“Oh, did you hear that Jeff is interning on a Francis Ford Coppola film this summer?”
I smile at that. Okay, so not all teen conversations are the same everywhere. And these may not be my future friends after all.
Picking up a few empty cups, I turn toward the counter and see the dark-haired Johnny Depp guy coming from the kitchen. Customers aren’t supposed to be there, but he acts as if he works here. For all I know, he might. We pass each other with a quick glance.
Aunt Jenna is washing dishes when I bring a tray back, and Uncle Jimmy is doing something with tools under the sink.
“The coffeehouse is officially closed,” she says. “They’ll clear out within the hour, but no more serving anything. You could run down and see what’s happening in the theater.”
I shake my head. “I’ll finish cleaning up in the dining area.”
“Feeling awkward with the other kids your age?” Uncle Jimmy teases, poking his head out from beneath the sink.
“Who, me?” I say with a smile.
Aunt Jenna gives me a sympathetic sigh. “Oh, sweetie, it’ll become home soon enough. You won’t feel displaced for long.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, trying to sound as though I believe her, knowing she’s probably right. “The people here really are mostly rich, much richer than at home. And they’re making films and going to Barcelona for summer vacation instead of playing mini golf and laser tag and going to the lake.”
“I’m sure they do those things too. And you didn’t really fit in with the mini golf and lake crowd anyway. Believe me, it took some adjusting for me too. You aren’t the only one who grew up in little Cottonwood.”
I grab the broom from a hook and ask, “What made it hard for you?”
“Well, I’m the only woman in my Bible study who works because she really has to. One woman complains about her job as an interior designer. She says she wishes she could quit, but they just can’t afford it. She drives a Beemer and has a rock on her hand the size of an Easter egg. The concept of money is very different.
“And then there are the vacations and the education. I know a homemaker with a PhD, and most of the others have a master’s. I didn’t finish college. But if you have a strong sense of who you are, what you believe, and God’s purpose for you, you’ll have no trouble with anyone you meet your entire life.” Aunt Jenna glances up at the wall clock. “Oh, wow, you’ve been here twelve hours.”
“Both of us have been here twelve hours.”
“I’ll have to do something to pay you back. Oh, and I totally forgot—he was just here too!”
“What? Who was here?”
“I meant to introduce you to Kaden.”
“Kaden, the yard and moving boy again?” I ask.
Uncle Jimmy looks up again. “He tried helping with the dishwasher problem, but I sent him to focus on his film.”
Aunt Jenna interjects, like they’re a team selling a car. “He did a short film last year that won some contest and gained critical acclaim. He’s involved with media at a church I want your mom and Austin to try out. I guarantee you’ll think he’s hot the moment you see him. But I think he was leaving—we should try to catch him.”
It’s always funny to me when Aunt Jenna says things like “You’ll think he’s hot.”
But then suddenly I think of the guy I saw coming out of the kitchen. The one with the dark eyes and serious expression.
“What does this Kaden look like?”
It’s nearly midnight before we get back to the house. It feels like the week I went to Mexico with the youth mission trip. Well, actually, it’s not like that at all, except for how long it feels since I’ve been home, since I’ve talked to my friends. My head is spinning from exhaustion, but I have to see who wrote me.
My phone sits on the windowsill, partly plugged into the wall. Beneath it is a white sheet of paper that says, “Ruby, I am very very sorry I messed up your texts. I cleaned your room and made you a snack. Love, Mac.”
There’s a plate of Wheat Thins with orange cheese melted on top, and even though it’s hours old, I try one. Not bad.
Even with what Mac deleted, I have fifteen new texts. From Kate, Isabelle, Randy, Felicity, and Nikki. And to think I felt alone today. But I am surprised to find nothing from Nick or Carson. Maybe those were ones that Mac erased.
KATE: What was that halt message you sent lake about forgetting your phone.
KATE: Hello??!
KATE: Should I call for search and rescue?
KATE: You MUST call me ASAP!
ISABELLE: I hate Nikki. How could she think what she did would be okay?
RANDY: Now that you're gone, I might as well tell you that I was the one who sent you the rose-a-gram last year on Valentine's. But don't tell Angie. She always thought I had a thing for you and now that we're going out. .. .
I decide to read the rest of that bizarre text later.
FELICITY: Josh asked me to the dance. You always give me the best advice. What should I do? Josh is really cute, but you know how I feel about Harlen...
I skip this one too and move on.
NIKKI: Hey girl. How's the big dry' So I need to know. Do you like Nick or what? I'll back oft if you do, you know I will. Everyone says you've got this great new life down there so I didnt think you'd mind that I asked him to prom. Tell me if you do.
NIKKI: Uh-oh. Kate said you'd want to go to prom with Nick, that you'd come home for it. I suck! I can tell him that you want to go with him instead. He said yes when I asked. I know it's pretty bold of a girl, but I thought why not?
I’ve been gone a few days, Nick finally likes me, but now he’s going to the prom with Nikki? So is that au revoir to the lime green dress with the twirly skirt?
chapter seven
Have I ever been this tired?
I’ve hardly slept the last few nights, and after working over twelve hours, the last thing I want is to get up at eight for a counseling appointment at my new school. But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
My friends arc all in class-Carson too-and most of my morning responses to last night have consisted of: Sorry, I left my phone at home, but I can't talk now. I have nothing to wear. I'm late already.
And to Isabcllc: I don't even know what to say about Nikki.
And to Randy: Thanks for the rose-a-gram I won't tell.
Before sending them, I deleted the words 1 wrote to Nikki. Silly junior high things like: Nick likes me now. Nick was supposed to ask me to the dance.
And to Nick 1 wrote: Hey, how's Spanish today? I have another day oft from school, lealous?
That isn’t what I wanted to write, but my dad always says don’t burn your bridges unless you like swimming in freezing cold water with river eels, so I decide to wait till after my counseling appointment to decide what to say to that wimp, jerk . . .
“Wow,” Mom says as we pull into the parking lot, and as I see the view before me, my mouth literally drops open.
The landscaped walkways and smooth stucco buildings with tall palm trees wave a welcome to us. Or they may be laughing at us, saying, “Who do you think you are to come here? This isn’t for people like you.”
“Are you sure this is the high school and not a university?” I ask.
“It’s like no high school I’ve ever seen,” Mom says in a tone that sounds nervous for me.
And then we notice the cars.
In Cottonwood you’d see every variety, from clunkers, minivans, and work trucks to sports cars. But here the student parking lot looks like a new car dealership. The glimmer of perfectly waxed paint is probably visible to orbiting satellites. When I get out of our Honda Accord (unwashed and with boxes in the backseat), I’m beside a silver BMW that I spontaneously want to put handprints all over.
We’re going to my counselor’s appointment, the one that Carson and I would have attended without our mommy in tow. But with Carson gone, I’ll put aside my pride. I want my mommy with me.
At least I’m never embarrassed by my
mom like some kids are. She’s smart, pretty, confident, and young compared to a lot of mothers. She could pass for an older sister, almost.
The students, thankfully, are in class, except for one or two.
“You look nice,” Mom says, which makes me even more self-conscious.
Is she saying that because I don’t look nice? Because she thinks I need a boost to the ego, since I’m the third-class citizen here? I’d be in the lower deck of the Titanic. The ones who weren’t given a life raft or vest . . .
“I see the office,” Mom says, bringing me back from the icy waters of the North Sea.
I tell myself that there is no one better than me, that I will be myself and no one else, and a bunch of other stuff that just runs together in my head and keeps my feet going forward.
We find the office and secretary and sit down to await the counselor. There is a smallness about me. My clothes feel itchy and uncomfortable, and I wonder how my hair looks and if any dark hairs have frizzed out of my sleek ponytail.
A few people glance at me curiously as they pass, and I want to say, as Mac might, “Take a picture!”
Mr. James, my school counselor, greets us enthusiastically and ushers us into his office. His walls are covered with certificates, diplomas, awards, and photographs. He has stacks of catalogs from colleges and papers in unorganized piles on his desk around his flat-screen computer monitor.
“And your son, will he be coming?”
Mom shakes her head and doesn’t hide her disappointment as she says, “No, he’ll be remaining at his school in Cottonwood.”
Carson and Mom talked last night while I was at the Underground. He feels bad, Mom said, but he still wants to stay with Dad. He’s going to hear about it from me, that’s for sure.
The counselor nods with a sympathetic knowing look that’s more annoying than anything else.
After having us sit, Mr. James talks. And boy, can he talk. Mom and I glance at each other about three minutes into it.
“Oh, you’ll really enjoy our school. I’ve been here two years now, and it’s the best school I’ve worked at. We have excellent programs, excellent opportunities, a student body that excels in academics, art, athletics, and even politics. According to your file, you’re a moderately academic student, Ruby, though your state test scores are impressive and your teacher comments are very complimentary.”
Ever since I was in sixth grade, teachers have talked about pushing us. “This year will not be easy—it’s to prepare you for high school . . . The college prep classes will get you ready for college . . .” Everything is about preparing for something in the future. For college, for your job, for your kids, for your retirement, for your death. When does anyone get to enjoy the moment?
I like enjoying the moment. And my grades sometimes reflect that, much to the consternation of Mom and my teachers. Dad doesn’t care so much, as long as I pass.
“Yes, if she applied herself, she’d have a high grade point average. We’ve had a rough few years—” Mom sees my look that says, Please don’t bring up the divorce again. And then says, “So, uh, I think this change will be a great opportunity for her.”
“Oh, it will indeed, indeed. I see that you take a lot of art courses, Miss Madden.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see what we can find that interests you. I believe a happy student is one who excels. We have 450 sophomores, and over 80 percent are involved in some club or activity.”
“Four hundred fifty?”
“And our cafeteria isn’t like most schools. We offer homemade soups, locally grown organic vegetables, whole grains for the breads and pizza dough. Everything is as natural and healthy as possible. Our programs are . . .”
My mind sort of zones out as I imagine describing all of this to Kate and my friends back home, telling how Mr. James turns red in his excited description of the high school.
“I love this school,” Mr. James says. “We’ve had a few movies shot on the school grounds as well.”
This interests me, until he starts naming movies that are long before my time, a few even before Mom’s, and then a bunch of short indie films that no normal person would know.
“Cool,” I say.
“That’s interesting. I’ll have to put those on my iMovie list.” Mom is ever so polite.
I unzip my purse and search for my phone. Even though I keep telling myself to put it in the little interior pocket, I never do, and I have to dig around the bottom to find it. There it is. I view it inside my purse and see a new message from Kate.
You r not going to believe this!
I think this is Kate’s new replacement for “Hello.”
I talked to Meg who has chemwith Nkck. She said Nkck told her...
Mom nudges me with her elbow and frowns.
The words Nikki and prom are the last ones I see before dropping the phone back into my purse.
Mr. James is still talking. “Look for the daily bulletin . . . sports teams . . . AP and honors classes . . . What are some of your other interests, Ruby?”
Questions always bring me back to focus. “Um, well . . .” My mind is blank. Strangely blank. Mine. I’m usually so full of ideas and interests and things I want to pursue that I can’t pick one.
But right now, while sitting in the school that feels as foreign as one in Japan, I can’t think of anything I want to do, except go home to Cottonwood and have my normal life back. I’m interested in that. I’m interested in what dress I’d wear to prom if Nick dumped Nikki, and interested in whether he’d like lime green and black—he could get a lime green shirt with black tie, or would it look better the opposite? Yes, the opposite. I really want that lime green dress at that dress shop near the Underground. On the drive home, I saw it again with a light shining down like a promise of dances to come.
Mom says, “She likes different kinds of arts. And foreign languages. She wanted to take several classes that aren’t offered anymore at her old school.”
“That’s happening more and more in small, rural communities. But not here. We have a lot to offer in our arts programs. And you’ll be surprised at the variety of languages. We certainly have French. We even offer Mandarin.”
“Mandarin?” What would I do with Chinese? I wonder, though maybe I’ll tell Kate I’m taking that since she teases me so often about my ever-fluctuating interests.
We set up my schedule, and I pick French 1 and International Cooking for my electives.
Then Mr. James asks, “Do you know anyone who attends here?”
“I met a guy . . . Frankie something, maybe Clark, or Conklin?”
“Oh yes, Franklin Klarken is a wonderful young man. He’s a little overly enthusiastic at times, and unfocused in his studies . . . but what a character. He’s a junior this year, I believe. I try to know all of the students by name, but that goal keeps me on my toes. Anyway, I assigned a member of student council to show you around on Monday. She will be stopping by to meet you any minute now.” He looks at a Marin High clock on the wall.
Mr. James and my mom talk away about the school programs and college opportunities while he types in my new schedule. A strange sort of panic washes over me, like a wave of sadness or fear or hysteria—maybe all three. My feet want to run from this place.
“Hi, Mr. James.” A pretty face peeks into the room. Short brown hair and brown eyes. She’s one of those natural beauties and wears only a subtle hint of makeup.
Mr. James stands up eagerly. “Come in, come in. Lucinda is the sophomore class treasurer, the head of debate club, and a track-and-field star.”
“Wow,” I say.
Lucinda motions like she’s brushing away the compliment. “And I still won’t get into Princeton unless I get my act together.”
While Mom finishes with Mr. James, I follow Lucinda outside. She’s my first real hope for useful information. And she might offer my first possibility of friendship.
“So where are you from again?”
“Near Redding. It’
s about three or four hours north.”
She rests a knee on a bench the way a jock might, but she’s so pretty it’s sort of a humorous stance. “I’ve been as far north as Mendocino or Napa. Are there any spas up there?”
“Spas?”
“My mother is doing this tour of spas. She’s in Budapest right now, but I know she’s gone around California. She has this book about the best spas in the world and wants to try every one of them. I guess everyone needs goals.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’m more like my father. I’d rather tour all the golf courses or the top architectural wonders.”
“We’re not really known for any of those things, though we have them. Like the Sundial Bridge, which is really cool. And Redding does have a church designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, but I suppose with all you have down here, that wouldn’t be all that exciting.”
“Yeah, probably not.” The way she says that sounds just a touch snobbish, and I hope she doesn’t mean it.
“So you’re in student government?”
“Yes. Both of my parents were in student gov at this school. My dad is thinking of running for Congress next term. He’s so political, but international bankers make much more money than government officials, so he has his strategy. I’ve been very encouraged to do politics, to the point of insistent encouragement. But I actually enjoy it. I’m considering political science for my major in college.”
“Interesting.”
Lucinda waves as some students pass and gives a smile that I think will get her definite votes.
“I’m supposed to ask what some of your interests are to help you find some groups or organizations. You know, get you plugged into the school quickly.”
“I’m about as political as a . . . well, what’s the most nonpolitical thing in existence?”
“Everyone is political, whether they admit it or not. But it’s a rare person who is actually politician material,” she says with a tinge of condescension.
“I like art.”
“We have lots of art classes and art theory and art club. There’s also yearbook staff, the newspaper, and dozens of clubs, from the Che Guevara group to Vegans Today . . . but I don’t imagine you’d be interested in a lot of those. Are you interested in filmmaking? That’s a big thing here.”
Ruby Unscripted Page 5
