“Did you see it?” she asked.
“See what?”
“The second-floor girls’ bathroom. Third stall.”
“What?”
“I’ve questioned everyone and nobody knows who did it. It probably happened sometime between the end of the day yesterday and this morning. It’s in permanent marker, so the janitors won’t even be able to wash it off.”
“What is it?”
“Go see for yourself!” Ash shouted as she disappeared down the stairs.
Third period was physics, a sink-or-swim subject, so I made myself pay attention as the teacher lectured about Newton’s second law. But fourth period was my no-brainer psychology class. You could have a lobotomy and still get an A, so I asked for a bathroom pass and headed up to the second floor.
And there, in the third stall, written in black marker on the toothpaste-green wall, it said:
V VALENTINE IS A SKANKY HO!
Unbelievable. V has been here two weeks and she’s already made the wall of shame. I considered scribbling it out with my pen. But it would be hard to conceal the marker with my measly ballpoint. And, besides, V has made this bed for herself—let her toss and turn in it.
The next day, after second period, I was in the basement bathroom checking my complexion. I’d broken out all over my forehead, so I’d carefully concealed everything with foundation that morning. I dusted some powder on my face and washed my hands. As I reached for a paper towel, I saw writing on the wall above the dispenser.
V VALENTINE IS A STONAH BABE!
It was in the same black marker, the same block letters. Who was the mysterious marker wielder? Besides me, who had it out for V already? Had she been hooking up with other girls’ ex-boyfriends?
Knowing V, I wouldn’t be surprised.
* * *
At improv dance that afternoon, Dr. Hendrick told me that my stretches lacked effort. My jumping jacks could use more enthusiasm.
“And Ms. Valentine,” he shouted over the drumbeat as we were supposed to be swinging our arms like elephants’ trunks. “A smile couldn’t hurt now and then!”
I was about to lose it. I really was. If we weren’t a month into the semester, I’d totally drop this class and register for something else. I’d already decided to take it pass/fail, so the grade won’t reflect on my final transcripts.
Twenty minutes into class, Dr. Hendrick instructed us to divide into groups of four and create a nature scene—one person as earth, one as wind, one as water, and one as fire. I was so paralyzed by the extreme cheesiness of the exercise that I didn’t look around for three other people. And then, before I knew it, the class was all quadrupled up.
Dr. Hendrick sashayed behind me, rested his sweaty paws on my shoulders, and steered me toward the nearest group of four. “I hope you don’t mind adopting Ms. Valentine,” he said to them.
“But all the elements are taken,” a college girl whined. I think her name is Rhonda. Her tags are always sticking out of her T-shirts. I’ve had a bad feeling about her from the first day.
“Why don’t you just let Ms. Valentine be a rock,” Dr. Hendrick said.
Anyone who has ever taken a dance class knows that being designated “the rock” is the equivalent of being “the tree” in a school play. It’s totally like, You are untalented deadweight so just shut up and petrify yourself.
I curled into the fetal position on the stinky blue mat, wondering if I’m wound so tight, I can’t even dance.
On Thursday morning, as I was heading to homeroom, Ash caught up with me.
“I saw the new graffiti yesterday,” I said before she could open her mouth.
“Which one?” she asked. “The one that says stonah babe? Because as of yesterday afternoon, there are four of those around school and two more skanky hos.”
“I saw the stonah babe in the basement. Who do you think is doing it?”
“Total mystery,” Ash said, carefully enunciating her t’s.
“Has V pissed anyone off?”
“I haven’t heard about any more locker-room encounters, but she’s definitely generating gossip. She was all over Jordan Breslawski during an assembly on Monday afternoon.”
“Lindsey’s little brother? Isn’t he a freshman?”
Ash nodded. “Barely fourteen. According to reliable sources who were sitting behind them, when the lights dimmed she put her hand, like, on his crotch.”
I shuddered. The last time I’d talked to Jordan Breslawski was when Bethany and I slept over at Lindsey’s house in ninth grade. Jordan had been wearing pajamas with old-fashioned planes on them and building an airport out of Legos.
Ash cracked her teeth on her Dentyne Ice. “But that’s not what I was going to discuss with you this morning. I wanted to see if you knew about yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“You didn’t hear?”
I shook my head.
Ash smiled. “V ditched sixth period with Brandon Parker. They walked out the side door and went to his car. Three people saw them.”
“Do you think they were…” I pinched my pointer finger and thumb in front of my lips and sucked in.
Ash shrugged. “Does Brandon do anything else? His mouth is, like, surgically attached to a joint.”
We rounded the corner and paused in front of my homeroom.
“Have you seen any signs around the house?” Ash asked. “Pipes? Baggies of weed? Other drug paraphernalia? Have V’s eyes been blurry or dilated?”
I knew I would make Ash’s day, week, and month by reporting the oh-so-illegal scents wafting from upstairs, but I just shook my head and hurried into homeroom.
I decided to talk with my mom. After all, if V crashed and burned, I didn’t want the lighter fluid on my hands. I wasn’t going to give her specifics. I would croak before saying the words skanky ho to my mom because that would inevitably lead to highly uncomfortable questions such as:
Mom: What’s skanky, Mara?
Me: Well, Mom, skanky is a term for a dirty slut who’s riddled with sexually transmitted diseases. You know, a girl who’ll drop her thong for every guy in school.
Mom (most likely getting heart palpitations): Riddled with STDs? Drop her thong? And what about ho? Isn’t that a gardening tool?
Me: A gardening tool? Try whore, Mom. Ho is short for whore.
Thursday evening turned out to be the perfect night to talk. V had her first SAT prep class, so my dad drove her into Rochester. They left early because my dad wanted to stop by Digital Dynasty to get V a cell phone and add her to our Family Talk plan. When I heard that, I pulled V aside and whispered, “Who’s got the umbilical cord now?”
She scowled at me. “Fuck off.”
“Actually, that’s your job,” I said.
My mom made baked potatoes for dinner. She sprinkled cheddar and bacon bits on her potato. On mine, I loaded steamed broccoli and soy cheese, which is a sad substitute for cheddar, but I was trying not to think about it.
We were almost done with dinner when I asked, “How do you think V is doing so far?”
“How do you think V is doing?”
I picked at my potato skin with my fork. “I don’t know,” I said. “Some kids at school are saying things…”
“Saying things?” My mom frowned, the creases heading south on her cheeks. “About V?”
I nodded slowly.
“What could they say about V? She’s only been here two weeks.”
My thoughts exactly. “I’m not in the high school much … but I don’t think she’s making an effort to fit in. Why can’t she try harder? Why does she have to have that attitude all the time?”
My mom sighed. “You’ve got to go easier on her, Mara.”
“What do you mean ‘go easier’? I’ve been fine. She’s the one who’s been hard on me.”
I felt like crying. Did my mom have any idea how horrible V has been? What would she say if I told her V had fooled around with Travis Hart? It wouldn’t just be palpitations. It would be
a major heart attack.
My mom sipped her water. “All I’m saying is that V hasn’t exactly had a smooth road. Did you know that Aimee hasn’t called her yet?”
“What do you mean? Not since she’s gotten to Costa Rica? Is she okay?”
My mom nodded. “Oh, she’s fine. Dad sent her an e-mail last week to make sure she made it. She wrote him back from an Internet café and said there’s no telephone where she’s staying and she hasn’t gotten around to buying a calling card.”
“Typical Aimee.”
“Right,” my mom said. “Typical Aimee. But can you imagine if that were your mom? Can you imagine if Dad and I left you with relatives, moved out of the country, and didn’t call for two weeks? Wouldn’t you feel lousy?”
I stabbed a broccoli crown with my fork and dragged it across my plate to mop up stray shreds of soy cheese.
“Okay,” I finally said. “Point taken.”
Now that I’d semi-agreed to go easier on V, I absolutely had to steer clear of the house. So the next afternoon, rather than hanging around and risking an encounter, I put on my headphones and went walking. I hiked up the hill to Wegmans, back down the hill to the Erie Canal, over the bridge to the hospital, and back again to Main Street.
Around five, it was starting to get dark. I turned off my music and wandered into Lift Bridge Book Shop. I frequently tempt myself by flipping through all the new novels I’m dying to read but won’t have time until, basically, I’m done with college.
I was only browsing for a few minutes when my cell phone rang.
“Mara?” my dad asked. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying you for over an hour. I’ve left three messages.”
“I was just walking,” I whispered. “I must not have heard the ringer.”
“You should be more vigilant when you’re out walking, Mara. You never know who—”
“I’m fine,” I said, glancing around the store. There weren’t many customers, but a woman was up at the cash register.
“I just wanted to tell you we’re having a Family Meeting tonight. Right after dinner. You’re not working, are you?”
“No,” I said. “Why are we meeting?”
“We’ll talk about it tonight. Where are you?”
“I’m in Lift Bridge.”
“Be careful walking home. It’s getting dark. Do you want me to come pick you up?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” I said.
I put my cell phone back in my coat pocket. That’s when I noticed that the woman at the counter was looking over at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “It was my dad.”
She smiled. “We all have dads, right?”
As I was walking out of the bookstore, I couldn’t stop thinking about how most of us have dads. But not V. Her biological father is some nameless guy who Aimee calls the Sperm Donor. Aimee once mentioned that V has his Irish nose and honey-colored hair. Another time, she told my mom that V inherited the Sperm Donor’s ability to carry a tune. But that’s all I’ve ever heard about him.
Sometimes, as much as I can’t stand V, I kind of feel sorry for her.
My parents and V sat on the couch. I sat in the comfy chair on the other side of the living room. My mom started the Family Meeting by saying, in five different ways, how she and my dad are so happy that V is living with us. But then she pressed her fists into her lower back like she was massaging knots and said they needed to discuss a few “adjustment issues.”
V hugged her knees to her chest. “Adjustment issues?”
It turns out my dad got a call from Mr. B today, informing him that V has been skipping some of her classes. V rationalized it by saying that a few teachers are being jerks to her because she’s not caught up in the subjects. My parents offered to talk to them, but V was like, “No, no, I’ll suck it up.”
“Let us know if you’re having any problems,” my dad said. “We can always arrange for a tutor, if that would help.”
V, still hugging her knees, started rocking from side to side.
“Sweetie,” my mom said, “there’s something else we’d like to talk about.”
“We’d like to encourage you to get involved in a school activity,” my dad said.
I nearly cracked up. V is always making fun of how I’m a big joiner, but now she’s getting a taste of life with my parents.
“A school activity?” V asked. “You mean like French Club?”
“Well, yes, that’s an example,” my mom said. “But something you’re interested in. Somewhere you could meet people who share the same interests.”
“But I don’t really have any interests,” V said.
“What about drama?” my mom asked. “You have a great voice and a knack for dancing…”
“Weren’t you one of the leads in Oklahoma!?” my dad asked. “In your high school in Vermont?”
My parents were acting casual about it, but it was obvious they’d discussed this beforehand. I knew this scenario all too well. V was getting tag-teamed.
“Yeah,” V said. “I was cast as Ado Annie, but it’s not like I got to actually be in the play. Aimee made us move two weeks before it opened and the understudy got my part.”
“What would you think about auditioning for the spring musical at Brockport High School?” my dad asked.
V paused. “Spring musical?”
My dad smiled at my mom. “When Ron Bonavoglia called me today, we got to talking. They’re putting on a production of Damn Yankees. Auditions are in two weeks.”
V shook her head. “I can’t. What if Aimee comes back from Costa Rica and I have to move? I don’t want to get my hopes up again. That sucked.”
My parents exchanged a quick look and then my dad said, “Just think about it. You don’t have to make any decisions tonight.”
V started rocking again.
“Can I go now?” I asked.
My dad shook his head. “We wanted to talk with you, too.”
“We were thinking about ways you can help V adjust,” my mom said.
“Ways I can help?” I asked, glancing at V. She hugged her knees tighter and lowered her head.
“You’ve enjoyed working at Common Grounds so much,” my mom said.
“Maybe you could get V a job there,” my dad said.
NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!
“What do you think?” my mom asked.
I shook my head. “No way. Couldn’t happen.”
“At least talk to your boss about it,” my dad said. “James seems like a decent person. Maybe he could—”
I rose to my feet. “No, okay? So just forget about it.”
“Mara,” my mom said, frowning. “I’m surprised at—”
I dashed toward the back door, grabbed my coat, and jogged down the driveway.
I walked all the way to Common Grounds. I didn’t plan to. I just took a right on Centennial and a left on Main Street. As I neared the café, I spotted James getting out of his car. A second later, he glanced over and saw me.
“Hey, there!” he called out. “What are you doing downtown?”
“Just going for a walk,” I said. “I needed to clear my head.”
I noticed that James was smiling. I also noticed how broad his shoulders looked in his wool coat. Claudia has pointed out James’s scrumptious shoulders on numerous occasions.
“Your cheeks are pink.” James reached up and touched my face. “Why no scarf?”
“I … I sort of…” I paused. I couldn’t stop thinking about how his hand felt on my cheek.
“Everything okay?”
I shook my head. “I left my house quickly.”
“Angry?”
I nodded.
“Why?” James asked.
I glanced into the front window of Common Grounds to see who was working tonight. Okay, I’ll admit it. I wanted to make sure Claudia wasn’t there. It’s not like I was doing anything wrong, but she may have taken it the wrong way, me standing on a dark sidewalk with James. I was relieved to see Josh and Randy, two guy
s who do a lot of shifts together, behind the counter.
I explained to James how V is living with us for a while. I was surprised to learn he actually knew that. He said that he overheard me telling Claudia. I told him how she’s kind of a juvenile delinquent and how my parents had a Family Meeting tonight to discuss ways to help her adjust. When I told him they wanted me to get her a job at Common Grounds, James laughed.
“My Common Grounds?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“What did you say?”
“Maybe I’m a horrible person, but I said no.” I paused. “Do you think I’m a horrible person for not wanting her to work here? I bet that’s what everyone thinks.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“I guess my parents.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I just feel like this is my place,” I said. “I don’t want V here, too.”
“Well, sometimes you have to listen to yourself, even if it’s not what your parents want.”
James was standing pretty close to me. I got that thumping feeling again, so I stared down at the sidewalk.
“Want to come in and have some coffee or tea? Something to heat you up for the walk home?”
“No,” I said. “I’d better get going.”
James lifted both of his hands to my cheeks, holding them there for a few seconds. My heart started pounding so hard I could feel it in my entire chest.
“Stay warm, Mara,” he said. And then he turned and headed inside.
Chapter Seven
The only good thing about early February was that Travis got mono and was out sick for two weeks. Okay, that’s evil. I do not wish a fever and swollen glands on anyone. But it was a relief not to have him raising his hand in every class, hugging girls in every meeting. Plus, he’d missed a physics lab on the coefficient of friction and a pop quiz in psychology, so he was definitely losing that grade-point edge he’d gained when I bombed the government test.
I know that sounds thoroughly villainous. But I wanted to be valedictorian so badly, I could not only taste it; I could chew and swallow it. I couldn’t stop imagining myself up at the podium in the gym, making the valedictory address, knowing I’d permanently bumped Travis to second place.
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