by Risa Green
Lindsay frowns. “Oh, please, don’t even say that. I think the only thing worse than having nobody at school talk to me is having nobody at school talk to me except for him.”
“What about me and Samantha? We talk to you.”
“Okay, fine. The only thing worse than having nobody at school talk to me except for you and Samantha is having nobody at school talk to me except for you and Samantha and the Unabollmer. Is that better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
The nickname comes from an incident in third grade, when Chris happened to notice that one of the manhole covers on his street had been left unscrewed. He went down into it and began fooling around with the electrical system and pulling out wires. But he must have pulled on the wrong wire, because the manhole exploded while Chris was still inside, and he ended up almost killing himself. He spent two months in the hospital being treated for burns, and he had to get a tattoo to fill in a big chunk of his left eyebrow where the hair got singed off.
Anyway, when Chris came back to school in the beginning of fourth grade, he was, like, a persona non grata. Everybody would whisper whenever he walked into a room, and although the official story was that he had gone into the manhole looking for wires for a robot that he was building, a rumor started going around that he had actually been building a bomb, which he was planning to use to blow up some kids in his neighborhood who used to tease him.
He pretty much kept to himself after that (further fueling his antisocial image), and after a while, most people just forgot about the whole thing. But then a couple of years ago some kid at school learned about Ted Kaczynski—that crazy Unabomber guy who in the ’90s sent bombs to people in the mail, until the FBI caught him and sent him to prison for the rest of his life—and that kid started calling Chris “the Unabollmer.” People thought it was funny, the name caught on, and suddenly, after being ignored for years, Chris Bollmer was actively considered a freak again.
But the point is, Lindsay was never friends with Chris Bollmer. Not before he blew himself up, and not after. She’d never even spoken to the guy. Not once. Not even a hello when she passed him in the hallway. But when all of this craziness with Megan started, Chris decided that he would be the one person (besides me and Samantha) who would dare to be friends with Lindsay. I don’t know if he felt a sense of solidarity with her because they both had horrible nicknames, or if he felt some kind of connection because they both shared the same social outcast status, or if he just has a major crush that he couldn’t contain any longer.
Whatever the reason, he suddenly started talking to her at school and sending her emails, as if they’ve been friends for years. Poor Lindsay tries to be nice to him, but sometimes she gets fed up and snaps at him like an angry turtle. Not that I blame her. I mean, it does not help her cause in any way to be seen talking to the Unabollmer. Especially not right now, in the middle of the cafeteria.
“Oh boy,” Lindsay says as the two of us spot him making a beeline toward us. “Here we go again.” She puts her hand up over her face and turns her back to him. But Chris just walks right up and taps her on the shoulder.
“Hi, Lindsay,” he says, really loudly. In the line behind us are three kids from my physics class: Lizzie McNeal, Cole Miller, and Matt Shipley, a trio known for being more gossipy than Perez Hilton. They stop talking as soon as Chris opens his mouth, no doubt hoping to pick up a juicy tidbit or two to spread around later on. Reluctantly, Lindsay turns around.
“Oh. Hi, Chris,” she says.
“Um, yeah, I just wanted to tell you good luck on the English test today. It’s a big one.”
I feel kind of sorry for him. I mean, you just know that he sat in his room for hours last night trying to come up with a reason to talk to her, until he finally hit on good luck on the English test. I brace myself as I wait for Lindsay to react—will she tolerate him today, or will she go all Teenage Mutant Ninja Lindsay on him? I exhale with relief as she kind of half-smiles and pretends that wishing someone good luck on a test is not a totally pathetic pretext for making conversation.
“Thanks, Chris. You too. It’s going to be a hard one.”
Lindsay and I both glance back at Lizzie, Cole, and Matt, who are holding their hands in front of their mouths and whispering to each other already. Lindsay looks desperately toward the front of the line, and I know she’s praying to get out of this situation before it turns into the top news story of the day. But then Megan Crowley appears out of nowhere, smiling her wicked, evil, torturous smile.
“Well, well, well,” Megan says. “What do we have here? Is it Fart Girl and the Unabollmer? Together? What a cute couple!”
Megan is surrounded by her usual flunkies—Brittany Fox, Madison Duncan, and Chloe Carlyle—three dumb, cookie-cutter fellow cheerleaders who follow Megan around and do whatever she says. No exaggeration, just as if they walked straight out of a teen movie. A bad teen movie. The pathetic thing is, they’re so stupid, they don’t even realize how cliché they are.
Lindsay lowers her eyes to avoid having to look at Megan, but Chris stares right at her, practically daring her to start in on them.
“Just stop it, Megan,” Lindsay says softly.
“What was that? Did you just tell me not to talk trash about your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Lindsay insists, louder this time. She glances at Lizzie, Matt, and Cole, who are watching the whole thing unfold, wide-eyed.
“What?!” Megan screams. “You lost your virginity to him? Oh my God, you guys, Fart Girl and the Unabollmer are having sex!” Megan and her groupies crack up and everyone in line around us snickers. “I wonder what kind of baby they would have. Wait, I know. What do you get when you cross Fart Girl with the Unabollmer?”
“What?” asks Brittany.
“A stink bomb!” shouts Megan. “Get it?”
Brittany and the others are suddenly in hysterics—obviously forced and fake—but somehow that makes it even worse. I glance over at Lindsay, whose eyes are welling up. I take her by the arm.
“Come on,” I whisper to her. “Let’s get out of here. Don’t let them see you cry.”
I start to lead her out of the line, in the opposite direction from Megan and her cronies. But Chris puts his arm out in front of us, blocking the way.
“Come on, Chris, let us by,” I say to him in a low voice. But he ignores me and continues to stare at Megan. The cafeteria, which is normally so loud that a band could start playing in the corner and nobody would notice, is now so quiet that it’s almost eerie. At that moment I realize that it’s not just Lizzie, Matt, and Cole who are watching us. Rather, three hundred pairs of eyes are all glued to the small space that Lindsay, Chris, Megan, and I are occupying.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Chris says in a loud, steady voice, “because one day, you’re going to be a fat ugly housewife who peaked in high school.”
“Yeah, and I still wouldn’t be interested in you, bomber boy.” Madison, Chloe, and Brittany giggle at Megan’s stupid comeback (I’m sorry, but did she not just agree that she would become a fat ugly housewife who peaked in high school?), while Chris gives her the finger, then extends his index finger so that the two together make a V. He points them at his eyes, then at Megan, then back at his eyes.
“I’m watching you,” he says, then turns on his heels and strides out of the cafeteria.
***
Lindsay makes it as far as the hallway, and then she bursts into tears.
“I hate her,” she sobs. “I wish she would get run over by a car.”
“I know,” I whisper. I’ve learned by now that when Lindsay is upset about Megan, the best thing to do is to just agree with her. Telling her that she does not actually wish that Megan would get run over by a car will only prolong the agony.
We sit down in the hallway with our backs against the wall, and Lindsay splays her feet out in front of h
er. But I’m in a miniskirt, so I lock my knees together and tuck my legs to the side. The last thing I need right now is to be flashing the whole school my day-of-the-week underwear. Especially since I’m wearing the wrong day.
“Oh no,” Lindsay says. She straightens up and wipes at her eyes, then runs her hand over her hair to smooth it out.
“What?”
“It’s Spencer Ridgely,” Lindsay whispers. “He’s walking straight toward us.”
I turn my head slowly, so as not to be too obvious. Sure enough, there he is: all six feet, two inches of total hotness. I stare at his dark wavy hair, his bright green eyes, his GQ cheekbones. He really is ridiculously good-looking. What do people that good-looking even think about? Not us, for one thing. Which is a relief, in a way. Especially right now, when Lindsay is still all splotchy from crying.
“Lindsay, please,” I say. “He doesn’t even—”
“He’s staring at your thighs,” she breathes.
I whip around to see what she’s talking about, and my boring mud-brown eyes lock with the most spectacular emerald-colored irises I’ve ever seen. I’m too stunned to move or speak or even to look away, and Spencer Ridgely—yes, the Spencer Ridgely—flashes me a cocky, lopsided grin.
“Smexy,” he comments, looking my legs up and down appreciatively.
Lindsay and I both stare at him, our mouths agape.
“What did you just say?” Lindsay asks.
“I said ‘smexy,’” he repeats, without a hint of embarrassment. “You know. Smart and sexy. Like a hot librarian. In a good way.” He smiles again, as if amused by our adoration, and then continues his stroll down the hall. “See ya,” he calls out over his shoulder.
“Did you…” Lindsay asks, still too stunned to even finish her sentence.
“Yeah.” I know what she’s thinking. And even though my instinct is to start screaming and jumping up and down because Spencer Ridgely just commented on my appearance—“in a good way”—I have to put that instinct on hold for a second in order to set Lindsay straight. “It’s a coincidence,” I say sternly. “That’s all it is.”
Before Lindsay can argue with me, Samantha comes walking up from one of her illegal, off-campus lunch excursions. Only juniors and seniors are allowed to leave school during lunch period, but the rent-a-cop who’s supposed to check school IDs in the parking lot is totally in love with her, and he lets her go out whenever she feels like it. Most days, she’ll flirt with a dorky junior who has a car, and she’ll get him to give her a ride to wherever Aiden is going for lunch that day. Then she’ll sit across the room and make seductive eyes at him while he ignores her and makes out with Trance. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve heard. From Lindsay, of course—although, come to think of it, how would she know?
“Oh my God, you guys,” Samantha gushes. “I just heard the greatest story about Chloe Carlyle.” Samantha is wearing black leggings with a long hot pink T-shirt and her mother’s black Dolce & Gabbana motorcycle boots. Her hair is in a ponytail and little pieces have fallen out around her face, framing it perfectly. As usual, she looks like she’s about to strut down a catwalk.
“So Brittany and Megan were in the bathroom and they didn’t know I was in there, and Brittany was telling Megan about how Chloe sang the national anthem at her little brother’s hockey game or something last night, and Chloe didn’t know the words. She sang, ‘the lambs that we watched were all gallantly screaming.’ And everyone was laughing at her and saying she was stupid, and I guess Brittany was there too for some reason, and Chloe made her swear not to tell anyone about it. But of course Brittany went straight to Megan and blabbed the whole thing. Isn’t that awesome?”
She looks down at us, and I wonder how it is even possible that she just said all of that without taking a single breath.
“Wait a minute, what are you doing sitting on the floor?” She glances at Lindsay and crinkles her nose. “And why is your face all splotchy?”
“We were in the cafeter—” I start to explain, but Lindsay interrupts me.
“You are not going to believe this,” she gasps. “Spencer Ridgely just walked by, and he told Erin that she’s smexy.”
Samantha’s mouth drops open. “Nuh-uh,” she says. She blinks at me. “Really?”
I nod at her and, I’ll admit, I’m having kind of a hard time containing my excitement. I mean, hello, Spencer Ridgely just noticed me. Spencer. Ridgely.
“‘Like a hot librarian’ were his exact words! Can you believe that?” I’m about to give her a play-by-play of the entire encounter, from him staring at my thighs to our eyes locking to the casual see ya over his shoulder, when I suddenly realize, that in all of my excitement, I’ve forgotten to be the rational one. So instead I let out a little fake cough, put my serious face back on, and try to act like it was no big deal. “I mean, yes, he did say that. But, as I was just saying to Lindsay, it’s a coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Lindsay is grinning from ear to ear, as if the whole thing with Megan and Chris Bollmer never even happened. Or maybe she’s just really happy to have something else to think about.
“No way,” she argues. “That was no coincidence. That was magic. That crystal ball of yours is magic. For real.”
Twelve
Samantha, Lindsay, and I are all sitting around the kitchen table, finishing our homework. They agreed to come over tonight to help me with my Italy essay because I still have absolutely no idea what to write about. Although, come to think of it, I didn’t even ask them to help me.
We were in free period this afternoon—it was sixth period, after we had all calmed down from the Spencer Ridgely hysteria—and when I mentioned that my parents were going out tonight, Samantha said that she and Lindsay would be over at five. Which normally would have been great, but I kind of hemmed and hawed, and finally I told them that I didn’t think it was such a good idea, because as much as I would love to hang out with them and watch a movie, I really do need to get started on this essay, and I have a feeling that it’s going to take a while since I have no clue what I’m going to say. And that’s when Lindsay suggested that she and Samantha could help. Which was really sweet and quite a relief, actually, because at this point, I need all the help I can get.
I hear shoes clacking on the hardwood floor—I can tell by the sound of them that they’re not heels, but rather the ugly, practical, orthopedically correct black flats that my mother always wears—and then she appears in the kitchen. She’s wearing a black knee-length sheath dress, and I think she’s even got some makeup on—if “makeup” could be defined as a little bit of ChapStick and some under-eye concealer. And she’s wearing perfume. Hanae Mori, to be exact. It’s my mom’s favorite (also her only), and she only wears it when she has somewhere really important to go. Unlike Samantha’s mom, who wears perfume to the market or to play tennis or even just to sit around the house. Samantha’s mom says that she doesn’t feel like she’s fully dressed unless she’s wearing an eau de toilette—she actually says that, eau de toilette, and she says it with a perfect French accent. When she was modeling in Paris in her twenties, she taught herself to speak the language. And just for the record, Samantha’s mom also does not feel fully dressed without mascara, eye shadow, lip liner, lipstick, heels, and, I’ve heard, a thong.
Samantha would kill me for saying this, but it’s not hard to see where she gets some of her habits. Although, I guess the same could be said for all of us, for better or worse.
My mom takes her wallet out of her purse and places two twenties on the kitchen counter. “Girls, I’m leaving you cash for dinner, and there are takeout menus in the drawer. Tip the delivery guy fifteen percent, and when he rings the doorbell, make sure you ask him for identification. There are all kinds of crazy people who go around impersonating delivery men.”
Samantha, Lindsay, and I all roll our eyes at each other. We’ve been through this drill a milli
on times with my mother.
“Got it, mom,” I groan. “We’ll ask for ID. Promise.”
“You look nice, Dr. Channing,” Lindsay says, changing the subject. “Where are you off to?”
My mom blushes. “Oh, it’s just a charity event for the hospital where I work. I’m getting an award. It’s really nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” my dad counters as he walks into the kitchen. “She’s getting the award for pediatric doctor of the year. It’s the hospital equivalent of a Best Picture Oscar.” He’s wearing the same black suit that he wore to Aunt Kiki’s memorial service last week, but with a light blue tie instead of his gray funereal one. His thick brown hair is slicked back and, if I squint, I can kind of see how my mom thinks that he looks like Mel Gibson. But I have to squint really, really hard.
Samantha clears her throat. “You know, since you’re getting an award, I could fix your hair for you. We could put it up in a French twist—just a little sexy for evening, but still very professional. And we could put some color on your cheeks, and maybe a little bit of lip gloss?”
My mom smiles. “Thank you for offering, Samantha, but I’m afraid that I’ll have to pass this time. We’re already late as it is.”
Samantha has been trying to make over my mom since she first laid eyes on her, but every time she offers, my mom finds an excuse for why she can’t do it. I’ve tried to tell Samantha that she shouldn’t take it personally. But of course Samantha always pouts, just a little.
When my parents are finally gone (after reminding us three more times to ask the delivery guy for ID), Lindsay rifles though the takeout menus.
“I’m starving,” she announces. “What about pizza? Or there’s that sandwich place that delivers. They have the best chicken parm hero. Yum.”
“Sorry,” Samantha says, plucking the menus out of her hand. “But I wasn’t planning on gaining five pounds tonight. Do you have any idea how many calories are in a chicken parm hero? It’s like a fat suit on a plate.”
