“He had jumper cables.”
“So do lots of people.” I say this softly so it doesn’t sound so confrontational.
“Afterwards we talked. It was good. He went to school. I couldn’t.”
“You can’t be serious?” I’m testing her a little bit, she’s been so staunchly anti-Ian for so long. I need to be careful. I can’t blast him if she thinks she loves him.
“I said I miss him, not that I want you to be a bridesmaid at our wedding!”
“I know you too well, Raye. I know what the look on your face means,” I say.
“He’d have to come back on bended knee and kiss my feet and apologize.”
I hear what she’s saying, but what I’m picturing is totally different.
“Even that wouldn’t be enough, even kissing your feet, not after what he did to you.” Instead of Ian, I’m imagining my ex on bended knee. It’s kind of enticing, and I can see why she’s in dreamland with this prospect.
“At least I’m not doing Kandace Freemont leftovers.” That one gets me. I mean, the shock of an attack like that from Raye. My eyes start to water.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” She backpedals. Now it’s her turn to be careful. She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. Sometimes Raye can get overly defensive about the whole Ian situation, but I know pretty much exactly how she feels, so I’m not really mad about it.
I don’t want her to think I’m crying because she snapped at me. Raye can be pretty snappy. It’s just part of who she is. You accept it, or you get scorned and made fun of.
“It’s been a rough day,” I tell her. I didn’t want to talk about today before I had a chance to work things out, but I need Raye firmly in my court and not doing that “you’re my best friend so I can take my crap out on you” routine. So I tell her everything about the locker and the ice and the pictures. She takes a second to digest my information, and possibly her sandwich as well.
“Oh my God, Parker.”
“You haven’t been on the bitch blog? You haven’t seen or heard anything?” I ask. Raye checks these things more frequently than I do.
“Of course not, I would have told you. I’ve been on the move all day, hiding from Mom and Dad. I just couldn’t stand to see Kara after some of the things Ian told me. And this morning I needed to think.” Kara Bennington is the girl Ian broke up with Raye for, and she’s in Raye’s chemistry, algebra 2, and English classes. Nice, huh?
“I need to get home before my dad gets suspicious.” I check my watch. I’ve sat here way longer than I planned. “Come on, Raye.” I’m starting to get nervous. I hate having to go home almost as much as I hate the thought of my dad frowning and looking away whenever he sees me. I feel trapped between life and my life, if that makes sense.
“You don’t want a sandwich or something?”
I don’t want to tell Raye that I don’t have any money. I mean, she will insist on buying me something, and I owe her from the last three times we went out.
So I lie. “My size-fours are a little snug right now.” She laughs, stands, and gives herself a little shake.
“Nothing to be ashamed of about a size six,” she says, angling her cup to get the last of the Diet Pepsi out.
“I figured I’d move up to a five first.” We both stand and she carries her tray to the garbage can. I didn’t think she’d heard me, but she turns and says,
“The Limited doesn’t make jeans in size five.” I love the Limited’s basic jeans and that Raye knows me so well.
“I might shop someplace else.”
“Fat chance of that!” Raye laughs and I join her. Yes, I am predictable. It feels good to just be me in my classic-cut jeans and not worry about things for a minute, like whether she’ll realize I’m a total loser and drop me for cooler friends. I feel like an imposter sometimes when we’re laughing and I’m pretending to be spontaneous. I try to be careful with my friendships. It seems sometimes like friendship can be a fragile thing. I’ve been dropped before, by Marion when we were neighbors, by the popular girls in middle school. No matter how dumb it is, those things still hurt when I let myself think about them.
Sometimes I wonder whether Raye’ll get so wrapped up in Ian love that I’ll drop off her radar. She pulls into my driveway and I gather up the crusty dusty books and manage to hit my elbow really hard on the door of her car. My eyes start watering all over again as I stumble out of the car and up the sidewalk.
Dad is in the living room and he calls my name but I pretend I don’t hear him and head straight for the computer. I pull up the Social Siren and take a look.
The pictures are black-and-white, which is weird. Like some artsy photographer was traipsing around the neighborhood snapping shots. I know that’s not the case, because the pictures are digital and black-and-white is just one of the options on a digital camera. Still, it’s a weird choice.
Is it wrong that the first thing I notice is that I look really good? Zara was right. Those painful crunches I do every night before I go to bed have paid off. The first shot is when I pulled him back into the water with me. He’s kind of leaning back, and my body is on top of his. I might as well be totally naked since someone (probably Marion) has put little black squares over the really private parts. This makes it look like I am hot-tubbing naked with him, and Marion, out of the goodness of her heart, covered me up. Even if you know to look for them, you can barely see my bra straps in the first shot, but nobody’s going to notice something like that anyway. People usually think the worst.
The second shot is the one that makes me stop breathing. It’s of the two of us, wrapped in his towel. In the black-and-white shot the towel is unbelievably white. You can’t see my face because I’m looking down, but you can see his. I don’t know how to describe it, the look. Yearning. His cheek is resting against my hair, and the look is almost painful. How could anyone look at this and think we had sex?
If he ever once looks straight at me with that expression, I will do anything for him. Anything.
21
There’s no mention on Marion’s blog of me or any pranks involving ice. Of course, I knew Marion wouldn’t post anything there for Mr. Dawson to pounce on. She may be evil, but she isn’t stupid. The ice incident is probably destined to remain unsolved. And the pictures? I sigh. I miss the days when my life was uncomplicated.
I go downstairs for a snack and to find Daddy. He’s on his cell phone, but he hangs up as soon as I come into the living room.
“How was school today?” he asks.
“Fine.” I know my dad really cares, but how could I even hope to begin explaining the Ice Princess thing to him? It just isn’t going to happen. Plus, I don’t want him to think that I’m unhappy or a reject or anything. He needs to think I’m happy.
“Theresa is going to show the house to a couple tomorrow.” Kick in the gut. A couple possibly buying our house. This is a family house. This is my family’s house.
“If they buy it, where will we move?”
“I don’t know. There are some new houses going up across town, some new developments. Your mother and I are going to look at some places next weekend.”
New development. I know what that means—no yard, no trees. House the size of a postcard. Raye and her mom and her little brother, Flint, lived in one of those until her mom got remarried. It was fine for them, but they didn’t have Preston. My brother could make a mansion feel like a confined space, what with the running and the jumping and the yelling.
“Will I still go to Allenville?” My voice sounds panicky and I take a deep gulpy breath. There’s no way I can handle a new school, don’t they know that? Even with the stuff that’s been happening, the fear of starting over is enough to paralyze me. I don’t do well with change.
“Of course. Allenville High is a magnet school, and your grades are outstanding. You’ll be able to go there no matter where we live.” If I can get a ride. Will Raye drive to some crappy place across town to get me? She can b
arely make it to school on time as it is.
“In that case, I guess I’d better go work on this history paper if I want to keep my grades up.” I make my voice cheerful.
Dad laughs, even though what I said wasn’t funny. “I’m so proud of your grades, Parker. You’re so focused, like your mother.”
I go over to him and press my cheek against his. I should kiss him—a year ago, even a few months ago, I would have—but it feels weird now. I feel weird, almost afraid. I liked being his little girl, but I pretty much screwed that up, didn’t I?
I feel bad because Dad looks so out of place sitting at home on a weekday, wearing his khakis that don’t ever really fit him correctly. He’s just sitting on the couch, not even watching TV or anything.
I really do have this paper to write about the Byzantine Empire. It isn’t due until next week, but it isn’t like I have a happening social life these days. All I have is a Dell.
Just out of curiosity, I hit my bookmark for Marion’s blog. Okay, it isn’t just curiosity. I want to see that picture again. His face. I want to live in that moment for the rest of my life. I think I’ll print a hard copy for myself.
But the pictures aren’t on the front page anymore. There’s a new headline. Allenville boy collects $1,000 prize along with frigid girl’s virginity. I say a really bad word. I say more really, really filthy words. I try to convince myself as I scroll down, my hand shaking just a little, that Marion’s use of the word frigid is coincidence, that she isn’t talking about me. But I don’t convince myself of anything.
The Social Siren by Marion Henessy
What kind of a guy would date a girl only to collect a one-thousand-dollar prize for “de-flowering” her?
(I hope Marion knows deflowering does not need a hyphen and shouldn’t be in quotation marks.)
There were some Allenville students who wondered what anyone would see in Parker Prescott. Apparently, a payday. It seems a group of guys got together and put up a one-thousand-dollar prize for the winner, the first one to get into her pants. Prize money was collected today, mostly in one-dollar bills.
She obviously just posted this. There are only three replies.
Anonymous says: I knew a hottie like him wouldn’t go for her! Think he’ll want Kandace back now?
UbErKyLe says: Marion we need to talk.
Yeah, that’s cool, they send messages to one another on a blog when they live in the same freaking house.
Anonumoose says: he has plenty of money why would he do something like that for money?
Marion says: I doubt it was about the money. More a bragging thing. Poor, poor Parker. She thought he really liked her.
I want to punch the computer, to hurl it across the room, to smash it into a pile of twisted cords and black plastic and whatever wires and gizmos make up the insides of a computer.
I know it isn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be true. It’s crazy Marion bullshit. But I don’t feel alive anymore.
I lie down on my bed, stare up at the ceiling, and try to think of a way to get back at Marion Henessy. And I try to think of a way to figure out that it definitely, for sure, isn’t true without looking like an idiot. Like more of an idiot. There is just no way.
22
“People are going to believe it,” Raye says.
It’s Tuesday morning, second period. I feel sick and totally dejected. No way, I keep thinking. No way no way no way no way. No one in their right mind will believe he went out with me because of some bet. No way. And yet this is just sick enough for Marion to have orchestrated it. I know it’s not true. That didn’t keep me from having a dream where Marion was handing him one of those enormous checks, the ones you see when someone wins the lottery or whatever, checks the size of a small school bus, while Kandace watched and clapped her hands.
We’re in the library in front of one of the nice computers that the school got through a grant. At least, that’s what it says on the little plaque above Raye’s head. She and I emailed back and forth about the situation all last night. I never heard from him, though I watched my in-box and checked four times to make sure my cell was on Ring and not Vibrate, that I hadn’t missed a call. Even if he didn’t want to call my house and he didn’t realize I had gotten my cell phone back, how hard would it be to send me a message?
After all that stress the only thing Raye and I came up with seems to be that some people are going to believe it.
“Some people always will. They believe all the ugly rumors. Do we really care about them?” I ask. She’s always saying we shouldn’t give a crap what anybody thinks, and yet right now she seems to care very much.
I want to tell her that I’ve been thinking about nervous breakdowns lately. Will that sound insanely melodramatic? It’s just too much, too many things at once. I want to drop out of the world and sit in a padded room and let life pass me by for a few days. Of course, that’s kind of what happened to me when I was grounded. And the bad things just kept coming.
1. The discussion on the blog about him and Kandace, like I needed to read any of that.
2. The melty ice in my locker.
3. Some weirdo took pictures of me and him.
4. And now this insane thing about a bet.
I know who my enemy is, but I don’t know what to do about her, and here Raye is telling me that all the idiots who read Marion’s blog have opinions that matter. I really don’t need this right now.
So I got an e-mail from Kyle Henessy last night, but it got overshadowed by the other crap that’s messing up my life. Plus, it was very disappointing, and I’m trying not to think about what a dumbass I am to even try something so pathetically lame. The short version is that Kyle isn’t biting. No selling pictures of Paige in a bikini. No convincing him to sabotage (or just stop maintaining) his sister’s evil Parker-destroying blog. I need to make an alternate plan, but I don’t have any great ideas.
“You have to look at them for the next year and a half.” Raye is talking. I try to focus. She’s talking about our fellow students and their vile thoughts and opinions that I have to consider all of a sudden. Because they matter or something. “And most everybody in school thinks they’ve seen you next to naked now.” I told her about the bra. I mean, you could see the straps if you looked close enough. “At least you looked good.” She gives me a look that’s almost dirty. “What’s with the sculpted abs, Parker?”
“I’ve been getting ready.”
“For?”
This is embarrassing, especially now.
“Him.”
Raye maximizes the picture. “Looks like you’re ready. Seriously, Park, what are you waiting for?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
This is the part where I expect Raye to laugh at me, where I will respond by laughing at myself. But no one laughs. I do not want to talk with her about this. It’s the thing that’s been bouncing around in my mind since our very first date. The hope that I don’t want to jeopardize by saying it out loud.
“Look, I know you two are totally back together, I know you are going to do this with him eventually. I just want to know what the holdup is.”
I study my hands. Wish we could still afford to go every week and get our nails done. I mean, I wish I could still afford to get my nails done. I love having unbelievably smooth nails in any color I want. I love tapping my nails against things with that neat little click, click, click.
“I’m waiting for him to say he loves me,” I say more quietly than I expect.
Raye just looks at me levelly, over the can of Diet Mountain Dew that she isn’t supposed to have open in the library.
“He hasn’t said it yet?”
“No. . . .” It comes out as a whisper. Does she think that he would have, is she surprised? Am I a loser for hanging around this long waiting for some declaration from him?
“Damn. Ian told me he loved me on our third date. Right before we, well . . .” The bell rings. Not having a social life outside of school royally sucks. Of c
ourse, we didn’t talk about this stuff that much before I got grounded either. Because Raye is smart enough to know that on the third date, right before whatever, he couldn’t have meant it. But then, she was with Ian a long time. There must’ve been something there. At least she didn’t feel she had to push him away. At least she was absolutely sure of what she wanted.
Here’s a question for your secret diary. You know, the one with the flimsy little key. Is it better for him to lie or to not say it at all?
I want to see him and I don’t want to see him. I hate school. I hate the hallway, and the lights and the noise.
He catches me between third and fourth periods. Catches is the exact right word, because once I see him it’s like invisible ropes are holding me in place and invisible butterflies are devouring my guts. For some reason that’s what I thought when I was little; I didn’t understand that the fluttering of nerves was what people referred to as butterflies. I always pictured them feasting on my insides.
“Parker!” Does his voice sound weird? A little higher-pitched than usual? “Parker, why didn’t you call me last night?”
“I’m grounded, remember?” He can’t put this on me. He should’ve called. He should’ve sent me a message. He didn’t. I’m mad and really uncomfortable. We’re standing right in front of the double doors to the gym, and people are watching us as they walk past. I hold my books against my chest. Even while the anger courses through me, more than anything, I want him to make it all better.
He reaches toward me, like I’m really far away instead of right here. He pushes my hair back from my face. It’s a small gesture, but intimate. I hear someone laugh behind us.
“Parker, there’s no way you can believe, there’s no way you could possibly think that I would . . .” The look on his face is tragic, and a little bit of my anger melts away, but not enough. There’s hurt and anger and some sort of stupid shame that I don’t think should be there inside me but won’t go away.
Handcuffs Page 12
