by Gaby Triana
“Yeah,” he says, bringing me back to our conversation. “I’m not going to play her game, Chloé. That girl is full of games.” I watch Vincent comb his straight black hair back with his fingers and take a sip from his Coke. I always thought that he was in the same boat as Rock, that he was just looking for a quick, no-strings-attached, fun time. But then I see him press his lips together in that way boys do when they think they might lose it, and I feel for him.
I put my arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay, Vince.” I pat him gently. “Let her go. You deserve better. There’s plenty of other girls out there.”
He nods. “Yeah, well, if I ever find one like you, I’ll put a GPS on her so I won’t lose her.”
“Aw, thanks, Vincey-poo!” I laugh, bumping his shoulder in appreciation of the compliment. He takes another sip from his drink.
The hallway has grown pretty noisy. “How do you like working at Gears Auto?” I ask.
“Aw, it’s great. I get free and discounted stuff all the time.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, imagining Vince coming home with bags full of cool, new stuff. Motor oil, car-wash stuff, bras (the front covers, not the lingerie), and full car tarps. Wait a minute…
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks self-consciously.
“Did you…?”
“Did I, what?”
“Vince, did you cover my bike a few months ago with a tarp? One day when it was raining really hard? It was brand-new with, like, creases in it and everything.”
He swallows slowly and tilts his head. “Um…don’t kick my ass, Chloé. I just wanted to help you because she was about to get dumped on really bad.”
“So it was you!” I should’ve known. Ambitiously cool, but utterly uncool Vince. I cannot bring myself to be mad at him. He was only being sweet.
“Don’t do that ever again.” I softly kick the wall he’s on. “My uncle paid a mint for those blue flames. They could get scratched.”
“I know. That’s why I never said anything. But you realize it could get scratched by not covering it too, right? You know how people here don’t give a shit. They totally touch Lolita when you’re not looking.”
Hmm. Valid point there, King Doof. “So, how much does one of those things cost? I would need a soft one made for motorcycles, not that crap you gave me.”
“Sorry. It was the only one I had in my trunk. I’ll see if I can hook you up with a better one.”
“That’d be awesome. Thanks.” I punch his knee.
“Not a problem.” He smiles.
What’s strange is how all the wrong boys are showing me their appreciation. First Rock, and now Vincent. But not the one I want. Not the one I need. I don’t tell Vince about the imploding star that is my heart, or about the street intersection sign wobbling back and forth in my head—Rock ST, Gordon AVE—giving in to the slightest wind that pushes it. On the outside, I am intact and in control.
Last period, trig, and I’m drawing circles.
Then squares.
Then triangles connecting them together.
Mr. Ungar talks, and I pretend to be jotting down everything he says, but all my pencil can draw are shapes. Shapes with little dots at the corners, shapes with stripes in them, polka dots, and little squiggly lines. Soon, I’m drawing hearts with zigzags inside, swords piercing them just like Mom’s old Tarot cards. A far cry from trigonometry.
Half the class is in a coma, the other half trying to stay tuned in to whatever Mr. Ungar is talking about. I’ve never had a problem with trig and I’m not about to start now, or else I’ll never see Lolita again.
So…
I force myself to sit up and ignore the clock. I fold back the page, pushing the heart-sword doodles out of sight. I start copying the notes from the board.
Looking at isosceles triangle ABC and the altitude from vertex B to side AC, we have cos(pi/7) = (b/2)a = b/2a
Right, I knew that. Gordon would be proud.
I’ll use this “break” wisely and study my brain off. Not only will Gordon be impressed with my superintelligenetic powers when we get back together, but I’ll be one step closer to recovering Lolita, my forbidden ride. Even if this plan fails, I’ll have done something constructive with my time. Maybe it’ll even make the time go faster somehow.
The bell rings, taking me by surprise. See? It’s working already.
With my plan in place, I feel strong, purposeful. I walk the halls quickly, weaving in and out of people all racing one another out of the buildings, heading toward the parking lot.
Impossibility strikes.
I see the giant nerd himself, heading in my direction. Only Gordon would be entering the school building as everyone else is fleeing. I want to hide behind a column like a frightened deer. Instead, I make eye contact with him and give him a friendly smile. I’ll show him I am not the impatient, overbearing girlfriend he spoke with on the phone last week. I am composed. I will impress Gordon with my high level of emotional maturity.
He waves at me and does a little jog through the hallway mob to reach me. Is this the end of the waiting period? Is he ready to see me again? My heart leaps around.
“Hey, sweetie. What’s up?” I ask. His hair is gelled back a little. He looks different. I want to kiss him like the last time we kissed at the dock. In the water, when we almost…
Find out what he wants.
“Everything, that’s what’s up.” He looks around the hallway, distracted. “I have two tests this week, a study lab with some guys from calc II, and I’ve been accepted to take college classes this summer.”
Blah, blah. I don’t care about any of this. What about me? I just want him to want me. “Really?” I fake intense interest. “That’s awesome! Where?”
“UM. They have a program for high-school students interested in majoring in engineering. It depends on whether or not my brother’s coming home for the summer, funds, a whole bunch of different reasons.”
“What about MIT and the early-entrance thing?”
“So many variables, Chloé. All the more reason why I need time to think.”
Still? I listen to him explain more about both programs, and I really wish I was more interested, but the only question burning in my mind at the moment is: Can I kiss you now?
Maybe my pathetic face betrays me, because he stops and squints. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. Never better!
“You sure?”
I press my lips together and nod. I want to say, No, I am not at all okay with this forced limbo, Gordon, but I keep it together. I don’t know how much longer I can hang in there, though.
“Because I really want you to know,” he goes on, “that I appreciate all the time we spent together.”
Appreciate? I want to spit the word in his face and make him explain why he’s talking about us in the past tense as if we’re over, finished, when he said he just needed some time. But for whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to say anything. Not here with the current of people going by.
I look away and scan the hallway, look at anything but his face. In three months, we managed to go from bickering opposites in a forced situation to two people who understand and love each other. That, to me, is a world of accomplishment. Now he’s saying he appreciates me.
“How’s chemistry?” he asks, changing the subject. If he cared so much about my chemistry grade, he would study with me after school today. It could be our raison d’etre, you know, like if all else fails, at least he’s still my peer tutor.
“Great. It’s going great. I think I’m going to pass after all.” Of course, that’s another lie, but if I have any hope of getting back with Gordon, he has to see that I’m dedicated, succeeding, taking life seriously, that I have goals. Like him. He cannot, no matter what, see the mess I so clearly am.
“You sure?” He looks down at me. He seems taller today. Or maybe I’m just shrinking.
“Yeah! Why do you keep asking? Don’t you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you.” He looks down at my hand. I’m burning for him to take it, give it a squeeze, place it on his heart. “I always have.”
I can’t take this. I can’t take these mixed signals. If he wants me, he should tell me. If he doesn’t, he should tell me, so I can move on. I open my mouth to speak. There has to be something that will convince him, that will set him straight on the path to my heart. But what?
“Chloé…” he says, before I have the chance to tell him anything. “I know I sprang this break on you, but there’s so much on my plate right now, and…I just wasn’t expecting to have a girlfriend. You took me by surprise. I didn’t mean to piss you off the other day, but I need you to understand.”
I nod, watching his hazel eyes carefully for any signs of lying. But there’s no flickering, no hesitation. He’s confused. At least he acknowledged that I threw him off. I smile, proud at my throwing-off abilities. It’s the best I’m going to get for now.
“Gordon, do what you have to do. But I want to be with you, to give it a solid try. If it fails, it fails. You make me mad sometimes, but you make me really happy, too. We have something unique, and I know we can make it work, even with your parents. I just want you to know that.”
There. All out on the table. Take it or leave it.
He smiles, and as my breathing stops to register the moment, he takes my hand in his. “I understand everything you’re saying. Let’s talk about it again when school’s over.”
That’s a whole month and a half away! I want to say. My heart bobs up and down in my chest like a buoy out in the bay. Focus on the positive. He may want to get back together when school’s over. I break away from his hold before my eyes have the chance to well up again. I will not be a crying wuss. Crying wusses never get what they want.
“Okay, let’s do that. We’ll talk in a few weeks. Study, study!” I smile and quickly leave him.
I head out of school. No Murphys’ dock for me today. Today, I start all over like I did the day I met Gordon. Only this time, I’m really going to do it. I’ll play this game right. I won’t whine about Gordon anymore. I won’t blame outside sources for my knowledge deficiency—not Mr. Rooney, not Gordon, not because I’ve had nine months of mourning. I will take responsibility this time and find someone who can help me take control.
Even if they are a metal-mouthed, paper-clip-loving girlgoyle.
Twenty-five
The following Monday, I sit alone in the computer lab. Mr. Ungar is absent today, so I took the opportunity and asked the substitute if I could come here, claiming I needed to finish research for my nonexistent English paper. Here, one can Google in peace without leaving temporary internet files and cookies for spying mothers to see. I type in FINDING BIRTH PARENTS, and my pulse quickens.
I should not feel guilty about this. Even my mom said she would do it.
I print out at least twenty listings for agencies that investigate closed adoption cases and stuff them into my bookbag. After skimming the first four or five websites, I realize that I’m going to need some money to get the information I’m looking for. I’ll have to get a job this summer and use some of the paychecks for this. If they find that your parents are long dead, I wonder if they return the money.
It’s May 1, and peer tutoring has become the mecca for the academically desperate. A few new tutors have joined the cause. The auditorium is louder than ever. No one even notices the loud doors anymore. No one notices me come in.
Sabine stands in the middle of the right-hand aisle talking to a girl with stringy long hair. She sees me, her ponytail swinging hard when her head turns. Yes, I’m back, even though Gordon’s not. Don’t rub it in, girly girl. Sabine goes back to talking. I look for a new seat. The old spot will not do.
Should I ask her now? No time like the present, I suppose.
I put my stuff down and start down the aisle, but just then the girl Sabine tutors, Francine, comes bouncing up the aisle, and they take their seats. Now that I think about it, Francine had a valuable idea there, requesting someone of the same sex. Maybe I wouldn’t be back at square one had I done the same.
I want to turn and sit back down. Maybe I could get started by myself today, then approach Sabine next time, but…that’s procrastinating. The new Chloé procrastinates not.
At Sabine’s row, I crouch down. “Sabine,” I whisper.
She doesn’t hear me, but Francine points at me. Sabine turns to look.
“Hi. Can I talk to you a minute?”
She glances at Francine as she stands. I wonder if they’ve become friends, if they’ve talked about me. “Uh, sure,” she says, and we stand in the aisle.
“I know this is weird, but I was hoping you could help me.”
“With?”
“Tutoring.”
“But I’m already tutoring someone.”
“Yes, I know that.” Why am I asking her anyway? Why not any one of these other people? I notice a few kids sitting cross-legged on the stage talking to Ms. Rath. They’re probably tutors too, benched, waiting for the opportunity to play. Still, I can’t take my chances with them. “I need you.”
“Why me?”
“You know chemistry better than anyone here. Gordon said so,” I say, remembering our first tutoring session.
“He did?” She looks surprised.
I nod. “Yes. I know this might seem a little weird, but I need you. I have to pass Rooney’s class. And you’re really good at helping people,” I add to butter her up. “Maybe you could tutor me on another day? My mom could pay you.”
She squints and turns her back to Francine, whom I notice is straining to hear our conversation. “Can I ask you something? Are you and Gordon still…?” Her expression is full of curiosity, hurt, and annoyance all at the same time.
“Yes, we’re still together. Well, sort of. I think.”
“What do you mean?”
I cross my arms. “What does it have to do with tutoring?”
“It doesn’t. I just want to know.”
“I—”
“Forget it.” She starts turning away. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry I asked.”
“No, wait.” I touch her arm, and she turns back to face me. “What’s wrong?”
Her expression softens a bit. “Well…Chloé. You’re asking me for help, but you realize that Gordon used to be my boyfriend, right? For six months.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, but I didn’t know it was six months. That’s longer than us.
“So it would be weird for me to sit across from you and give you help, knowing the history you guys have together now.”
“I’m not sure it’s much of a history, really. I mean, yes, we hit it off quickly at first, but then he…” I think of how to put this without making myself look pathetic. I can feel my face stinging the way it does right before the tears begin.
“Put you on hold?” Her eyebrows rise, and every one of the last conversations Gordon and I had comes rushing into my brain like a flash flood. So it’s not just me.
“He did the same to you?” I ask.
She nods.
“Oh,” I say for lack of a better response.
“No offense, Chloé, but I was wondering how long it would take with you.”
“Well, thanks. That’s sweet.”
“I don’t mean that in a bad way. It just—look—I don’t know. I’m not strong enough right now to be able to help you, knowing that you guys were together like that. You don’t know how I felt about him,” she says, looking around the auditorium uncomfortably.
Yes, I do know.
You fell in love with him just like I did.
And he set you aside, just like he did with me.
“You don’t know how it killed me to drive by his house and see your motorcycle out front,” she says, her eyes turning pink and glossy.
“I do know how you feel,” I say, remembering how it killed me to see the unfamiliar cars outside Rock’s house.
Oh.
God.
What does this mean? That I’m in love with Rock? God, that is so wrong. “So I guess I can’t blame you,” I add, staring at the plastic seat buckets. “Don’t worry. I’ll find someone else.” I head for the stage, hearing her apology as if from another dimension. I can do this without Sabine. I never needed anyone before and I don’t need anyone now.
Suddenly, I spot my godmother, purse on her shoulder, keys in hand, talking to Ms. Rath up on the stage. “Marraine,” I call, giving her a little wave.
She pats Ms. Rath’s shoulder as a thank-you, then points at the steps on the side of the stage, where she heads. I meet her there. “Salut.” I kiss her cheek. “What are you doing here?”
“Cherie, sit down.” We sit on the steps.
“What’s wrong?” I remember my father’s face, pained and tortured, as he approached me in the garage with the news of Seth’s death. It’s okay, linda, it’s okay… he’d said, because he could tell I already knew.
“Nothing is wrong,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I only want to talk. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Why?” I give her a shoulder shrug.
“Chloé. Please. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
I stare at her bright brown eyes. The lines around them remind me of how long this woman has loved me. A long time. She takes my hands in her beautiful manicured ones. Her long nails are light pink today. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
“I’m fine.” I pull my hands out of hers.
Her eyebrows draw together. “You don’t have to say that.” She sees right through me. There’s no hiding from Marraine. “You’re not okay. You’ve had a hard year, Chloé.” The words jab me in the gut because they’re true.
I can’t answer.
“You lost your uncle, whom you loved,” she says. I try to hold back the tidal wave of tears rising against the backs of my eyelids. They’re only so strong. She looks at her hands and tries to calm a breath. “Believe me, he loved you very much too. You two were like twins born at different times. I know this.”
