My throat goes dry. Something about the way he said it makes me want to hear Plain Jane in my head. But she isn’t speaking to me. So I have to go with M.J. But my stomach feels like I’ve just eaten pizza sauce for breakfast, even though I haven’t.
“I try to have a good time wherever I am and whoever I’m with.” I wave my hand over the jock table. “Case in point.”
“Oooh,” Tim croons as he climbs off the bench and lifts his tray. “Mary Jane’s a good time for all.”
As I dump the lunch remains into the trash can, I can’t believe I just said what I did. I didn’t mean it—not that way. Not Tim’s way. I think I’m going to hurl as I imagine those words scrawled on bathroom walls throughout Attila Ill:
CALL MARY JANE— A GOOD TIME FOR ALL.
6
Intrigue
Dazed, I spend the entire next hour contemplating my reputation, instead of contemplating the sociology of third-world countries like everybody else in my political science class. Could my reputation possibly be up for grabs—over four minutes? Four missing minutes?
I’ve never had to think much about my reputation. I used to feel like I was the only student at Attila Ill who hadn’t done it. According to guys, they’ve all had sex 137 times by the time they enter high school. Girls may not brag about it as much as guys (I mean, that would be impossible), but rumors fly, and girls don’t deny. Nobody wants to be seen as a player, but you don’t want to be the only puritan left either.
It was my friend Alicia who set me straight. She said that, contrary to the juice coming from the school grapevine, most high school girls haven’t done it. They just don’t admit the fact. The night before Alicia started high school, she and I and a friend of hers named Red, short for Rianna Elizabeth Douglas, made a pact to “save ourselves” for the one true love of our lives. Well, one for each of us.
Since then, I’ve managed to secure dates for most of the major high school events, and I’ve had guys take me out for movies and hamburgers and parties. But I’ve never really had the opportunity to break the pact. So my so-called reputation has been a nonissue.
Until now.
I finger Jackson’s pencil approximately 736 times the rest of the afternoon and avoid direct eye contact with males and females alike. I don’t have to pay for my lunch sins until the end of the day, when I have last-hour study hall with Jessica and Cassie.
Nobody should be forced to spend the last hour of school in the library. They can’t possibly think anyone will study. It’s not the last minute for any class. What’s the use?
The Girls and I sit in the back corner behind the biggest books, the reference shelves. That way we are farthest away from Ms. Lake, who looks so much like a librarian should that I suspect she’s impersonating one and one day we’ll find out she’s a wanted serial ax murderer hiding out from the FBI. Her round face is the epitome of pleasant, framed by curly, dark hair. She wears silk scarves every day with library memorabilia on them, like books and library cards.
When Ms. Lake interrupts our library conversations, she does so with index finger pressed to her thin lips as she whispers, “Quiet, please!”
You have to love this woman, ax murderer or no, symbol of the American library.
I make a pit stop in the girls’ bathroom before reporting to the library. You couldn’t pay me to actually use the johns in this room, of course. I’d rather my sides split from holding it. I just need a minute to collect myself before facing The Girls in study hall.
Nobody’s in the john, except a group of freshmen girls, who don’t know any better. As I wash my hands at the sink, I watch them in the mirror and wonder if I was ever that young and carefree.
I glimpse myself in the smudged glass reflection, and for one second I don’t recognize this stranger drying her hands on a paper towel. I can’t look away from her as she stares back at me. Inside my head, voices are describing what I’m looking at, Mary Jane Ettermeyer:Plain Jane: Average. Average height. Nothing remarkable about her face, except for the zit on her chin. Brown eyes (like three-quarters of the known Homo sapiens). Good eyesight. Brown hair. Lips are too big. Doesn’t look good in anything she wears. Nothing to write home about.
M.J.: 34C. Nice rear end. Sexy. Hot even. Desirable. Jeans could be tighter. Should have used Flame Red lipstick on those luscious lips.
If I’m ever wanted by the police, I hope the voices in my head are the only witnesses to the crime. I’d like them to be the ones describing me to the police artist. Nobody would ever catch Mary Jane Ettermeyer.
I tell Ms. Lake I’m sorry as I arrive late to study hall. She shakes her head and gives me a sweet smile, undoubtedly so that I won’t suspect her real profession, ax murdering. Still, I’m less afraid of her than I am of The Girls, who are waiting for me, just as I knew they would be.
“Hey, guys,” I call, taking the seat between Cassie and Jessica, the chair they’ve obviously left for me. It feels a bit like taking the witness stand.
Samantha is on the other side of Jessica. She’s no more firmly entrenched in the popular group than I am and has been known to flit from branch to branch. But she’s in on this, whatever this is.
I glance down at Cassie’s feet. “Sweet! Great kicks, Cassie.”
This momentarily puts her off track. “You think?” She raises her crossed leg so she can admire her new shoes. They’re Doc Martens. “I loved them in the store,” she explains. “Now I’m not so sure. You think they go with jeans?”
She’s wearing Levi’s, and the shoes don’t go.
“Yeah,” I lie. “They’re so fly. Wish I had a pair like them.” Which I would only wear if I were dead.
Jessica clears her throat with meaning.
“Anyway,” Cassie begins, “we need to talk, Mary Jane. I don’t think you have any idea what people are saying about you.”
“Me?” The surprise in my voice isn’t fake. I’m an under-the-radar kind of gal. The thought of people talking about me makes me have to swallow three times before I can breathe normally.
“Seriously, Mary Jane,” Jessica chimes in. “What’s gotten into you?”
I look from Jessica, to Samantha, to Cassie. There’s concern there, worry even. And friendship. I feel like I’m slipping, falling.
Samantha leans in front of Jessica and whispers, “What were you thinking? Why would you sit at the jock table?”
“I know.” I stare down at my hands, hands that fed jocks. The Girls are getting to me. They’re melting my defenses. I can feel it happening. I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears. I love these people. I need them to like me.
“You’re right.” I look to Cassie. “I don’t know how it happened. I—I knew you guys didn’t want me at your table. I was so upset. I didn’t know where to go.”
“What do you mean we didn’t want you at our table?” Cassie demands.
“Because everybody hates me now!” My voice cracks as I say it. And it’s so loud that the ax murderer glances our way.
Cassie puts her hand on my arm. “We don’t hate you!” she insists.
“How could you think that?” Jessica seconds.
“We’re just worried about you,” Samantha adds.
“You’re not mad?” I ask, amazed, relieved, repentant.
“How could we be mad at you?” Cassie asks, squeezing my arm. “But . . .”
I knew there would be a but, and I brace myself.
“But,” Cassie continues, “you’ve got to get a grip, girl. It’s like you’re edging toward a cliff or something. You’re in self-destruct mode.”
“And Nicole’s right,” Samantha says. “Star really is hurt.”
“Why?” I ask, wondering how Samantha knows this. “Because of Jackson? Jackson wasn’t even at the jock table.”
“Not about lunch,” Samantha explains, which proves she’s been talking to Star. “About last night. Things are really messed up.”
M.J. has about thirty-seven defensive comebacks for the branch hopper. She�
�s shouting all of them to my brain at once. I will not listen to M.J., though. She’s the one who got me into this mess in the first place.
“Make it right, Mary Jane,” Cassie advises in a therapeutic tone of voice.
“What am I supposed to do?” The question is rhetorical. I think.
“Talk to Star.”
This suggestion sounds about as inviting as “Pet the snake.”
“It’s the only way,” Jessica chimes in.
“Tell her you’re sorry,” Cassie continues.
If you ask me, Star should be the one telling Jackson she’s sorry for dating behind his back. But nobody asks me, so I keep my thoughts to myself.
Cassie is relentless. “Tell her she’s got nothing to worry about.”
I sigh, realizing that this is undoubtedly true and wondering if it would kill me to admit it to Star.
Cassie squeezes my arm again. “Mary Jane, I really think you need to do this. It’s our senior year. I just want us all to get along and have the best year ever. We’ve waited our whole lives for this. Don’t screw it up.”
Cassie says this so earnestly that I find myself agreeing with her. I’m nodding. I want a great senior year, too.
“Don’t look now, but Lauren’s watching you,” Jessica whispers.
I look. Can’t help myself. Lauren’s pretending to read her history book, but I can see her seeing me.
“Do it, Mary Jane,” Cassie whispers. “Talk to Star fast, before this goes any further.”
By the time study hall is over, I’ve made my decision. No doubt I will continue to long for Jackson House, to cherish his pencil, perhaps even to write his name in my diary, if I start keeping a diary. But I will hide these things inside for the sake of The Girls, of whom I am one. Not only that, but I’ll make peace. The Plain Jane in me can hardly believe that Star actually feels threatened by me. But I don’t want to take any chances. I’ll talk to Star for the good of the family tree, to root out the discord and let us all blossom into our senior year.
Star’s locker is in the east hall, so I get my things out of my locker and hurry down the hall, hoping I’m not too late. I want to get this over with.
She’s at her locker, squatting in front of it, reaching for something. Star Simons really is the prettiest girl at Attila Ill. Her auburn hair looks as great now as it did in the morning, bouncy and shiny, shampoo-commercial hair.
I walk up to her. “Hey, Star.”
She looks up. If she’s surprised to see me, it doesn’t show.
She gets up, carrying a stack of books. The smile on her face looks real enough and gives me the courage I need to go on and do what I’ve got to do. It may be my imagination, but I can feel all eyes upon us.
I clear my throat. “Star, there’s a lot of crazy talk going on around here today.”
She cocks her head slightly to one side. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. Her smile is immovable.
“Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard,” I say, stumbling on with it. “You know. About me. About Jackson. About me and Jackson. Or whatever.”
That head tilts a bit more. Smile still in place.
I forge ahead. “Anyways. I just wanted to tell you myself that I’m sorry, like if you heard something stupid that made you think anything was going on. Like with Jackson and me or anything. Because I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
The smile gets bigger, but somehow I’m not relieved.
“So really that’s all,” I say. “We’re okay then. Right?”
She smiles deeply and shifts the books she’s holding. Then, without changing her expression, with that smile still beaming, she whispers, “Wrong. We are not okay.”
Chills invade my body as my blood turns to ice.
Star flashes me another smile and turns to go. “See you, Mary Jane!” she calls back to me, so friendly, so nice, that for a minute I wonder if I dreamed the last ten seconds, like a streak of lightning that flashes in a clear sky, leaving you to doubt your own eyes once it’s gone.
Did Star really say what I thought she said? We are not okay.
7
Bullies
I’m still replaying my scene with Star as I wait in line to drive out of the senior parking lot. The voices in my head agree that I really did see what I thought I saw, the evil Star poking through the pseudosweet one. They just can’t agree what I should do about the vision.
You should have decked Star Simons right there in the hall! M.J. insists.
But did you see how beautiful Star was, even when she gave you that evil look? Plain Jane points out. Maybe you should get your hair cut like hers.
I want Alicia.
I fumble for my cell, find it, and hit my #1 speed dial.
As it rings, I picture Alicia sitting in class, her phone ringing in her big flowered bag. She’s always rejected backpacks and conventional book bags. Surely college couldn’t have changed her that much. She’s only been gone a few months, but it feels like years.
“What?” It’s Alicia’s voice, but she sounds sleepy. And angry. Maybe out of breath.
“Alicia? It’s me. Mary Jane.”
“Just a minute.”
Muffled voices. One of them male.
I picture Alicia, petite, five feet two, blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail. Bright blue eyes and teeny nose. She was the kind of girl guys would see and want to hug and protect. But talk to her for two seconds, and you’d know she didn’t need a guy to protect her. She dated a lot in high school. But she never had a real boyfriend. And she was fine with it.
She comes back to the phone. “Sorry, Mary Jane. Can you hang on a minute?”
“Is this a bad time, Alicia?” I ask.
Somebody, a guy, laughs in the background. “No!” he shouts, and I hear him over the phone. “It’s a great time! Just not to talk.”
“Shut up!” Alicia says, but not to me, and she’s laughing.
Plain Jane is whining in my head. You shouldn’t be bothering Alicia. Obviously, she’s moved on. She always was cooler than you.
I wish I hadn’t called. “Alicia?” I shout. “I’ll call back. Are you—?”
“There.” The only voice I hear on the other end of the line now is hers. “Sorry about that.”
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Colt. Can you believe it? That’s his real name, Mary Jane. Colton Caldwell. Doesn’t that sound like somebody we’d make up for a short story?”
“Yeah,” I agree. I’m not sure what else to say, how to start. Alicia and I have always been able to talk about anything. She’s understood me better than anybody I’ve ever known, including the rents. But now I don’t know what to say?
“Listen, Mary Jane. I’ve been meaning to call you. Well, first, I was going to wait until Thanksgiving to tell you, so we could hug and make girl sounds. But I can’t wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“I am in love!”
There’s silence. I know I should be making girl sounds, but they won’t come.
“I know,” she continues. “Shocker, huh? Alicia, the nonbeliever-in-love. I just hadn’t met Colt, I guess. Not that there are any guys like him in high school.”
“Wow,” I manage.
“You said it,” she says. “This is the real thing. I’ve never felt anything like this. He’s . . . he’s perfect, Mary Jane.”
“Perfect is good.”
“I want you to meet him. Hey! Maybe I can bring him home with me over Thanksgiving break! I’ve told him all about you.” Pause. “On the other hand, I’m not sure he’s ready to meet the rents.” Pause. “On the other hand, I don’t think I could go four days without seeing him!” Pause.
“That would be good,” I say. “I mean, if I met him. I want to meet him.” I pull onto Center Street and head for Roy Dale Special School for my sister’s game. “I should really call you back. I’m not great talking and driving.”
“Where are you anyway?” she asks.
“In Fred. Headed to Sandy’s bask
etball game.”
“Man, I miss her games! I miss Sandy. I even miss Fred. Tell your sister good luck for me, okay? Go, Dragons! And if she’s got a game over Thanksgiving, I’m there! Ooh—Colt, too! He would love a Special Olympics basketball game!”
“Okay.”
She starts to punch off. Then she hollers, “Wait! You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“So why did you call me? What’s up? You go for three weeks without talking to me—”
“We’ve e-mailed,” I interrupt, not sure why I feel accused when she’s the one who barely e-mails and never calls.
“Tell! What’s wrong? Man, I’m sorry, Mary Jane. How me-me-me of me. Talk.”
This sounds like the old Alicia, and it makes me want to crawl inside my cell to be with her.
“Do you remember Jackson House?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“You and Jackson House?” she exclaims. “He’s so hot! Way to go, Mary Jane!”
“It’s not like that. He’s still going with Star. Kind of. I guess. I just—”
“Well,” she interrupts, “does he feel the same way you do?”
“I don’t know.” I almost cruise past Sandy’s school and have to turn fast, without signaling, to make the drive. Someone behind me honks. “I’m at Roy Dale, Alicia. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“You sure you’re okay till then?”
I grin into the phone. “I’m sure.”
“Okay. But call me. I want to hear everything.”
I flip the phone off and jog into Roy Dale.
Roy Dale Special School has the feel of an old elementary school. It’s a small brick one-story building, where even though the sign says you have to check in at the office before you can go anywhere, it’s okay if you don’t. I wave to Madeline, who’s been the office person ever since Sandy started going to Roy Dale.
It was a good move, changing her from the regular school to this one. Here, she’s a star. When she went to my old elementary school, she was low man on the totem pole of lows.
Crazy in Love Page 4
