Girl Wonder

by Alexa Martin

  “Or maybe she’s a genius. Bailey has started talking about wedding rings.”

  We all grew quiet once we got into the Jeep. The top was down, and the sound of the wind made talking impossible. It was nice, though, not having to talk. Trying to keep up with Neal and Amanda was exhausting.

  The bar, we discovered a short while later, had gone out of business.

  “Just my luck,” Amanda groaned.

  “Whatever!” Neal laughed. “You’re the kind of person who makes her own luck.”

  “That I am,” she agreed.

  Whatever had happened between Neal and Amanda in middle school seemed to be water under the bridge now. They were friends. Good friends. I wasn’t jealous of their friendship. I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t.

  Amanda liked the idea of having adversaries—which meant that she was finally starting to take debate seriously. When Mr. Peterson talked, she paid attention. She took notes and raised her hand a lot.

  I still hadn’t made any more progress with Neal. With all of his extracurricular activities, he was super busy. But he smiled at me a lot, smiles that were loaded with hidden meaning, smiles that were meant for me and me only, smiles that kept me hoping.

  One Friday afternoon in mid-October, Mr. Peterson reminded us that our first big tournament of the fall—held at Whitman College in eastern Washington—was less than a week away. “I expect all of you to devote your weekend to preparing for it,” he’d said.

  The next day I rode my bike over to Amanda’s on the Burke-Gilman Trail. Neal and Diego were coming over to the Mungers’ house as well. Diego was Neal’s debate partner, and the four of us were going to pool our research. Amanda was tackling the research part of debate with surprising enthusiasm. “It’s like being a detective,” she’d told me.

  I knew Amanda wanted to work for the FBI or the CIA someday.

  As Amanda and I sat on the island counter in the kitchen, I began to feel restless. “Has Neal had many girlfriends?” I asked, chewing on my thumbnail.

  Sucking on a Jolly Rancher, Amanda said, “Most of the girls he’s dated have gone to private schools. They’re usually the prissy type, if you know what I mean.”

  Most? Most sounded like a lot. And no, I didn’t know what she meant.

  “Any idiot can tell he thinks you’re cute,” she said.

  “Cute in a good way? Or cute like a little kid?” My heart raced, waiting to hear what she’d have to say. Amanda was smart about guys—smart about everything, for that matter.

  She popped another piece of candy into her mouth and bit down hard. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” she said. “Don’t you know—the secret to getting boys to like you is to know they think you’re hot shit?”

  “It’s amazing you look so great,” I said. “Your diet is a mess. You think Mountain Dew is a rational meal replacement.”

  She chuckled at this. “I believe in the three C’s: Cigarettes, caffeine, and candy.”

  “That’s a screwy belief,” I muttered. “But you’re doing something right.”

  “I’m doing everything right,” she said, hopping down from the counter to answer the door.

  A moment later, Neal and Diego walked into the kitchen dragging huge crates. “Files and files of evidence,” Neal explained, seeing my eyes widen with dismay. How did he have the time to do so much work and research? “I’ve got tons more at home. In my bedroom.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, wrapping a lock of hair around my finger nervously.

  “You should see it sometime,” he said with a pointed look.

  Wait—did he mean his debate evidence or his bedroom?

  “We’ll take the elevator up to my dad’s office,” Amanda said, leading us to a part of the house I’d never seen before. “He’s away again on another top secret medical mission.” She said this tongue in cheek, but you knew she thought that the sun rose and set on her dad.

  Dr. Munger’s home office was enormous, as big as the entire first floor of my house, and was fully equipped with a high-speed copier, a fax, several computers, a minibar, and a small kitchen. The perimeter was lined floor to ceiling with hardback books. In one of the corners there was a life-size human skeleton.

  “It’s real,” Amanda informed us. “My dad uses it to scare off kids at Halloween.”

  “I prefer my skeletons to stay in the closet,” I joked, at once pleased with myself for having actually said something witty, and creeped out because THERE WAS A CORPSE IN THE ROOM!

  “I want to hear more about your skeletons,” Neal said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Who is Charlotte Locke?”

  I tried not to shiver at his touch. And his question. I felt like an impostor. Deep down, I knew I was not who he wanted me to be.

  The paintings on Dr. Munger’s walls were of the abstract variety—the kind that usually made me feel stupid because I never understood what they meant or what feeling they were supposed to stir.

  “Those look like Clyfford Stills,” Neal said.

  “We studied that guy in Art History, right?” Diego asked.

  Amanda laughed. “They ARE Clyfford Stills. My grandfather had them commissioned.”

  “Yeah, right,” Neal said. “Clyfford Still is one of the most famous artists of the twentieth century.”

  Amanda crossed her arms. “He was friends with my grandfather, okay?”

  Diego stood before the painting. “Didn’t we see some of his stuff on that field trip to the art museum?”

  “That’s right,” Neal said. He turned to me. “Have you been to SAM yet?”

  “Sam?” (And was I the only person in the room who hadn’t heard of Clyfford Still?)

  “The Seattle Art Museum.” In a low voice I thought might be just for me, Neal added, “We’ll have to go sometime.”

  Katherine looked in on us once and brightened when she saw Neal. “It’s so good to see you again,” she said. “You used to be such a fixture around here. Can I get you a snack?”

  When Neal shook his head, Katherine smiled at me. “I’d love to get my hands on an advance copy of your father’s next book. What’s the status?”

  Her friendliness made me nervous. I liked her better in ice queen mode.

  “He just got a two-book deal with Random House,” I said, hating myself for saying it because, although it was true, I’d said it to impress everyone. “His new book is due out next fall.”

  Amanda made shooing motions with her hands. “You can leave now, Mom.”

  After she left, Amanda said to Neal, “I think she wants you to be her snack. Her little cougar snack.”

  Neal ignored this and said, “She trusts you to be alone with boys?”

  Amanda folded her hands under her chin and screwed her face into this angelic expression. “Debate is the kind of activity good kids do.”

  “If only she knew the shit that goes on at Whitman.”

  “What kind of shit?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” Neal said, nudging my foot and sending an electric current through my body.

  “Count me in,” I practically gasped.

  “Peterson looks the other way after hours. As do we with him.” Diego made a guzzling motion with his hand. “Let’s just say he likes his vodka.”

  “I like my vodka,” Amanda said.

  We all laughed.

  Once we’d finished cutting and clipping articles to add to our stock of debate evidence, Diego eyed us speculatively. “Hmm. There are four of us. We could do a practice round. Girls against boys?”

  “Me say good idea,” Amanda said. “And—after each person’s speech, we have to drink a beer.”

  “If we each do two speeches that’s eight beers!” Neal exclaimed. “You’re crazy, Munger.”

  “No. I’m thirsty. Are you afraid you can’t keep up?” She raised an eyebrow. “Or”—she grinned slyly—“we could play strip debate.”

  I didn’t hear what was said next. My pulse was racing too hard. I was NOT taking my clothes off. Not wit
h Amanda around, at any rate. I’d pale in comparison. Literally. But if I made a stink about not wanting to play, Amanda would tease me about being a prude—which was the last thing I needed Neal thinking about me if anything unprudish was ever going to happen between us.

  Pretending that my phone was buzzing, I excused myself to the hall outside. When I returned, I made a show of acting ticked off. “I have to go,” I said. “Something came up—my parents want me home. I guess I’ll have to practice some other time. Or wing it.”

  “Practice speaking in front of a mirror,” Neal suggested. “It helps.”

  Amanda waggled her pinkie. “Wing it on home, little birdie.”

  It was dusk when I left. The sky was slate blue and pregnant with rain. By the time I reached the Burke-Gilman Trail, it had started to pour. Breezy gusts knocked my bike around as if it were but a wind chime. The trail was an eerie place tonight: the trees were alive and cruel, lashing around as if possessed. There were a couple of ominous cracks, followed by the sound of falling branches—or, God forbid, entire trees.

  A few miles from our house, I hit a bump at the wrong angle and tumbled to the ground. Though I wasn’t hurt, I’d landed in an enormous puddle of mud—more of a pond, really. After I’d collected myself, I discovered that the chain on my bike was broken. I’d have to push it home.

  I tried to picture what I was missing right now at Amanda’s. Were they all drunk and naked? Having an orgy? On second thought, maybe I didn’t want a visual. I didn’t want to admit that my feelings were hurt by how glib Amanda had acted when I left.

  As I neared the end of the trail, I saw a bearded man wearing a black jacket. He stared at me with a cold expression, his eyes as opaque as nickels. I increased my pace as I passed him, and made sure the bike was between us. My heart beat wildly.

  He started to wave and shout. “They’ve got chickens for sale at Safeway!”

  Was he crazy? Was he insulting me? Or was this what ax murderers said right before they killed you?

  Except for the green glow of the television, our house was dark when I finally arrived. I let myself in the back door and grabbed a towel from the laundry room. Water streamed from me onto the white linoleum.

  “Hello?” I called out tentatively.

  When no one answered, I wandered into the den. It was empty.

  The music on the television was rising to a dramatic crescendo. In spite of my bedraggled state, I was sucked into the horror movie that was playing. A teenage girl raced across a desert on a full moon night, fleeing a masked killer. She searched desperately for shelter behind squat cactus plants and sage bushes, but always just missed making herself invisible. Finally, she reached a canyon. There was no place left to run or hide. The killer’s knife flashed as he lunged toward her.

  The girl leaped. A coyote howled.

  Icy fingers grabbed my neck from behind. I screamed. James Henry and Milton high-fived each other and fell to the floor in laughter. I tried to speak, but my teeth were chattering too hard with fear. Milton suddenly noticed my waterlogged clothes. He stood up. He expression grew serious. “What happened to you?”

  I crossed my arms in case my nipples were poking out. “You—” Unable to get out the words, I just shook my head.

  “Mom and Dad went to the symphony,” James Henry said.

  “So you called mushroom boy to entertain you? What—is he like your babysitter now?”

  “Babysitter! I’m way too old—”

  “It’s not so funny to go around scaring people. Murder?” I sputtered. “It happens to girls. Haven’t you heard of Jeffrey Dahmer? Ted Bundy? The Green River Killer?” I grabbed the remote and flicked off the TV. My hands were shaking.

  James Henry muttered something about “people who need to be medicated.”

  Milton tried to say something, but I stopped him with a glare. “Spare me.” Leaving them in the den, I retreated to the bathroom, where I filled the tub with the hottest water I could stand. It took a long time for the heat to penetrate my cold flesh.

  Skimming my palm along the surface, I thought about my reason for leaving Amanda’s. Had Amanda guessed that I’d lied about having to leave? Did she think I was a coward? What exactly was I afraid of? Getting naked? Or speaking in front of my friends? Public speaking wasn’t just a part of debate—it was debate. I needed to get my act together fast if I had any hopes of doing well at Whitman.

  I closed my eyes and imagined Neal’s lips on mine.

  Was he ever going to kiss me again?

  There was a knock on the door. “Charlotte?”

  “Why are you even here?” I asked Milton, not bothering to hide my irritation. “Do you and my brother have some kind of British schoolboy thing going on?”

  There was a sound like muffled laughter. “I’m his mentor, remember? And we’re neighbors. Your mom asked me to look in on him tonight. Plus—your brother’s cool. You don’t give him enough credit.”

  “Trust me,” I said, flicking the water with my finger, “James Henry gets plenty of credit.”

  “Listen. I just wanted to see if you’re okay. You don’t look so hot. Not that I can see you right now,” he rushed to say.

  “You’re saying I’m not hot?” I bit my lip.

  There was a sound like a head banging against a wall. “Why don’t you come watch a movie with us when you’re done in there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Fine.” He sighed. “Have it your way. I’m sorry for scaring you. I saw a movie once about Ted Bundy. The Deliberate Stranger?

  If you’d ever want to see it…Mark Harmon plays—”

  I ducked my head under the water and held it there, trying to drown out the sound of his voice, the roaring in my ears, and the sudden confusion I was feeling at his kindness. “Milton,” I said when I surfaced, “can we talk about this some other time?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “But what exactly are we talking about?”

  Neal sat next to me on the bus ride to the Whitman tournanment. He was reading a book about quantum mechanics for his physics class and kept setting it down to talk about string theory and other complicated scientific matters. Every time we went over a bump, his arm jostled against mine, sending shivers up and down my spine. Too twitter-pated to talk, I kept nodding enthusiastically to keep the conversation going. Guys liked girls who were good listeners, right? I could practically hear Amanda scoffing at this. At present, she was asleep in the seat in front of us. I gazed absently out the window. Our bus had gotten off at the wrong Interstate exit, and we were passing through an area of defunct warehouses. Most of the windows were broken. I stared at the star-shaped holes, trying to picture the decaying interiors.

  Neal waved his hand in front of me. “Earth to Charlotte. What’s going on?”

  Which is exactly what I was wondering but not at all what he meant.

  “Oh. Um…what did you say?”

  “I was asking how your parents get along. Was it weird for your mom to read Lily at Dusk? The book has some feminist critics up in arms—which I’m sure you probably know.”

  “I think my dad’s having an affair,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  Neal nodded, taking my outburst in stride. “I’m so sorry. Affairs aren’t that uncommon, though. We place such a huge cultural taboo on them in America, but in other countries, like France, affairs are a way of life. In fact, I read an article once that said that affairs can actually help keep marriages fresh as long as both parties are honest.”

  “I might just be imagining things,” I said, wanting to take back not only the confession, but the actual thought as well. I felt—disloyal. To change the subject, I asked Neal, “Where do you want to go to college?”

  “I’m waiting to hear if I got into Stanford early admission,” he said, adjusting his expensive-looking watch. His arm was tan, which baffled me. As far as I could tell, there was hardly any sun to be had in the Northwest. “How about you?”

  Shit. He wasn’t supposed to
ask me this.

  “I’m still narrowing down my choices,” I said, picking at a hangnail. The truth was I’d been too busy with debate and my new life to give college a second thought. “I’m looking at some of the smaller liberal arts schools. Middlebury. William and Mary. Maybe Reed.”

  It was true that I’d looked at pictures of these schools online. But they weren’t places I had a chance in hell of getting admitted to.

  “Those are great schools,” Neal said. “Reed is supposed to be very alternative, and Portland is a really hip town. Do you know what you want to study?”

  No. I felt a squeezing pressure in my chest. I didn’t know what I wanted to study. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I didn’t even know how to act without embarrassing myself most of the time. And with my test scores and mediocre transcripts, none of the schools I’d mentioned to Neal were even going to be long shots.

  “How about you?” I asked, deflecting Neal’s attention away from me. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A grown-up,” he said with a straight face.

  I punched his arm the way I’d seen Amanda do countless times. He made a face, like he thought the punch was somehow beneath me. Staring at my hands, I tried to think of a way to redeem myself. There was one thing…

  “If you ever want to meet my dad—” I began.

  Amanda whipped her head around. “This conversation is putting me to sleep. Let’s play poker.”

  How much had she heard? Had she interrupted to stop me from making a fool of myself?

  Neal laughed. “Okay, Mandy. Let’s hear where you’re going next year. Have you hired someone to do your applications?”

  “Very funny. You know I’m going to Harvard. I’m a double legacy. I’ll probably go somewhere international for graduate school. Maybe Oxford.” She sighed as if having all of life at her fingertips was simply too exhausting to talk about any further.

  We arrived at a classroom in the science building, where our first debate round was to be held. My palms began to sweat. My stomach was doing flip-flops. Although I’d just peed, I had to go again. I reminded myself of what Claire the coach had said—that she’d thrown up before rounds when she first started doing debate.