“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU!”
Everybody’s running frantic. Toilet paper, paint, Post-its—all forgotten. Headlights flash in the windows on the north side of the cafeteria, and all hell really breaks loose. We sprint in different directions, scattering like geese after a gunshot. Everyone tears through the doors to the south lot. I’m praying the administration hasn’t reached that one, too.
Hope stops like she’s hit an invisible wall. “Shit. My phone.”
“There’s no time,” yells Mikey.
He keeps running to his car—to safety—but she turns back. “I have to get it, or they’ll know it was me.”
I stop in the doorway with the feeling of being torn in half. She bends to get her phone and races back, like she’s doing a gut sprint for Coach. I keep my eyes on the north lot doors. Stay closed. Stay closed. Stay closed. Another sixty seconds, and we could be in my car.
And then the unthinkable happens—Hope slips. The worst part is, I see it even before it happens, but I’m powerless to stop it. She’s flat-out sprinting, her eyes on the doors and not on the discarded can of shaving cream that rolls into her path. My mouth forms words of caution, but it’s too late. Her foot hits the can, ankle bending grotesquely. Her scream gets cut in half when her back hits the floor.
She’s groaning, and I’m pulling her up by the elbows.
“Can you walk on it?”
She touches her foot against the ground, but buckles in pain.
“Mother scratcher.” It comes out as a hiss.
I’d smile if we weren’t dead.
“That’s not gonna work.” There’s only one option, and I try not to think—just act. “Sorry about this.”
“Wh—”
I scoop her up like she weighs nothing. But it’s not nothing. This is complete sensory overload, and middle-school me is freaking out. Calm down, I tell myself. You’ll never be able to be friends again if you can’t be around her without getting weird.
She thrashes halfheartedly. “Put me down. I don’t need your help.”
I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Okay, fine. But just hurry, okay?” she says.
I get us to the doors, but maneuvering through them is tricky. Hope presses her head against my chest, her hair tickling my nose. Don’t breathe. Don’t you dare breathe. Her hair has hypnotizing properties, and, oh no, I had to. The human body needs oxygen, especially when it’s carrying another human body. And, oh hell, she still smells like honeysuckles under all that cigarette smoke.
I remind myself of a few important things: 1) She staked your heart like a vampire slayer. 2) You wouldn’t even be here right now if she hadn’t screened your call. 3) You’re really, really, REALLY happy with your girlfriend.
It helps. I make it to my car and get Hope settled in the passenger seat, and I’m no longer thinking about her as anything other than a friend, which means I’m safe.
Until a strong set of hands clamps down on my shoulders.
The girl of my middle-school dreams is in my arms again, but this isn’t exactly how it played out in my fantasies. For starters, my vice principal definitely did not make an appearance. And secondly, in my daydreams, Hope wasn’t injured and she was in my arms out of free will instead of necessity. It’s funny how almost getting what you always wanted can feel a lot like the eighth circle of hell.
Vice Principal Kahn doesn’t seem to notice or care about the hardship he’s putting me through as he has me ferry Hope around the cafeteria. A few notes about our illustrious vice principal:
1) Yes, his name is just like the bad guy from Star Trek, only spelled different.
2) No, this fact is not lost on the students of Peach Valley High, who are all pretty sure our vice principal is a genetically enhanced supervillain brought out of suspended animation for the purpose of making us miserable.
3) He looks nothing like Benedict Cumberbatch. Or Ricardo Montalbán (the REAL Khan, according to Mimi, who has told me way more than I ever wanted to know about his chest muscles).
Anyway, he doesn’t believe our cover stories for being here (perhaps because they are totally in conflict with each other?). The streak of purple paint written across Hope’s cheek like a confession tells him we can’t be trusted. Plus, my face has a way of looking guilty.
At first he tries the usual Vice Principal Kahn tricks. He’s one of those administrators who pretends to be all, “Hey, we’re buds. Tell me anything. I know what it’s like to be a teen. Here, bro, have a stress ball. I’m a cool guy, and we’re just chilling.” But really, he’s super strict. Which would be fine, but own it, dude. Stop pretending to be my bro while you’re nailing my ass to the wall. And while we’re on the subject, please don’t ever say bro again. Like ever.
When the Bros4Life act fails, the real Kahn surfaces and pelts us with questions.
Did we vandalize the rest of the school or just the cafeteria? Who else was involved?
Where did they go?
We don’t know. We don’t know. We don’t know.
The lies are heavy in my mouth, and Hope is heavy in my arms. What’s going to happen to us? Suspension? I’m thinking suspension. Which will suck, but hey, we still have another few weeks of wrestling practice before our meets start, so at least whatever they do to me will be out of the way before then. I hope.
I tic-shrug (again), which is a whole lot weirder when you’re holding someone.
“Sorry,” I say, for, like, the fifth time.
“Spencer, it’s fine.” She shakes her head.
I’m glad it doesn’t freak her out. I’m double glad she only flinched the first time. And I’m quadruple-gazillion glad I’ve got a case of the shrugs instead of the sniffs, because if I was walking around tic-sniffing her hair like some kind of stalker with a hair fetish, I might need someone to put me out of my misery.
I lean against a table for support, and Vice Principal Kahn finally notices.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I should probably call someone about Hope’s leg.”
She lifts her head, and her hair tickles my nose again. “My mom deals with this kind of stuff all the time. You can just call her,” she says.
She has clearly reached the giving-up phase of our interrogation, and I think she’s right. Let’s just get on with the inevitable punishment. The fear and waiting is always worse than the punishment itself.
He leads the way to the office suite, and we follow behind him.
Well, I follow. Hope mostly leans against my chest like a living, breathing hot-water bottle. I think I’m sweating. Nope, I’m definitely sweating. I really hope she can’t feel it through my shirt.
“We can talk more in my office,” he says.
She springs up so fast, I almost drop her. “No!” She coughs awkwardly. “I mean, how about we just talk out here.”
He touches his office door handle, and Hope fidgets in my arms like she wants to reach out and stop him.
Kahn pauses, his eyebrows raised. “Is there something wrong, Miss Birdsong?”
Her eyes go wide. He’s got her. She can’t say yes because it would be admitting she was part of the prank. But if she says no, then whatever’s waiting on the other side of that office door is going to happen in three. Two. One.
He turns the handle while she winces. I expect something big, an explosion of shaving cream maybe or some perfectly timed glue and feathers. The cloud of colorful confetti that falls all around us seems mild by comparison. I notice an orange snowflake on the tip of Hope’s nose, and that’s when I realize—it’s a penis. All over my arms, falling from the sky, dusting Vice Principal Kahn’s hair like phallic dandruff. We are standing in our own personal dick blizzard, a whirlwind of wangs in pink, purple, yellow, and green. Hope is trying her damnedest not to laugh. I can feel her body twitching against my chest, but I can’t help it. I snort. And then we both lose it, and I have to plant her in a chair, fast, before I lose my grip on her.
I shake my arms a lit
tle to stretch out. My muscles ache from holding her. I don’t dare look at her, though, or there’s no way I’ll be able to keep swallowing this laugh. And I need to swallow it because Vice Principal Kahn is not laughing. He brushes the penises from his shoulders and hair with as much dignity as someone who is covered in tiny, two-dimensional genitalia can. Which is to say, none.
Then he looks at us, all tightly wrapped snickers, and he grins like, Guys, I’m totally in on the joke. “Sweet A. This was a good one. I was known to pull some pretty boss pranks in my time, too. What’d you guys do to the other offices? Are they even worse than this one?”
He tears out to check, and I glance at Hope, but she shakes her head no. We hear him open the other doors and find nothing. I’m not surprised he’s the only one who got pranked. People actually like our other administrators. Why couldn’t it have been Vice Principal Parks who caught us? She’d bust us, too, but she’d be so much cooler about it.
When Kahn comes back, he is Star Trek–supervillain pissed. We sit there while he doles out a lecture that stings like a beating, and then he calls our parents. I can hear my dad yelling into the phone from three feet away.
There’s some awkward waiting until our parents arrive (really, they could have taken one car, now that I think about it). My dad busts in like a dog straining to break its muzzle. Pam, the muzzler, trails behind him, and Mrs. Birdsong behind her.
Dad points a massive index finger in my face. “We’ll talk about this later.”
He starts to say something else, but Pam shushes him into the office. The door closes in our faces. Which means Hope and I get to do even more awkward waiting, only this time we’re on the outside of the office and our parents are on the inside.
And then it hits me. Me and Hope, alone, really alone, for the first time since June. She’s taking off her shoe and sock, rubbing gingerly at her swollen ankle. Our eyes meet, and I give her a tentative smile, brace myself while I wait for her response. She smiles back. (Tentatively also, but, hey, I’ll take what I can get.) I smile bigger and open my mouth, and I’m going to say—I’m going to say—it doesn’t matter because her eyes go wide and she turns practically in the other direction. Whatever earth-shattering thing I was going to say dies in the back of my throat.
I glance over every now and again, but she’s still just sitting there, body totally rigid, leaning as far away from me as she can get. Our parents talk to the vice principal in Charlie Brown voices that don’t quite make it through the thick door. The seconds spread out like pancake batter on a griddle. Hope starts popping her knuckles. Sometimes I open my mouth, act like I’m going to give it another try, but I know I’m not going to say anything.
This is how it’s been with us. One minute we’ll be laughing over penis confetti and the ice will be cracking, and the next minute she completely freezes over. The worst part is, I still get my hopes up. Every time. I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully forgive her.
After minutes that feel like hours, the office door opens again. Dad barrels out, looking, if possible, even angrier than when he went in. He opens his mouth, and there’s a split second of the most awful anticipation, but then Pam gently lays a hand on his shoulder.
“We’ll be outside,” she says pointedly.
He makes a kind of gruff grunting noise. “We’ll talk about this in the car.”
I mouth “thank you” to Pam as he sweeps past me.
Hope’s mom hoists her out of her chair, and Vice Principal Kahn stands in the doorway. He doles out his parting words to the three of us, since my parents have already left.
Nice Kahn tells us we’re not suspended, because he doesn’t want to peel off thousands of Post-its by himself.
Mean Kahn tells us to be in his office at six am tomorrow morning. Sharp. Better get there at 5:45, just to be safe.
I walk outside with Hope and her mom. Their Jeep is in the parking lot, parked a couple lanes away from my truck. Oh, right, I almost forgot I drove here by myself. A smile starts to creep across my face at the memory of my first solo drive. And then I spot my dad in the driver’s seat.
“Good luck,” Hope says with a half smile.
I’m grateful, really, but it would mean a whole lot more if it wasn’t coming on the heels of a freeze-out. I stand at the door to the truck, watching as Hope’s mom helps her into the Jeep.
When I finally get in, I’m relieved to see my dad’s head is neither red nor balloon-like, although his frown does look permanently stitched to his lips. “I have a feeling that’s what got you into this mess in the first place,” he says.
“Leave her alone.” That’s all I have the energy to say. It’s enough to get him started.
“I don’t have to leave anything alone. It was a dumbass move coming to the school. You heard us tell Dean not to go, and then what did you do? You went anyway.”
Never mind that Dean was the one doing the prank in the first place. But I don’t say that. These things go a lot faster if you keep quiet while he gets it out of his system.
He smacks his hand against the steering wheel. “Any fool idea pops into your head, and you just do it. Absolutely no self-control. None.”
Even though I know his tirade is about the prank, a needle of doubt digs its way into my brain. He’s talking about your Tourette’s. Once I think it, I can’t unthink it. It’s a loop inside my head. All the things that make me feel like I belong somewhere else, and Dad’s real second son is stuck shooting hunting rifles in a family of dreamers and pacifists.
“When I tell you something, it’s for your own good. Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in there.” He thumps two fingers against his forehead. “Dean wanted to help them, too, but he played it smart. And now he’s at home, and you’re in trouble.”
I put my head in my hands and let his rant wash over me until I hear his thoughts instead of his words: Why can’t you be more like your brother? You’ll never be as good as Dean. Or as smart. Or as athletic. Or as important.
Dad’s lecture seems to be winding to a stop, so I tune in again in case he asks me a question. Nothing turns his face red faster than me letting his pearls of wisdom fly out the window.
He’s strangely quiet. Oh, crap, did I already miss something? But he doesn’t seem angry.
“Pam was beside herself when you took off. She was real worried you’d get in a wreck.” His voice is softer now, calmer. “Seems like you made it here in one piece, though.”
I shrug. “Yes, sir.” I really do hate that Pam was freaking out.
“Don’t take this as me saying it was okay to take the truck by yourself without asking, but”—I can’t even believe it, but I think I see a twinkle in his eye—“how’d it go?”
In spite of all the shit that went down tonight, I grin. “Great. It went great. My meds didn’t make me too tired, and I hardly tic-ed at all, and even when I had to, I could hold off till I got to a red light.” I wonder if this is the best time, but I just go for it. “I really think I’m ready,” I say.
He claps me on the shoulder as gently as his Paul Bunyan hands allow. “I think you might be ready, too. I think it’s time we let you try some trips to the store and stuff by yourself. After you’re done being grounded, of course.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” I try to seem extra mature because shouting “This is awesome!” would probably not be the best plan right now.
Dad nods. “There’s no better feeling than cruising down a stretch of road in your first car.”
We stare out at the open road together, him grinning at memories I can’t see, me grinning at ones I haven’t made yet. Maybe wrestling doesn’t have to be our only thing. Maybe this driving stuff could be our thing, too.
A happy silence hovers between us. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be Dean.
Sometimes, you can tic so much it makes you sore. Turns out tic-ing that much while you’re holding another person is enough to make you feel like you s
pent seventy-two consecutive hours in the weight room with Coach. It probably doesn’t help that I only get about two hours of sleep before I have to get back to school. Dean drags himself out of bed to drive me because he knows he owes me.
5:50 AM—I wait outside Vice Principal Kahn’s office.
5:54 AM—He arrives, and the waiting moves to the inside of his office. Bonus: There’s now a thick silence. Which lasts until . . .
6:00 AM (on the nose)—Hope squeaks in. I can’t tell which of us is more surprised by her newfound punctuality. Kahn shuffles a stack of self-esteem mad libs for a full five seconds before he starts throwing inspiration and discipline at us.
“I’ve spoken with Principal Gonzalez and others in the administration, and we’ve come up with a plan. I really want you to take this time to think about your priorities, get in touch with a better you. I’m always here if you need to talk.” No joke, he balls his hand into a fist and taps it against his heart when he says this. “You’ll be cleaning up the prank this morning. And every morning for the next three weeks.”
What I should be thinking is, Three weeks isn’t so bad. I’ll make Dean trade me three weeks’ worth of yard work. Instead, I’m thinking dangerously optimistic things about how three weeks is plenty of time to talk to Hope about all the stuff we’ve been avoiding.
“Three weeks?” Hope says. “Do you really think it’ll take that long?” She wrinkles her nose.
“We’ll find other tasks for you when you finish. And I’ll be checking in on you, so don’t think about skipping out.” He directs that part at her. “You’re a suspension away from getting expelled, and your mom hooked me up with her cell and told me to call her for any reason at all.”
Hope groans. I half-stand because it feels like the conversation is over. Kahn’s eyes pin me back to my chair, and I curse myself for making sudden movements.
“And, Spencer, you’ll be missing your first wrestling meet of the season.”
A Taxonomy of Love Page 13
