I climbed on the bus feeling sorry for myself. Fortunately, I had brought my iPod. I slipped on the earbuds, dialed some Coltrane and let the music take me away from Clara Barton HS, and driver’s ed, and girls who were only interested in my brains.
I ALWAYS liked to start the day with a classic, so the next morning I rolled out of bed and put on Louis Armstrong’s version of “St. Louis Blues.” Then I lay face down on the floor and started doing pushups. “One.” I gasped as I reached my peak. I kept going until I got to twenty-five, and then I groaned and let myself sink onto the floor. “Agh!” I lay as still as I could while the muscles in my arms and chest let me know they weren’t happy. They hurt like hell. Not even Louis’ upbeat tempo served to motivate me to move.
Finally, I rolled onto my back, and did fifty crunches, trying to distribute the misery. Somehow having my abs just as sore didn’t help the agony in my biceps and my pecs. I sat up and leaned against my bed, trying to find a position where I didn’t ache all over.
A series of rapid knocks sounded and then the door flew open before I could say anything.
“You’re up.” Lorrie stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas. She glanced around my room like she expected to see something other than me half-sitting on the floor in just boxers and a tee shirt. Sancho slipped past Lorrie and padded across the floor to me.
I let him sniff my hand and then stroked his head. “Yeah, so what?”
“Mom’s fixing breakfast.” She sniffed like she felt ill used. “French toast.”
That explained it. Sunday was the only morning that Mom actually cooked breakfast instead of just putting out cold cereal. Lorrie always wanted pancakes, but my favorite was French toast.
“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I needed a shower.
Lorrie made a face, but it might have been the music. She had no taste. “What are you doing on the floor?”
I grinned at her. “Thinking of ways to torment my little sister.”
She turned on her heel and walked off.
Once I made it to the bathroom, I pulled off my tee shirt and looked at myself in the mirror. Still skinny—twenty-five push-ups and fifty crunches every night and every morning hadn’t had any visible effect. Of course, I’d only been doing them for three days.
I sighed and ran the shower. Mom looked stern when I rushed out of my room fully dressed several minutes later. A platter of French toast sat in the middle of the table next to a pitcher of orange juice and a bowl of blueberries. Each of our three plates had two strips of bacon—a major treat. Mom had gone to some trouble.
“Sorry I’m late,” I muttered, reaching for my napkin. But by the time I had wolfed down seconds and asked for thirds, Mom was smiling.
“You were hungry,” she said as she passed me the platter.
“Your French toast is the best, Mom.” I gave Lorrie a mocking smile. “You should make it every week.”
“Mom!” Lorrie’s face flushed with indignation.
Mom shushed her. “What are you doing today, Jason?” She turned back to me as she stacked her coffee cup and silverware onto her plate. “Do you have homework?”
“Some.” I debated how much I wanted to say about Becca. I decided it would be too much for Mom to believe I was tutoring Becca if Mr. Walters was supposed to be tutoring me, and I might need to go see him again. “I’m going to the library to work on a project this afternoon.”
She looked pleased. “Will you need a ride?”
“Ryan’s going to give me a lift there. I can take the bus home.”
Mom got up and picked up her plate and the empty platter. She gave Lorrie a pointed look, and Lorrie stacked up her own dishes.
So far, so good. I swallowed my last bite, snatched up my silverware, plate, and glass, and took them into the kitchen.
All I had to worry about today was not letting Becca raise my testosterone level.
BECCA frowned at me. “How can vista mean getting dressed or wearing? I thought it meant to see.”
Far from being turned on, I was getting annoyed at Becca. “Look, vestir is an irregular verb. In the present subjunctive, the e changes to an i.”
Becca tapped her perfectly painted and probably fake fingernails on the library table. “Spanish is a pain.”
We weren’t in the quiet room, but I could see some library patrons giving us annoyed looks.
“Not as much of a pain as English,” a girl’s voice said.
I turned and found the blue-haired girl from driver’s ed standing right behind my chair. “Oh, hi.” As soon as I got over my surprise, I could feel awkwardness rushing in. “Hello again.”
Becca glanced up and frowned. “Is this a friend of yours, Jason?” She gave the other girl a once-over that took in her blue hair, uncool tweed jacket, slightly grubby slacks, and hiking boots.
“Uh, not exactly.” I cleared my throat. “We’re in driver’s ed together.”
The blue-haired girl stuck her hand out to me. “Monica Martin. Nice to meet you.”
Such old-fashioned manners seemed so at odds with the blue hair that I stared as I shook her hand and said my name.
Becca shook hands more gingerly and mumbled her own name. “We’re studying,” she added, in a pointed tone. “Spanish.”
Monica Martin nodded. “I heard.” She rattled off a few sentences in such rapid-fire Spanish that I had trouble following her. Her accent was so perfect that she had to be a native speaker. It surprised me because she didn’t have any kind of Spanish accent when she spoke English.
“What?” Becca said.
“She said—I think she said—that she’d be happy to help us study. She was born in Costa Rica and lived there until this past summer.”
“Oh.” Becca looked less than thrilled. “Thanks.”
Monica grabbed an empty chair from the table behind her and swung it around to our table. “What are you working on?”
“Irregular verbs.” I had to make myself speak normally when I said it. Part of me wanted to push Monica away, and I didn’t understand why. Then Becca turned to her and poured out some questions, and I got it. If Becca had help from Monica, she didn’t need to suck up to me.
I hadn’t wanted to tutor Becca, but now that I was doing it, the idea of being pushed aside annoyed me. It turned out I didn’t need to worry. Even though Monica spoke Spanish fluently, she didn’t know what the rules were. She knew the right way to say something without knowing how to explain why it was the right way. And she spoke so fast, I could barely follow her, let alone Becca.
Becca lost patience after the fourth time Monica corrected her. “This isn’t helping.”
“You just need to practice conjugating,” I said. “You’re okay on the vocabulary.” I went over some of the verbs with her and had her repeat them back to me in all their forms and tenses. I had to prompt her a few times when she got them wrong.
“You should practice by speaking Spanish,” Monica said. “That’s the best way to learn it.”
Becca shot her a sharp look, but Monica seemed oblivious.
Monica waited until Becca had finished all the verbs on my list before she said anything else. “It’s after 4:00, and the library closes at 5:00. Do you guys want to get a soda or something?”
I hadn’t realized the time. Sunday bus service to my neighborhood was crappy, and I had ten minutes until my last bus left. “Shit.” I stacked my books together. “Sorry, Becca. I’ve got to go.”
Becca didn’t look at all heartbroken. “Thanks for the help, Jason.” She stuffed her things into a tote bag and then took out a cell phone. “Can we give you a lift?”
I wasn’t sure if she was calling a boyfriend or a parent for a ride, but either way, I wasn’t interested. “No, thanks.”
Becca drifted off, cell phone glued to her ear, and I found myself walking out the library door toward the bus stop with Monica right beside me.
“Where do you live?” Monica asked.
“Westmoreland Apartm
ents,” I said as we came up to the bus stop. “The 34 bus goes right past it.”
She nodded. “So you go to Clara Barton, then?”
“Yeah.” It seemed rude not to ask her any questions. “Where do you go to school?”
“I go to Clara Barton, too.”
I was surprised, because I was pretty sure I would have noticed her. Plenty of kids dyed their hair bright colors, but hers must be very blonde for the blue to have taken so well. “Really?”
She looked away. “Yeah. I’m in the IB program.”
That explained it. The international baccalaureate program was what made CBHS a magnet school—and what made it nationally ranked. But except for gym and stuff like that, the IB kids didn’t mingle much with us regular kids. All their classes were in one wing.
I didn’t know what to say. How nice that you’re so smart? Or maybe, what are you doing slumming in the library with me?
“If you don’t want to wait for the bus, I could give you a ride.” Monica made the offer in a rush. Maybe she was covering the awkward silence, or maybe she wanted to say it in a hurry so she couldn’t change her mind.
“Did you get your license already?”
She shook her head. “No, I take the test tomorrow. I have to call for a ride today.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Potomac.”
I would never have guessed it. I had hazy ideas about girl’s clothes, but I knew she didn’t dress like her folks had a million dollar house—or maybe a multi-million dollar house. And she went to public school, even if she was in the IB program. “Won’t it take awhile for someone to come from Potomac?”
She set her shoulders like she was confessing a sin. “Grandpa made me take the limo, and it’s waiting nearby for me to call.”
For just one second I was tempted. I had never ridden in a limo in my life, and unless I won a prom-season radio contest, I probably never would. But accepting a ride in Monica’s limo could start rumors I didn’t want to hear. I stalled while I thought about it. “You live with your grandparents?”
She shrugged. “I live with my grandfather and his second wife.” She twisted her face into a grimace. “My parents are still in Costa Rica. They run an antipoverty program there.”
I wondered what had made them move to Costa Rica—drugs, the Peace Corps, or maybe just the lower cost of living. The last seemed less likely if she had a grandfather rich enough to own a limo. But regardless of their reasons, her parents had sent her home to the States to finish high school. No wonder Monica didn’t fit in.
I was trying to think of a polite way to decline her invitation when the 34 bus pulled up to the stop. “Thanks, anyway, but my bus is here.”
I climbed the steps feeling a mixture of relief and guilt. I already had three strikes against me—no car, no cash, and a fondness for old-people music. Being friends with a misfit like Monica would be social suicide. Still, she must be lonely. And I had left her standing on the curb.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t my fault, but I couldn’t think of a convincing argument for being such a wimp, so I reached for my iPod, planning to lose myself in a little early Miles Davis. Just then the guy in the next seat looked up. I forgot all about Monica Martin and Miles Davis, too.
I was sitting right across the aisle from Doofie Slater.
Five
“Miller.” Doofie clenched both his teeth and his fists when he said my name.
“Hey, Slater.” I was tempted to ask why he was on the bus because I knew he owned a car, but I didn’t. Whether he’d lost his license or his car, I didn’t want to bring up what could be a touchy subject. Instead I decided it would be safest to pretend we were friends. “How’s it hanging?”
He glared. “I flunked that test.”
I cleared my throat. “Sorry.” I glanced around. There were six other passengers, two men and four women, and one of the guys was pretty big. I didn’t think Doofie would assault me in front of them. “So why are you in Spanish 3, anyway? You don’t need a third year of a foreign language to graduate.”
He grunted, stared out the window, and didn’t say anything.
“If you think it’ll help you get into college—” I started to say.
Doofie reached over and shoved me so hard I nearly fell out of my seat. “College? I hate school. Why would I want to go to college?”
Why go to college? How about for an education? Or maybe so he could get a decent job and earn a living. Or if nothing else, to meet some smart girls. “You don’t plan to go to college?”
He snorted. “Not me. I’m not waiting four years to start earning money.” He flexed his arm a few times, and his biceps bulged. “Besides, I’ve got talent.”
I tried to imagine what talent Doofie thought he had. “Wrestling?” Light dawned. “You want to be a pro wrestler?”
Doofie curled his lip in a sneer. “Not an ordinary pro wrestler. Those guys are bogus. I want to be a looch a door.”
It took me a second to put the three words together into one. “A luchador? You want to be a Mexican wrestler?” Why he thought the Mexican wrestling circuit was less fake than regular wrestling I didn’t get. How did wearing masks over their faces make them somehow more honest?
He nodded, his face lighting up with real enthusiasm. “Lucha libre is awesome!” He rattled off some details of fights he had seen, including the names of the wrestlers and their most famous moves. He knew their real names as well as their stage names, and even the patterns on their masks. For a few minutes, he actually sounded smart—except of course he couldn’t pronounce any of the Spanish words correctly.
I could see why Doofie wanted to learn Spanish, but it was equally clear he was missing the point. “If you’re taking Spanish to actually learn the language, why cheat on the exams? Getting a passing grade doesn’t mean you can speak Spanish.”
He got a stubborn look. “I’ll get it eventually. But it’s not easy, not like math.”
Now that surprised me. I never would have picked Doofie as a math whiz. “But you’re tanking your grade point for nothing. Why don’t you drop the class while you can and just buy that language software they sell at the mall? It’s supposed to be really good.”
His eyes narrowed as if he suspected me of having some kind of hidden motive for making this suggestion. “Software?”
“You have a computer, don’t you?”
He frowned, still looking for obstacles that weren’t there. “Yeah.”
The bus turned the corner to my street, and I got to my feet. “It’s not cheap software, but it’s supposed to work.” I swayed a little as the bus pulled up to my stop. “Good luck with it, Slater.”
I got off the bus feeling pleased with myself. If I could keep Doofie off my back, I’d have eliminated half the Turn equation. A convertible with four girls in it pulled up to the stop sign at the corner, giving me a moment to check out the occupants.
I certainly didn’t want to eliminate the other half.
“SO, today makes one month exactly,” Ryan said, pulling the Hyundai into the first empty parking space on the block. We were a good four blocks from school because only seniors could park in the school lot, and all the close streets were permit-parking only during school hours.
“One month since when?” I asked, grabbing my backpack from the back seat.
Ryan grinned. “Since your first trip to the Twilight Zone—also known as Makoro.”
“Let’s not talk about it.” I had managed not to think about it much for the last three days—not since I had seen Doofie on the bus.
Ryan reached for his own backpack and opened his door. “Man, I am so glad I’m right-handed.” He waited for me to get out before he clicked the key fob to lock the door. “Especially now that I’ve got a girlfriend.”
Yet another thing for me to be jealous about. He and Allie were dating seriously now, even making plans for Homecoming. Next thing I knew, he’d get laid before me, too.
Before I could
comment, a car slid into the space behind us. I felt it more than heard it, and when I turned to look I knew why. It was a red Prius, and those hybrid engines didn’t make much noise. I looked at the missing front plate and realized it must be brand new; it still had paper tags.
The driver’s door opened, and Monica Martin got out.
“Hello, Jason.” She gave Ryan a quick glance. “Who’s your friend?”
I introduced Ryan, who was looking the Prius over.
“New car?” he asked.
She nodded. “I just got it yesterday.”
She’d already passed her test and been given her own car. I still had my last in-car that afternoon—not that I was in a rush to get my license. I needed sixty hours behind the wheel to even take the test, and no one was going to give me a car when I passed. “Grandpa wouldn’t spring for a Lexus, huh?”
I felt like a douchebag as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Monica had never said anything to make me feel bad. Why did I need to make her feel bad?
She gave me a hard look. “As a matter of fact, he offered any car I wanted. I chose this car because it’s better for the environment.”
Now I wanted to slink away, but I brazened it out instead. “How did you get your hours so fast?”
She waved a hand. “I had my learner’s for several months before I took the classes, and I drove a lot in Costa Rica.”
I wondered if her getting her license was legal. And I wondered how old she was.
“It doesn’t look as dorky in red,” Ryan said. “Did you get the backup camera?”
She nodded. “It makes parallel parking a lot easier.”
The sense of relief in her voice made me feel better. At least parallel parking was one area where I did as well as anyone.
Monica walked with us as far as the back entrance to school. The IB corridor let out there, so she peeled off and went in that way while Ryan and I kept walking up the sidewalk.
Ryan gave me a sideways grin. “New girl in the picture? You gave up on Becca Sommers?”
Turnabout Page 4
