“Do you really want a pretzel?” I ask.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mary Jane,” he says, “but I think your salesmanship could use a little work.”
The woman behind him clears her throat, as if in agreement.
I think I’m smiling, but the voices in my head are making it impossible for me to speak:
Plain Jane: I repeat: Have you seen yourself in that hat? This guy is here for a pretzel. Not for you, you idiot. The line is growing. You’re up to six people now.
M.J.: Jackson House is so into you! He came to the mall just to see who? YOU! Forget this job. Jump over this counter and into his arms!
Jackson reaches into the pocket of his letter jacket and comes out with his wallet. “Guess you better give me a pretzel before the line stampedes me.”
“Which one?” I ask. “I mean, which pretzel?”
“Your pick.”
“You sure?” I ask, reaching into the case of pretzels.
“Hey, I trust you, Mary Jane.”
“Yeah? You’re the only one at Attila Ill who does.”
“That bad, huh?” he asks. “Is it my fault?”
The question surprises me. Is it? Is all of this Jackson’s fault? I can’t believe I never asked myself this question. I know what locker-room talk is. Was I the topic of conversation in the Attila Ill locker room? I don’t want to believe my Jackson House would do a thing like that. Lie. Spread rumors about me to beef up his guy-rep. But he and I are the only two people on earth who know what happened when we left Cassie’s together, that nothing happened. He could have made up anything.
“Did you say something about me?” I demand. “Like to the guys at school?” My heart is thumping, and the blood racing through my veins makes me short of breath.
The shopping-bag woman behind Jackson leans forward, listening, frowning.
And I discover I’m angry. At her. And at him. “Well? Did you?”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“Do I have to spell it out?” I snap.
His head jerks back as if I’ve slapped him. “No. If you’re asking me if I made up something about you, Mary Jane, the answer is no.”
The blood coursing through my veins comes to an abrupt stop. He’s hurt. I have hurt Jackson House.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he continues, calmly, softly, “especially to you, Mary Jane.”
“Especially to me?” I repeat.
The corners of his lips turn up slightly. “I admire you too much.”
“You do? Admire me?” I know. I’m in repeat mode again, but I can’t help myself. I can’t take my eyes off his eyes, his soft, brown, totally truth-telling eyes.
“Hurry it up, will you?” shouts the mad shopper, who obviously considers the show over.
Jackson smiles down at me. “Could I have my pretzel, ma’am?”
I give him my warmest, most admirable smile and select the biggest pretzel from the case, hoping he will accept these gestures as my apology. How could I ever have doubted this man? “I’m giving you our specialty Popcorn Pretzel,” I explain.
“Which would explain the popcorn kernels all over it,” he observes. “How did you stick them on there?”
“Don’t ask.” I place the bumpy pretzel on a wrapper and present it to Jackson. “Specialty of the house.” Forever after, I will call it “The Jackson House,” at least in my head.
“Perfect,” he says. “Popcorn, in honor of our first night together. ” He winks.
I blush, which I know because my cheeks feel hotter than the pretzel oven.
When he takes the pretzel from me, his fingers touch my plastic-wrapped fingers and linger way longer than necessary for the pretzel exchange.
He did that on purpose! M.J. screams.
Nuh-uh. You’re such a klutz. He was probably afraid you’d drop the thing, Plain Jane insists.
The woman behind Jackson makes a noise that sounds like “Harrumph.”
The line is a dozen people long.
“What do I owe you for this masterpiece?” Jackson asks, grinning, showing a dimple.
“Owe me?” Our fingers are still touching.
“Problem, Mary Jane?” Pretzel Boss asks, looking over my shoulder. His breath smells like the Fire-Eater’s Red-Hot Pretzel.
I tell Jackson how much his pretzel costs, and he counts out the change exactly, forking it over in pennies, nickels, and dimes. I think he’s taking his time on purpose. It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.
“There,” he says, plopping down the final penny.
I slide the change into my palm. “Nice doing business with you, sir. Come again.”
“Oh, I will,” he promises. “See ya.”
And I totally believe him.
13
Mall Matters
The rest of the morning, I keep making mistakes. I give the woman who orders the Elvis Pretzel the Lawrence Welk instead. I give the Chubby Checker Twist to a kid who asked for Chocolate Dream.
My heart isn’t in my work . . . because it’s with Jackson House.
“You better let me wait on customers,” Robbie says after I mess up three orders in a row.
But I turn out to be as lousy making the pretzels as I was serving them. I put salt on the Sweet Cinnamon Pretzel and red hots in the Tangerine Twist. Since the pretzels have to be thrown out, Pretzel Boss bans me from kitchen duty, and I end up back behind the counter.
“Mary Jane!” Cassie calls. She’s wearing her new knee-high boots with a leather skirt. No triangle hat. She walks up to the front, ignoring the glares from real customers. “When do you get off?”
“Five!” I shout over to her.
“When you’re done, meet me at Mahoney’s!” she shouts back.
I nod, and she waves and walks off. Sometimes, if we’re both dateless, we meet at the mall and get a hamburger at Mahoney’s, then check out the movies or go to the game together. If Cassie knew Jackson’s fingers had been touching mine, she’d never invite me to anything again.
I’m counting the minutes until five o’clock when I glance down the line and see Jackson House at the very end of the line.
I process orders faster than any server has ever processed orders at The Twisted Pretzel. Finally, I call the next customer with “Next.” And it’s Jackson.
He stands in front of me, on the other side of the counter. Smiling, dimpling, if there is such a word.
Pretzel Boss stops what he’s doing and frowns at us.
“Do you have any pretzels?” Jackson asks, without a trace of amusement.
“Yes, we do,” I answer, equally serious.
“That’s great!” he exclaims, as if I’ve just informed him we’re running a special on the secret to life.
“What kind of pretzel do you want?” I ask, using every ounce of willpower to keep this looking serious, professional.
He scratches his chin and narrows his brown eyes. “Well, what kinds of pretzels do you have?” He waits for my answer.
So I begin. “Apple Pretzel, A La Mode Pretzel, Blueberry Pretzel, Berry Berry Pretzel, Candy-Coated Pretzel, Charlie Chaplin Pretzel, Chocolate Dream Pretzel, Chubby Checker Twist Pretzel, Davy Crockett Pretzel, Elvis Pretzel ...” And I keep going until I’ve listed all fifty varieties, as the line grows and grows.
“I believe I’ll take the regular pretzel with salt,” Jackson says when I’m all done.
I give him the pretzel, and he leaves.
But an hour later he’s back for more. The crowd has thinned, and Robbie and I are both waiting on customers until we need to bake more pretzels.
This time Jackson chooses the Romeo, a handsome garlic pretzel with red hearts all over it. As far as I know, nobody has ever ordered it before.
“You must really love pretzels,” Robbie observes, ringing up the Romeo.
Instead of directing his answer at Robbie, Jackson turns to me with a long, slow smile. “Nope. I hate the things. Never touch ’em.”
&n
bsp; Finally, the clock admits it’s five o’clock. I whip off my hat and gloves and try to smooth down my hair. Then I grab my coat off the rack in back. “When are you going home, Robbie?” I ask.
“Closing. I need the extra hours.”
“Well, thanks for covering for me today. I know I was even worse than usual.”
Robbie inches toward me, his eyes big as Ping-Pong balls, looking where they always look. “Mary Jane, do you want to go out with me after closing?”
I smile down on him. “Not going to happen, Robbie. But thanks anyway.” You have to hand it to the kid for persistence.
I make a pit stop, brush my hair, apply lipstick, and head out to Mahoney’s. I would rather go straight home and lie on my bed, stare at the black ceiling, and dream of Jackson House. But I promised Cassie I’d meet her. I’ll just hope I can act normal. As I’ve thought so many times before, it was very smart of God not to let us read one another’s minds. If we could read other people’s thoughts, I’ll bet nobody would have friends.
I round the corner to Mahoney’s and stop. Cassie’s sitting at a table out front. And with her are Samantha, Nicole . . .
And Star.
At first, Plain Jane is so overcome that she doesn’t know what to say about this new development. So she falls back on the old standbys: Your hair looks horrible. You’re wearing the wrong clothes. You’re fat. Then Star looks directly at me with a glare that would terrify an ax murderer. Flee the building! Plain Jane shouts. Step away from the mall!
Forget that, M.J. reasons. Who needs these girls? Why waste time with them when Jackson might still be around?
Before I can decide which voice to listen to, Cassie stands up and waves me over.
I wave back weakly and start toward their table at a pace slightly under the speed of a glacier.
There’s one empty chair at the table, next to Star. She’s wearing khakis and a white shirt, unbuttoned to the legal limit. Her makeup is perfect, and her hair’s been curled into long, flowing locks, suitable for a princess.
Instead of taking the empty seat, I greet everybody and escape to the serving counter, where I order a Diet Coke. This doesn’t take very long, and I have to trudge back to the table and take the seat they’ve obviously set up for me.
“How was work?” Cassie asks.
The others are dead silent, even though they were laughing their heads off when I was on my Diet Coke mission.
“Just another day in the pretzel mines,” I answer.
Nobody chuckles.
“Nice sweater, Mary Jane,” Star says.
I’m almost sure she sneers as she says this. I’m wearing an ugly brown fuzz sweater that I’d only wear when I knew I’d be getting pretzel goo on me. My mother got it in a going-out-of-business sale, and it explains why that store was going out of business. This sweater is not nice.
I glance around the table, then back to Star. Her smirk is gone, and I know I was the only one who saw it.
“You’ve had that sweater for ages, haven’t you?” Cassie comments. “I’ll bet it’s warm.”
I try to smile at Cassie because I almost feel sorry for her. She’s working hard to make this little reunion fly. It’s obvious she’s called us all together to patch things up. But this isn’t how things work in high school, and Cassie should know that. Nothing’s ever solved directly with girls. It’s some kind of high school rule, I think. Problems are fixed through third parties. Someone calls on behalf of someone else, and then everybody pretends things are fine.
Maybe that’s what we’re doing now, pretending things are fine.
I want to come right out and ask if they’ve heard the four-minute rumor. I want to swear on a stack of French fries that the rumor is a big, fat, greasy lie. But what if they haven’t heard it? What if the rumor never left the locker room guys? Then I’d be the one spreading it. It would be like gossiping about myself.
We’re too quiet, so Cassie tries again. “Anyway, I need to get a job. I think it’s great, Mary Jane, the way you hold down a job, keep up with school, babysit for your sister.”
“I agree,” Star says. “I guess it doesn’t leave you much time for a dating life, huh?”
I feel her words like tiny arrows, barbed at the tip. But the other girls nod sympathetically, agreeing with her.
Man, she’s good! M.J. exclaims, giving credit where credit is due. She vows that the brown sweater will go straight into the trash, never to be worn again.
Plain Jane is still obsessing over the fact that Mom bought that sweater out of the goodness of her heart and that it is very warm. Plus, the color matches my eyes.
I sip my Diet Coke and try to keep myself in on conversations that range from Sigh Fry to the sale at Music World, to taking our ACTs. We carefully stay away from guy-talk, which cuts our usual topic selection in half.
But as we sit here together, a strange thing happens. I relax. If these girls, The Girls, have heard stupid rumors about me, they obviously don’t believe them. I start enjoying myself, enjoying my friends. My laughter is real, blending with theirs. When Cassie gossips about Trish, this girl we knew last year who dropped out of school, I’m really into it. And when Nicole rags on her little stepbrother, I feel sorry for both of them.
“Hey!” Cassie exclaims. “Why don’t we all go to the game together? We can hang at my place afterwards.”
“That’d be fun,” I say, feeling almost like my old self again. It’s embarrassing not to have a date to the game on a Saturday night. But there’s strength in numbers. If we all went together, nobody would think we were losers.
“I’ve got a date,” Star says as if she’s apologizing.
“Me too,” Nicole’s quick to add.
“Wes is meeting me outside”—Samantha checks her watch—“in about five minutes.”
“But you girls go and have fun,” Star advises Cassie and me.
And I wonder if I’m the only one who hears the false pity in her voice.
What if I’m wrong about Star? I mean, what if I’ve imagined the sneer, the smirk, and the false pity? Could I really be imagining the tension between Star and me? Objects may be closer than they appear. And if I’ve imagined that, have I imagined everything, including Jackson and me?
I need answers. I want to know right now where Jackson and Star really stand. Jackson said they’d been having trouble. How much? What kind? What would Star say about their relationship? I have to know. And Star Simons is the only one who can tell me.
“Star,” I begin, not sure how to phrase this.
“Hey! Hi, honey!” Star stands up and waves directly over my head as if she’s flagging down a cab. She scoots back her chair and swoops around the table.
Coming toward us is Jackson House.
I am speechless. Breathless. Brainless.
Star throws herself at Jackson, hugging him and kissing his cheek.
“I thought you’d never get here!” Star says, slipping her arm around Jackson’s waist and pulling him back to our table. They’re dressed alike—khakis and white shirts.
Now I suspect that Cassie wasn’t the one who set up this little reunion. This show is for my benefit. Star leads him right to where she was sitting, next to me.
Jackson smiles down at me, but it’s not a better smile than he aims at Nicole and Cassie.
“We girls have had the best time!” Star exclaims. Smiling broadly, she leans back against the table. Her painted fingernails are spread out on the table, inches from me. Her perfume is strong.
She leans farther back, revealing that her unbuttoned white shirt may have exceeded the legal limit.
I see her fingers sliding toward my Diet Coke. Then, before I can get a sound out, her hand moves in a tiny sweeping motion.
“Don’t!” I plead. My Coke glass wipes out. Diet Coke and ice spatter all over me. I feel it seeping into the brown fuzz and soaking my bra and stomach.
“Oh no!” Star cries. “Mary Jane, what did you do? Here. Let me help.” She picks up napkin
s and dabs at my sweater.
I shove her hand away. “I’ve got it.”
Cassie offers me a fistful of napkins.
I take them and try to soak up the syrupy mess.
“Well . . .” Star picks up her coat from her chair. “We’ve got to get going.”
Nicole and Samantha stand up. “Me too,” Nicole says.
“Have fun, guys,” Samantha says to nobody in particular as she puts on her coat. She and Nicole walk off together.
Star hands her coat to Jackson, who helps her on with it. She pokes her arms through the sleeves, then turns to smile at him. Her back is to me, but her painted fingernails and the hand that spilled Diet Coke are just inches away.
Then, a nanosecond before she grabs Jackson’s arm, Star’s hand lifts in the air . . .
And she gives me the finger.
14
Bucker-Uppers
"Did you see that?" I demand of Cassie, when she finishes waving good-bye to our “friends.”
“See what?” she asks, which pretty much gives me my answer.
“Star gave me the finger!”
Cassie smiles at me like I smile at Sandy sometimes. “Oh, Mary Jane, she did not.”
“Yeah! She did!” But I can already see Cassie’s not going to believe me, even if mall security caught it on tape and hands it over to us.
“You’re just upset because you ruined your sweater and—”
“I didn’t ruin my sweater!” I shout. People at other tables turn and stare at us. At me. “Not that it would have mattered. I hate this sweater. But that was Star, too!”
Cassie gives a sigh worthy of Sigh Fry. “Admit it, Mary Jane. You’re jealous of Star.”
Duh, Plain Jane agrees.
Me? Jealous of that skinny, two-faced witch? M.J. challenges.
My soaked sweater is sticking to me, combining syrupy cola with fuzz and making me itch. “I’m going home,” I say, grabbing my coat and making for the exit.
“But what about the game?” Cassie calls after me.
“Tell them they’ll have to play without Mary Jane Ettermeyer! ” I shout.
By the time I pull into the driveway, both Fred and I smell like rusty mothballs. My anger has morphed through the three or four stages of grief we had to read about in my psych class. Denial, anger, sadness, and I forget the others because I’m stuck deep in the middle of sadness.
Crazy in Love Page 8
