Girl Wonder

by Alexa Martin

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Have you read that book Lily at Dusk?”

  “Hell, yeah. That scene where Lily takes off her—Wait!” He stared at me. “That guy’s your dad? Flesh and blood?”

  This was so messed up. My dad was basically making friends for me with sex.

  Neal let out a long whistle. “Lily is going to be a legend. I hope they make it into a movie.”

  Amanda agreed. “How cool would it be if Tarantino directed it? Oh! Maybe I could play Lily!”

  Just then the librarian peered over at us. She frowned at Neal and pointed in the direction of the computer terminal where the rest of the debate team was stationed.

  He held up a finger.

  This pissed her off. She started making her way around her desk.

  “There’s a conference at Seattle University in a few weeks,” Neal said in a rush. “You both should go. It will be a crash course in debate. You’ll have to miss school, of course.”

  “Miss school?” Amanda brightened visibly.

  Dragon lady was upon us. Sleek as a panther, Neal disappeared.

  “Girls,” the librarian snapped. “Separate. You’re distracting the other students.”

  No one was more distracted than I.

  Neal. Neal. Neal. His name beat through me like a drum.

  RESOLVED: THE UNTIED STATES FEDERAL GOVERNMENT SHOULD SUBSTANTIALLY INCREASE ALTERNATIVE ENERGY INCENTIVES IN THE UNITED STATES.

  Mr. Peterson, the debate coach, rapped his chalk against the blackboard. “Memorize. For the next nine months you will eat, sleep, and breathe these words.”

  Sitting at the desk to my left, Neal made a slitting motion across his throat. I shook my head as if he were an amusing child. Did he know how adorable he was?

  Mr. Peterson caught my eye. “What do you think of our resolution, Miss Locke?”

  “Um—I feel that it’s an excellent idea? That we’re going to run out of oil?”

  Mr. Peterson gazed at me through his Coke-bottle glasses, which gave his eyes a fishy gleam. His expression was all too familiar to me—it was the look of disappointment. “I’m sorry to inform you that how you feel, Miss Locke, doesn’t matter one whit when it comes to policy debate. If you want to win at this game, you have to take your personal beliefs out of the equation. It’s one thing to be able to write a good argument. The question is: how capable are you of articulating an argument even if you don’t believe in what you’re saying?”

  Amanda was scribbling frantically, her expression intense. At first I thought she was taking notes, that she was feeling as in over her head as I was. Then she turned her notebook to face me. She had drawn a picture of Mr. Peterson, a perfect caricature, from his Rudolph nose down to the hem of his too-short pants. The caption near his mouth read: Resolved: I’m a pervert!

  I shot her a look of gratitude. She knew exactly how to cheer me up. Our new friendship was far and away the best thing that had ever happened to me. Walking down the halls of Shady Grove with Amanda and knowing that everyone was staring at us was exhilarating. Her strength radiated outward to include me. I was part of a force.

  Mr. Peterson continued. “I’m going to read you an excerpt from one of our recent applications. Listen carefully.

  “‘Not only should juveniles be tried as adults, but we, as a society, should bring back public hangings. Watching their peers flap in the wind as a consequence of bad choices would make a strong impression on the minds of troubled youth. In the future, they would be less tempted to commit criminal acts if they saw firsthand the faces of death. Furthermore, communities could raise funds for youth at risk by charging admission to juvenile executions.’”

  My face turned red. It was my essay he was reading from. Mine. A part of me wanted him to tell the class that I was the author. The larger part, the coward in me, suspected it was best to remain anonymous.

  Mr. Peterson took off his glasses and wiped them with the hem of his shirt. “This is obviously tongue-in-cheek. But it works. Why?”

  Neal raised his hand. “The author sounds convinced of the argument, so we believe it too. And the point the author makes about getting up close and personal with consequences is a good one. One of the problems with education right now is that kids have no fear of failing. So what if you get an F? Your teachers will still send you along to the next grade.”

  Mr. Peterson nodded thoughtfully. “Anyone else have anything to add?”

  Amanda’s hand shot up. “Public executions would make great reality TV.”

  Everyone laughed. Amanda stood and bowed, flourishing her hand like a queen.

  My heart hammering, I bit my lip, wanting to speak up. I disagreed with Neal on the point he’d made about kids not having a fear of failing. I had a fear of failing. I feared failing all the time. But, I realized, this was probably not something a guy like Neal could understand. He’d more likely become president before he’d fail at anything.

  The time to say something had passed. Mr. Peterson now walked around the room handing out permission slips for the upcoming conference at Seattle University. “I would highly encourage any new team member to make attending the conference a priority.”

  Amanda took off for a doctor’s appointment right after class.

  I was almost to my locker when a pair of hands covered my eyes. “Guess who?”

  “Neal!” I laughed giddily.

  He leaned against a neighboring locker, close enough that I could smell his cinnamon-flavored gum. It took me three tries to get my locker combination right. When I finally opened the door, all of my shit tumbled out.

  Neal helped me pick up my books. “I’m impressed you got Amanda to do debate,” he said. “She’s usually not one for school activities.”

  “So you two have known each other for a while?”

  “Mandy and I have a complicated history,” he admitted.

  Mandy?

  “Our parents are friends. We played together as kids. Hide-and-seek. Doctor.”

  Doctor?

  “What happened?” I asked, trying to sound like I couldn’t care less.

  “We went out in middle school. I broke up with her. She got pissed.”

  If he broke up with Amanda, how did someone like me stand a chance with him? “Why’d you end things?” I asked.

  He thought about this a moment, then shrugged. “I didn’t want her to dump me first. Yeah. I know. Lame. It was a long time ago. We get along fine now. We’re like siblings who pretend to hate each other. But we look out for each other.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment. Across the hall, one of the drinking fountains was overflowing. Lately, some kid had been plugging up the drains with gum. Neal brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m glad Peterson picked your essay to read today. It was brilliant. You’ve got a dark streak, Charlotte Locke.”

  “Shh.” I put a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  He laughed, then said, “I have a question for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I noticed on your application that you’re not in GATE. How come?”

  My stomach knotted. What would he say if he knew about my learning disability? I faked a mischievous smile. “That’s one of my darker secrets.”

  He grinned. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

  I could tell he wanted me to be, so I shrugged like it was true.

  When he knuckled me playfully under the chin, it was all I could do not to scream with joy.

  Saturday morning, the end of my third week at Shady Grove, my phone buzzed. It was Amanda. Though we’d traded a few texts at school, she’d never called me before. “I’m still on house arrest,” she said as casually, as if we talked on the phone every day. “But my mom wants to meet you. She wants to make sure you’re not a bad influence. Plus, she thinks your dad is hot shit.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I said. “He’s my dad.”

  “He’s your hot dad. How about I pick you up in half an hour? You can stay at my place tonight. Just tell m
e where you live. FYI—if your dad’s home I’m coming inside.”

  “He’s on book tour.” I laughed, feeling a little shameless. But what was I supposed to do? Amanda had accepted me so quickly in large part because she thought it was cool that my dad was a writer. I had to play him up, right? “Let me check with my mom about coming over, and I’ll give you a call in a bit.”

  Mom was grading papers when I asked for permission. She didn’t even look up. “Have a good time,” she said, her words muffled by the red pen in her mouth.

  “I might do drugs,” I joked, just to see if she was paying attention.

  “Take a sweater. It’s supposed to be cold.”

  I studied her for a moment. Her eyes were moist and bloodshot. This entire week she’d been like one of those Stepford Wives—brittle and false. And I’d noticed that she’d been subsisting on a diet of coffee, Cheerios, and bananas.

  I called Amanda back and gave her directions to our house. Then, after packing an overnight bag, I hunted down James Henry, who was in the kitchen, beating together a bunch of eggs. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Cooking?”

  “Duh.”

  “You never cook,” I said.

  “It’s for my science fair project. We’re working on it today. Want some?”

  I stuck out my tongue. “You know I hate eggs. But thanks.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “They’re really good for you. You need the protein. You’re getting too skinny.”

  Since when did my brother notice my weight? This was a little weird. Choosing to ignore his comment, I asked, “Do you think Mom is acting strange?”

  “Hell, yeah. Look.” He opened the refrigerator and pointed to the phone book that was sitting on top of a take-out box. “And last night I found a block of cheese in the pantry.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s the change,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “You mean the move and her new job?”

  “No, no, no. The change! She’s probably going through menopause. We’ve been studying this in health. It makes women Mom’s age act crazy for a little bit.”

  James Henry—resident expert on middle-aged women’s reproductive health.

  “She and Dad have been fighting a lot,” I said.

  “Parents fight. It’s no big deal. Besides—Dad’s not even around this week.”

  “That might be part of the problem,” I said.

  Now he looked worried. “What do you mean?”

  What did I mean? “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, while you’re thinking about it, would you mind taking the recycling out?”

  “Okay.” I grabbed the bin and shouldered my way into the garage.

  Surprise, surprise. Milton Zacharias was sitting on the concrete, cutting up pictures of weird-looking mushrooms. “Hello,” he said, looking up at me.

  “You’re doing James Henry’s homework?” I asked. “I hope he paid you. Actually—you probably had to pay him. My brother loves homework.”

  “Didn’t he tell you? I’m helping him with his science fair project,” Milton said. “Pretty soon he’ll be hunting mushrooms for fun and dragging you along with him. Your brother is amazing. He did all the graphs and charts. He’s kind of a genius, isn’t he?”

  “He is. I’m surrounded by brainiacs.”

  He held up two cutouts, trying to decide between a mushroom that looked like a brain on a neck and a stark white mushroom, almost bridal in its appearance, its stalk sheathed by a delicate garter. He frowned. “There’s not room for both of them on the poster.”

  “No contest,” I said, nodding at the white mushroom. “That one. It’s beautiful.”

  “Amanita virosa,” he said. “Its common name is the destroying angel. It’s the most deadly mushroom in the world.” He handed me the other cutout. “Morchella esculenta,” he said. “People all over the world pay good money to eat morels.”

  “I’d gag. That thing is nasty looking.”

  He studied me a moment. “I think I’ve just learned your fatal flaw.”

  “What? That I don’t like mushrooms?”

  He laughed. “This project is actually a study of human behavior. You just told me a lot about yourself. Beauty matters more to you than substance.”

  “You’re kind of rude.”

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” He stood up. “Stick around. We’re making scrambled eggs and morels. You’ll love them.”

  “Truly tempting,” I said sarcastically. “But I have a better offer and I hate eggs.”

  Our eyes locked for a moment. Milton stared at me, not laughing this time. “Plain-looking mushrooms can be just as poisonous as the pretty ones,” he finally said. “But it’s the pretty ones that get people into trouble.”

  “Avocados,” I said suddenly, to break the strange tension between us. “They’re ugly, and I eat them.”

  A horn honked. I peered out through the garage. Wearing oversized sunglasses and a scarf over her head, Amanda looked glorious in the front seat of a cherry-red Jeep Wrangler. It was the first time I’d seen her car.

  “That girl,” Milton said. “I know her. She got kicked out of my school. What’s she doing here?” Understanding dawned on him, and he stared at me. “Wait—that’s your better offer?”

  “She’s my friend,” I said proudly.

  “If you say so.” He gave me this strange look, like he couldn’t possibly imagine someone as cool as Amanda wanting to be my friend.

  Screw him, I thought, lifting up the lid of the trash can and slamming it down loudly to prove that I’d caught his drift. Then I dashed inside, grabbed my overnight bag, and jogged out to Amanda’s car.

  Off in the distance I could see Mount Rainier, the giant volcano that dominated the landscape of western Washington on sunny days. It looked like a giant white chocolate Hershey’s Kiss. It was unbelievably enormous. Amanda was telling me that you could climb to its summit. “My dad is going to take me up there next year,” she said. “He knows all about mountaineering.”

  She was driving way too fast for the twisty roads. I clutched the roll bar for dear life. The wind was whipping my hair all around. I was trying to ignore the fact that it was cold enough for black ice to have formed on the asphalt. It killed me how at ease Amanda looked behind the wheel, one arm resting on the window, belting out the lyrics to a Reptile song.

  Was Milton right? Was it crazy that Amanda and I were now friends? What was it that she saw in me? Was I simply a foil—there to make her look all the brighter?

  “I’m kind of a lead foot,” she said, laughing at my obvious fear of her driving. “But don’t worry—I’ve been driving for years. My brother Keith taught me when I was thirteen. I had to fake being nervous when I took my driver’s test.”

  I prayed she wouldn’t ask me about my driving. To change the subject, I complimented her on her boyfriend’s music.

  “He’s great, huh?” she shouted.

  “Great!” I agreed.

  “Who’s your favorite band?” she asked.

  “Radiohead.”

  “Really?” She glanced over at me and frowned. “We’re going to have to change that pronto. They make me want to slit my wrists.”

  “You have to give them a chance,” I said. “Radiohead takes a few listens. They’re sophisticated. Subtle.”

  “Please.” Amanda snorted. “You shouldn’t have to work for music.” She put on her blinker and turned down an unmarked wooded lane. Her neighborhood was called simply the Heights. “It’s the other Clyde Hill,” she said, making her fingers into quotation marks.

  I looked at her blankly.

  “You know—Clyde Hill? Where Bill Gates lives?”

  “Sure.”

  She groaned. “Do I have to teach you everything?”

  The Mungers’ driveway was long and curvy and flanked by a ravine. There was a creek at the bottom. You couldn’t even see the house from the road because of
all the trees. When we reached the top of the driveway, my mouth dropped. The house was fantastic, with natural wood siding, huge glass windows, and a suspended metal staircase that led up to a balcony. It reminded me of an enormous tree house, the kind people pay loads of money to stay at when they go on ecotours.

  “Holy shit,” I muttered.

  “It’s been featured in Seattle Weekly and Architectural Digest,” Amanda said, pressing the opener for the massive three-car garage. We parked next to a Jaguar convertible, as red and gleaming as nail polish, with an all-white leather interior.

  “My mom’s car.” She shrugged, like Jaguars were everyday.

  “Wait until you see what my dad drives. It’s a Beamer with a racing engine. It’s in the shop right now, while my dad’s in Brazil. I could tell you what he’s doing, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  We were in the kitchen when Amanda’s mother glided in—tall, thin, stunning. Suddenly I felt self-conscious. My hair was a mess from the drive. My cheeks were windburned. I was in no condition to meet anyone’s mother. She reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy. “Call me Katherine,” she said, extending her arm and drawing out the syllables of her name. Kath-er-ine. Her skin was as fine as alabaster. Her fingers were marble cool. Her nails, perfectly manicured and not too long, made me think of seashells. And her wedding ring…well, I understood now why some people called them rocks.

  “Amanda.” She frowned. “Can you offer Charlotte some water?”

  Amanda opened the refrigerator and gestured at the top shelf like a game show hostess presenting the grand prize. There were rows and rows of fancy bottles, most of the names foreign.

  “Or do you prefer room temperature?” Amanda’s mother asked.

  Who were these people? “Uh, tap is fine?”

  Katherine touched her fingers to her lips as if I’d just said something horrifying. Amanda stifled a laugh and handed me a bottle of Evian. Katherine’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, and then motioned for us to leave.

  “She’s a real bitch,” Amanda whispered as we left the room.

  “Parents…” I waved my hand vaguely.

  We passed a couple of photographs on our way upstairs.