“Yes!” he interrupts.
Is he a mind reader?
“Buddy just did a flamingo!”
“A flamingo?” What is he talking about?
“Turn your TV to Channel ninety-three. It’s a skateboarding competition.”
I’ve just risked my life at my sister’s hands for a guy who’s watching TV while we talk? “Maybe I should let you focus on the show.”
His voice is suddenly alert. “Don’t go.”
Hearing the distant slam of the stairwell door, I say, “I have to. Grace is coming back.”
Keira has come into the living room. “Mommy no find?” she asks.
I nudge her into the middle of the room and back away. As the door to the apartment flies open, I lunge into the bathroom, slam the door, and lock it. This will buy me a couple of minutes while Grace finds something she can use to pick the lock.
“Everything all right?” Russ asks, now paying more attention.
“Fine,” I say brightly. “So…”
“So, do you want to get together sometime?”
“Sure.”
“Great, I’m going to teach you to skateboard.”
“Skateboard! I don’t know, Russ… I’m not very athletic.”
There’s the rattle of a pick in the lock, and I try to hold the door closed as Grace pushes on the other side.
“You sound like you’re working out right now,” he says. “With your low center of gravity, you’ll be a natural.”
I’d be insulted if he hadn’t said earlier that small is beautiful. At any rate, I don’t have time to quibble.
“Okay, I’ll try it,” I say, sliding across the floor as Grace shoves the door open. “Gotta go—”
Chapter 10
Proving once again that Newshound doesn’t know her snout from her tail, the guys’ latest fund-raiser was a roaring success. Pimp My Chair attracted 3,000 spectators, many of whom don’t even attend Dunfield. That’s 3,000 people who paid admission, sponsored riders, and pushed the guys’ team ahead of the girls’ again.
Scoop’s sharp eye detected a lot of girls in the crowd—maybe not fifty percent, but close to it. Pimp My Chair had major crossover appeal, and if Newshound can’t concede that, it must be because no one asked her to participate in the Mixed Heat. Personally, I’ve never gotten so much out of eight minutes in a desk chair.
The event offered nonstop entertainment, from Russ Davis’s spectacular crash to Carson Cota’s even more spectacular win. And who will ever forget the sight of Mr.
Sparling piloting his rickety desk chair around the track with the lovely Principal Alvarez aboard? That little stunt raised $450. A wipeout would have topped a grand, but you can’t have everything.
I’ve been pondering what Newshound said about Dunfield men crushing on each other. Although Scoop can’t speak for everyone, he’s secure enough in his masculinity (and anonymity) to admit that he’s guy-crushing on Carson Cota. That ride was enough to make anyone’s heart pound.
Did Carson enter the race simply to impress his friends? Of course not. The guy loves speed. He loves competition. A performance like that comes straight from the heart, and that’s what impresses other guys. Pure artistry.
If anything, it’s Dunfield’s women who live to impress one another. You can’t make the simplest decision without taking a poll to see which way the estrogen blows. If your gal pals think you look good in blue, your whole wardrobe transforms. And if they think you should hold out for a guy with better hair, a cooler car, or higher social status, you do that, too. You never have an independent thought. After your friends finally endorse a guy, he discovers he’s dating all of you, with none of the fringe benefits.
Once again I wonder if Newshound’s attack is motivated by personal experience. If I were a betting man (and after Casino Night, I am), I’d say Newshound got burned at the Dunfield Groove. Maybe no one asked her to dance—at least no one who shows well enough—and now she’s down on all guys.
Get over your bitterness, Newshound, and you may just get a date.
I crumple the Bulletin and turn up the volume on my iPod. If I weren’t sitting on a bus right now, I’d set a match to the paper. Scoop is so far off the mark. I am not bitter, and I am not a snob. It’s true that I didn’t want to dance with Curtis the tech geek, but that’s because he’s a pervert, not because he doesn’t “show” well. I may not like Curtis, Mac, or Scoop, but that hasn’t turned me off all men.
What’s more, I absolutely make my own decisions about guys. I do not depend on Rachel and Izzy to endorse my choices, although God knows I need their help to figure out what goes on in the male mind.
Take Tyler Milano, for example. He was so nice to me at the dance that I quickly resurrected the Arty FB dream. But then he didn’t call. After a week of fretting, Izzy pressured me into calling him, and I left a casual “just calling to say hi” message. And he still didn’t call. Izzy says I should have been more specific in my voice mail, but seriously, if a guy is too stupid to take a big hint, it’s time to find a new FB.
Which brings us to Russ Davis. He has no trouble picking up the phone, but committing to an actual date is another matter. Worse, he continues to watch TV throughout our one-sided conversations.
Romance is much more complicated than I imagined. I remember when I thought landing a boyfriend was as simple as filling an empty seat beside me at the school assembly. Back then, guys seemed so elusive. Now I know they’re easy enough to find and even to talk to, but impossible to understand. They have a mysterious—and sometimes malicious—way of viewing the world.
Someone nudges my backpack on the seat beside me. “Is this seat taken?”
I hear the question over my music but ignore it, keeping my eyes trained on the window. Obviously the seat is taken—by my backpack. That’s how I keep losers at bay. There are other free seats.
“Excuse me,” the voice repeats. “Could you move your backpack?”
I sigh. My policy is to move the backpack when asked directly. I’m not about to instigate a fight with some guy on a city bus; he could be armed. Pulling the backpack onto my lap, I continue to stare out the window as he slides into the seat beside me.
“What are you listening to?” he asks.
I sigh louder to let him know I’m not open to idle chitchat with strangers. Sulking is taking all my energy.
He tries again. “Carrying that attitude around must be exhausting.”
This gets my attention. I turn to see a guy with dark eyes, unruly dark hair, and smooth olive skin. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a hairnet. “Joey, right?”
“Right. You working today?”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t plan to talk the whole way. I need time to shake off my mood before I get to the diner; I learned long ago that nobody tips a grumpy waitress. Besides, I have no intention of becoming too friendly with someone on Paz’s crew.
“You finished with that?” Joey asks, pointing to the crushed newspaper on my lap.
“Sure, take it,” I say. If he reads, he won’t talk.
He smoothes out the paper and starts to read Scoop’s column.
I replace my earbud, only to yank it out again a second later when he snickers. “That columnist,” I say, “is an idiot.”
“Well, he’s opinionated, that’s for sure,” Joey replies.
I shrug and look out the window. “The Bulletin is lame anyway.”
“No argument there.” He tosses it back into my lap.
I happen to write for that paper, so I’m the only one who gets to call it lame. “You don’t even go to Dunfield,” I remind him.
“I can recognize lame when I see it. I think it’s universally understood.”
I suppress the urge to smile at this. Joey is obviously like Paz—too smart for Donner’s but not smart enough to stick it out in school. They probably share the same desperate need to prove their brilliance. It’s the hallmark of insecurity.
Joey points to a building as we pass the
corner of South La Salle and West Adams. “Did you know that The Rookery is the oldest high-rise in Chicago?”
Just as I thought. Paz is forever dropping useless bits of trivia into a conversation. I’ve learned that the best response is to sound bored. “Yeah?”
“Finished in 1888 and still standing.”
I can tell he’s burning to tell me more, and if I were in a good mood I’d let him think he’s enriching my world. But I’m not in a good mood. “I guess Frank Lloyd Wright knew how to build them.”
Joey is silent for so long that I start to feel cheap for showing him up. Mom hates that kind of behavior. Turning, I add more kindly, “That’s a famous architect.”
“I know who Wright is. But he didn’t design The Rookery. John Root did.”
He sounds convinced of that. “Really?”
“It’s a common mistake,” he says, “because Wright remodeled the lobby in 1905.”
Whatever. So he knows a few facts about architecture. There are information plaques all over town, and anyone who pays attention could pretend to be an expert. I may not pay attention, but I can call a bluff. “You seem to know a lot about buildings,” I say. “Name your top five architects.”
“That’s a tough one,” Joey says.
I bet it is, Mr. Fake Smarty-Pants.
“I’d have to go with van der Rohe, Aalto, Gehry, Libeskind and, at number one, Antoni Gaudi.”
“Gaudi?” For all I know Joey is passing off a hockey team as architects, but if I keep him talking, cracks in his knowledge will eventually start to appear. “Why?”
“Because his work is so organic,” Joey says.
Organic? How does that relate to architecture?
“You know, unrefined,” he continues. “Gaudi designed this one apartment building that doesn’t have a straight line on it. Even the roof is a work of art. The chimneys look like dozens of little sculptures.”
“I’ve never seen it,” I say. “Is it downtown?”
He stares at me. “Well… downtown Barcelona, I guess. Gaudi lived in Spain in the late 1800s.”
The jig is officially up. “I knew that.”
“Sure you did,” he says, laughing.
It’s more gracious than Paz would have been in the same situation. “So you’ve been to Spain?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve never been on a plane. But I took a bus to Florida once.”
“Well, that’s more than I’ve done.”
Joey tells me that his mother moved to Tampa with his two sisters after his parents split six years ago. He stayed behind with his father, who worked such long hours in construction that Joey has been virtually fending for himself ever since.
“Grace and I had to be pretty independent too,” I say, pulling out my other earbud and resigning myself to the conversation.
“At least you stayed in school,” he says. “It’s hard to be motivated when you’ve got a lot of freedom.”
“How did you become so interested in architecture?”
“My dad used to take me to his construction sites. I got my first hard hat and steel-toe boots when I was six.” He grins at the memory. “I loved all of it: the machines, the noise, the blueprints. Imagine how it must feel to design a building that will stand for centuries after you die. Wouldn’t it be cool to leave a legacy like that?”
I nod, thinking it’s a shame he probably won’t be able to achieve that vision. Even with an education, leaving a lasting legacy is a rarity. “Why don’t you work in construction instead of at Donner’s?”
Joey frowns. “Because I was on my dad’s job site the day he got hit by a steel post. He’ll never be able to work in construction again.”
Now he’s the one staring out the window.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling awkward.
Joey shrugs. “It is what it is. I know you don’t have it easy at home either.”
My defenses prickle. Joey barely knows me, and if he thinks I have it hard at home, Paz has been talking. “We’re fine,” I say, plugging my earbuds back in.
Joey backpedals. “I just mean that I know your mom has had to work really hard to raise you guys on her own. Paz says he wants to do as well for Grace and the baby.”
“He left them,” I point out.
“I heard it was the other way around.”
“Well, don’t believe what you hear at Donner’s.” I throw him a warning look, but he doesn’t take the hint.
“Paz is going back to school someday, you know. He says if your mom can save for your college education on a tight budget, he can too.”
This startles a response out of me. “She’s not saving for me.”
“That’s why she picks up so many extra shifts. At least according to Grace.”
My mother has never said a word to me about college, and I highly doubt this virtual stranger knows more about us than I do. It must be a story Grace concocted to make herself feel better about my mother’s working so hard for Keira. I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one adding lines to her face.
“For your information,” I say, “my mother is earning extra money to help Grace with the baby. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Joey leans back in his seat. “Sorry. I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“This is my stop.” It’s stating the obvious, since Joey gets off at the same one. He stands, and we wait in silence until the door opens.
Outside, he picks up where he left off. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Then don’t talk about my family like you know us.”
“Sorry,” he repeats, sticking to my side.
I pick up my pace. “Do me a favor? Sit in Shirley’s section today.”
I needn’t have worried, because Paz’s crew doesn’t show up. Now and then they go up the street for a sub or pizza. I’m sure it has nothing to do with my conversation with Joey.
Dan complains about business being slow, but the downtime gives me a chance to catch up on my homework. He’s helping me with a history project on the expansion of the West. By “helping me,” I mean he’s trying to seize the pen and write it himself. He actually brought in a prize set of antique spurs to inspire me. If we don’t end up with a good grade, someone will be very disappointed.
Rachel and Izzy arrive at the diner near the end of my shift. They’ve been walking the Loop to sell rubber bracelets stamped with the phrase Support Dunfield, Support Literacy. It’s Mariah’s latest fund-raising idea, and although it’s unoriginal, it has been effective.
Bypassing her usual stool, Izzy throws herself into a chair, exhausted. “We’ve sold two hundred and forty-eight bracelets at five bucks a pop,” she says.
“It’ll be two-fifty after Shirley and Dan buy theirs,” Rachel adds.
“I spent twenty dollars on your raffle tickets and didn’t win a thing,” Shirley says.
Dan protests, too. “I donated a pie for the bake sale and sponsored Lu for the walkathon. That set me back thirty bucks.”
In the end, Dan sends me home early with the girls to put a stop to their cajoling.
Although the Saturday shift at Donner’s doesn’t end for three more hours, I lead Rachel and Izzy in the opposite direction just in case, explaining that there was a creep at my usual bus stop earlier. It’s more or less true.
We take the long seat at the rear of the bus and launch into a discussion about guys.
“How’s it going with Russ?” Rachel asks.
“It’s not. He’s called four times and still hasn’t set a day to get together. He’s obviously not interested.”
“Of course he’s interested,” Izzy says. “He offered to teach you to skateboard.”
“Something I’d pay good money to see,” Rachel offers, grinning. “Maybe you should charge admission—for literacy.”
“Very funny,” I say.
“He’s probably just shy,” Izzy says. “He wouldn’t call if he weren’t interested.”
“It’s just something to do when he’s watchi
ng TV,” I say.
Rachel’s brow furrows. “Is he watching sports or a regular show?”
“Does it matter? Rude is rude.”
“It matters. If he’s watching sports, he’s just being a guy. If he’s watching a show with a story line, he’s being a jerk.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I look to Izzy for support. “Isn’t it?”
Izzy shakes her head. “Carson was watching hockey when he called the other night, and I still like him.”
As I look from one animated face to the other, it occurs to me that I’m doing exactly what Scoop said girls do: taking a poll to decide whether to give Russ another chance.
“So what was it,” Rachel presses, “sports or drama?”
“Sports,” I concede, relieved in spite of myself. Maybe I am incapable of independent thought, but at the moment I don’t care.
The focus turns to Izzy, and she tells us that Carson hasn’t formally asked her out either. Although he tracks her down at school all the time, for some reason he hasn’t taken his interest off campus.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have bid on him at the auction after all,” she says. “He must like passive girls.”
“Passive is safer,” I agree. “Less risk of humiliation.”
Izzy knows I’m referring to the call she talked me into making to Tyler and quickly changes the subject. “Do you have a copy of the latest Bulletin? They disappeared before I could get one.”
I pull the crumpled paper out of my bag and hand it to her. “That’s strange. Mr. Sparling said he tripled the print run.”
Izzy gathers her things as the bus approaches her stop. “I guess ‘The Word’ travels fast.”
I practically dance into the apartment, wishing I had someone to tell that the Bulletin is flying off the newsstand.
“What’s up?” Grace asks from the sofa. “Sparling nominate you for Butt-Kisser of the Year?
I notice she’s wearing a skirt and has blown out her hair. She hasn’t made an effort like that in a long time. “Is that lipstick?” I ask.
She rubs her mouth on her sleeve. “No.”
Throwing my backpack onto a chair, I follow the sound of clattering dishes toward the kitchen. “Mom’s home?”
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