I stop twirling my hair and stare at her in confusion. It hadn’t really occurred to me that I could take a class for the fun of it.
Glancing through a packet of papers on her desk, Ms. Morvay asks, “How about woodshop?”
“Not really my thing,” I say and have a flashback to when my dad helped me make my mom a new end table to put her coffee on while she painted. It was so crooked, when you stood it on its legs, it swayed like a drunk giraffe. Instead, we turned it upside-down and used it as a log holder next to the fireplace.
“Mechanics?” Ms. Morvay asks.
I make a face. “I can’t even drive yet.”
“Sign Language?”
I shake my head no.
“Keyboarding.”
“I already type sixty words per minute.”
“Home Ec?”
I sigh. “You might as well call the fire department right now.”
Ms. Morvay turns to the last page of the electives packet. “How about Beginning Guitar? The class is small and I know the teacher is excellent. What do you say?”
I say nothing at first, but I like the idea of being able to play the songs my dad used to play for me.
She leans back again and drinks more coffee. “It’s either that or burned casseroles.”
“Okay, I’ll take Guitar.”
“Great.” Ms. Morvay types some changes into the computer. “Okay, Abbey, here’s your new schedule and your pass to PE. Anything else I can help you with?”
I easily come up with a long list in my head, but say, “No, thanks.” I don’t know her well enough to trust her with what I really need help with.
*
Five minutes later I find myself face to face with Mrs. Schwartz, my PE teacher. According to Jenn, she’s the second toughest teacher at Gila, the first being Mr. Ponsi, the mechanics teacher and weekend Harley rider who has reportedly failed kids for accidentally dropping a tool.
Mrs. Schwartz trusts no one. “Ms. Morvay?” she questions, as she inspects my pass carefully.
“Yes,” I stammer. “They ran out of room in Algebra 2, I guess.”
“I don’t need your life story,” she says and looks at me through sharp gray eyes that I am pretty sure have seen things that would make my dead-dad dreams seem almost pleasant. “Regardless of your excused tardiness,” she says, tearing up my pass then tossing it in the garbage, “you are currently failing PE.”
I nearly barf. “Failing? But I…”
“No excuses”—she looks down at her roster—“Abbey Brooks is it?”
“But I was at…”
“The only butt of yours I want around here will be at the track at lunch to make up the mile you already missed. Got it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Schwartz.”
After my encounter with Sweat Suit Satan, I’m finally able to rush over to Kate and tell her what happened to me this morning. As we walk into the locker room, Marisol and Sarah join us. I know they’ll be impressed that Jake knew my name, which seems like a stupid reason to be excited, but whatever.
*
Spanish 2 is next. It’s normally a sophomore class, but I tested into it this summer thanks to my Advanced Spanish teacher in eighth grade. Anyway, I have exactly seven minutes to make it over to the Foreign Languages wing from the gym. Remembering a bit of advice from Jenn, I take a shortcut down the first floor corridor before heading upstairs. Walking the halls, I discover, is just like riding my bike through town: you just have to know the right routes and be familiar with all the possible obstacles that can get in your way.
As I bolt up the second-floor ramp, I accidentally hit the arm of a football player with my backpack, which could be just as dangerous as the time I accidentally rode into the side of a Suntran bus on Grant Road.
“Watch it, freshmeat!” Number Twelve yells.
I keep walking and try to ignore him because it’s my only defense, and my dad always told me, “Never engage with the enraged.” Dad was talking about wild animals, but I think the Gila High football player qualifies.
“You hear me, freshmeat? Are you a retard or something?” he yells, which causes his teammates to laugh and a few other students to stop and stare.
Apparently my tactics aren’t working out, so after I reach the top of the ramp (distance for safety), I turn around. “Sorry,” I stammer and hope I will live to eat brownie batter one more time.
“Yeah, you are,” he retorts and slaps Number Thirty-four’s hand.
I’m sure my face is bright red and I want to disappear, still I can’t help but wonder why the stupidest people in the world always seem to have the most power. Seriously, how does this happen?
Suddenly I hear a girl’s strong voice yell, “Get a life, losers!”
Then another girl shouts from behind me, “Yeah, pick on someone from your own species. Morons!”
I nearly lose my breakfast for the second time today. I am sure we’re all going to be put into garbage cans or given swirlies in dirty toilets, but the guys just flip us off and walk away.
“Don’t let them get to you,” says a green-eyed girl who is now standing beside me. The tight Wonder Woman shirt she’s wearing shows off her curves, but I quickly divert my eyes to the other girl.
“Yeah, they’re just jealous that you hang out with rad girls like us,” says the shorter one with supercurly blond hair. She’s wearing a T-shirt that has a picture of a gila monster dribbling a basketball, with the words “Gila Hoops Rocks!” underneath it.
I can’t even believe they said that stuff to the jerks, but I’m even more shocked that I might have found them: the infamous Gila High girls’ basketball players. But I don’t act too excited. That would be weird. I just stick out my hand and introduce myself as casually as possible. “I’m Abbey.”
“Garrett,” says the Wonder Woman girl while shaking my hand. Her brown hair is back in a ponytail and she’s got on a tiny bit of eye makeup, but she isn’t all plastic and horrible like Kate insisted everyone at high school would be.
Neither of them are what I expected, actually. They both have on shorts, T-shirts, and worn-in Nikes, but they don’t look like slobs. They just look comfortable and cute. And even though they don’t look like her at all, the way they act reminds me of the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick: cool, calm, and collected.
“This is Stef,” Garrett says.
“Hey,” Stef says and gives me a quick wave.
“Thanks for saving me,” I say, but instead of responding right away, they just stand there smiling at me, sizing me up like they’re trying to figure out if I can fit in a pair of jeans Garrett has in her backpack or something. Then they look at each other and nod.
“No sweat, Abbey. See you around,” Garrett says and they turn and walk away, talking too low for me to hear what they’re saying.
I look up and down the hall and panic because it’s nearly empty. Then the late bell rings above my head, motivating me to sprint to 204 before the campus supervisors write me up for being tardy because there’s no way I can fail a class and get detention on the first day of school.
Lucky for me, there is still a seat in the row closest to the door (Jenn’s advice: sit close to the door to avoid bad smells in the corners of the classrooms). It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure out we’re supposed to be copying down whatever Señora Cabrera is writing on the board, so I unzip my backpack, take out my binder, and get busy.
When the note drops onto my desk ten minutes later, I begin to pass it forward to the girl in front of me. Being a founding member of the Geek Pack, I have never been one to receive notes in class unless someone’s asking me for the answers on a test. I lean forward to pass it, but someone from behind me kicks my chair. I turn in my seat and there’s Garrett. Sitting across from her is Stef.
Garrett finally manages to stop laughing long enough to whisper, “It’s for you, Genius.”
I’m reaching my saturation point of people laughing at me, but I whisper, “I knew that,” and glance around to locate la
profesora. She’s writing stuff on the board again, so I put the note in my lap, like I’ve seen other girls do, and quietly open it.
Hey Abbey,
Do you play b-ball? If not, you should totally try out anyway. You’re supertall and we need you. We’re both sophs on the JV team. Tryouts are coming up. I better see you there. :-)
Write back! Garrett
Not only do I start to freak out because I actually got a note sent to me that didn’t include the words, “What’s the answer to number…” but I’m also flipping out because they want me. Sure, I’m not positive she’s one of them, but knowing my bad luck (or is this good luck?) Garrett is. Then I think, or maybe hope, this is some sort of incognito way of asking me out, which of course causes my pits and hands to sweat profusely.
I’m way too paranoid about passing notes to respond, so I slip the note into my back pocket and pretend to follow along with la profesora’s lesson on greetings. But in between the holas, igualmentes, and mucho gustos, all I’m thinking about is my pinky promise with Kate: no basketball and absolutely no lezzies. Suddenly that promise is being challenged by two strangers that I actually think I want to get to know better.
When the next note plops onto my desk, my stomach dives down to visit my knees and I can feel my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.
Hey Abbey,
It’s a simple question. Are you trying out for b-ball? The freshman coach is intense. She’ll teach you everything. September 15th, 4:00 in the main gym. That’s a Monday—don’t forget. Actually, Stef and I will remind you tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. Hey, you owe us. We did, after all, save your freshie ass.
Hearts, Garrett
P.S. I’ll see you at tryouts.
P.P.S. If you’re thinking this is me hitting on you…chill out, you’re not my type. I like my girls like I like my ice cream: chocolatey!
After reading those last lines of her note I know two things for sure:
My new ultra-strength deodorant is failing miserably.
I definitely am not the only girl at Gila High who maybe likes girls.
Chapter Four
After dropping my backpack on the couch, I head to the backyard for the annual Abbey’s First Day of School ritual. Okay, ritual makes it sound a little too tribal; I guess I’ll call it what it is—a tea party in which my mom drills me about my day and then gives me a celebratory, yet academic, present.
“There she is,” my mom says, as she gets up from her chair and hugs me hard. “My little Abbey Road is home from her first day of high school.”
“Can’t…breathe…Mom.”
“Okay, okay.” She releases her death grip and we sit down at the patio table under the paloverde my mom, dad, and I planted on my fifth birthday. I guess when we planted it in the ground way back then, the tiny tree resembled what its name means in Spanish: a green stick. But now its branches shade most of the yard and half the pool like a giant umbrella, which makes sitting back here nearly tolerable. “So, how was it? Tell me everything.” She pours me a glass of lemonade and puts a homemade chocolate chip cookie on my plate.
“Well, let’s see,” I say, then gulp down the entire contents of my glass to buy some time. The day was certainly eventful, but for the first time since kindergarten, I don’t really want to tell her everything. “I’m not taking Algebra 2 like I thought.”
“Oh, yeah?” She pours me more lemonade. “What happened?”
“I guess all the algebra classes were filled up.”
“So now what?”
“That’s the cool part. I signed up for Beginning Guitar instead. It was that or Home Ec and you know how dangerous that would be for the school,” I say and laugh. I’m trying my best to be funny because I can already see tears in my mom’s eyes.
“Guitar?” she asks, and it’s hard to tell if she’s sad, proud, or just reminiscent.
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
She forces a smile on her face. “Oh my gosh, yes, Abbey. It’s great. It’ll be…” She looks away from me to gather herself. “It’ll be great to hear music in the house again.”
I poke at the cookie on my plate. Grabbing a clump of hair with my other hand, I paint my cheek with its tip and feel bad for making her miss him and wonder if talking about him will ever get easier.
“So,” my mom finally says, “did you meet any new and interesting people?”
In my head I think, Boy, did I ever, but say, “Yeah, there are a couple of cool sophomore girls in my Spanish 2 class.”
“Terrific. What about Kate? Did she have a good day?”
The only thing I know about Kate’s day is that she had Chemistry with some idiot jock named Daniel or Darren or Dumbass, or something with a D, and she’s now apparently in love with him, which is all I heard about at lunch after I ran the mile I missed in PE. “Yeah, I guess she did,” I say.
“What else? Come on, spill it! You used to talk forever without breathing after your first day.”
You mean you want to hear about how Jake Simpson knew my name, or how I nearly got an F in PE, or how I passed notes in Spanish with a genuine lesbian, or how I told that lesbian a whopper of a lie about why I can’t try out for basketball? Sorry, Mom. Instead, I say, “Nothing else to say, I guess. It was just an ordinary day of school.”
“Hmm. Okay,” she says. “Well, I do have something for you, but now I think I’ll hold off giving it to you until your birthday.”
“What! But that’s not until November.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve got something even better for you. Come on.” She takes my hand and leads me to the garage.
She starts handing me random items from a pile in the corner, and since I don’t know what to do with them, I make another pile behind me.
She holds up my rusty red tricycle. “I can’t believe you used to be this tiny.”
I take it from her and chuck it on the other pile. The hellish temperature of the garage is slowly suffocating me and I’ve already worked up a sweat. “How much longer?”
“Hang on. I’m almost there,” she says, as she moves aside some Christmas decoration boxes to make a path to the shelves that hold our more valuable possessions.
My first-day-of-school present hasn’t ever come from a box in the garage, so I’m kind of disappointed. Plus, I thought for sure she’d bought me a cell phone, since I’ve been begging for one all summer. But she’s old, old school. We just barely got cable and voice mail.
“Seriously Mom, I’m about to pass out.”
“Got it,” she says and emerges from behind a tower of boxes, bikes, and wrapped up paintings. She’s got a guitar case in her hands. “This is the one.”
Back inside we sit down on the couch. My mom puts the closed guitar case on the coffee table in front of us. Before opening it, she says, “I gave this to your dad on our third wedding anniversary, when I was pregnant with you. We didn’t have a dime to our name with me sitting at home about to burst and your dad finishing up graduate school, but I wanted to get him something special. He’d been talking about this guitar for months, so I marched down to the store, and you know what I did?”
“No, I don’t, but I hope I wasn’t a prenatal accomplice to armed robbery.”
I make her laugh, which is always my goal when I’m around her. “Better. I told the owner of the shop that his small store was hard to see from the road. He agreed but said he couldn’t afford to do much about it. So that’s when I offered my services. I told him I’d paint a bright, eye-catching mural on his storefront for trade. For this guitar,” she says and points to the guitar case in front of us.
I had no idea that my mom was such a wheeler and dealer. “And he gave you the guitar?”
“Well, not exactly. He thought my artwork was worth even more than this guitar, so he threw in the case, a bunch of spare strings, and a hundred dollars. The store and my mural are gone now, but your dad used to love to drive friends by my mural and say, ‘Now that’s a masterpiece.’”
Then she finally opens the case.
We both silently stare at it nestled in the red velvet and remember the music Dad used to make. He was such a serious science guy most of the time, but when it came to playing his guitar, he’d let it all out. Maybe playing guitar will have the same effect on me, too.
*
Neither my mom nor I know anything about tuning or restringing or caring for a guitar, so we decide to take it to a music shop to have someone look at it. Since the store is near our favorite pizza joint, I suggest to my mom that we drop it off and eat some pizza while we wait. Much to my amazement, she agrees.
I’d been to All Strings Attached a few times with my dad, so when I walk through the doors I have another one of my missing-dad moments. The noise level doesn’t really match my mood, though. It sounds like there are five horrible rock concerts going on at once. My mom and I weave through the tight pathways between the instruments and other customers and wait for help at the register.
“I’ll be right with you,” a girl shouts, as she walks behind the counter. She’s hidden behind a tall stack of folded T-shirts balanced in her arms. She carefully places the stack on another counter, and suddenly all my favorite parts of the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick are revealed: her smile, her eyes, her…other parts. Seeing her makes me gasp, which causes my mom to look over at me, which causes me to scowl back at her hoping to confuse her. I pray it works.
The Hot Dog on a Stick Chick tosses her heavy black braid over her shoulder and dusts off her hands to indicate she’s done with that task. “Hola, how can I help you?”
Freshman Year Page 4
