“Sure!” Jesse cranked the wheel to the left, performing a tight, less-than-legal U-turn that sent me flying into the window.
“Be careful!” I cried, wincing on the inside as I realized how much I sounded like my mother.
From the backseat, Toile squealed with delight, then laughed hysterically. Jesse joined in as he screeched to a halt in a red zone behind the ice cream truck. “Come on!” He hopped out and opened Toile’s door. Then they hurried to get in line behind a group of ten-year-olds, leaving me alone in the car.
What the actual fuck?
I leaned over and engaged the hazard lights (perhaps a passing Fullerton PD cruiser would attribute our illegal park job to a mechanical issue), then fished my wallet out of my bag and pushed the door open with my foot. This day was rapidly unraveling.
Five minutes later, we resumed our drive. Jesse’s chocolate malt was in the cup holder, Toile happily licked at a rainbow Popsicle, and I held a disturbingly accurate facsimile of Tweety Bird’s head on a stick, made out of some kind of ice cream–like substance the color of yellow snow. I hadn’t wanted to get nothing, so just pointed to the closest thing on the menu, which I thought was going to be a fairly safe and respectable ice cream sandwich and ended up being this toxic substance molded to look like a beloved cartoon character. Was I supposed to relish biting into Tweety’s bulbous skull? And why were these things being marketed to kids? What was wrong with everyone?
The car slowed while I was mid–mental rant. I glanced out the window, expecting to see an unfamiliar house that Toile’s family had just moved into, and instead saw the cactus garden in front of my dad’s place.
“You’re supposed to drop off Toile first,” I blurted out, unable to hide my disappointment.
He avoided my eyes. “She lives closer to me.”
Of course she did. Because, apparently, the universe hated me.
Fine, whatever. I’d give him twenty to twenty-five minutes to get her home and then call him. Maybe suggest that he drive back over? I wrangled my bag and my sweating Tweety Bird out of the car with more awkwardness than I would have preferred. “I’ll call you in a bit, okay?”
I fought the urge to lean across the seat and kiss him, asserting my claim in front of Toile. But that would prove that I felt threatened, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. So instead, I just smiled and closed the door.
As I reached the porch, I heard a car door close. Was Jesse coming to say something? Kiss me? Anything? I turned just in time to see Toile slip into the front seat before Jesse peeled away from the curb.
Tweety Bird hit the ground, a sticky, melting lump on the stoop.
ELEVEN
I TEXTED JESSE. Twice. Once about thirty minutes after he’d dropped me off and once at ten o’clock before I went to bed. He didn’t respond to either.
I’d broken down at some point and Googled “Toile Jeffries.” Not out of jealousy, I’d told myself, just curiosity. But the internet was oddly devoid of any information on the new girl. Just a Facebook page that hadn’t been updated yet. It was as if she didn’t exist at all.
I was still antsy the next morning at breakfast, lost in my own thoughts as I narrowed Jesse’s behavior down to two likely scenarios: family emergency or lost phone. I was so preoccupied even my dad noticed, which was a rarity.
“BeaBea, is everything okay?” he asked as he pored over emails on his phone. There was a pinched look around his dark eyes, deep crow’s-feet extending toward his graying temples like shadowy chasms in his tanned skin. Even when he was trying to look kindly sympathetic, there was something hard in his features—a trait that made Andrew Giovannini an imposing opponent in the courtroom, and a difficult parent to relate to.
“Boy stuff,” I blurted without thinking.
At the word “boy,” Sheri, my stepmom, rushed over to the kitchen table and pulled out the chair next to me. “Boy stuff? I can totally help with that! Tell me everything!”
Sheri was sweet. I could have done way worse in a stepmom considering that the prerequisite for the job was, essentially, being my dad’s secretary while he was married to someone else. What she lacked in brains she made up for in enthusiasm, and every sentence out of her mouth, whether it was delivering news of a death in the family or announcing what she’d made for dinner, sounded as if it ended in an exclamation point.
She’d probably been really popular in high school, a Cassilyn type who had boys fighting with one another for the chance to ask her out. That wasn’t my reality. And though I appreciated her willingness to help, I wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk.
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” my dad asked, more out of courtesy than from a burning desire to hear my boy problems.
“Yes.”
He pushed his chair out from the table and reached for his briefcase. “Good. I mean, okay. Whatever you want, BeaBea.” He kissed Sheri on the cheek. “I’ll be home late. Client dinner.”
I cringed, noticing that he didn’t look Sheri in the eye as he said it.
Her face fell. “Another one?”
“I’m sorry.”
Sheri sighed. “I have an appointment with Dr. Aaronstein today. About . . .” She dropped her voice as if she was about to mention an adult topic a child shouldn’t overhear. “About the fertility stuff.”
“Excellent,” he said, grabbing his car keys. “I want to hear all about it, okay? Come on, BeaBea. We’re going to be late.”
With roughly six and a half minutes until first period, I hurried through the halls toward Jesse’s Advanced Econ elective class. I’d have just enough time to see if he was there or if, as would confirm my worst fears, he was absent and I needed to start calling the four major hospitals in the greater Fullerton area, searching for a member of the Sullivan family. By the time I reached his classroom, I had fleshed out an entire vision of Jesse huddled by his father’s bedside, his face drawn with worry, unable to leave his ailing parent to check in with his anxious girlfriend.
I waited until the last possible second before the late bell, but Jesse never arrived for class.
That sealed it. Something awful had happened.
I was sweaty and panting by the time I dashed through the door of AP English just nanoseconds before the bell, and dropped into my desk behind Spencer as Mr. Schulty began the day’s lecture on John Donne.
“You okay?” Spencer asked.
“I think something horrible happened to Jesse.”
He arched a brow. “Why?”
Mr. Schulty loosened his tie and took up his battered volume and began to read aloud. “‘Fond woman,’” he droned, slipping into a faux British accent, “‘which wouldst have thy husband die, And yet complain’st of his great jealousy.’”
“He’s not here today,” I mouthed, my voice barely a whisper.
Spencer half turned in his chair, leaning his elbow on my desk and propping his head up with his hand, as if concentrating intently on Mr. Schulty’s recitation. “Yes, he is.”
“What?” I blurted out.
Mr. Schulty cleared his throat. “Beatrice Giovannini? Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
“No, Mr. Schulty.”
“Are you not interested in the poetry of John Donne?” he continued, clearly miffed that I hadn’t been paying attention.
I should have just placated him, but of course, I had to say exactly what I was thinking. “Based on my choice of major and university, I have only an eight percent chance of referencing John Donne once I graduate.”
“That’s not really the point of poetry, Beatrice.”
“Poetry,” I said, “is a necessary evil of high school education.”
He blinked, perhaps not quite sure if he’d heard me correctly, then slowly shook his head. “I’ll remember that on your final exam.”
As if.
I waited until Mr. Schulty had resumed his performance, then leaned my face close to Spencer’s.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Saw him in the parking lot.”
Why hadn’t Jesse been in first period? Why hadn’t he returned my texts? What the hell was going on?
“He’ll be in the cafeteria,” Gabe said as we crossed campus after third period. He looped his arm through mine and laid his head on my shoulder. “Don’t stress.”
Spencer fell into step beside me. “I’m sure he’s not dead.”
I was glad they were so confident.
We were crossing the foyer when someone called Gabe’s name. Cassilyn, alone, without her entourage.
“Dahling.” Gabe kissed her on both cheeks, European- style. “How are you?”
Instead of answering, Cassilyn just smiled, her eyes fixed on Spencer. “Where do you guys usually eat lunch?” she asked, even though Toile had pointed out our table to her just yesterday.
“Oh, you know,” Gabe answered noncommittally. “Here, there.”
“Want to join us today?” she asked Spencer. “You and your friends, of course.”
I blinked, not trusting my own ears. Had the most popular girl in school just offered us a spot at her lunch table?
“Zoopa!” Gabe said, using that ridiculous German accent. He blew her a kiss as he followed her into the cafeteria. “So sweet of you.”
Before yesterday I’d never gotten within five feet of the popular kids’ tables in the cafeteria, and now here I was among them for the second day in a row. Proof that the Formula worked? Absolutely. At least something was going according to plan.
“Can you believe this?” Gabe whispered, reading my mind. “Your formula totally works.”
“I know!”
“This is going to be the opening line of the article: ‘It took twenty-eight hours for me to permeate the A-list.’ I mean, won’t that be an amazing hook?” Then he squeezed my arm and pranced over to Cassilyn’s side.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Spencer said. He didn’t mean it as a compliment.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
I glanced at the north room as we passed, hoping to see Jesse at our table so I could beckon for him to join us, but the booth was empty. I did, however, catch sight of Michael Torres watching me with a gaping jaw, his skin a sickly shade of yellow.
And Michael Torres wasn’t the only one watching; Milo and Thad glared at us as we approached, their faces anything but inviting. But Gabe either didn’t notice them or didn’t care. He spun onto one of the curved benches, like he was in a choreographed dance number, then grabbed Cassilyn’s hand as he came full circle. She lowered herself onto the bench beside him, crossed her hands daintily over her knee, and gestured for Spencer to sit on her other side. It was every inch the queen granting permission for an audience. “Will you paint my portrait?”
Spencer stiffened. “I don’t know . . .”
“My father will pay you, of course. A commission, just like Van Gogh.”
I was impressed she knew his name. “I think that sounds amazing, Spence.”
Cassilyn turned her cool blue eyes to me, as if appraising a piece of jewelry, then smiled. “See? Math Girl thinks it’s a good idea.”
I flinched. Math Girl.
“You’d make the perfect muse,” Gabe cooed.
Cassilyn’s big blue eyes lit up. “Like the band?”
Um, no. “More like Ancient Greece,” I muttered.
She placed her hand on Spencer’s arm. “I’d be honored.”
He laughed weakly. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
I should have been elated that the Formula was working. The pieces were falling into place, which meant my research for the MIT scholarship was going to be stellar, but for some reason, the way Cassilyn looked at Spencer irritated the hell out of me.
But wasn’t this what we wanted? Milo and Thad were just feet from us, sitting at the same group of tables, and yet no one had threatened to kick anyone else’s ass. That was the goal.
“I see we have guests.” Esmeralda rounded our table slowly, a lioness circling her prey.
“Spencer’s going to paint my portrait,” Cassilyn said, tossing her hair like a shampoo model. “Isn’t that exciting?”
“So . . . ,” Dakota drawled, following close on Esmeralda’s heels.
Noel finished the thought. “Excitin . . .” She sounded anything but.
Esmeralda didn’t join Cassilyn at our table, but instead sat with Milo and Thad. I noticed that she purposefully squeezed in between them, snuggling up to Thad, who looked jittery and uncomfortable. He repeatedly craned his neck to get a clear look at Cassilyn’s hand (which resided in close proximity to Spencer’s), his lips pressed together into a thin line. Meanwhile, Dakota and Noel flanked Gabe, doting on his plaid bow tie and his striped yacht shoes as if they were playing with a dress-up doll. He beamed and laughed and tossed zoopas around with abandon. Like Spencer, it was as if he belonged there.
Suddenly, I needed to get out of the cafeteria. I felt tears welling up, and I shook my head, frustrated at the illogical display of emotion. Why was I upset? This was exactly what I’d planned.
“Bea?” Gabe asked, his queen routine forgotten. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t trust my voice, afraid I would burst into tears the instant I opened my mouth, so I just nodded quickly, grabbed my bag, and fled.
I paused around the corner from the cafeteria and pulled my phone from the pocket of my blazer. Still no response from Jesse.
I opened a text bubble and typed quickly. Where are you? I really need to talk. It felt so pathetic, like I was pleading with my boyfriend to answer me. That was awful. I knew that was awful. I shouldn’t feel as if I was begging him to acknowledge my existence, yet at that moment, I would have given up all of my dignity just to feel as if I was more important at this school than the nameless Math Girl.
I just needed to find Jesse. Of course that’s what was upsetting me. I was worried about my boyfriend. I power walked through the halls, the wheels on my bag squealing in protest every time I took a hard corner. He had to be somewhere. I searched all the obvious places and was moving on to the nonobvious ones when the door to the music room opened and my boyfriend stepped into the hall.
“Jesse!” I cried, relieved at finding him alive and well.
Alive and well and not responding to my messages.
He jolted, clearly startled. “Oh, hey.”
Oh, hey? He’d left me hanging for sixteen and a half hours and that’s all he had to say? “Did you lose your phone?” I asked, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He patted the front pocket of his jeans. “No.”
“Then why didn’t you text me back?”
The door opened again and Toile bounded out. She was wearing a green dirndl, those yellow tights, and a bright turquoise beret perched on the side of her head. “Thanks for the help,” she cried, waving back into the music room. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” Then she saw me. “Hey, Bea! What’s up? Did you hear any of the rehearsal?”
“Rehearsal?” I asked, staring right at Jesse, willing him to answer me.
He didn’t.
“Yeah!” Toile chimed in. “Mr. Terranova helped us pick out a song for Jesse’s audition, and we—”
I felt my pulse accelerate. “Audition?”
“Jesse’s auditioning for show choir.” Toile hung on him, head against his arm. It was a complete and utter display of ownership.
I should have confronted them right then and there. Called Toile out for trying to steal my boyfriend, called Jesse out for allowing her to. But I couldn’t. No coherent words were able to travel the distance between my brain and my mouth, and all I could do was stand there lamely, staring.
“I need to go,” I mumbled, peeling my eyes from Jesse’s face. And as Toile uttered a painfully perky good-bye, I barreled blindly down the hall.
TWELVE
SPENCER DROPPED ME off at my dad’s after school; thankfully no one was home. I’d planned to go straight
to my room and have a good, therapeutic cry, but no tears would flow. Not unusual. I hadn’t cried since the day my dad told me he was moving out. But I thought it would help, somehow, to eradicate whatever it was I was feeling. Instead, I just lay on my back and stared at my ceiling fan as I pored through scenarios in my mind.
FACT: Jesse was my boyfriend. I wasn’t making that up. We’d had several date-like excursions over the summer, had held hands in public, and though we hadn’t gone all the way, we had engaged in eleven make-out sessions. These were all solid, universally acknowledged boyfriend-girlfriend activities.
FACT: Despite official boyfriend-girlfriend status, Jesse had been acting differently since the episode in the cafeteria on the first day of school. This was . . . not good.
FACT: Toile was a negative influence on Jesse. While I couldn’t rationalize away his fascination with her, I could construct a plausible scenario in which he was somewhat of an innocent victim to her romantic machinations. She’d twisted Jesse’s naïveté toward her own goal: stealing my boyfriend.
FACT: Almost all of my interactions with Jesse since the first day of school had been in Toile’s presence.
I sat upright. Of course! I hadn’t been alone with him. Maybe if Jesse saw me without Toile around, I’d be able to break her spell?
I grabbed my purse and sprinted down the hall before I could change my mind. I had to talk to my boyfriend. Alone.
By the time I turned onto Jesse’s street, my heart was pounding. Less from the physical exertion of walking uphill from the bus stop and more from pure excitement. I had convinced myself that Jesse had no idea what Toile’s intentions were in regard to their relationship. Thankfully, he had me. I just needed to point out to him that this whole show choir thing was just Toile’s excuse to spend more time with him and, more important, isolate him from his girlfriend.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself as I rang the doorbell. This wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to, but it had to be done.
I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl Page 6
