“Oh, look,” she says. “Isn’t that Melanie? From Regis?”
It is Melanie—Mel Furlong, a girl I used to hang around with in my other life. I shake my head and try to drag Mom the other way. Of course, she has other ideas.
“Mel-an-ee,” calls out Mom, waving to get her attention.
Could this woman be any more embarrassing?
I consider creeping away, but Mel is coming over. She looks nervous and I don’t blame her.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hi,” I say, checking out the mall’s floor pattern.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” says Mel. “How is . . . how are things?”
I don’t answer, so Mom kicks in and blabs on about our new life and really Melanie should come and visit one day and hasn’t-it-been-ages and my-hasn’t-Melanie-grown. Like Mel’s some magical bean in a fairy story.
Finally Mom stops and Mel promises to drop by one day. Then she leaves and I realize that she hasn’t bothered to find out our address and I know that there isn’t a single moment that any of us have believed that she will visit. And it feels kind of sad that Mel, a girl I used to have sleepovers with, sat next to at school, and swapped lunches with is now just someone I used to know.
“You should contact Those Girls,” says Mom, for what must be the thousandth time.
Mom doesn’t understand I can’t. It would be like having one foot in my old life and one foot in the new. I had to choose, and for now I’m hanging out with Margot and Desi. When I go back to Regis High School, things will change again.
Margot and Desi are always ready to put down Regis. I think of my life without them and my mind shuts down. It just doesn’t want to go there.
At the shoe store, I’m sitting on a large overstuffed seat—one sock on, one sock off—when someone bumps me from behind.
“Sorry.”
I turn around to see Angelique. She is trying on an athletic shoe and giggles when the sales assistant arrives with a black leather shoe for me.
“School shoes,” we say as one.
“You’d think they could come up with something that actually looks okay to wear,” she says.
I shake my head. “I think that’s against the law of school uniform design,” I say. I hold up two different shoes. “So you choose between Chunky Prom Queen and Pretty Preschooler.”
Angelique just shakes her head.
Mom’s giving me that “determined to be introduced stare,” but I’m ignoring her. Finally she says, “El, won’t you introduce me to Your Friend?”
Now Angelique definitely knows my name.
Somehow it was better when she didn’t.
I introduce Mom to Angelique, who of course is very polite in return.
“You should drop by one day,” I hear Mom say, as I fumble with the buckle on my shoe. The blood is rushing in my ears loudly as Mom gives Angelique our address. A look that I don’t understand flashes over Angelique’s face.
“She’s a Nice Girl,” says Mom as Angelique leaves the store with a wave.
“I think this is the wrong size,” I say loudly.
When I get home, I call Margot’s cell phone. She picks up but can’t hear me because there’s too much noise in the background. She asks if I’m feeling better, then promises to call me over the weekend. There’s laughter in the background and she says she’s got to go. I hang up, wishing I’d never called.
30.
It’s Saturday and Mom is grocery shopping. Bella has planned to visit Dad and asks me for the third time whether I’d like to tag along. I’m sitting in the room that is our kitchen and dining and living room all in one, watching Saturday morning kids’ shows because I can. The couch I’m sitting on—way too big for this unit, but we can’t afford a new one—is littered with used tissues, the plate that my toast was on, and remote controls, because I can never figure out which is which. My pretend cold has taken on a life of its own. I’ve stemmed the dripping of my nose by shoving a tissue up each nostril.
“No thanks,” I say, though it sounds like, “Dough tanks.”
Bella taps her foot like I’m letting her down. I don’t know why she still bothers asking me. “Any message?” she asks finally.
I shake my head and turn up the volume. A cartoon character has been sliced and diced then miraculously re-formed. I hear the door slam as Bella leaves. A minute later I’ve thought of a message for Dad so I drag myself off the couch, rush to the door, and poke my head outside. But Bella has gone. Instead I see Angelique slouching past.
“Angelique?” I say.
Her eyes meet mine for the briefest of split seconds, and then she is gone—disappearing up the side steps in a blur of red jacket. I go back inside and doze on the couch. When I wake, I wonder if I have dreamed the whole thing. This seems the most likely. That I have dreamed Angelique Mendez would be walking past my door in my grungy neighborhood on a Saturday morning when I have a temperature of a hundred gazillion.
31.
By the next afternoon my temperature is down to nearly normal. I have claimed the couch as mine, with pillows and my comforter, remote control, and tissues at hand. Bella is out with her friends and Mom is hanging wet clothes on a drying rack in front of the heater next to the TV.
“Can’t you put them in the dryer?” I ask crossly.
“The dryer died,” says Mom cheerfully. “This will save on the electricity bills.”
“Great.” I collapse back against the pillows.
“Can I get you anything before I go next door?”
“Next door?” I ask.
“Yes. Peggy needs a hand with her curtains.”
“Peggy? Oh, Cat Lady.”
“Peggy is a lovely lady. Show some respect,” snaps Mom, and somehow I’m happier with an angry Mom than a sad one.
“Do we have any chicken noodle soup?” I ask.
“We have cream of tomato,” says Mom.
I shake my head. Then she rattles off a whole list of things we have, none of which I want. I shake my head again.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not really hungry.”
Then someone knocks on the door before she can get going on her favorite medical topic—feed a cold and starve a fever.
“That’s probably Peggy now,” says Mom.
Imagine her surprise when she opens the door to find Dylan standing there.
Imagine my surprise.
“Is Ariel in?” he asks.
Mom straightens slightly and whisks her chores apron off.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, she is. Come in. El!” she calls out as though I’m not just three steps away. Then she turns back to Dylan. “I’m sorry, you are . . . ?”
“Dylan. Dylan Shepherd. I go to school with Ariel. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Marini.” Then he holds out his hand politely and I nearly die when they shake hands.
The sight of him has set up a niggle in the empty cavern that is my brain.
I am in my pajamas. The ones with the cute monkeys on them. The ones that say Good Night, Sleep Tight. I pull the comforter over me and hope he hasn’t seen me.
“There’s a Nice Young Man to see you, El,” Mom calls out.
Nice Young Man? Maybe Dylan has brought a friend with him. I peek out from under the comforter.
Mom’s making faces at me, moving her eyebrows up and down, her lips a surprised pursed oval.
“I’m not really up for visitors,” I say, but Mom has already let Dylan through the door.
“Please, call me Isobelle,” Mom insists.
Please, pass me the basin. Dylan Shepherd is in my home. Black hoodie and all.
“Hello,” I say, in a voice that clearly says What the hell are you doing here?
Mom’s making signs behind his back, which are just annoying. The kind of signs that mean, “He’s a Nice Boy and where have you been hiding him?” It’s the happiest she’s looked in ages, but I’m not in the mood.
Dylan turns around and nearly catches her at it. Mom asks if he would li
ke a hot drink. He says no, then sits down in the rocking chair as if he’s settling in.
“Well, I just need to go next door then,” says Mom loudly, as if we’re all deaf. “Nice to meet you, Dylan. Feel free to drop in any time.”
Then she disappears out the door before I have a chance to say anything. The door clicks shut loudly.
“Well,” says Dylan.
“What are you doing here?”
“Geography project,” he says.
The niggle says “Bingo.” “Oh, right,” I say aloud.
“Are you sick?” he says.
“No,” I say, pulling the comforter up toward my chin. “I always lie around on Sundays in my pajamas.”
“Oh,” says Dylan, looking around.
“That was a joke,” I explain, just in case he didn’t get it.
“I thought it was sarcasm,” he says lightly.
I think back to my first idea of Dylan. Bored. Macho. Thick. Suddenly I feel really warm and I wonder whether my fever’s back.
“This is a nice place,” he says.
“It’s just temporary,” I say. I don’t know why I have to tell him this.
He shrugs and pulls out some paper from his back pocket. He unfolds it and thrusts it at me. It’s our geography project info sheet.
“Where’s that girl?” he asks.
“Sarah?”
“Yeah. The bossy one.”
“I guess she’ll be here any minute,” I say.
Dylan looks like he’s settled into the rocking chair for the duration. His jeans have crept up his legs while he’s sitting and I notice that he is wearing two different socks. I wonder if maybe he can’t afford a matching pair.
“So . . .”
The TV is blaring away and I stare at the screen without really seeing it.
We watch three ads, all of them loud, and none of them make any sense.
“So how long have you and Eric Callahan known each other?” I finally get the courage to ask.
“A while,” he says.
There are plenty of things I would like to ask Dylan. Who is Eric’s favorite band? What’s his favorite movie? Do you think he’d go out with a girl like me?
“Did you find my place okay?” I ask.
“I’ve been here before. Angelique’s brother lives here. Upstairs.”
Shower man.
“Angelique’s brother? How do you know Angelique?” I say.
Dylan waves his hand in the air impatiently as if he doesn’t want to talk about it, then finally says, “Eric’s my cousin.”
“You’re Eric Callahan’s cousin?” I repeat.
Callahan. Shepherd.
“Our mothers are sisters,” he says.
I get it, of course. It’s just that I can’t think of two guys less like each other than Eric and Dylan.
“Do you want a drink?” I need to move. My mind is crowded with the information. I just want to go somewhere quiet and work out what it means.
“Coffee would be good,” he says even though five minutes before he didn’t want a drink.
I wander into the kitchen, careful to keep the comforter covering me and turn the electric kettle on. I decide to make a dash for my bedroom to get changed and bump into Dylan who is standing right behind me. The comforter drops out of my hands and Dylan reaches down and gives it to me. He now has a perfect view of my little-kid pajamas.
“Going to change,” I mumble.
I throw on some clothes from my bedroom floor, look in the mirror and decide against brushing my hair. I don’t want to look like I’m trying.
Back in the kitchen I make him an instant coffee and hoist myself up onto my favorite spot on the counter. Dylan doesn’t talk so I fill in the gaps. I ask questions and he answers using the least amount of words he can. I wonder if it’s a game with him.
I find out that he lives two blocks away. He lives with his mother and father and his really little brother. His grandfather lives in an addition on the back of their house.
“What’s it like living with your grandfather?” I ask, but he just shrugs.
“You know,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say.
“Him and my dad don’t get along so well,” he says. “But I like having him around. He’s pretty out there for an old guy. He has a mean sense of humor. I guess I used to hang out more with him when I was younger. He gave me my first paint set.”
Dylan has just put more than two sentences together. I should be celebrating, but I can’t stop thinking about Eric.
“Why don’t they get along?” I ask.
He shrugs. “They’re too different. Or maybe they’re too much the same. I’ve never worked that out.”
“How come you moved schools?” I ask.
“I felt like a change,” he says, so sharply that I don’t have the nerve to ask why.
“Are you good at math?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Are you going to join the basketball team?” I ask. “Have you ever been to one of Eric’s games?”
“No,” Dylan says. “I don’t like playing games.”
Then I remember my good manners and ask if he wants a cookie.
“Thanks,” he says.
“I’m sure Sarah will be here any minute,” I say, looking pointedly at the kitchen clock. I can’t remember what time we made our meeting.
Then I shove a box of cookies under Dylan’s nose and watch him devour half of it, carefully pulling the cookie halves apart and licking the cream from the center, then dunking the rest of the cookie into his coffee. Watching him do this makes me feel unsettled.
“So, do you have any ideas about the project?” I ask. I’m not really interested. It’s just that the kitchen has been shrinking and Dylan is invading my personal space. I have an urge to reach out and trace the white scar that runs from his lips. I sit on my hands.
Dylan shrugs. “Projects aren’t really my thing.”
“Really? It’s just that Eric—”
“You’ve really got it bad for him, haven’t you?” he says quietly.
“What?”
“I saw you in detention. You have the hots for him,” says Dylan casually. “But he already has a girlfriend—remember? So maybe you should, like, back off.”
“What?” I repeat. My body is still and I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Tears sting the back of my eyeballs. I feel them escape and slide slowly down my cheeks. I don’t make an idiot of myself by moaning or gasping or shrieking. All my noise is clogged in my throat, but the tears pour out like some efficient fire sprinkler.
Dylan grabs a paper towel and leans in close. He swipes at the tears on my cheeks then grabs my nose like I’m a little kid and says, “Blow.”
So I blow and mumble that I have a cold.
Then Mom bursts in, on a quick excursion for more pins.
“Don’t let me interrupt.” She grabs her sewing box and disappears again without once looking at us.
Dylan moves away and the phone rings. I get down off the counter to answer it. It’s Sarah. She’s stuck at home with her little brothers, still waiting for her mom to return from a quick trip to the mall. She promises to make it as soon as she can.
“Don’t bother,” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Let’s catch up in class.”
“I’ve gotta go,” Dylan mumbles as I hang up. He’s already worked out there’s no geography project happening today.
Then he leaves and I stumble back to the couch and turn on the TV. I can’t see the whole screen because the drying rack is covering it slightly.
That’s when I realize that my washed underwear has been on display for the whole world to see.
32.
Our school uniform is red and black and white.
It’s compulsory, but everyone manages to make their own statement. Margot’s going through a crimson phase, so she adds little accents, like her bird necklace, that she can quickly hide when it’s inspection time.
The uniform col
ors are the only colors I wear, apart from my old pajamas. Everything else is black. I don’t count the pink top in my drawer because I haven’t worn it yet.
When I go to school I wear my uniform.
When I’m not at school I wear black.
I wear black because it is easy.
I wear black because it is cool.
It is cool like the black silence of a deep well.
Like the secret depths of a limestone cave.
Or the stillness of a long dark night.
And when I see someone else, someone wearing black, our eyes meet and we know. We know why black.
33.
By Monday I am well enough to go to school.
How disappointing. I realize Margot didn’t call me on the weekend. She apologizes and I tell her not to worry about it. She and Desi are full of news from last Friday night’s movie. We are sitting in our usual spot on the carpeted floor of the biography section in the library. I have one ear on them and both eyes on the glassed-in meeting room where the newspaper group is in session. Even though everyone is sitting in a circle of chairs, it is easy to see who the leader is. I watch as Angelique prompts questions, makes notes, and directs the discussion. The room is mostly soundproof, so I am only guessing what is really going on. At one point she stares straight out at me, as if aware that I’m watching her. The stare reminds me of her appearance near my house last Saturday and then I’m positive that it was no dream.
I suddenly make the connection that she had probably been visiting her brother.
“. . . fixed it?” asks Desi, tugging at my sleeve.
“Excuse me?”
“Your Wednesday radio gig. Is your mom going to complain?” asks Desi.
“Why don’t you join them?” says Margot.
She has seen me watching the newspaper group.
“What?” I laugh as if I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“The newspaper nuts. Maybe you should discover what you’re missing out on?” Her eyes are two slits of dark granite.
“I don’t—,” I say.
Desi cuts in. “Hey, that could be fun. Maybe we could all join. I’d love to know what they talk about in there.”
“Who cares?” I say.
Chasing Boys Page 6
