posture told me now wasn’t the time to press the issue.
“Then what’s the problem?” Now that she was a junior, Leah most likely wouldn’t pay much attention to freshmen girls, at least not until homecoming court nominations came around. Then again, Helen wasn’t an ordinary freshman. She was unusually pretty, and she spent a lot of time with Leah’s boyfriend. Two strikes, waiting for a third.
“I didn’t want to say anything because it’s your audition celebration and all, and I didn’t want to make it a big deal,” she said, sounding like whatever was bothering her was a big deal. “But someone’s been saying that I—” Helen looked toward the parking lot, and her voice trailed off. “Never mind.”
Leah’s purple Mazda Miata had just pulled in. Helen watched, lips pursed tight, as Sean and Leah climbed out and walked up to us.
As usual, Leah’s makeup was one step away from beauty pageant readiness: just enough mascara, just enough blush, and just enough lipstick that she didn’t creep over the edge from skillful application to full-on clown town. Platinum highlights streaked her long wavy blond hair. A tig
ht Pepto-pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt exposed a two-inch gap of tanned skin between its hem and the top of her white denim cutoffs, which she’d rolled up to show off her muscular legs.
She looked like an extra on 90210. Compared to her, in my black T-shirt, frayed cutoffs, and Doc Martens, I looked like an extra in a Nirvana video.
Sean, under Leah’s fashion tutelage, looked nearly as preppy as she did in jeans and a baby blue polo shirt that complemented her pink one, a terrible choice for such hot weather. Somehow, I didn’t mind the preppy look on Sean, as long as he didn’t start popping his collar. It was better than his pre-Leah habit of alternating between Spider-Man T-shirts and LSU jerseys.
With a wave and joking pee-pee dance, Sean rushed inside the restaurant, leaving Helen and me alone with his girlfriend. My brain froze at the thought of conversation between me, Helen, and Leah, especially since my usually talkative sister had clammed up next to me.
In the year since they’d started dating, I’d tried to like Leah. Their whole relationship shocked me at first because Sean and I started high school at approximately the same level of popularity—that is, zero. Leah, on the other hand, had an entire entourage. So when she and some of the other cheerleaders started hanging out with Sean and his football buddies at school, I thought it was an extension of their symbiotically intertwined sports.
And then he asked her out, and she said yes.
At first, she didn’t seem that bad. She was much like all the other cheerleaders—interested in football, and rightly insistent that cheerleading was a sport. She seemed totally devoted to Sean, recognizing that he wasn’t just talented, but genuinely a good person. I’m sure it also helped that he was hot.
For a few months, she’d treated me as an almost friend—not necessarily someone you’d confide in, but someone you’d go to the movies with or hang out with in a group. I was happy to support her, too, because Leah had lost friends when she started dating Sean. My school didn’t have a lot of experience with interracial couples, especially one where the girl was a year older than the boy. People didn’t say anything to her, but they whispered. It didn’t even matter that Sean had incredible talent.
And then the football team won district. Suddenly she and Sean were the Couple of the Century, and I was back to being Sean’s weirdo friend from next door who never got invited to the jock parties, a sad reminder of the geeky life whence she’d rescued him.
“Hi, Athena,” Leah said, showing her whiter-than-white teeth in a sharky smile. “How was your audition?”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Second chair. But considering no one else from our school’s orchestra made the cut except me and Melissa, that’s pretty good.”
“Pretty good,” she said, like it was the exact opposite. I had to give it to her—her use of sarcasm was much subtler than Helen’s. I could feel my cheeks start to burn with embarrassment and failure, solely because she’d uttered two devastating words.
Next to me, Helen sank farther down the wall, stuck in giant comma mode.
“Hi, Helen,” Leah said, turning with laser-like precision. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I bet you have.” Helen didn’t look up. “Considering we’ve known each other for over a year now.”
“Ha. I was thinking, like, more along the lines of at school.”
Helen’s face flushed a deep pink that stood out against the sprinkling of summer freckles on her cheeks. I didn’t know what had happened at school or why Helen would act this way. Then again, I’d spent the past three days trying to figure out who the new guy in physics and calc was, and no one else seemed to know the answer to that, either. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about Helen—the latest gossip tended to fly below my radar.
“If you think—”
“Think what?” Leah asked in an overly innocent voice while winding her hair around her finger like a little girl. She was so infuriating.
I found myself slouching against the wall next to Helen, trying to figure out if something I could say would make this conversation better. My downward slide seemed to trigger something in Helen. She straightened up to her full height, which, with the giant shoes, reached over six feet, towering over Leah.
“You know, it’s not important.” She smiled at Leah, broad and confident.
The smile clearly confused Leah, whose rose-red lips pulled into a frown. It confused me, too. Whatever Leah had said or done, it must have not been that bad if Helen could recover so quickly. My sister again looked like her normal, secure self, and Leah backed away.
“Hello, ladies!” Melissa bounded up and hugged Helen and me in an extravagant display for Leah’s benefit. She didn’t really like Helen, but she hated Leah. “Our table’s ready.”
I exhaled with relief. If anyone knew how to deal with Leah, it was Melissa. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Leah was up to something devious. What kind of impossible social chess game were she and Helen playing?
5
There was a goth girl in front of my locker. Or, more accurately, she was by her locker and trying to get it open, but completely blocking access to mine. She wrestled with the combination a few more times before banging on her locker, as though that would help open it up, her teased-out dyed-black hair moving stiffly in time with each loud thump of fist-to-locker. Under her white pancake makeup, her cheeks were red from the struggle.
“Excuse me,” I said politely, trying to maneuver around her so I could open my own locker and grab my stuff for physics. Mrs. Breaux didn’t accept late work. Last week, she’d even assigned us extra work to keep us occupied while school was canceled for three days during Hurricane Andrew. Thankfully, the storm didn’t damage Baton Rouge too much—not like Florida, and some of the parishes closer to the coast—but I still had to finish my homework by the light of a battery-operated hurricane lamp. Mrs. Breaux told us that it was light enough during the day, and daylight hours provided more than enough time to get homework done. She didn’t care that most of us had to help our parents clear up yard debris during the day.
So if Mrs. Breaux didn’t give us extra time due to a hurricane, she wasn’t going to care that I couldn’t find my homework folder on a random Friday when the weather was sunny and clear.
“Oh, hey, Red!” The girl turned to me with a bright smile that clashed with her almost-black lipstick and crinkled the corners of her eyes, where eyeliner swooped out like the Death character from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. Her full-on goth look was a little outside what anyone could normally get away with in terms of hair or makeup, but the girl’s perkiness overrode any sense of the supposed darkness within.
“Hey...?” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Karen? Kandace? Kelly? What was her name? I vaguely remembered her from last year, pre-goth, but the transformation had overridden most of her identifying characteristics.
“Wisteria,” she answered, rocking back on her heels with a nod of finality.
That one was definitely made-up. Like all the goths’ names.
“I’m Athena.” You would have thought my name was made-up, too. But, no, my mom had definitely embraced her love of the classics when she named Helen and me.
“Oh, I know,” she said brightly. “I just like your hair.” At least someone besides Melissa did. Helen said it looked like I’d been assaulted by the Kool-Aid Man, and my dad had just shaken his head when he saw me get off the plane from Eugene with it freshly dyed red.
Wisteria looked back at her locker. “D’you have any idea what’s wrong with this thing? I never had any trouble last year?”
She said everything like a question, a trait I didn’t normally associate with goths. Then again, I hadn’t spoken to most of them. They tended to hang out behind the school smoking clove cigarettes and practicing sullen ennui.
I suspected Wisteria’s lack of trouble last year came from not actually locking her locker, as most people didn’t.
I also suspected her current troubles came from Melissa, who liked to mess with people by casually twisting locks as she walked by. Wisteria’s proximity to my locker was a dead giveaway.
“Do you know your combination?” I felt obligated to help, since Wisteria’s struggle was most likely my best friend’s fault. We didn’t have much time between classes, but I couldn’t just bounce off to next period and leave her to suffer.
She nodded. “Yeah, but it just doesn’t work.”
I was going to have to get back at Melissa for this one. Messing with people’s lockers seemed a lot less funny when it was causing stress to someone who seemed like she didn’t deserve it. Not that anyone did, really.
“You need to twist right twice before your first number,” I told her, “then twist left past zero to your next number, and then right again to the last number.”
Wisteria tried again after watching me open mine. “It worked!” She jumped up and down enthusiastically. “Thanks!”
“No problem.” I grabbed my stuff for physics and shoved my religion notebook and calc binder into my locker.
Wisteria paused for a second and squinted at me curiously. “Uh, Red?”
“Mmm-hmm?” I half listened to Wisteria as I continued to search through my locker for my physics homework, which seemed to have gone missing among the chaos of my possessions.
“Uh, this is super awkward, but, I wanted to thank you and Melissa for all your pro-choice activism this summer?” Wisteria said, leaning in so that her voice dropped to an enthusiastic whisper. “It’s a really big deal? Because no one in this school gets it?”
I stopped my search for my physics folder and turned to give Wisteria my full attention. Two things confused me about this conversation: first, I’d had no idea that Wisteria was pro-choice. In theory, I knew there might be other pro-choice people at our school, but that theory was, until now, unproven. The second puzzling thing was that she had no real reason to thank me.
Everybody knew about Melissa’s work on the front lines, but I couldn’t take credit for being a badass when my contributions to the pro-choice cause had maxed out at writing an essay for the zine Melissa handed out at the protests and buying a Rock for Choice T-shirt via mail order. Oh, and I also considered keeping Helen away from the protests as part of my civic duty.
Rebel Girls Page 4
