VIOLET EYES

by Nicole Luiken

  Wendy looked at it, then passed it to Maryanne, who was sitting in front of her.

  Maryanne read it, glanced at me, then passed it on.

  I was watching it change hands a seventh time when Mr. Lindstrom said my name. He knew something was going on, but not what. “Why don’t you start, Angel?”

  I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  “Go on.” He smiled faintly, gray eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Read your paper to the class.”

  In a flash I remembered the one-page paper on the Renaissance he’d assigned last class. I hadn’t done it, of course. He’d made the mistake of telling us at the beginning of the semester exactly how much percent of our final mark each assignment was worth. It was my practice not to do assignments unless they were worth at least five percent.

  Mr. Lindstrom never failed to admonish me for it when I was visiting Wendy. It was our running joke. He fully expected to catch me flatfooted this time, too.

  Instead I stood up and gave a short speech on the Renaissance man. In fifteenth-century Italy a man was not thought accomplished if he was good at only one thing, like swordplay. A gentleman was expected to be good at swordsmanship and poetry and statecraft. Leonardo da Vinci was not just a painter, but an architect and an inventor, too.

  Mr. Lindstrom looked surprised and pleased when I finished. At last he’d caught my interest! I wondered what he would have thought if he’d known that I’d gleaned most of my information from reading historical romance novels.

  “May I see your paper?”

  That was the crowning touch. I opened up my binder and handed him a sheet of blank paper.

  The class howled.

  Other teachers were destined to be shocked that day as well. The whole English 20 class stood up and sang out, “Good morning, Mrs. Jamison,” when she walked in, and the students behaved with perfect manners all period, paying strict attention and putting up their hands before speaking. Everyone in Ms. Velez’s drama class affected a Russian accent. Wendy kissed crusty old Mr. Heron on the cheek, and Mike “accidentally” dropped a flake of sodium into some water in chemistry class. The flake immediately underwent oxidation—it burned.

  I didn’t see all of the pranks, but I heard Mr. Lindstrom laughing about it with Raven that night when I was downstairs with Wendy. For the first time in a month I skipped badminton practice. I told Mom that Wendy had invited me over, even though I’d invited myself. I partly wanted to avoid the tension at home and partly wanted to avoid Mike.

  “So what’s up?” Wendy asked me. “I thought you were dead serious about this Olympic stuff.”

  “I am.” I shrugged restlessly. “I just wanted an evening off from Mike. You know how he gets on my nerves.”

  Wendy was silent for a long beat. “I thought you two were getting along better lately.”

  I stared at her incredulously. “You saw us at the theater. We couldn’t even agree on what kind of popcorn to get.”

  She didn’t look convinced, so I launched into a long list of Mike’s faults.

  “You know,” Wendy said thoughtfully, “if I didn’t know better I’d swear you liked Mike.” My laugh must have rung a little hollow, because she paused. “You don’t, do you?” She was thinking about Maryanne. Maryanne liked Mike, and friends didn’t poach on other friends’ crushes.

  “Of course not.” I met her gaze square on, and she seemed satisfied. It was a useful trick I’d learned at age four when I was still in the Orphanage.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so set against him. You liked him until he introduced himself on the bridge, don’t tell me you didn’t.”

  I didn’t want to answer. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me why you hate your dad.”

  Wendy slouched deeper into the couch. “I don’t hate him,” she mumbled. “I’m just very, very angry with him.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “For eight months?”

  “Longer than that.” Her breath came in on a harsh laugh. “Try four years.”

  Raven had said Wendy came to live with them four years ago.

  “What did he do to make you so mad?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Her gaze became dark and brooding. “That’s what I blame him for. He did nothing, and I didn’t tell him, and Lee died. If I forgive him, then I have to blame myself.” She clenched her fists, her friendship bracelets brushing her scarred knuckles.

  “Who’s Lee?”

  “My brother.” Wendy got up abruptly, 115 pounds of leashed energy. It was clear she didn’t want to talk about it any more. “Your turn. What’s the story with you and Mike?”

  There could have been a hundred listening devices in the room, but Wendy had bared herself to me. I gave her a portion of the truth: “We’re competitors. I feel as though he’s stealing my friends, my place in our group. I’m not the Idea Girl anymore.”

  My turn to change the subject. “What are you going to get Maryanne for her birthday?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, probably earrings. I’m broke.” Wendy had lied to get money from her dad, saying she needed it to go to the movies. Then she’d turned around and spent that and her last month’s allowance on a beautiful fish mobile for her brother-to-be.

  “Earrings are boring. Besides, she’s got lots of earrings. We need to think of something interesting and unusual.” I tipped my head back, putting my brain into idea mode. “Something her parents haven’t already bought her.” Maryanne had a car of her own, skis, a stereo, a Commodore 64 computer, and enough clothes for twins.

  “Something cheap,” Wendy added.

  “Interesting, unusual, and cheap,” I repeated. “Plus, it should be something she wants.”

  Wendy snorted. “Maryanne wants Mike. Why don’t we gift-wrap him?”

  The idea appealed to me. “That’s perfect! Let’s get her a boyfriend. Not Mike, though. He’ll break her heart into little bitty pieces.” I remembered all the hearts with Mike’s initials scrawled on the bathroom walls in all those schools.

  “You’re serious?” Wendy read the answer on my face, and her lips twitched. “Well, it’s certainly inexpensive. But who else, if not Mike?”

  I remembered Jimmy’s yearning eyes. “Jimmy. You know he likes her.”

  “Jimmy’s also as shy as a fence post. No way could you get him to dress up in a box.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Want to bet?”

  I began the campaign the next day. I waited until school let out, then got Jimmy’s attention in the time-honored way: I dropped a pile of books on his toes.

  While he hopped around on one foot, I apologized and started hastily gathering up the books, but by design I had far too many and kept dropping them. Jimmy ended up carrying them out to the parking lot for me.

  I scanned the parking lot. “My ride’s not here yet. Do you have to go anywhere?”

  Jimmy shook his head. He really was tongue-tied.

  “I have to go shopping for Maryanne’s present. Are you coming to the party?”

  “Yes.”

  I chattered on, about how I wasn’t sure what to get her, and how boys had it easier than girls did picking out presents. Had he already bought Maryanne a present?

  Another nod. Jimmy believed in the pulling-teeth method of conversation.

  “What did you get her?”

  “Jumper cables. She always forgets to turn off the lights on her car.”

  It was a thoughtful, practical gift—and Maryanne would hate it. “Look, you can tell me to go jump off a bridge if you want, but do you like Maryanne?”

  He nodded.

  “I mean like like her, as a girl and not just as a friend?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his face turned as red as his hair, making his freckles stand out. “Yes.”

  “Then take my advice and give her flowers. A single red rose. Roses are romantic,” I said firmly. “Jumper cables aren’t.”

  He smiled faintly. “Got it.”

  “And you can’t just give the ro
se to her,” I said, warming to my theme. “You have to make her notice it. Make a gesture of it.” I started to get excited as I planned aloud. The gift-wrapped box was the least flamboyant idea I suggested, but Jimmy wouldn’t go for any of them. For someone quiet he was surprisingly stubborn. I found myself liking him for it.

  “Okay, no grand gestures, but make sure you arrive after everyone else so you aren’t lost in a rush of other people’s gifts, and kiss her on the cheek, okay?”

  Jimmy thought he could handle that.

  I pretended I’d spotted my ride, grabbed the rest of the books, and backed away. “And a card. Make sure you give her a birthday card, a sweet romantic one, not a joke, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I hurried toward a strange car until I heard Jimmy drive off, then dumped my books back inside the school—I’d claim them from Lost and Found in the morning—and started walking home.

  Mike pulled up alongside me halfway home, window down and music blasting. I expected him to ask for a chance to talk again, but he must have known I would refuse. “I saw you talking to Jimmy. What was that all about?”

  I smiled a secret smile. “Nothing.”

  “You’re up to something,” Mike said flatly. “And I’m going to find out what.” He drove off.

  When I got home I found Mom crying on the sofa. Her eyes were red, and about half a box of used tissues lay in a pile on the floor.

  When I asked her what was wrong, all she would say was that she and Dad had had a fight. She avoided my eyes. I’m not sure if he’s coming home for supper. Or ever.” She said the last words very softly as she got up and went into the kitchen, but I heard them and felt like breaking things.

  Dad did come home, at about seven-thirty, and ate cold leftovers alone in the kitchen.

  At nine o’clock Mom knocked on my bedroom door and asked me to come down to the living room. “There’s something we want to talk to you about.”

  My heart banged like a drum. This is it. They’re going to tell me they’re getting a divorce. Tension, anger, and fear formed a lead ball in my stomach as I followed Mom down the stairs. I slumped in the armchair, and Mom and Dad perched on opposite ends of the couch.

  Dad spoke first and what he said was such a relief that I almost laughed aloud. “Your mother and I are concerned about your marks. We allowed you to train with Coach Hrudey on the condition that you would not neglect your school-work. I’m afraid we can’t allow you to compete in the badminton tournament this weekend because you’re failing some of your classes.”

  I quelled a grin and struggled to concentrate. No way was I going to miss the badminton tournament. “Which classes am I failing?”

  “Social studies,” Dad said.

  “And math,” Mom said.

  I shook my head. “I have a sixty-two percent in math, and I’m getting an A in drama and phys ed. My only other class is a study block.”

  “One class is still too many,” Dad said.

  “I have a social studies test on Wednesday. If I can pull up my mark to a B, can I play in the tournament?”

  “Mr. Lindstrom tells us you have forty-five percent at the moment, dear. It’s impossible.”

  “If I do it, can I go?” I repeated.

  “Yes, but—”

  I kissed Dad’s cheek. “Guess I better go hit the books, huh?”

  I went upstairs, still buoyant with relief, and did some quick math. I had 45 percent right now out of the 30 percent that made up our final social studies mark. The next test was worth 20 percent of our final mark, so I needed to get a 95 percent or better to bring my mark up to a 65 percent.

  No problem.

  One A in a long list of C’s wouldn’t give me away.

  Still, I made a big deal about studying for four hours that night and four more hours the next. I got Wendy to quiz me at noon hour. By the time the social studies test actually rolled around, I knew the material so well I could have written a book on the subject.

  I sat well across the room from Wendy and kept my eyes glued to my test until I handed it in. I couldn’t risk any accusations of cheating.

  I had requested ahead of time that Mr. Lindstrom mark my test by the next day so I could go to the badminton tournament if I passed. He had said yes quite kindly, but I knew from his face on Thursday that he didn’t really believe I could do it.

  “Ninety-eight percent. Congratulations, Angel.”

  “Yes!” I leaped out of my seat to get my test paper back.

  “I’m amazed,” Mr. Lindstrom said. He didn’t accuse me of cheating, although he must have been under pressure to do so. “I was sure you weren’t paying attention when we covered Niccolò Machiavelli’s book, The King, last week.”

  “The Prince, you mean.” I grinned. Another bullet dodged.

  Mike and I would leave for the tournament tomorrow.

  In the meantime, there was Maryanne’s birthday party to attend that night.

  I’d been there for close to an hour when Maryanne went to answer the doorbell and found a large gift-wrapped box sitting outside.

  I was surprised and delighted that Jimmy had changed his mind after all, until Maryanne blushingly pulled open the box and revealed Mike standing there instead.

  CHAPTER 6

  MIKE TOOK THE ROSE from between his teeth and presented it to Maryanne with a small bow. “For you, milady. Happy birthday.

  He’d stolen my idea! I gritted my teeth with outrage. I would have shared my anger with Wendy, but she had come down with one of her frequent bouts of flu and had stayed home.

  Maryanne took it the wrong way, of course. She saw it as a romantic gesture aimed at her rather than a monkey wrench in my plans. She smiled up at Mike, and, after shooting a smirk in my direction, he smiled back down at her.

  Jimmy slunk in half an hour later, mumbling something about the rose dying. I wondered if Mike had told him to put it in hot water. Jimmy gave Maryanne a present shaped suspiciously like jumper cables, but she didn’t even unwrap it, just laid it on a table with some other gifts.

  We went downstairs to Maryanne’s basement. Her parents were two floors up and tolerant of loud music. Their basement was furnished as nicely as most living rooms, and there was a small dance floor in the center.

  When “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin came on, Mike and Maryanne started dancing. Maryanne floated like a delicate brown-haired pixie in his arms, and it made me furious. I didn’t let myself think about why I was so angry, just turned to Jimmy with a diamond-hard smile. “The game’s not over yet. Let’s dance.”

  As I had expected, knowing Mike’s coordination on the court, he was a good dancer. Maryanne was pretty good herself, and their steps were light and intricate.

  Dancing with Jimmy was like walking to music. Even Carl had more rhythm.

  Dancing so close—there were three other couples on the small floor—it was easy to position ourselves near Mike and Maryanne. As the song wound down I whispered to Jimmy, “Change partners.”

  He looked a little doubtful but cleared his throat and asked Maryanne. She said yes politely, but her eyes lingered on Mike.

  Before I could step off to the side, Mike took my arm. “Not so fast. Dance with me.”

  I started dancing to keep him occupied, but my motives soon stopped being so pure. REO Speedwagon sang “Can’t Fight This Feeling,” and the music lifted me, transported me. Mike and I moved together, point and counterpoint, striking the same bittersweet chord of tightness that our play on the court did.

  Mike felt it, too. His face became blank, guarded—like mine. I had a public face and a hidden private one, my heart like a clenched fist.

  Maryanne would bruise herself on him and not even know why.

  Wendy had repeated a riddle to me once that Mike had made up. Question: “What’s an angel’s smile?” Answer: “The amount of energy required to light a hundred candles.”

  I smiled at him. Incandescently.

  He stumbled for a second, off-balance. “Wh
at are you up to now, Angel?”

  “Nothing.” I kept smiling into his eyes, the music thrumming in my ears, keeping time with my blood, and we danced, our movements perfectly in tune—

  Jimmy jarred his elbow, and Mike tore his gaze away. He was breathing too fast, but his voice was even. “Nice try.” When the song faded away, he asked Maryanne to dance again.

  Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” flooded the speakers. Jimmy sat out, defeated, so I asked Sean to dance. (He’d forgiven me once word got out that Coach Hrudey was training me for the Olympics.) “Let’s show them how it’s done,” I said. Sean was a flashy dancer, and we did a few moves we’d patented back when we were dating.

  Mike and Maryanne immediately copied the moves and added a little fillip of their own.

  I copied it right back and added something extra. Sean kept up easily. We soon had a contest going, with the other couples cheering.

  Maryanne finally dropped out, pleading exhaustion, and Mike sat out with her. Sean and I pulled out all the stops for the next song, but it wasn’t the same.

  The hopeful look on Sean’s face pricked at my conscience, so when Maryanne’s mother brought down cake, I quietly detached myself from Sean and drifted back over to where Jimmy was standing. “We’ll watch movies next. Try to sit by Maryanne.”

  Jimmy nodded dispiritedly, not up to arguing.

  I tried to insert myself between Mike and Maryanne on the couch, but Mike outmaneuvered me. I ended up wedged between the couch arm and him.

  In addition to the cake, Maryanne’s mother had set out bowls of chips and candy all over the room. I pointed to the bowl of M&M’s on the coffee table. “Can you pass me some?”

  Maryanne passed them along, taking a handful herself. She fed one to Mike. “M&M’s. Mike and Maryanne, get it?”

  Mike gritted his teeth and smiled. One point for me.

  But I didn’t feel the usual rush of elation. What did our little war matter? Before the end of the night Mike and Maryanne would be dating.

  I turned blindly toward the VCR and watched ten minutes of Beverly Hills Cop in silence.

  When the vertical hold went haywire, freezing the picture, I was relieved. I was seriously considering going home early when Mike suggested playing hide-and-seek in the dark.