Sorry Not Sorry
Page 4
The room fell quiet, the note-taking stopped, heads turned in her direction while I cursed the universe for its jacked-up timing. Did I forget to mention that Alyssa was our class vice president?
Alyssa was class vice president.
“I made more disaster relief T-shirts and bracelets for whoever donates.” She crossed the room and slid into the seat next to Ryon. “I had a few designs drawn up, but I’m not sure which style to go with just yet—”
“Excuse you! I’m in the middle of a presentation. I have the floor.” I gestured to the area surrounding the lectern to stress my point. “This whole thing right here.”
She looked up in surprise. “Oh! Hey, Janelle. I didn’t see you there. Actually, I did, but on GP, I choose to ignore you.” Then she continued to talk right over me. “I have an idea for the disaster relief project.”
“That’s nice, but we already have a plan in motion. Thanks for playing, though,” I told her.
“You mean that snooze-worthy strategy you mentioned last week?” Alyssa let out a haughty snort. “That’s real cute, but that’s not gonna get people to contribute. People need incentive and market appeal. That’s where I come in.” She pulled sketches from her bag and presented them to Ryon. “Along with the T-shirts, Kristen, Jenna, Destiny, Liz, and I are creating our own web series about charity work. It will show us helping out around town and giving makeup tips along the way. We’re calling the show Active Beauty. You know, like ‘active duty’ with—”
“Soldiers. Yeah, we get it,” I told her. “There’s already a ton of YouTube videos about that sort of thing. What would they need you for?”
“Because it’s us,” Alyssa answered with perfect enunciation. The “duh” was silent. “We’re not some strangers on the internet. We’re the real deal, we’re local, and we’re popular. Naturally, people will want to join us and be seen in the video.”
“We can post it on the school website,” Devon suggested, while dreamy-eyed Sera nodded at him. “We could get other schools to participate.”
“It’ll have to look professional,” Joel added. “I know a few guys in media class that could help. I’ve got all the film equipment you’d need. Sound, editing—the works. Maybe we could combine all the episodes later on and turn them into a documentary.”
The group agreed and Joel grinned in triumph.
Alyssa’s upper lip curled. “Make sure you keep it tasteful, fondue boy.”
“Funny,” Joel returned with a sneer.
“Hold on! You expect us to sit back and watch you and the Borg hijack the disaster relief project?” Sera piped up. “Tell me, just how inoperable is that brain tumor of yours?”
“Not nearly as dangerous as the laser treatment for your mustache,” Alyssa clapped back. “You should really get that thing looked at. For a minute there, I thought you were Ryon.”
“Omigod, that is so racist,” Tabatha informed the group. “Just because they’re Asian doesn’t mean they all look the same.”
Joel consulted the ceiling as if in search of divine patience. “Tabatha, no one mentioned anything about race. Siblings resemble each other.”
With a hiked chin and a flip of her blue hair, Tabatha looked away from him. “How about you check your privilege before speaking for other cultures, okay, fondue boy?”
Ryon brought the meeting to order with another crack of the gavel. “All right, I admit that the web series would be a creative addition to raise awareness, and Alyssa’s proven her ability to pull in the numbers.”
“Thank you, Sugar Booger.” Alyssa blew him air kisses, then took a dainty sip from her smoothie.
Fighting a blush, Ryon continued. “I also agree with Janelle. Aberdeen Park is the perfect spot to begin volunteer work. So we’ll combine ideas and have a cleanup and fund-raising party. We can sell T-shirts and food; maybe have a live band play.” Ryon looked to the treasurer.
“On it. I’ll bring my guitar,” Devon affirmed, rubbing the soul patch on his chin.
“And on that note, we conclude our morning meeting,” Ryon announced. “We will convene again on Thursday.”
At the sound of the bell, everyone collected their bags and filed out of the room. In her rush to gain as much distance from her brother as possible, Sera promised to meet up with me later, then bounced. As usual, Ryon and Alyssa were the last to leave. They held each other at the door, storing up enough melodrama to fill those cold, lonely hours between now and lunch.
But what I found strange—and by strange, I meant suspect—was Alyssa’s sudden interest in charity work. A quick meeting was in order.
“Hey, Lyssa? Sidebar?” I pointed to a corner of the room.
Looking very much annoyed, Alyssa dislodged from her other half and strolled forward.
I waited for Ryon to leave before asking, “What are you doing? We had a system going here. You handled the prom committee and all the other party events in school, and I did the charity events. You’re not trying to pick up litter and pass out water, so what’s really going on?”
She leaned away from me, fake-appalled by my accusation. “Wow, Janelle, you want some pepper to go with that salt?”
“I’m not salty, bitter, sweet, or none of them flavors. I just wanna know what your end game is, ’cause I know you have one,” I replied. “Your track record is public knowledge and consistent. If money isn’t on your agenda, then recognition is next in line. I don’t know what this new scheme is, but you’re not coming up in here late, thinking you’re running something.”
She stood perfectly still until I finished my rant. “Can I go now?”
I blinked. “You think this is funny?”
She folded her arms, looking bored by the whole conversation. “No, I think it’s sad. You keep thinking you’re on my level when you don’t even live in my building. You’ve got good ideas but no PR strategy. That’s my department.” She pointed to her chest. “I pull in the numbers, because—news flash: People don’t volunteer or give money out of the goodness of their hearts. They do it out of guilt, for bragging rights, to follow a trend, to get into heaven—whatever. In the real world, everything is business and everybody has an end game. Not my fault that I’m a better player than you are.”
“No. But stepping on people’s toes in your pursuit to be basic is your fault. Question: Did you sell your soul retail or at factory price?”
Ooh, I’d definitely struck a nerve. Good.
She stepped forward, her face set in hard, angry lines. “Watch it, Janelle. We’ve been civil up until this point. You don’t want me as an enemy.”
“Yeah. Because with friends like you …” The sentence went unfinished as I marched out of the room, not looking back.
The weird thing about being frenemies was that you were still kind of friends. No matter how complicated or unhealthy the relationship, there remained a part of you that cared to a certain extent. Sometimes, caring meant walking away before things led to some sort of felony.
Turning the corner, I collided with a random bystander who smelled like sandalwood. Rough hands caught my arms and held me in place.
“Whoa! Careful. You okay?”
After a few blinks, I stepped back. “Sorry about that. I didn’t see you there.”
“That seems to be a popular thing this morning,” the boy replied.
Slowly, my gaze lifted to meet Mateo’s and I considered keeling over. A fresh batch of embarrassment hit me square in the chest at the mention of this morning’s debacle.
It hadn’t been my intention to walk in on Mateo while he was in the shower. It was just an unfortunate product of little sleep and habit. My parents showed up twice a year, so it had been us girls in the house since I was fourteen. Walking around half-dressed or brushing your teeth while the other showered went with the territory. It wasn’t that kind of party anymore, evident by all the screaming on Mateo’s end.
So yeah, this morning was an L, and I wasn’t the only one catching awkward vibes, either. Right now, Mateo’s
stare remained floor-bound as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Soo … yeah, I saw you go this way and I wanted to ask you for a favor.”
Yes! Yes! I will marry you and have as many bilingual babies as you want! my mind screamed.
“Can you take me to the hospital after school?” he asked. “I wanna visit my mom, but my truck’s messed up from the storm and it’s still in the shop.”
Or we could just go with that idea.
I played off the disappointment with a nonchalant, “Sure. No problem.”
A small smile curved his lips so quickly, I almost missed it. “You sure? I know you’re busy doing … whatever it is you do. You won’t have to stay. Just drop me off and I can get my boy Chris to pick me up.”
“I don’t mind waiting for you.” I’d waited for five years—what was a measly few hours?
“Cool. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” Mateo walked away, leaving me watching his head grow small from the back. My usual viewpoint.
God, he had a beautiful head, perfectly round and full of springy curls. When he was talking to me, one of the ringlets had fallen over his forehead, and my fingers had itched to brush it away, but any public show of affection could lead to—
“And what was that about, Janelle Lynn?” Alyssa’s voice rang behind me.
Trouble. Big, big trouble.
I kept my posture straight and my expression neutral while facing my nemesis standing outside the classroom door. Alyssa watched Mateo’s retreating form with a calculated gleam normally found in eight-legged creatures. Then her predatory stare slid in my direction.
“You and Mateo together at last! Oh my goodness!” She flung her head back and howled in maniacal laughter. “This is so delicious; it’s gotta be fattening.”
Someone kill me now and put me out of my misery.
I sat on my bed, Skyping with Sheree, like I did every Saturday morning. I’d get up around ten a.m., fire up the old laptop, and rehash the week’s dumbness to a nonjudgmental ear. Even during the storm’s blackout, my sister and I spoke over the phone for an hour before my battery called it quits.
Peekaboo sat on my lap, her tail tapping a beat against my thigh. Sheree’s sweaty, exhausted face smiled back at me from fourteen hundred miles away. She and her team were staying in a hotel outside of Port-au-Prince. They were on a construction project where they’d build twelve houses and a church in six months. By comparison, collecting trash and repainting the gazebo in the town square sounded mad corny. But my sister listened as if my woes were the most fascinating thing she’d heard all week.
I told her about the group cleanup that was taking place that day at noon. We’d recruited fifty volunteers, including teachers and students. Fliers hung in every hall, T-shirts were sold during lunch, and the event was even publicized on the Borg’s vlog channel. Active Beauty, as they called it, had gotten the green light from the principal and reached 30,000 subs in under a week. Against my better judgment, I’d snuck a peek at the first two episodes. Shameless self-promotion, unskippable ads, and twenty-six minutes of my life I could never get back.
“Well, it could be worse,” Sheree said. “You could be in the middle of a refugee camp with no drinking water. And dysentery.”
I removed the coffee mug from my lips, my desire for caffeine officially gone. “Ew.”
“Yeah, the kids here have it bad and the team’s trying to help as many as we can.”
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly, then placed the mug on the nightstand. “Where are their parents?”
“Most of them are orphans from the earthquake. We’re heading to the hospital in a bit to help with supplies.”
Trust big sis to make me feel bad about my first world problems. She was the optimist of the family, one of those upbeat, bubbly sprites you sometimes wanted to trip down a flight of stairs. Her philosophy was to see the good in people and believe that everything worked out for the best. Bump that! You had to recognize the problem in order to fix it. Of course, Sheree was proud of my humanitarian efforts, but her praise could never penetrate the brain, the same way when your parents told you that you were pretty. It didn’t really count.
“Stop stressing, girl. This whole thing will blow over, trust me,” Sheree declared in a way that not only understood the situation but had foreseen the outcome. She could find the bright side of midnight. “Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll call you next week.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too, kid.” She winked at me and with a wave, the screen went black.
I closed the laptop and got up, searching my closet for something to wear. This had become a time-consuming addition to my daily schedule. An attractive male inhabited my house, and female law dictated I slay 24/7 without appearing like I tried. Rain or shine, my makeup stayed flawless, my braids glossy, my edges laid, and my legs hairless. Since manual labor was on the agenda today, I settled for my yellow volunteer T-shirt and jeans that flattered my shape while allowing me to breathe.
In the hallway, I found the door to Mateo’s room open. He was still in a funk over the living arrangements, needing to bum a ride everywhere, and being appointed house chef. He’d barely looked at me during breakfast, just mumbled stuff in Spanish that sounded like cuss words. If Grandma Trina noticed, she’d kept it hidden behind a neutral stare and the morning paper.
Over the course of the week he’d progressed from pancakes and waffles to crepes and quiche, all of which were slapped onto my plate with contempt. All the food was five-star gourmet quality, but the cook was a little too salty for my taste. Outside of meals, he’d hide in his room or brood in the living room and watch the Food Network with the dogs.
He now sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his head bent over an opened steamer trunk. It was covered in faded stickers and postage stamps, from back when people traveled by cruise ship.
“Where’d that come from?” I asked from the door.
“My house. It’s all I could salvage from the storm. My dad left it to me before he went back to Reynosa. I keep all my important stuff in here: pictures, ID, documents, souvenirs.” He closed the lid of the trunk and locked it. “You need something? Room service? A cup of tea, m’lady?” he asked with cheek-sucking bitterness.
That’s it! Crush or no crush, he needed to be checked. I crossed the threshold. “Mateo, you’re nobody’s servant. Grandma Trina just wants you to practice your cooking skills. You’re really good at—”
“Is that why you keep avoiding me? You barely say a word to me in school.” A note of sadness broke his voice. “You’re afraid folks might find out you’ve got a poor immigrant living in your house? Guess what? People see us riding to school together. Everyone knows.”
Whoa! That wasn’t why I was avoiding him. He was so off base, and I would’ve paid hard cash to have this conversation elsewhere. Like on a deserted beach. Or on our honeymoon. Now wasn’t the time or the place to discuss feelings, and all I could say was “Weren’t you born in Virginia?”
“Who cares!” He leapt to his feet so quickly, the motion made me jump. “Nobody in school does, not students, teachers, nobody. That’s the point. They just assume whatever they want.”
“Maybe if you talked more, people wouldn’t have to wonder about you.” I took a step back and then another, until my feet landed in the hallway.
“Forget it. I don’t care. I’ve got real issues to deal with besides you.” He kept coming, his hand reaching for the door, ready to slam it in my face, when Grandma Trina’s voice rang out.
“Janelle Lynn! What in the world are you up to now?”
Mateo and I exchanged glances, then turned to the old lady clocking us from her bedroom. Her fuzzy yellow bathrobe was older than I was and made the woman look like the sun, but there was nothing bright about the scowl on her face. “You not in here peepin’ on that boy again, are you?” she asked.
Like a criminal caught in the act, I raised my hands and backed away from the door. “Grandma, it’s not—”
I swear, Grandma couldn’t find a chill in the North Pole.
“As for you, young man—why don’t you go and help Janelle at the park today?” she asked Mateo.
The smug grin he’d worn vanished. “Other than me not wanting to? No reason,” he replied.
“Good, because you’re goin’. So hurry up and change. It might help you end this lil pity party you’re throwin’ for yourself. Seeing other people worse off than you makes you see clearer and count your blessin’s.”
“Which are?” he asked.
After a brief moment of reflection, I answered, “Well, you have a roof over your head and indoor plumbing. And you don’t have dysentery.”
His upper lip curled and he backpedaled into his room. “I’ll grab my shoes.”
“Great! I’ll wait in the car.” I moved to the stairs with an extra spring in my step.
Aberdeen Square was where all the parades and festivals were held, and where farmers sold their goods every weekend. The locals took pride in preserving the historical landmarks: the old courthouse, the clock tower, and the Protestant church that lent the town its name. Meanwhile, my peers’ main concern was if the indie bookstore had free Wi-Fi.
I hopped the curb and crossed the street, following the signs pointing to the brick path at the lip of Aberdeen Park. White Christmas lights dotted the trees that lined the park’s main path. They hung all year round and created a magical atmosphere. Perfect for a first date. Those trees now looked naked and eerie with wires dangling from branches like Spanish moss. Relighting the path was just one of many repairs needed, and I was all in.
Mateo, on the other hand, still looked annoyed and ready to swing. With hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, he sped up his pace and grumbled in Spanish the whole time. His long legs tore down the brick walkway, forcing me to jog to keep up.