“Yep,” Alisha says, either not hearing Hunter or choosing to ignore him. “I went in yesterday to cover football practice.”
It’s only then that I notice Brynn has increased her pace, then gets in the back seat with Hunter before I can get to the car. I realize I’ll be getting dropped off last, since I live closest to Alisha—and me being in the front seat makes sense—but it almost feels like Brynn was racing me. I bite my lip as I buckle my seat belt and Alisha starts the car.
We turn out of the woods and onto the road leading to Brynn and Hunter’s neighborhood. I gaze wistfully out the window as we pass all the gorgeous old mansions and their manicured lawns on either side of the road. While Brynn and Hunter’s parents don’t own houses like this, they are definitely upper-middle-class. They live in the new section of Ringvale Heights, in the big brick-and-stucco homes that were built in the last ten years, complete with gourmet kitchens and three-car garages. Alisha and I are in the older section of town, where the houses are far less opulent. Most of them don’t even have garages, let alone ones for three cars.
“Damn it,” Hunter groans. “I got a mosquito bite on the bottom of my foot.”
I peek behind me and Hunter is studying his bare foot in his lap. I notice Brynn’s sitting closer to Hunter than to her actual seat. They’re shoulder to shoulder and she touches his foot as she examines it for a bugbite.
I chew the inside of my cheek as if to keep myself from spitting out the snarly “Can you move to your own damn seat please, Brynn,” that’s bubbling up in my throat. The last thing I want is to look like a psycho possessive girlfriend, so I stare straight ahead and silently will my sex deadline to get here quickly.
* * *
There’s something vaguely terrifying about coming home after deciding to have sex and having both your parents sitting on the porch as if they can read your mind and are waiting for you just to be all, “You’re going to sleep with him? When we’ve both somewhat passive-aggressively made known he’s totally not worthy of you? Really?”
But when I get closer, I can see they’re merely relaxing with glasses of ice water, and I’m struck for maybe the millionth time at what an odd couple they are. You couldn’t tell when they’re sitting, but Mom’s about two inches taller than Dad. She’s pretty bohemian—my grandmother used to say she dresses like a “flower child,” even though she was born too late for Woodstock and all that. Today, for example, she’s wearing a flowy yellow-and-orange blouse over jeans that are cut off right above the knee, and her long, light-brown hair is tucked back under a red bandana.
My father is more straightedge, though with a slightly European flair. Right now, he’s wearing khaki shorts and an A.C. Milan soccer T-shirt he picked up about eight years ago during one of our trips to see his side of the family in Italy. Everyone tells me I look like him, even Mom, who claims I’m “all Agresti.” I guess Dad’s thick, almost-black hair and brown eyes genes won the DNA battle over Mom’s fairer features, though I did inherit a taste for cheesy made-for-TV movies and the dimple in my right cheek from her.
They met when my mom was backpacking through Italy after graduating from college and my dad was a waiter at a café in Milan. He offered to give her a tour of the Duomo cathedral where he was once an altar boy, and the rest is history. When I ask them what attracted them to each other, my mom always says, “He had a great head of hair,” which will make my dad respond with, “She tipped well.”
I think of what I’d say if someone asked me what attracted me to Hunter: He saved me from being the new-girl social outcast.
I notice then how my parents’ clothes are grass-and-dirt-stained. “What were you guys doing?”
“Cleaning out the gutters and patching up holes on the roof,” Mom says.
“You went on the roof?” I practically yell. “Are you trying to make me an orphan?” Not that the roof is that high—the old farmhouse is two stories tall—but I was afraid of them falling through the roof. The house was built by my great-great-grandfather in 1910 and not much has been updated since then.
“El, you know we can’t afford a roofer,” Mom says. Dad just kind of stares off in the distance when she says this, and I instantly feel bad. It’s not really his fault we’re broke.
For years, my dad had wanted to open his own restaurant, and he finally got enough investors together about five years ago. He opened Agresti’s in our old town, Green Ridge, and food critics loved it. It was crowded every night and making decent money, so my parents bought a bigger house. It made enough money that Dad was able to hire a business manager, Dave, so he could go on vacations and not work weekends and stuff like that.
Except Dave basically screwed us out of all our money and we had to shut down the restaurant. My father didn’t get out of bed for almost two weeks after this all went down. I’m not sure I can describe what it’s like to watch your father give up on his dream and be incredibly in debt.
That led to us moving to Ringvale Heights, to the farmhouse, which has seen better days. Its weather-beaten white clapboard siding is in desperate need of a power washing, the slightly crooked black shutters are hanging on by some gravity-defying miracle, and there’s only one bathroom, tiled in 1950s Pepto-Bismol pink. But the mortgage is paid off and my parents only have to pay taxes on it, which is much cheaper than having to rent a new place.
In an effort to not bring the family morale down any further, I try to keep my feelings to myself. But honestly? Having to change schools in the middle of your junior year was beyond crappy.
Whenever I think of what was lost, I remind myself that I now have Hunter, so it worked out in that respect, at least.
“How was the lake?” Mom asks, and the whole sex thing comes rushing back.
“Oh, it was fine,” I say, pulling my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, trying to appear casual.
“Anything life-changing happen?”
I know she’s joking but it’s like she knows.
“Ha. Not today.”
“But it will tomorrow,” my dad says. “Just wait till you start cooking in your class!”
“Marco, don’t pressure the poor thing,” my mom says with a laugh. “She may have inherited my cooking skills for all you know.”
“I seriously doubt home ec will change my life,” I say as I head inside. “If I really need to learn to cook, I can always learn from the master.”
My father beams.
But seriously. Moving to a new high school in the middle of your junior year changes your life. Getting into your first-choice college changes your life. Actually having sex with your boyfriend changes your life.
Home economics class?
Not so much.
CHAPTER 2
I’m having the dream again. I’m back in seventh grade and standing on the sidelines of a gym class basketball game. My classmates are some variety of laughing, pointing, and staring at me because I’m wearing my old scoliosis brace over my clothes instead of under them. Danny Flatt comes up to me, sneering, and says, “No guy is ever going to want to have sex with you, Robot Girl.” This makes everyone in the room start laughing and pointing and staring harder, and then they all start chanting “Robot Girl!”
For some reason, the only thing I can say before I run out of the room is “Spaghetti.”
The sad thing is, aside from wearing the brace over my clothes, that probably could’ve been a typical day in middle school for me, even my lack of a formidable comeback. So it’s a relief to wake up twenty minutes before my alarm is set to go off, even though I realize I am crying and my nose is running. The last time I had the dream was right before I started at Ringvale Heights High and I’m guessing it was spurred on this time by the fact that Hunter didn’t return my call or texts last night.
I’d tried to go to bed as though I wasn’t bothered by the lack of communication, even though Hunter and I either spoke or texted every night before going to sleep. But I pretty much tossed and turned till about four in the morning.
I endure an intermittently hot and cold shower. I have no idea when the water heater was last replaced—my guess is it was sometime around the Kennedy administration—but at least I feel awake, though with a gnawing feeling in my stomach. I’ve clearly got a case of first-day-of-school nerves. I had them my first day at RHHS back in January, so it makes sense.
What’s sad is that I didn’t really ever have a problem with school at all until seventh grade, the hellhole of doom that inspired my dream this morning. Jodie and I were both at Chester Arthur Middle School, and since we hung out with the geeks, we both got picked on a bit, though not more than any other geek.
That’s until the scoliosis testing happened.
Yes, thanks to the school nurse being concerned about the curvature of my spine, and my doctor agreeing with her, my parents were told I’d have to wear a brace if I didn’t want to be all hunched over and crooked by the time I was forty. The brace was a mix of plastic and elastic and was way uncomfortable, but luckily, under my clothes it totally was not obvious. Except, one day in social studies, Danny, who thought himself quite the class clown, but was really just a dick hiding behind “humor,” went to go snap my bra strap and instead hit the brace.
“Oh my god, what is that?” he laughed.
When I didn’t answer, he yelled, “What, are you a robot?” He found this super hilarious and from that day on would yell “Robot Girl!” and other various insults whenever he saw me.
His friends got in on it and, for the next two years, they all made fun of me whenever I was in earshot. I didn’t want to tell any of the teachers because that would probably just make the situation worse.
My friends told me to not give them the satisfaction and just ignore it, but it was incessant, and I had no idea how to stop it. Danny and his friends started throwing food at me in the cafeteria and making fun of the fact that I was interested in meteorology (“Hey, Robot Girl! Is there a ketchup-packet downpour in your forecast?”) and picking on me on class trips (“Don’t forget to bring Robot Girl’s oilcan!”). It got so awful, I broke down and told my parents about it … which was a bad move because they told the school, who called Danny and the gang’s parents.
They were quieter about their bullying after that, but in a way that was worse, because it felt creepier. I didn’t need Danny whispering “Robot Girl” at me when I passed him and his friends in the halls or staring at me for the length of an entire class. It felt vaguely sinister.
Then Jodie decided to go to St. Catherine’s for high school, since her mom worked there as a history teacher and could get Jodie in for free. I asked my parents if I could go, because the idea of an all-girls school, free of boys, sounded like heaven. Since the restaurant was doing well and they knew how much trouble I was having, they agreed. And St. Catherine’s was amazing. Don’t get me wrong, it had its share of bitchy mean girls, but they mellowed out by the time junior year rolled around, and our small class was actually kind of close.
So when I was told I had to go to public school again, I was terrified. I didn’t have that much exposure to guys my age, and for me, they were still evil. I was the average-looking new girl who was pretty much poor. I didn’t have the scoliosis brace anymore, but I knew if people wanted to find something to tease you about, they would.
I basically flew under the radar the first week, sneak-eating my lunch in the back of the library so I wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of eating alone in the cafeteria. But one day, I’d been forced out of my hiding spot because a college fair took over the library, and while I was annoyed at the interruption, it was quickly eased when I remembered Penn State, with its incredible meteorology program, was going to be there.
After losing most of my college tuition money, I was worried I’d have to drop it from my list. Still, I figured maybe I could talk to the admissions counselor about financial aid, because I wasn’t quite ready to give up on the idea yet.
When I got to the Penn State table, however, it was empty, with a sign on it that read: “Be right back.” I must’ve sighed really loud because a voice behind me said, “I know, right? I bet they’re hanging out with the person from my table.”
I turned around and there in front of the vacant Princeton table stood Hunter, all button-down shirt under a brown sweater and jeans. I didn’t have much exposure to guys my age, but I was definitely attracted to the preppy type, and his Bambi eyes didn’t hurt, either. I tried to hide the fact that I had no real idea how to converse with a boy my age—and apparently I did it well, because by the time the admissions counselor came back, Hunter had asked if I wanted to hang out with him and his friends, and I’ve managed to avoid being a target of wide-scale teasing since.
I’m putting my contact lenses in when my phone rings, and I sigh with relief. It’s probably Hunter telling me when he’s coming to pick me up—all summer, he drove my broke, car-less self around, even to my job at the shoe store three towns over. “It’s what boyfriends do,” he’d say when I’d thank him. “It’s what good boyfriends do,” I’d correct him.
But when I pick up the phone, my heart sinks a little when I see it’s Jodie. And then I feel bad about that because she’s my best friend and she never calls this early, so it must be something important.
“What’s wrong?”
She laughs. “Good morning to you, too!”
“Sorry. You never call this early. I got worried.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just realized this is our first first day of school that we’re not spending together since we’ve known each other and I wanted to wish you luck!”
“Aww,” I say, and I feel tears prick my eyes. “Like I don’t miss you enough already!”
“Sorry! I’m about to microwave those smelly breakfast burritos you hate. Do you miss me now?”
I giggle. “Ugh, maybe not so much.”
“Are you working tonight?”
“Yeah, until seven. Can you stop by?” Jodie and I live about forty minutes away from each other now, but my job at Cityscape Shoes is only twenty minutes from each of our houses. It’s a good meeting point for a quick say-hello meeting.
“I don’t think so. I have Chinese class.” I can hear her rolling her eyes. Jodie was adopted from China when she was eight months old and when she turned six her parents decided that it was time for her to start understanding her roots, so they enrolled her in a Chinese language class. Jodie claims she has no desire to go track down her ancestry in China, but I think it’s because she’s terrified of flying—she’s been on exactly one flight in her life, and Jodie’s ensuing meltdown annoyed the flight crew so much that they asked her family to get off the plane. But she endures the classes because, as she says, “It’ll look good for USC,” her dream college … which means she has to get over her fear of flying at some point in the next ten months.
“So,” Jodie says, and pauses dramatically. “Did you and Hunter talk more about the big date?”
“No. He never called me or texted me last night, so now—”
“Hold up. Don’t start overthinking this. He’s a dude, of course he’s not going to be eloquent about it. I bet he’s showing his excitement in other ways.”
“Like how?” I ask.
“Um, like going out and buying truckloads of condoms and beer? Or maybe engaging in an arm-wrestling match with another guy? You know, to show off his newfound manliness.”
I start laughing. I don’t know where I’d be without her and her quick wit.
“Besides, it’s the first day of school, and you always love that. Don’t let the sex thing overshadow it. Seriously, what guy isn’t excited about finally
having sex?”
“Thanks. You’ve certainly got a lot of wisdom for this early in the morning.”
“I’ve learned to embrace coffee,” Jodie says. “Anyway, good luck today.”
“You too. Say hi to St. Cat’s for me.”
After hanging up, I notice that I start to feel a bit better, maybe because the nerd in me actually does love the first day of school.
I check my phone one last time before I leave, and when there’s no text from Hunter, I head out on foot.
When I get to school, the senior parking lot is filling up with cars and I fight back the sudden envy creeping into my stomach. I try to remind myself that a car isn’t necessary and that it would be a waste of gas for me to drive the six blocks to school every day.
As I walk past the last row of cars, I see Brynn getting out of her Jetta. I remember my pact with myself to be nicer to Hunter’s friends, so I call out, “Hey, Brynn!”
She lifts up her sunglasses and spots me, and her color seems to drain.
“Are you all right?” I ask, and she suddenly looks confused.
“Yeah, fine. You just startled me.”
“Sorry. How was your sister’s dinner?”
It’s weird, but she’s totally got beads of sweat starting around her forehead, and it’s only seventy degrees right now.
“It was great. The whole family was there. By the way, did you remember to make the papier-mâché globe for the Ringtones’ ‘Mad World’ number?”
You mean the song I suggested they do? Of course I remember. I can’t say that out loud, though, so I nod. “Yeah, I can bring it in tomorrow.”
“Good, because you know Steve is terrible with props and needs all the practice he can get. And he’s always forgetting his part in the song. It’s like, hi, how hard can it be to remember the bass line? It’s not like…”
Brynn is positively babbling at this point and I start worrying that she’s on caffeine pills. I mean, she’s an overachiever and all, but it doesn’t seem like her.
The Secret Recipe for Moving On Page 2
