He's real busy with Kara and school and the paper, but he's always there for me. After we graduate, we're going to leave this town for losers and head to California. We flew out there a couple of summers ago to visit his older brother, and that cemented it. He's taking hard classes like Latin and honors physics so he can get into Stanford by showing what a great scholar he is. I'm taking easy stuff so I can get into Stanford by just having decent grades, since my SATs suck.
We've been best friends since junior high, since you left. Other kids at school are always changing the people they hang with, but Brad and I don't change. He's a rock. He spends a lot of time with Kara. To hear him tell it, most of it is spent horizontal. Me, I spend time at work and here in room 127 of the Atlas Mini-Storage. Brad doesn't know about this place and these letters to you. It's my secret, and not my only one, either. Like what happened with Carla. He suspects, but even if he knew, he would never tell. He told me once that he was with me, right or wrong.
We get together at Supreme Donuts down the street from the old engine plant you worked at every now and then. Over the strange brew that is Supreme Donuts coffee, I told Brad about Johanna. I figured since he took journalism class with her that he might know what was going on. He had been hinting to me that she was interested, but my interest is Vickie.
"Hey, you know that brainy girl, Johanna?" I asked as I finished off a glazed doughnut.
"Let me see; I edit the school paper, and she's the assistant editor. What do you think?"
"So, I'm driving her home and—"
"Why are you driving her home?" Brad asked with a huge smile on his face.
"She was at that stupid student council thing you dared me to do. Thanks a lot, bro."
"My pleasure." Brad smiled.
"So she asked for a ride, and I thought what the hell. So, I'm Firebirding her home, and she says out of nowhere, 'I want you to kiss me.'"
"Get out of town!" Brad almost spilled his coffee.
"I couldn't believe it."
"Paul, I've been telling you that she likes you. She's always asking me stuff about you. She's always trying to get your attention."
"Well, it looks like she did," I said as I sipped my coffee.
"But she got it all wrong. She should put one hand on your shoulder and the other hand in your pants, that would've got you to stand at attention," Brad said.
"Funny man, real funny." Nobody cracked me up like Brad.
"I wasn't joking. So, how was it?"
"I said no." I looked down at my Chucks when I said it.
"What's with that?"
"I don't know, bro. She caught me off guard, and I was a little bit—"
"Afraid? Get over it, Paul. Now, if it were me—"
"If it were you, she would have to take a number. And Kara would kill her," I replied.
Brad laughed. "Both are points well-taken."
"I don't think Johanna is what I want," I mumbled. "She's smart and all, but—"
"You still want Vickie. Talk about taking a number. You'd better give that up."
"Now, why wouldn't Vickie say something like that to me?" I asked with a smile.
"Listen, bro, I think you should tell Johanna that you blew it. You say yes; she'll say yes; and before you know it, you'll be banging each other's brains out," Brad said.
"I'm not thinking about her like that," I said.
"Like hell you aren't. Listen. You're seventeen; I'm seventeen. This is how we think."
"I still want Vickie, but she just wants to be good friends."
"Then do something to change that. Force the issue; you have nothing to lose," Brad said firmly. In ways of women, I followed his advice one hundred percent.
"So how do I get Vickie to put her hand in my pants?" I said as I threw some change on the table.
"You're not serious," Brad said, taking his final sip of coffee.
"Brad, tell me this: In the almost six years we've known each other, have you ever known me not to be serious?"
"Only most of the time."
"Well, then maybe it's time for a change," I told him as we walked out the door.
But now Dad, none of that seems funny anymore; sometimes nothing does. There is so much stuff I am trying to work out, and I am doing it all alone.
You left me. You decided to leave. You know what you did. I know what you did to me and to Mom. And I know that I miss you.
Dad, I would offer you a beer, but like you, they are all gone.
FOUR
"So, who is this who gave you a ride home yesterday?" Even first thing in the morning my mother was in questioning mode, her caffeine and nicotine fixes kick-starting her day. She was attired in one of her many tailored suits, perfectly dressed and made up for her workday.
"His name is Paul. He's a senior at my school," I said, stifling a yawn. I'd slept very little. I had kept looking over at the alarm clock, the red letters announcing each minute of sleeplessness passing by. I spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling, memorizing every square inch like a math formula, unable to relax or sleep.
"So, Jojo, does he play any sports?" my father asked, sitting down next to me and passing me a glass of orange juice.
I tried not to laugh, because Paul seemed so anti-jock. Not laughing was easy enough, since humor wasn't a big feature of our little household. Every morning was similar to this one: a nice family breakfast with my father's face buried in the Wall Street Journal my mother's face buried in my business, and me trying to face another day. "No, he's on the student council."
"A politician. Just what the world needs, another politician," my father grunted.
"So, do you like this boy?" my mother asked.
"Mom, he just gave me a ride home," I said, grabbing a piece of the newspaper so I could hide my eyes from my mother.
I wanted to be able to talk with her about Paul and about lots of things, but it just never happened anymore. While there were still things we did together, like play Scrabble or go shopping for clothes, something had changed since I started high school. I felt less like a daughter she was raising and more like a project she was managing. She was proud of me, bragged about me to all the relatives, and to her friends and coworkers, about how well I did at school; but sometimes it seemed to be more about her than me. She and my dad always told me they were proud of me; they told me they love me. But love in our family was like a bad novel: all tell and no show.
She ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. "Well, I don't see how you really have time for this Paul character. Don't you have the SATs coming up in a few weeks?"
"But Mom, I took the PSATs last year and got almost a perfect score," I said.
"Horseshoes and hand grenades," my father said from behind his paper. Close wasn't good enough. I guess since I was their only child, only perfection was expected.
"So this year, if you study hard, you can get a perfect score," my mother said. "Wouldn't that be great, honey?"
"My little girl will do just fine. She always does. Besides, I wouldn't expect any less." My father put his paper down, smiled, and gave my hand a tender squeeze. My dad saw himself as tough but fair, and he normally was. My mother, well, I don't know how she saw herself. Looking at her lately was like looking at a fun-house mirror: I wasn't getting the real reflection of her, just this distorted image. The more she treated me like I was still twelve, the more I tried to pretend I was twenty. It was simple physics: she pushed, and I pulled away.
I wanted to shout out how no one was perfect, but then I thought about Vickie, the girl at school who, unlike me, had captured Paul's attention. Maybe if I looked like Vickie, he would notice me. Vickie looks like the homecoming queen that she is, with her perfect blond hair and blue eyes, her perfect body, perfect everything. I hate her. It isn't fair. I'm smart, so why doesn't that matter? I see how Paul looks at Vickie; I see how he never looks at me. Getting a perfect score on the SATs wasn't going to change that. Or maybe if I looked like Brad's chic but spacey girlfriend, Kara, Paul
would have answered yes to my question.
"He's not another one of these troublemakers, is he?" my father asked, putting down his paper long enough to pour himself another cup of coffee.
"I don't think so," I said, trying to hide my smile. Paul was often in trouble at school, mainly for being such a cutup in class or at assemblies. He seemed so assertive, even aggressive at times, so I thought he would like that quality in me. I guess I was wrong.
"Jojo, you are better than that," my dad said.
I didn't answer. I didn't like to talk about Ty, who had been my last/first/only boyfriend. After Ty dumped me in May, my dad said he didn't want to see me with those types. It was right after that parental pronouncement, however, that I developed my crush on Paul.
"There are more important things you should be doing with time," my mother added.
"I know," I agreed, which almost killed me, but they were probably right. I think they knew that Ty would hurt me. I think they knew, and they let it happen to teach me a lesson: that they were right. Sometimes I think what hurt the worst wasn't Ty dumping me, but my mother's I-told-you-so look for months after.
"Don't know what you ever saw in that loser, anyway." My father got his shot in, and then retreated back behind the newspaper again.
"He liked me," I said, trying to make the complex sound simple. The truth, they didn't want to hear: Ty said he wanted me. Maybe that was enough.
"Whatever happened to him?" my mother asked. It seemed a question of courtesy rather than true curiosity.
I shifted in my chair, taking the last bite out of my bagel. "He dropped out of school."
"Like I said, trouble," my father interjected.
"You'll have time for this after you graduate from college, won't you?" my mother asked, but allowed no time for an answer. "Your friends don't have boyfriends now, do they?"
"I guess not," I said, quickly grabbing another bagel to stuff in my mouth so I wouldn't be drawn into yet another topic of conversation I wanted to avoid: my friends, or lack thereof. I'm in a lot of clubs at school, but those people are not my friends. When the meetings are over, they go their way, usually together, and I go mine. The boys in my honor classes aren't interested in me. I guess they feel threatened or something. The girls in those classes I thought would be my friends, but they've sent a clear message that their clique is at quota. A couple of the girls, and I find this hard to believe, are even more socially awkward and shy than me. But I want something different; I guess that was why I liked Ty, and now Paul.
"Your friend Pam doesn't have a boyfriend, does she?" my mother continued.
"No, she doesn't," I said, looking at my watch, thankful that Pam would be showing up any minute to rescue me from this morning ritual. I know my parents mean well, and I guess, unlike lots of kids at school who never talk with their parents, I am fortunate that we spend this time together. But sometimes, it is too much. "I've got to go."
I got up from the table, taking a last sip of juice, a hug from my father, and pro forma "Love you's" from the both of them. I gathered my heavy book bag and stood on the front porch waiting for Pam to drive me to school.
I met Pam soon after I transferred to Pontiac West High School during the middle of ninth grade. We had just moved from one nice house in the suburbs of Detroit to another, even nicer one. Good for my parents, climbing the golden stairs to success; bad for their daughter, starting a new school in the middle of the year. At lunch, people would come over and start to talk with me, but then somebody else, somebody they knew better, would come along, and I would be out of the conversation. After a while, I stopped eating lunch in the cafeteria. I got tired of sitting alone or sitting with people who included me in their conversations but not their lives. I would go to the newspaper room during lunch to work on stories or do homework. Sometimes, I would just go to the library, find a thick fantasy novel and a quiet corner, and read. That's how I met Pam. I was sitting in my usual corner, totally engrossed in the latest Tamora Pierce novel. Pam just appeared out of nowhere and said she'd read the same book, which started us talking. My parents might argue that we had not stopped talking since that day.
"What's up, Books?" asked Pam as I climbed in her car. It was a nickname I didn't really like, but I did almost always have a book in my hand.
I took a deep breath and launched into it. "I did something really stupid."
"I don't think that's possible," she replied.
"I got up the nerve to ask Paul to give me a ride home from school yesterday, and then I asked him if he wanted to kiss me."
"You did what?" she asked as we backed out of the driveway. She knew about my crush on Paul. Sometimes it would be all I talked about, but I didn't tell her of my little plan.
"He said no. I can't believe it. I am so stupid."
"So what are you going to do?" Pam asked. I knew Pam well enough to know it was a rhetorical question. In due time she would tell me what she would do and what I should do. Pam wasn't real big on life experience, but that never stopped her from giving advice.
I bit down hard on the thumbnail on my left hand. "I just wanted him to like me. That's all I wanted."
There was a pause. Pam knew I was lying. I didn't want him to like me. I wanted him to love me and think I was beautiful. I wanted to be like those other girls I saw at school with their boyfriends—laughing, kissing, being part of something other than the parent pride parade.
"Look at it this way," Pam said. "Anyone who wouldn't want to kiss you, you wouldn't want to have kiss you—get it?"
"I guess," I muttered.
"Look, I'm your best friend, right?" Pam started. "When Ty dumped you and you did your Humpty-Dumpty impersonation, who put you back together again?"
"It was you," I said. This was a ritual Pam needed. She liked to remind me what a good friend she was. Like me, Pam seemed in constant need of reassurance.
Pam continued. "So who's going to help you now?"
"You are."
"Books, be careful. Don't you think if he hurt you once, he'll hurt you again?" Pam asked.
I sank down in my seat. "I just don't know what to do next."
"Show him that he can't hurt you and get away with it," Pam said confidently.
My head was imploding, so my heart took over. It did what it was supposed to do, acting as the body's most resilient and most mysterious muscle. "But he can, Pam. He can."
FIVE
Mr. Taylor was standing in front of the class trying to get everyone's attention. It's a game we play most days at the beginning of my first-period journalism class.
"Excuse me, the bell rang five minutes ago," Mr. Taylor said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. "This is a tough bunch, Johanna. See what happens when you have so many creative people in one room? I love it!"
I saw Brad sitting off to the side, drinking his normal big cup of coffee. Brad was gorgeous, just totally out of my league. You have to find your level, and Brad was well over mine. He had dark, curly brown hair; brown eyes; and he had a nicely trimmed mustache and beard, which looked great against the brown leather jacket he was wearing. Standing beside him were Lynne and Jackie, two of his girlfriend Kara's clique. Pam and I had dubbed them "the giggle girls" because they never seemed serious about anything but their clothes and makeup.
I kept looking over at Brad, trying to see if his face gave any indication that he knew what an idiot I'd been in the car with Paul. If he knew, he wasn't letting on. He just sat there oozing charisma and sipping his coffee.
"People, please. People." Mr. Taylor is a great person, but kids in the class know they can take advantage of him.
I stood and rapped a notebook against the desk. "I need everyone's attention, and I need you to look at the assignment sheets."
"The Chief said SHUT UP!" Brad screamed at the top of his lungs, even though his eyes remained squarely focused on the floor in front of him. Even though Brad was the editor of the paper, he called me "the Chief." He and Mr. Taylor let me have a lot
of responsibility as the assistant editor, like making the story assignments.
"Hey, I want to write about the homecoming," Jackie said when she saw that she'd been assigned to write a story about the theater department's fall production.
"Homecoming is so lame," Tarsi, one of the Goth girls in class, hissed.
"It's so stupid," Erin, another princess of the night, added.
Jackie stood up and looked over at them. "How would you know? You'll never go."
Erin shouted across the room, "That's because I would rather be dead than—"
"Don't you think you're already dead?" Brad said, not missing a beat. Most everyone laughed, and the giggle girls were beside themselves.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm taking this story, and I'll try to present both points of view."
Mr. Taylor looked up from his desk. He was smiling. He held up two fingers on each hand like a peace sign. "Remember, there are two sides to every story."
I don't think Mr. Taylor would be smiling, though, if he knew why I took the homecoming story. I wanted an excuse to learn more about Vickie, the shoo-in homecoming queen. The first day of the school year when I saw Brad, I asked him if Paul had a girlfriend. I don't remember how I phrased it, but I tried not to let on that I liked Paul. I made it seem like a casual question. He said, "Vickie, if you ask him."
I tried to bury myself in work, but I couldn't control my mind. I couldn't decide what I hated most about Vickie. It isn't real hate, just stupid envy. When she walked in the hall, she knew every boy, including Paul, was looking at her, while I walked through school like the invisible woman.
Vickie can't help that Paul wants her, but I always thought it was odd for him to like someone as normal and popular as Vickie. One of the things that attracted me to Paul was that he didn't seem to be like everyone else, from the way his blond hair hung halfway down his back to the pair of well-worn black high-top Converse All Stars he wore on his feet to the old beat-up Firebird that he parked in the same spot every morning. But mostly what I noticed was that whenever I see him, people are laughing. I think he holds the record for most times kicked out of the school library, which is where I first really noticed him one day last spring. He usually sits at a table with Brad, Kara, Jackie, Lynne, and some other seniors that I don't know, and within ten minutes everyone is laughing hysterically. I want to be a part of that, not stuck alone in the corner. I guess I will be today, since I'm sure they will all be laughing with my comic humiliation of the night before acting as the punch line.
Things Change Page 2
