by L. E. DeLano
Maya stares at her belligerently and my face has the exact same expression.
“She was making fun of me in her presentation.” Maya snaps.
“I was not!” I shoot back. “If you identified a little too closely, it’s not my problem.”
“Because my Dad didn’t buy my way in here?” she retorts. “I had to earn my scholarship.”
“Oh, please! Throwing down the scholarship card like it makes you something special!”
“You don’t know a thing about me!”
“I know you like to make up relationships. Austin says you’re not even together.”
“That’s a lie! You are so pathetically jealous!”
“Of you?” I laugh out loud. “Crayola doesn’t even make your shade of crazy.”
“Bitch!”
I only get the “F” sound of my reply out before Mrs. Ramsey cuts me off.
“Enough!” She takes a deep breath. “Blue, is it possible you were insensitive with your presentation—not considering it could have been perceived as being pointed at Maya?”
Maya is smiling that Cheshire Cat smile again. Why bother talking? Mrs. Ramsey’s head swivels and she catches Maya with that smile on her face.
“And Maya,” she continues, “Mr. Jones tells me that you have gone out of your way to make very pointed commentary during class discussions. Commentary that could easily be construed as being directed at Blue.”
Oh. So Mr. Jones did notice. He didn’t bother to do anything about it at the time, though.
Now it’s Maya’s turn to shut up. We both sit, bodies angled away from each other, arms folded across our chests, completely mute.
Mrs. Ramsey lets out a sigh and takes a seat behind her desk. She crosses her legs and loops her folded hands over one knee.
“All right,” she says. “Nobody wants to talk about the elephant in the room. I understand how uncomfortable that must be for both of you. Maya lost her father. Blue, you lost your brother.” She holds up a hand to stifle Maya’s sputter of indignation before she goes on.
“Of course Blue’s loss is nothing compared to yours, Maya, but it’s a loss all the same. Her brother is incarcerated. Like you, her home life has been turned upside down. Both of your lives have been altered in very different ways, but what I’m getting at here is that there was impact to you both. For the moment, that fact and this high school are all that you have in common. Am I right?”
I glare sideways at Maya and the word Austin might as well be written across my face because she reads it easily and gives me a little smirk.
Mrs. Ramsey leans back in her chair, looking at me, then Maya, and then back at me again. “I want you both to reach into your backpacks and pull out some paper and a pen,” she requests, motioning us both to move closer in to the desk so we can use our side of it for writing.
We both make a face, but we do what she asks. I set my pen down on my paper and look at her expectantly.
“Maya is right,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “You don’t know her. Not really.”
I grit my teeth at the smug look on Maya’s face.
“And she doesn’t know you. So here’s your first assignment,” Mrs. Ramsey goes on. “I want you to write five things about the other person that make you completely different from each other.”
“Five things like what?” Maya asks, giving me a look of pure loathing. “I could give you a book full of things.”
“Yeah, kind of hard to pick just five,” I agree.
“Well then, you’ve got plenty to choose from.” Mrs. Ramsey smiles in a really annoying way. “It can be as simple as the difference in your eye color, or it can be as complex as describing your genetic code. I don’t really care. Just give me five things that make you different from each other.”
I look down at my paper. There’s a serious urge to write paragraphs, but I want to get through this and get out of here as quickly as possible.
Number one, I write. Maya has brown eyes. At least I think she has brown eyes. I glance over quickly to make sure.
Number two: Maya plays basketball.
Number three: Maya is a scholarship recipient.
I scratch that out. She already made me sound like I made a big deal out of that.
Number three: Maya doesn’t have an iPhone. Wait. Does that sound privileged? It might sound privileged. She’s got me second-guessing myself. I scratch that out, too.
Number three: Maya has Biology for second block. I know because Alli B. has her in class.
Number four. Number four . . . Okay, I’m honestly getting stumped. Number four: Maya doesn’t have a car. That probably sounds privileged again but I don’t care anymore.
I glance over at her, and she is writing a freaking book on her paper, her hand flying across the page. I guess she wants to stay here all afternoon. Knowing her, she just wants me to stay here all afternoon, and she’s willing to suck it up and stay herself if it means I’m stuck here, too. Spiteful bitch.
I scratch out number four and write Maya thinks it’s fun to deliberately insert herself into other people’s lives and cause drama. I look over again. She’s still writing.
I go on. Without a thought for the ripple effect of her actions, she targets other people with her bullying. She is petty and shallow and manipulative to the people around her who have the misfortune of considering her to be a friend.
I look over at her again. It looks like she might have stopped writing. Okay, I’ll wrap this up.
Number five: Maya’s perfume smells like floor cleaner.
I set my pen down, and raise my eyebrows, giving Maya my best smug grin—only to find it staring me in the face as she does the same.
“All right,” Mrs. Ramsey says, folding her hands on the desk in front of her. “Let’s hear them. Who wants to go first?”
Neither of us speaks for a second and then Maya shrugs her shoulders. “I’ll go. Whatever. Item one,” she begins.
Item? She can’t just say number one like a normal person?
“Blue has a stupid name and I would be embarrassed if I had a name like that. I don’t know why she doesn’t use a nickname or go by her middle name or something unless it’s even more embarrassing than her first name, which is hard to imagine.”
I grit my teeth because she’s not wrong. My middle name is Antoinette, for my Italian grandmother on my father’s side. I suppose I could go by Ann or Toni, but then I have to explain why I’m bypassing one name and shortening another, and it’s just easier to suck it up and go with Blue.
“Very well,” Mrs. Ramsey says, as if Maya has just put forward a thoughtfully constructed debate point. “Blue?”
“Number one,” I read. “Maya has brown eyes.”
I sound lame. I sound so lame. Like I can’t have an original thought so I just did what Mrs. Ramsey suggested as an example.
“Well, that’s certainly the most civilized response so far,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “What’s next on your list, Maya?”
“Blue doesn’t know how to treat her boyfriends,” she says in a sugary-sweet voice. “That’s why they lose interest.”
My hand tightens around my list so hard that I crinkle the paper.
“Blue do you have a second point you’d like to make?” Mrs. Ramsey asks coolly.
“Maya plays basketball. Badly.” I add.
Maya makes a noise with her teeth and mumbles the word jealous under her breath.
“No commenting beyond reading your point, please,” Mrs. Ramsey cautions. “Is that it for point two?”
I nod and she looks over at Maya. “Three?”
“Blue has a loved one with a drinking problem.” Maya states flatly.
I suck in a breath but before I can start tearing into her, Mrs. Ramsey holds up a hand. “Maya, since you don’t live in the same house as Blue, any conclusions on your part abo
ut her family members are mere conjecture.”
“Not if there’s a police report,” Maya says, smiling sweetly.
“And the police report showed my brother was under the legal limit,” I remind her. “But I guess facts don’t play into this for you.”
“Here’s a fact for you!” Maya jams a finger toward my face. “My father was run off the road by your idiot brother who was probably drunk but had a better lawyer. Maybe he was reaching for his next beer when he took his eyes off the road.”
“Maybe if your father hadn’t been texting, he would have stayed on the road, and you’d be torturing him right now instead of me!” I snarl back.
“Girls!” Mrs. Ramsey stands up. “This isn’t productive!”
She moves out of her chair and around her desk to get between us, but it’s too late. Maya’s on her feet and so am I. She pushes me hard in my chest, sending me backwards, stumbling into my chair. I catch myself before I fall, and whirl back around, still reeling. I lunge for Maya and end up falling into her instead, sending her into her own chair. Her legs tangle up in it and she falls, crashing to the floor.
She screams, but it’s more a sound of rage than anything else.
“Maya!” Mrs. Ramsey rushes to her and Maya makes the most of it, rolling over and clutching her foot like I just chopped it off with an axe.
“Oh, come on,” I sneer.
Mrs. Ramsey crouches on the floor and she puts a hand up as if to physically stop me from getting in there and finishing Maya off. I slump back down into my chair as she gets an arm around Maya’s shoulders and helps her to her feet. Maya is moaning and hopping dramatically, doing her best to try to squeeze some fat crocodile tears out of her eyes but they won’t come.
“I’m taking her to the nurse’s office,” Mrs. Ramsey snaps at me. “Wait here—I’ll be calling your parents right after hers.”
Outstanding. I wonder if there’s a spirulina shake to counteract this event. My life just went from bad to worse, and I have a feeling it’s all downhill from here.
12
"And another thing!" My mother fumes.
This is her fourth and another thing and it’s about three more than I have the patience to hear.
“I don’t think you realize how lucky you are, especially since this is a second offense,” she says, sloshing her energizing smoothie out of her glass as she gestures.
“It wasn’t as bad as everybody’s making it sound,” I grumble.
“You threw her to the ground!”
“She shoved me first!”
Mom sucks in a deep breath, shoves her manicured hand through her hair, shoots my Dad a look and goes on.
“They’re willing to let you both off with a week of full suspension, followed by eight weeks of after-school detention since you and Maya are both honor students.”
“And since you and Dad make significant donations to the school,” I point out.
Mom pulls in another breath and closes her eyes as if she needs a minute to keep from screaming at me. Like she ever would. My mother is not a screamer. She’s a salesperson. Right now she’s trying to figure out how to turn this entire situation into a lesson for me that will yield a net result of me living my best, most radiant life because that’s a win for her.
Dad, who has been sitting quietly all this time, letting her have the spotlight, clears his throat and finally speaks.
“Being a donor is a definite advantage in this situation,” he agrees. “But you’re not going to buy your way out of this. You’re serving detention with the school counselor—and the Rodriguez girl.”
“But I’ve got two AP classes!” I protest. “And a job.”
“You’re going to have to back off work. Realign your priorities,” Mom says.
“We told you before to stay away from that girl,” Dad reminds me. “Why don’t you just avoid her? I should think you wouldn’t want to stir anything up, anyway.”
“She’s been harassing me from the day she came back.” I tell him miserably.
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Make me a detailed list of everything—all the social media, all the comments in the hallway—anything else she’s done to deliberately harass you.”
“Why?”
“I assume the school has a bullying policy. If I get Hazleton and Farr involved, we may be able to get her removed.”
I swallow hard. Hazelton and Farr is the law firm we have on retainer. “Like, get Maya expelled?”
“It doesn’t have to be that ugly,” Mom says, tapping a finger on the table as she muses. “I’m sure the school and her mother will come to some sort of understanding that doesn’t reflect too badly on her record.”
I shake my head and something in my stomach turns over. “Then everyone will just talk about how my parents and their lawyer ran Maya out of school. Just like they talk about how my parents and their lawyer got my brother out of a manslaughter charge.”
Dad’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “When you hear that sort of talk, you need to bring it to the teacher’s attention.”
“Absolutely.” Mom nods her head. “We’re not paying them good money to let gossip drag our family name through the dirt.” She turns to Dad, puts a hand on his arm. “Maybe you should talk to Jerry.”
“Davis?” Dad rubs his chin. “I supposed he could speak to the principal.”
“Who’s Jerry Davis?” I ask.
Mom waves a hand. “He’s on the school board. He golfs with your father.”
“Ugh. No.” My voice comes out a little too loud. “Just let me deal with this, please.”
“But you’re not dealing with it,” my mother points out.
“Stay out of it.” The words come out through gritted teeth. “You’ll only make things worse. Harder.”
Mom raises her brows and turns her head to share a look with my father. He shrugs in return and she narrows her eyes at him, clearly hoping for a stronger response.
“Look.” I let out a sigh. “You said we have to learn to deal with each other. So let us do that. In our own way.”
“Very well,” she finally agrees. “But any more shenanigans, and we’re getting involved. I guarantee you won’t like it.”
I push to my feet. “I don’t do shenanigans. Nobody under the age of forty does shenanigans.”
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I have homework.” I walk to my room and don’t breathe until the door shuts behind me. I’m not crying this time. I just want to sleep. So I shove my air pods in my ears, turn on some music, and sink into the comfort of my pillow.
Two hours later my mom whoops in the other room and wakes me up—she was probably in the middle of her evening spin routine. My hand reaches for my phone on the nightstand, then I remember there’s nothing there I really want to look at. God only knows what texts I’ve gotten. The whole school is having one hell of a time rehashing all of this.
I have to look. Nine texts and one missed call.
I don’t recognize the number but they left a voicemail.
Jack.
He only gets fifteen minutes of phone time per week. Why is he calling me?
The notification pops up for a voicemail, and I play it.
Hey Blue, it’s me. Um . . . just wanted to say hi. Mom says you might need somebody to talk to. But . . . um . . . I guess you’re busy. So . . . um . . . later, Barfinator.
There’s a twinge of pain at the use of his familiar sign-off—a reference to the time I was seven and threw up on a carnival ride.
He sounds normal. Like he isn’t where he is. My nostalgia doesn’t last long as a wave of fresh anger sweeps over me. Mom says I need talking to? Did she tell him what happened today?
She is completely delusional if she thinks talking to Jack will make any of this better. He started this whole mess, and Maya is the one who won’t l
et it go. I don’t need to be talked to. I just need everybody to leave me the hell alone.
I toss the phone to the floor with a groan and roll my face back into my pillow.
13
The only thing worse than serving five days of suspension is serving five days in a house with my mother. At first, she made me get all my homework done, but when that only killed half of the first day, she demanded that I watch a documentary on Netflix and write a report about it for extra credit in Poly Sci. That got us to mid-afternoon. After that, she had me stuffing plastic bags full of brochures, coupons and product samples for her. She called it a mini internship. I call it hell.
Day two, I was left alone since she had to make product deliveries and go to lunch with a group of women in her direct line—the one that goes straight down the pyramid of stupid expensive products. Anyway, it’s an excuse for her to go to lunch with a bunch of women and drink wine and bitch about their difficult suburban lives. I’m just grateful that my mini internship didn’t extend to attending that lunch, so I was left blissfully alone for the rest of the day.
Day three was pure misery as Mom demanded I make up a spreadsheet with all my potential college choices and their admission requirements. When I told her there was plenty of time for that, I got an extended rant about the trajectory of my life and the importance of staying on track—which was all kinds of entertaining.
Day four put her into deep-cleaning mode. I was ordered to go through my closets and dressers, removing items for donation to the local Goodwill store. That only took up the morning, so after lunch she handed me a bucket full of cleaning products and told me to clean bathrooms and if I still had time to kill, I was supposed to sweep and mop the kitchen floor. I reminded her that we have a cleaning lady and she reminded me that it’s Thursday and the cleaning lady doesn’t come again until Monday. Then she launched into the you need to learn what an honest day’s work is like speech—as if I didn’t already work a crap job. I shut myself in the bathroom and played on my phone and never mopped the kitchen.
