“Devon,” Mel says. She grabs my shoulders. “This has nothing to do with Molly and Polly.” Aha! Molly and Polly! I should have remembered, since Polly totally sounds like a parrot when she talks.
“Then what does it have to do with private school?”
“My mom wants me to go,” she says, shrugging. “To private school. Starting this year. Soon. As soon as she can get me in.”
“What?!” I’m so shocked that if I weren’t already sprawled in Bailey’s hallway, I probably would have fallen over. “What do you mean, your mom wants you to go to private school?”
“My mom wants me to go to private school,” Mel repeats, speaking slowly so I’ll understand.
“But why?” Private school sounds horrible. Uniforms. Girls like Cyn and Win. Tons of homework. And no BFF, i.e., me.
“She thinks I’d do better if I was in a different academic environment,” Mel says. “She thinks that since I’m only a few years away from high school, I really need to start focusing on school so that I can get into a good college.”
“But can’t you just focus on school at our school?” I’m starting to know what people mean when they say they’re having a panic attack. My heart is in my chest, and the room feels very, very small. Of course, that could be because we’re sitting in a very small hallway, but still. I can’t even imagine not being in school with Mel. Not dropping off our notebook in her locker every day. Not eating lunch with her. Not meeting her before class. Not talking to her during science. What if she makes a new best friend? A new, cooler, private-school best friend, and she forgets all about me? I feel a lump rise in my throat.
“Not according to my mom,” Mel says. “Devon, what am I going to do? At first I thought she was just sort of messing around with the idea, you know?” She sniffles. “But now she’s actually taking it seriously. The reason I’m dressed up is because I had an admissions interview this morning.” She sniffs again, and I stand up and head into Barelli’s downstairs bathroom to get Mel a tissue.
“Here,” I say, giving Mel her tissue. She wipes her nose, and then hiccups.
“What am I going to do?” she says again.
“Don’t worry,” I say, giving her a hug. “We’ll figure it out.”
“But how?” Mel wails.
Greg/Ryan pops his head around the wall, and peers into the bathroom, obviously not caring that it might be slightly inappropriate to look into a bathroom when someone’s in it. Even if we did leave the door open. “There you are, babe,” he says. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
And then it hits me. The perfect way to keep Mel out of private school. “Hey, Greg,” I say. “What are you doing next weekend?”
By the time the party is over, I still haven’t figured things out with Luke. He was perfectly nice to me for the rest of the party, but we ended up sitting in a group for most of the time, hanging out with everyone. And not really talking just to each other. Although at one point, when Mel, Greg/Ryan and I got back from the bathroom, Luke said, “Where were you?” and I said, “Talking to Mel.” Which was true. But Luke obviously knew that Greg/Ryan followed us.
And I can’t tell him that we were hatching a plan to get Greg back here next weekend, so that he can pretend to be a student at St. Mary’s, the private school Mel’s mom wants to send her to. We figured out that if we can get Greg/Ryan to act all crazy in front of her, then maybe Mel’s mom will see that boarding school isn’t the right place for her after all.
“You should totally grow a mustache,” Lexi says from the front seat when we’re on our way home in her mom’s car. “You would look so hard-core.”
Mrs. Cortland doesn’t even react. Maybe she didn’t hear, since she’s on some kind of business call. She’s talking into her cell phone headset. At least, supposedly it’s a business call. All I’ve heard her do so far is make plans to meet whoever it is she’s talking to for lunch and a pedicure. Lexi’s mom has her own real estate business, and Lexi says a lot of her mom’s work is networking with the right people. So maybe that’s why she has to go out for manicures a lot.
“A mustache?” I ask, not convinced. I look at Greg/Ryan’s face where he’s sitting next to me in the car. He doesn’t look like he could grow a whisker, much less a full mustache.
“Good idea,” Greg says. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.
“Anyway, you can’t go too overboard,” I say. “You have to make it believable.”
“Yeah, like you can’t freak her out too much,” Lexi says. “You just have to make the mom think that you shouldn’t be going to school with her innocent daughter.”
“Ladies,” Greg/Ryan says, leaning back in the seat. He drapes his arms over the back of the seat and gives me a smile. “Wasn’t I good in the role of Devon’s boyfriend?” He looks at me and winks. “Just trust me.”
Right.
I have to make sure to keep my hands in my lap so that there’s no scandalous hand squeezing, but I never thought about him trying to put his arm around me. Not that that’s what he’s doing exactly, but close enough. What if he tries to squeeze my shoulder? Is shoulder squeezing better or worse than hand squeezing?
I feel my cell phone start to vibrate in my purse, and I pull it out. Yay! It’s probably a text from Luke! Saying he’s sorry that we had such a weird party, and that he’ll see me tomorrow, when we get together to go over some mock trial stuff. And then maybe he’ll sign it with a little heart, like he sometimes does. But it’s not Luke. It’s my mom. When did my mom learn to text? I hope this doesn’t mean she’s going to be texting me all the time. So not cool.
“When will you be home?” it says.
“Two minutes,” I reply, and then shove my phone back into my bag.
When we pull up in front of my house, I thank Mrs. Cortland for the ride, and tell Lexi to call me later. “Uh, nice meeting you, Greg,” I say. “Um, Ryan.”
“Nice meeting you, too, Devi,” he says. He reaches over and grabs me in a hug. Um, eww. He smells nice, though. Like soap and clean clothes. I pull away and disentangle myself from his arms (awwwk-waard), and I’m just about to open the car door when I catch sight of my mom coming out of our house.
Her hair’s swept up in a messy bun, with lots of little tendrils falling out, and she’s wearing jeans and a black sweater with a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder.
“Hiii,” she calls, waving as she steps through the piles of leaves on our lawn. The dishtowel falls to the ground, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
She rushes right up to the car and over to the driver’s side window. Mrs. Cortland looks at her like she’s crazy as my mom motions for her to roll down the window. Yikes. I hope she didn’t see me hugging Greg.
“Hi,” my mom says once Lexi’s mom has ended her phone call and has rolled down the window. “I’m Marcia Delaney, Devon’s mom.”
“Hi,” Lexi’s mom says.
“Hi, Mrs. Delaney!” Lexi yells from the passenger seat.
“Hello, Lexi,” my mom says. “Don’t you look nice.”
“Thank you.” Lexi preens, and my mom peers into the backseat.
“Oh,” she says. “And who’s this young man back there with Devon?” She says it in a light tone, but I know enough to realize she wants to know exactly who he is, and uh, what he’s doing in the backseat with me.
“Oh, that’s just Greg,” Lexi says, waving her hand as if he’s no one. “Just a friend from my old school. Him and Devon don’t even know each other.”
“Nice to meet you,” Greg/Ryan says. He gives my mom a little signal of salute with his fingers, which is weird, but my mom seems to like it. “You can call me Ryan.” My mom frowns.
“So,” Lexi’s mom says. She leans her hand against the steering wheel and slides her big Paris Hilton sunglasses down over her eyes. Even though it’s not really that sunny out. “It was nice to meet you.”
My mom gets thrown for a second, but recovers quickly. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk for a second. I’m sorry, w
hat did you say your name was?”
“Diane,” Mrs. Cortland says.
“Diane,” my mom replies. “I wanted to touch base with you about the dance that’s coming up at school.”
Mrs. Cortland looks at my mom blankly. “The dance?” she asks.
“Yes,” my mom says. “The one the girls are planning on going to.”
“There’s a dance at school next week,” Lexi says. “Remember? You said we could go in the Hummer.” She squeals. “Not to mention the pre- and post-parties, holla!”
Not the best thing to say in front of my mom. I don’t think she looks too fondly upon pre- and post-parties, or upon the word “holla.”
“Woot, woot,” Greg/Ryan chimes in. He grins at me.
“Oh, right,” Mrs. Cortland says. “It should be fun.” She looks into the backseat at me. “It was nice to see you, Devon.” Right. It’s obvious she wants me to get out of the car. Then I realize I’m still wearing my mom’s boots. Crap. I was planning on ditching them in the garage on my way into the house, but now I obviously won’t be able to do that, since I’ll be walking right by my mom.
Hmm. I wonder if I can wiggle out of them, and somehow leave them in Lexi’s car, hop into the house without my mom realizing that I’m not wearing any shoes, and then pick them up later. I reach down and slowly start pulling the zipper of the left boot down toward the heel.
“Yes, well, I’m assuming that these pre- and post-parties you’re planning will be supervised,” my mom says.
“Of course,” Mrs. Cortland replies. But she doesn’t really seem like she’s that interested or even means it. Which she probably doesn’t. I’ve hung out at Lexi’s house a lot, and her mom is hardly ever there. She’s always either out working, or in her workout room, or just . . . I don’t know. Out. Lexi’s dad is never home. He’s always on business trips. He sends Lexi soaps and chocolates from all these different countries.
“And will there be boys attending?” my mom persists.
Ohmigod. I want to die. Will there be boys attending? Who asks that? And what is wrong with this boot? The zipper is not even moving at all. Have my feet gotten bigger within the past few hours? It must be all this stress. It’s causing my feet to swell. Definitely not good. I finally slide the zipper all the way down, and pull my foot out of the boot. Ahh.
“The party? Or the dance?” Lexi’s mom asks.
“The party,” my mom says.
“Well, I’m sure the girls will have their dates there,” Lexi’s mom says.
“Oh.” My mom looks a little shocked. “I wasn’t aware that the girls would be going with dates.”
“Well, it is, you know, customary for them to go to the dance with their boyfriends. Lexi will go with Jared, and Devon will go with Luke, and I suppose whatever other friends they have going with them will wander into the party.”
The other boot comes off, and I very casually slide it under the seat in front of me. No sweat. Now all I have to do is make it into the house without my mom noticing that I’m in bare feet. Which actually doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a very hard thing to do, since she is getting very angry. I can tell because she says, “Is that so?” to Lexi’s mom. My mom only says “is that so?” to people when she’s extremely mad. And although she’s saying it to Lexi’s mom, it’s also about me. And the fact that I have a date for the dance and haven’t really told her.
“Well,” I say loudly. “I guess I’ll see you guys later!” I open the back door of the car. “Bye, Lex! Bye, Greg!”
“Bye,” they both say.
When I get out of the car and over to where my mom is standing in the driveway, I have to pretty much grab her and pull her away from Lexi’s mom’s car. But she kind of has no choice, because Lexi’s mom’s phone has rung, and she’s picked it up and is talking into it. I guess she’s done talking to my mom. Yikes.
“That woman is so rude!” my mom says as I lead her toward the house.
“Totally,” I say. I never realized how cold the cobblestone walk leading up to our front door is. Probably because I don’t ever walk on it in bare feet, except in summer. And then it’s obviously hot. I’m basically hopping up the walk, and hoping my mom doesn’t notice. But since she’s so mad, she doesn’t seem to.
And then, right when we’re about to open the door, Lexi’s mom honks the horn of the Hummer. And when we turn around, Greg/Ryan is leaning out the car window, waving my mom’s boot in the air.
“Hey, Devon,” he says, grinning. “Your forgot your shoes!”
chapter eight
Okay. So. She can’t get too mad at me for taking her shoes. I mean, they’re just shoes.
The whole boyfriend thing is another matter. She’s definitely going to be mad about that. Right now she is making us grilled cheese sandwiches, which is not a good sign. When my mom gets mad, she just yells and grounds me like a normal mom. When she gets really mad, and there’s some kind of life issue she feels we need to discuss, she gets rid of my dad and Katie, and talks to me alone. And makes us food.
“We are going to the grocery store,” Katie sings, dancing into the kitchen, where I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of chocolate milk. “I’m going with Daddy, and you cannot go.”
“Great,” I say.
“But don’t worry. I am going to get you a present of one chocolate bar!”
I don’t say anything.
“I said,” Katie repeats, “that I am going to get you a present of one chocolate bar!”
“Thank you, Katie,” I say. “That is very kind of you.”
Katie beams.
“Where’s the list?” my dad asks, walking into the kitchen. He pulls his cell phone off the charger on the counter and slips it into his pocket. Hmm. Very suspicious. He probably wants to call his girlfriend while he’s out with Katie. The thought of this makes my throat get all tight, and it just keeps getting tighter and tighter, and by the time Katie and my dad walk out the door a few minutes later, tears are threatening to spill down my cheeks.
My mom places a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches in front of me, cut in half diagonally just the way I like it, and I burst into tears. She looks shocked.
“There’s no need to cry about it, Devon,” she says. “They’re just boots, I’m not that mad.”
“No,” I say between sniffles. “It’s not that.” I blow my nose on my napkin.
“Then what is it?” she asks. She puts a cup of tea down in front of her own plate, and sits down at the table with me.
“Nothing,” I mumble, swiping at my tears with the back of my hand. How can I tell her that while she’s here making grilled cheese sandwiches and cutting them in half like she knows I like, my dad is out with my little sister probably making phone calls to some other woman? And how could I have taken her boots? She’s going to need them if she becomes single again.
“Devon, we need to talk about Luke,” my mom says.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say. I blow my nose again and then take a tiny bit of my grilled cheese, which makes me feel a little bit better. “I just didn’t want you to freak out.”
“So he is your boyfriend then?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And what does that mean to you, exactly, having a boyfriend?” she asks.
“Um, I don’t know. That we talk on the phone and maybe hold hands at school and go to the dance together and I’m not allowed to do that with any other boys.”
My mom looks relieved. I guess she thought maybe I was a step away from ending up married with children. I mean, we haven’t even French kissed yet. Lexi and Jared do it all the time, and her mom doesn’t even seem concerned about it. Thinking of French kissing Luke starts to make me feel hot all over, and I take a sip of the cool milk, hoping it will calm me down.
“Devon, you know it’s okay for you to be interested in boys. What I don’t like is the sneaking around.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin and looks thoughtful.
My cell phone st
arts ringing, and I look at the caller ID and see Luke’s name blinking. Yay! He can’t be too mad if he’s calling, right? Thank God Lexi didn’t change my phone so that it would say “my 1&only” like she threatened to the other day when she was setting up a ringtone for me. I don’t think my mom would take too kindly to that, and our talk is going so well. She’s not even that mad about the boots!
“Who’s that?” she asks, trying to look nonchalant.
“It’s Luke,” I say, holding it up and showing her, so that she won’t think I’m trying to hide stuff from her. “I’m just going to answer it and tell him I’ll call him back, is that okay?”
“Of course,” she says. But the look on her face says maybe she’s still a little freaked out. But I will show her there’s nothing to freak out about, that there’s nothing going on here, just an innocent little junior high school romance. Well, not exactly that innocent. With the fake ex-boyfriends and all. La, la-la.
“Hey,” I say, flipping open my phone.
“Hi,” Luke says. And he doesn’t sound too friendly. I guess he is still mad about the party, and about Greg/Ryan. Thank God he won’t be coming around again. Greg/Ryan, I mean. Well, except for next weekend when he plays a troubled kid from the wrong side of the tracks who goes to St. Mary’s. But Luke doesn’t need to know about that.
“What’s up? I’m just having a grilled cheese with my mom. She cut it in half just the way I like it,” I tell him, glancing at my mom out of the corner of my eye, and hoping this will score points with her.
Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better Page 9
