God, my heart was pounding. Then about half the team came running up the steps, talking and laughing.
I looked up at his face, at his big gray eyes, and felt so light and so good. We just sat there holding hands until his mom came and picked him up.
He called me after that and left three messages, and maybe if I’d been home any one of those times and answered the phone, everything would be different now. I wanted it to be different, because since Michael and I broke up, all I’d had were a bunch of what Rachael calls “flybys.” And I hate the flybys: guys I start making out with at a party just because every once in a while I need some human contact. I need to feel like someone’s noticed me.
But it always goes further than I want. I want to say stop, but it’s just easier to go with the flow, go all the way. It’s just easier not to return the phone calls from the ones hoping for a repeat performance.
But Danny was different, and I blew it. I was too scared to return his calls, another charming facet of my social anxiety disorder. I panic thinking someone’s mom or older sister will answer the phone and I won’t know what to say. I figured we had the whole summer ahead of us, but then Michael came calling and summer was over.
I turn around and look at Danny. Damn! He’s at his desk smiling at me. I whip my head back to the front.
I never told Michael about the cockroaches.
“Interested?” Marnie Shaw is staring down at me, waving a copy of Othello.
How long has she been standing there? My cheeks feel like embers.
“He’s taken.” She smirks. “He was all gropey in the hall with Sara, that’s why they were late.”
Taken? Sara? When did that happen? I am going to kill Janine!
I reach out and Marnie hands me the book. “Better luck next time,” she says, and moves on.
At least Michael wants me. At least Michael didn’t give up on me.
I am so twisted.
When the bell rings, I jump out of my seat. I want to get out of the class as soon as possible. I don’t want to think about Danny, and I don’t want to talk to Mr. Pappas about my paper. I don’t give a damn about my paper.
“Jordan, I’d like to speak to you,” Mr. Pappas calls out.
Great! I take a deep breath, turn around, and push my way past the kids heading out the door. My cheeks are burning again.
“Have a seat,” he says as he closes the door.
“I have French class second period,” I say, hating how my voice came out several octaves too high.
“Actually I talked with Ms. Chubb, and she thought what we had to talk about was worth missing a bit of class.”
So I sit, clutching my binder to keep from visibly shaking. What is going on?
Mr. Pappas sits on the front of his desk and smiles at me. I know he is trying to put me at ease, but he must see that I’m about to lose it any second now. Why can’t he leave me alone?
“Jordan, I’ve noticed something about the two papers you’ve handed in. Each time they were due, you were absent the day before. No big deal, perhaps, but I wanted you to know that I noticed. You wouldn’t be the first student to cut school to write a paper that was due the next day, but I don’t want it to become a habit. It’s your job to manage your time wisely.”
He’s pausing like I’m supposed to jump in and say something, but I can’t open my mouth, because if I do I know I’ll start crying. God, I wish I was one of those kids who gives off that I-couldn’t-give-a-crap-what-you-teachers-think-of-me vibe. And why does he care if I take a day off to write a paper? My mother doesn’t care; she just writes whatever stupid note I ask her to. She never even questions why she’s writing them.
“And I want you to know I’ve spoken to a few of your teachers from this year and last and we are all concerned about your erratic school performance and absences. You seem to miss a lot of your afternoon classes, especially Friday afternoon ones.”
He’s laughing a bit, like he’s in on some big joke.
“I handed in notes,” I squeak out. “My mom knows.” I immediately regret saying that as his smile dissolves. No more big joke.
“Yes, I’m aware of the notes,” he says, his serious look punctuated with a big sigh.
He leans forward, and I wish I could back away. “Do we really need to get your mother in here and have her account for all those dental appointments and stomach aches? How many notes do you think she’ll write after she’s called in to speak to Dr. Deluca?” He opens a folder perched on his knees. “Do you think your mother is aware that she excused nineteen of your absences in Mr. Bell’s class last year? That’s one day short of an automatic failure, but I’m sure you know that. I’m sure you kept a very accurate count.”
That did it. Now the tears are coming. I look down, knowing it’s hopeless to try to hide them. Mr. Pappas gets up and returns with a box of tissues. I hate him for doing this to me. I reach out and grab one, and blot my face, never taking my eyes off the crooked heart someone must have spent an entire semester carving into the desk.
“Jordan, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just concerned; all of us are concerned. You’re a bright girl who seems to be very cavalier about her future. Now, I’ve talked to Mrs. Verona and—”
“Oh, God,” I murmur. I can’t help it, that woman is the biggest idiot in this school, with all her “I’m here for you kids” crap.
“Look, I know some of you think the guidance counselors are a bit of a joke, but Mrs. Verona has helped a lot of students. Nobody is going to make you see her; we just think you seem a bit in over your head.”
Over my head, huh? Maybe Mr. Pappas and Mrs. Verona can pull their little straight talk routine with Michael and get him the hell out of my tree, get my mother out of the mall, and get my father to call when it’s not my birthday.
“We just don’t want to see you fall through the cracks, Jordan.”
Too late. I’m quite comfortable in here, thank you very much.
Silence. Big, awkward silence. Well, except for the disgusting sound of mucous being sucked back into my sinuses.
“Just think about what I’ve said, Jordan. And…”
Gee, suddenly Mr. Pappas is at a loss for words. What did he think I was going to do, thank him for pointing out what a mess I am? Like I didn’t know?
“Look, take as much time as you need, Jordan. And don’t worry about French class.”
“Isn’t that cutting?” I hiss, running my finger over the heart.
He sighs again. I guess he was hoping for more breakthrough and less bitterness. “We’re here if you need us,” he says, and walks out of the classroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I take my mirror out of my purse. Big red nose, red-rimmed eyes — just lovely. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so screwed. How does Mr. Pappas expect me to walk around with a huge red nose and blotchy face? What if Danny sees me like this? What if Danny and Sara see me?
I’m suddenly aware of the clock ticking on the wall. The second hand is stuck on the number ten; it’s been stuck there all semester and nobody’s bothered to fix it. The clicking noise is driving me insane, and I can’t exactly go to Mrs. Chubb’s class looking like a freak, so I decide to go home. Just let them call my mother in; I’d love to hear her try to explain all those notes to Dr. Deluca. It would serve her right.
I blow my nose and check the mirror one more time. Definitely time to go home. I peek out into the halls and head for the science wing, where there’s never anyone watching the exits. I round the corner, picking up speed, hoping to avoid any teachers.
“Jordan!”
I turn and see Lisa. How bad is this day going to get? I tip my chin down, trying to hide my face under my hair. “Hey, Lisa.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got to go home. Good to see you.” I start walking, hoping she’ll let me go.
“Jordan, wait.”
I stop and face her. When Lisa and I were friends, she’d always laugh about how the littlest things
would bring me to tears. Be strong, be cool, and never let them see you cry, she’d say. I’m painfully aware of how awful I look but decide to cop a “be cool” attitude so Lisa won’t be shaking her head, thinking, “same old Jordan.”
“When did you get home?” I ask, looking her in the eyes. I notice that Lisa isn’t looking so hot, either, she’s got a red rash covering her cheeks and nose.
“Last weekend. This is my first day back.” She tilts her head to the side and scans the posters on the wall. “Um, are you sure you’re okay? You look…”
I smile, concentrating hard to make it seem natural. “I’m fine; it’s allergies. That’s why I’m heading home. Gotta get some meds.”
“Oh, well. Okay. If you want to talk, you can call me. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, you too, Lisa. Give me a call if you need anything. Well, I really need to get that Clarinex! See you.”
I wave and head out the door. A cold breeze slaps me as my head drops and my shoulders cave in.
I can’t wait to see Michael tonight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
God, where is he? I will beg him to put me out of my misery. None of this we-can-be-together-for-all-eternity crap! I don’t want to even think about tomorrow. I just want my room to stop spinning and my stomach to stop heaving.
It gets dark so early now, and next week will be daylight savings time. It’ll be dark at five freaking o’clock, and Michael could be anywhere. I can’t stay after school and join the track team, it’s too dark! I can’t hang out on the weekends ’cause it’s too dark. It’s too damn dark and Michael Green’s got me on a curfew.
I squint at my clock: 12:41.
Where the hell is he? I am so sick of this — so sick of waiting for Michael.
He has a whole school to choose from, why did he pick me to haunt? We were together for two months. Why the hell is he so bent on spending his whole stupid unnatural life with me? I hate him! I hate Michael Green!
God, why did I brush my teeth? The mint and smoke and rum are mingling in my mouth in the most disgusting way. I need to take deep, slow breaths so I won’t throw up.
Rum sucks.
Michael sucks.
Would Michael even want me this way? Would all the crap in my blood make him sick? Ha! That would be great. I’ll open the window and invite him in — the moment he’s been waiting for. He’ll put his mouth on the soft part of my neck he loved to kiss, his teeth will pierce my skin, and my blood will be poison.
Yeah, that would be great.
I sit up and sway in my bed, running my fingers back and forth over the screen. I wonder if Michael will hear the noise and come to me. Hard to believe this flimsy little bit of wire mesh is all that stands between Michael and me. I open the window some more.
Maybe tonight’s the night.
I breathe in the cool air and whisper, “Michael, where are you?”
I need to talk to you. I need to know why you chose me. We were together so long ago. For as long as a heartbeat when you think of the time that’s passed since I was yours.
I fall back onto my pillow with a thump. I need to puke, and I need to know why Michael Green comes to me, begging me to let him in.
I remember driving around in Michael’s car. We’d pull over at the beach, park under the trees at the back of the lot, and crack the windows to smell the hot, salty air. We never said much, we’d just hit the backseat with a pack of condoms and steam up the already warm night. I replay that summer, trying to figure out what we did that might have made a deep impression on Michael — something special that makes him come to my window every night.
“Jordan, let me in.”
His words erase the summer nights, and I realize I’m shaking. I want to reach out and touch the screen, to touch Michael and feel how cold he really is.
“Ah, Michael. So nizze of you t’drop by.” I hear the words leaving my mouth in a sloppy, jumbled slur. “What have you been doing this very fine evening?” I ask, slowly, carefully moving my lips and tongue, trying to keep my words from blending together.
“Are you drunk again, Jo?”
I decide to ignore his question. He knows the answer.
“I’ve been thinking about our relationship, Michael. There’z a whole lot I don’t know about the new you! Now what kind of friend does that make me? A shitty one! So let’z talk about you, Michael. What do you do before our little nocturnal tête-à-têtes? How do you fill Your time before you skulk outside my window?”
“God, you’re trashed.”
“Now, now. We’re going to talk about you! Besides, you are a very big part of the reason I felt compelled to chug quite a bit of a very nasty bottle of rum.”
“Maybe I should go. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
I wait for him to jump from the tree, but he stays. I clutch my stomach and wonder if I should make myself throw up. The way Rachael tells it, any bulimic middle schooler can do it; I just need to work on my finger placement in the back of my throat.
But I have things I want to say to Michael, and vomiting would most definitely spoil the mood.
“You know, if you had shown up a little earlier, I might have met you outside in the tree. I finally decided I was too faced to get through the branches. Didn’t want you to find me with a broken neck at the bottom of the tree, though I considered that option.”
I wait for the laugh, but apparently becoming a vampire has destroyed what little sense of humor Michael had.
“Anyway, I got to thinking about you and what it is you do, and I want to know what I’d be getting myself into. You come to me every night, sitting in that damn tree, asking me to let you in, but what will happen? Will we run around together like Heathcliff and Catherine? Except instead of slitting people’s throats on the moors, we’ll be hunting them down in the parking garage at the mall? Is that what we’d do?”
Now Michael laughs, like it’s such a ridiculous notion: him slitting people’s throats. But it’s a nervous laugh, and I don’t think he’s feeling very sure of himself. I bet he’s desperately trying to make that jock brain of his figure out the right answer — the answer that will get me to open the window. And I bet he’s desperately trying to figure out who the hell Heathcliff is.
“I haven’t killed anyone, I — I wouldn’t do that. You don’t have to do that. Just know it isn’t bad. And we’d be together.”
“Just know it isn’t bad? That’z too funny! You drink blood, for God’s sake. I think we need to be up-front about that. I’m feeling pretty shitty about things today, and if you want that invite, you’d better try damn hard to make it seem appetizing!”
“Why are you talking like this? Did something happen today?”
Oh, God. Is that pity in his voice? I think I must have hit rock bottom to elicit pity from someone who’s been dead for three months.
“I’m just sick of everything. Sick of you. Why are you here, Michael? Why are you doing this to me?”
“I love you,” he whispers.
“You’re so full of shit,” I spit. “We were together for sixty-three days, over a year ago. It took you all of two seconds to get over me. Why are you really here?”
“Hey, aren’t you forgetting that you broke up with me, Jo? First day of school and you just break it off. ‘This just isn’t going to work. We’re too different.’ That’s all you said. What was I supposed to do?”
I hear Michael tearing the dry leaves off the tree and crunching them between his fingers. I want to tell him it was all a mistake — that I just snapped, that I was scared.
“Why did you do it, Jo? I thought we belonged together. God, you were so easy to talk to. I could tell you anything. I could be someone different with you. But then you dumped me. And it wasn’t even for someone else. I racked my brain for months trying to figure out what I missed, because I thought everything was great. You ripped my heart out, and you never told me why. You never told me what’d I’d done that made you stop loving me.”
&nbs
p; How can I explain this to someone like Michael?
Michael walked in the world looking everyone straight in the eye. He thrived on human contact. So how could Michael understand that I go to school every day with my stomach in a knot because, in seventeen years on this planet, I haven’t figured out how to make small talk, or even just say hello to people without feeling like an idiot. He’d never understand. He’s just not made that way.
And that first day of school totally threw me. When we pulled into the parking lot, I was still in my stupid summer-love mode, still under Michael’s magic spell, feeling calm and confident, thinking I could face this year, maybe even walk down the halls and look people in the eye as long as I was on Michael’s arm.
Then we got out of his car, and kids I’ve known since first grade, kids who have barely looked my way in years, are swarming all over us.
“Michael, what period do you have lunch?”
“Michael, are you in Mr. Nucci’s chem class with me?”
“Michael, why didn’t you call me back?”
“Michael, you’re coming to my party this weekend, right?”
Michael’s lived in this town for two months and without my knowing it, he’s somehow reached the highest stratosphere of the student body.
I mean, I knew he played baseball in the summer league, and he said he was doing really well at football practice, but I never would have guessed that the whole school had noticed. I supposed I should have gone to his games or practice or something. Then at least I would’ve had some warning, but I had to babysit the twins. Honestly, I was relieved I didn’t have to go. Sitting in the bleachers yelling “Go, team!” isn’t really my thing. But Michael, he never said a word. You’d think he would have had something to say about being discovered by the school’s upper crust! I felt like an idiot. I wondered if they knew we were even going out?
First period was a blur. I ignored Mr. Nucci’s lecture on the dedication he expected of his AP chem students and had a lengthy discussion with myself as to whether or not I could seamlessly fit in with the in crowd. Being Michael’s girlfriend was my ticket to the front tables by the windows that overlook the courtyard. For once I could sit and watch the kids go by. I could whisper and giggle and watch my reflection in the glass as I flipped my hair. I imagined bringing Rachael along. Well, after she had dumped her fishnets and high-heeled boots for something a little more mainstream, and finished growing out her Mohawk, and stopped talking about orgasms all the time.
Uninvited Page 6
