“I was standing nearby when I heard him ask you about getting together. You didn’t look too eager, which was good, but you have to leave him wanting more,” she said.
“Margaux, have you been reading, like, your grandmother’s dating books or something?” Kylie asked. “It’s not the olden days, ya know.”
“I know what I’m talking about. Right now Brendon knows Emme’s still interested, but he also has Lauren all over him, so Emme needs to be a little distant so he doesn’t feel like he can have any girl who walks by,” she said.
Kylie sighed. “I hate when I find myself thinking her messed-up logic makes sense. Makes me feel so…dirty.”
Brendon came over the next day, and he said he had won a gift certificate to the Elistair Café, so we drove into downtown Detroit to have lunch there. He said Sam and his girlfriend might meet up with us, and I prayed they wouldn’t come. Sam’s a nice guy, but I tended to get nervous in groups when I’m the outsider. Of course, unless I knew everybody there, I always felt the outsider. Sometimes I wondered if anyone else felt that way or if it was just me. Brendon’s cell rang, and I relaxed when I heard him say, “So you’re going to hang out at her house instead?”
The waitress brought our food, and I couldn’t help but notice she only talked to Brendon. I might as well have been invisible. She had already refilled his water and his iced tea twice, while I had to remind her I needed a tea bag to go with my hot water, and she never brought the glass of ice water I asked for.
“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Brendon said, getting up. “Be right back.”
As I watched him walk away, I noticed he had left his phone on the table. I wanted to badly to check and see whom he had called recently. It would tell me a lot if Lauren’s number was there. It was one thing if she was calling him, but another altogether if he was the one calling her. I was afraid he’d come back and catch me, but I had to know. I picked up the phone and checked the last sent calls. I saw Sam’s name five times, some other guy’s name, his dad’s number, but not Lauren’s. However, he had received several calls from her. I put the phone back and started eating and trying to look innocent.
“How’s your sandwich?” he asked.
“Great. So did you have fun with Lauren last night?” I asked. He gave me a startled look—like I wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but I wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t happen. I was still mad, and I wasn’t going to act like it hadn’t happened. I didn’t do anything wrong, after all.
“It’s always the same at those things. You spend a fortune at dinner, get to the dance late, and then everybody winds up back someplace listening to music and watching TV, which I could have done without paying hundreds of bucks,” he said.
Seemed like a safe way of answering without saying, “I was bored with Lauren,” or saying, “Lauren was all over me after you left.”
“How was your night?” he asked.
I could have said my date puked, and I spent the night either stuffing my face or getting anxious over him, but I pulled a Margaux and pretended I had the best time. She would never let a guy know he spoiled her night.
“We had so much fun at dinner,” I said. “And the food was amazing.”
“I saw you dancing with Kylie a lot. Didn’t your date dance?”
I didn’t want to point out it was hard to dance when you’re puking in the parking lot. Instead, I said she and I were having a blast out there and avoided the question. He was about to say something else when Sam walked in.
“Hey guys. I thought I’d drop by for a second,” Sam said. “Can I bum a fry, man?”
“So I heard your friend got suspended for drinking at the dance,” Sam said to me.
Brendon raised his eyebrows. “You guys were drinking?” he asked.
And there was the answer to my question about whether or not he had anything to drink yesterday.
“No, the guy Margaux went with had some and so did one of the other guys in our group,” I said, not letting on my date did, too. “Who got suspended?”
“Seth. Someone else was seen throwing up in the parking lot, but they couldn’t confirm who it was, so he got lucky.”
Brendon was staring at me. Did he look disappointed?
“So are you friends with Seth?” he asked.
“No, Margaux likes him, but I’m not a big fan myself.”
“She’s lucky she wasn’t with him at all last night or else she might have gotten in trouble, too,” Brendon said. There was obvious disapproval in his voice.
“She doesn’t drink. You saw her at the after party. All she had was soda.”
“Yeah, I know. She needs to be more careful of who she hangs out with, though,” he said.
“Well, she’s not planning on running for office any time soon, so I think she’s okay.”
“Dude, I had my brother drop me off,” Sam said. “Can I get a ride home?”
We left the restaurant, and I wished I hadn’t gotten so defensive when Brendon brought up the whole Seth and Margaux thing. It was like I had gotten too carried away defending Margaux when all I needed to say was, “She’d never drink at a school dance or anywhere else,” and leave it alone. But it wasn’t actually Margaux I was defending—it was all of us because I felt he was looking down on us for not living up to some standard.
We were all quiet in the car as we drove back. Brendon dropped me off, and I wanted to say something like, “Sorry I got a little heated back there,” but all I did was thank him for lunch, and then he drove away. Why was I always messing up my chances with him?
We were supposed to go to the hospice at night, but my parents were too tired from moving furniture around for Grandpa to go. I thought about calling Darren for a ride, but I didn’t want to start up anything with him. Instead, I called the nurse at the hospice, and he said Grandma was sleeping and hadn’t touched her dinner.
“But she’s not supposed to have real food. It could get in her lungs and kill her,” I said.
He said she hadn’t had anything, and I got the feeling he thought it didn’t actually matter because she wasn’t expected to recover anyway. I asked to speak to another nurse, and the head nurse who got on the line assured me it was a simple mistake and no one got hurt. Angry, I got off the phone and insisted we go over there. Mom agreed, and we drove to the hospice. Someone must have alerted the head nurse because she came in and started fluffing Grandma’s pillows and tucking in her blanket.
“Has she started the therapy yet?” Mom asked.
“Pardon?” the nurse asked.
“The therapy exercises you told me about when my mother came here,” my mom said. “Like having her squeeze a rubber ball and stretching her legs.”
“Oh, yes. Well, we kind of felt in this case it wasn’t going to, um, be necessary, and we didn’t want to cause her any discomfort,” the nurse said. She offered us some coffee and then disappeared.
“Why didn’t you complain?” I asked. “She told you they’d do exercises with Grandma when you brought her here and now they basically said, ‘What’s the point?’”
“Well, I guess in her eyes what is the point,” Mom said.
“But she lied,” I said. Mom sighed. “Everybody’s g-i-v-i-n-g up on her,” I said, hoping Grandma wouldn’t understand what I was spelling out. “But people recover all the time from these things.”
“Yes, on TV shows, but we have to be realistic,” Mom said. “Don’t you think if there was any hope at—”
I cut her off because I didn’t want Grandma to hear her own daughter had lost faith in her.
“Remember, we said no negative energy around Grandma,” I said.
“Fine,” Mom said.
“You know, eighty-five isn’t old,” I said quietly. “Great-aunt Lucille is ninety-five, and she goes out all the time to play bingo, and she has a boyfriend.”
Mom laughed, “She’s doing better than you.”
“So funny,” I said, rolling my eyes.
We went home, an
d the family room still smelled a little like urine. Dad said he had cleaned the couch the best he could, but we’d have to have it done professionally. I helped them cover the mattress in the den with plastic sheets meant for toddlers who were potty training. It took forever, and it made weird noises when Grandpa lay down on it. Mom asked him if he needed to go to the bathroom again before he went to sleep.
“I think I know when I have to use the restroom, Gabrielle,” he said, getting annoyed.
“Okay, good night, Dad,” she said.
We closed the door, and I went to my room. I hadn’t finished my geometry homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. I wondered if Ms. Atkins would do one of her random homework checks in class, but decided to go to bed and hoped I’d have time to do it in the morning. So what if I got a zero on the assignment. After all, I had bigger problems to worry about.
Luckily, Ms. Atkins didn’t check our homework because I didn’t get the final two problems done. Mr. Horowitz handed back our short stories in creative writing. He didn’t believe in giving us grades since “you can’t grade creativity,” so he just wrote comments on our papers. Darren always got great remarks like “innovative” and “introspective,” while I got comments like, “Where are you going with this?” but mine were staring to get better. This time Mr. Horowitz wrote he liked the subtle humor in my story and the twist in the ending. Darren read it and said I should submit it to the Litzine.
I shook my head. “It’s not good enough. Besides, they print these deep, meaningful pieces, and mine would be too…you know, just not what they’re looking for.”
“I know you’re not crazy about Lauren, but my friend Nathan works on it, and I bet he’d want to print it,” he said. I hoped Nathan didn’t laugh in his face and tell him I was a no-talent loser. Or worse, he would show it to Lauren, and they could both have a good laugh.
“So what’s going on with you and Darren?” Rory asked, leaning close to my ear.
“Nothing. We’ve hung out, but just as friends,” I said quietly.
“Does he know?”
I asked her what she meant, and she said she didn’t think he would go out of his way to help me if he wasn’t interested in me as more than just a friend. Part of me wondered if she was just jealous because Mr. Horowitz thought her last piece “lacked spark.”
Our next assignment was to write about the first place we could remember as a child. I wrote about going to my grandparents’ house back when my grandmother was still well. I wrote about the dark, glossy, wood furniture and the smell of chicken soup. I wrote about the lemon poppy-seed cakes, and I could almost smell them as I was writing everything down.
However, Mr. Horowitz said we were going to read our essays out loud when we got to class the next day. I tried to avoid looking at him, but I knew he’d call on me first.
“Miss Trybus? Will you read for us?”
I hated how teachers ask you to do something when you knew you had no way out. Like he’d be okay with it if I said, “No, I think I’ll pass this time, but thanks anyway.”
I was afraid I’d start crying and make a fool of myself if anybody criticized me, but everybody was nodding when I finished. One of the girls said she could picture the kitchen. Nobody had spoken up to say they liked something I wrote in the longest time. Darren and Rory got it all the time, but I never did.
Darren called me that night to say his friend liked my story and was going to put it in the next issue coming out tomorrow. I was surprised it had gotten past Lauren’s desk, but maybe she didn’t see me as competition. It would be the first time anything of mine was published.
The next day I refreshed the online Litzine page a million times waiting for the new issue to go up. Then found my story on the third page. They had misspelled my last name, but my story was in print. Darren had an essay in there, too, and he congratulated me when he saw me.
“I think we should go out and celebrate,” he said. “How about a steak sandwich, and we can watch a preseason hockey game on the big screen at Anthony’s?”
“I have a ton of work in my other classes so I don’t think I—”
“Are you sure? It’ll be fun…”
I nodded, and Rory gave me a look from across the room.
I ran into Brendon at the vending machine, and he said he read my story. “It was great.”
“Thanks. How have you been?” I asked.
“Busy, already started working on Dad’s next campaign. His race is still over a year away, but with the next election coming up he wants to keep his name out there. It’s a good way to see how things work in politics. Anyway, your story was good,” he said. “I was thinking about you last night. It was weird because right after, a Sweetie Gals’ song came on. Who knows, maybe they’ll get back together or something.”
“Anything’s possible, right?”
He gave me a smile which always made my—and the rest of the female student body’s—heart melt.
“So the student council is sponsoring a fair. We have different tables set up where you can get information about the different clubs at school. Most people only go to get the free stuff they hand out. You should stop by after class,” he said.
I tried to get Kylie to go to the club fair with me, but she didn’t want to stay after school if she didn’t have to. However, Rory said she’d go with me. Darren wanted to go, but I lied, saying we were going to be hanging around at the pom squad table because we might try out next year. Rory gave me an “are you crazy” look, but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, fine. I can see where I’m not wanted. Just wanted to get some free pens and candy,” he said as he walked away.
“Have you lost your mind, or do you want to dance in short skirts in front of the whole school?” Rory asked. I shook my head. “Oh, is Brendon going to be there?” she asked.
“Maybe. Come on. We’ll be late, and they’ll run out of free pencils and bumper stickers,” I said.
“Last year the future Republicans’ table gave me a lollipop, and it made me sick to my stomach,” she said. “I told the future Democrats’ club the other guys basically poisoned me, but they didn’t do anything about it. Typical. I hate everybody.”
I cracked up. “Well, I’m sure it had more to do with the fact the clubs use the leftover candy from the previous year. I think Tom’s been getting to you with his conspiracy theories.”
We got to the gym and saw the tables set up. There was a huge line at the student council’s table because they were giving away cotton candy. I craned my neck, but Brendon wasn’t there. Rory and I collected a bunch of pencils, some candy, and a flyswatter, but there was no sign of Brendon, so we decided to sit on the bleachers and eat our cotton candy. I hadn’t eaten cotton candy since I was five, and I didn’t remember it being so thick and sticky.
“This is nasty. What flavor is this? Blueberry?” She passed her bag to me. I had gotten pink, but I tried some of hers.
“I think it might be raspberry. You can have mine. I think the food coloring stuff is probably cancer on a stick,” I said, getting up to get a napkin. I was wiping my hands when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Having fun?” Brendon asked.
“I was until the future engineers club ran out of those cool notepads,” I said.
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” he said. He went over and came back with two notepads. “Will this make up for it?”
“It’s a start. So…how are you?”
He shrugged. “Okay. It’s been hectic trying to get this and the Halloween party organized,” he said as his cell phone rang. “Great, Sam took off so now I have to go pick up a bunch of pumpkins and cider for the party tomorrow,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Em, you want to go with me?”
“Yeah, sure. Let me go tell Rory,” I said. I had to walk slowly so I wouldn’t start skipping like a dork. I told Rory I was going with Brendon to pick up some Halloween stuff.
“The school’s having a Halloween party?” she asked
.
“It’s for kids,” I said. “You don’t think he’s going to ask me to sell tickets or pour punch while he goes out with some girl?”
“If he does then we’ll key his car,” she said. “You might want to wipe the blue crap off your lips before you go back over there though.”
Brendon and I went to his car, and he cleared a bunch of papers and books off the front seat for me. He suggested we go to Muller’s Orchard to pick up the stuff. I figured we could get everything at the grocery store, but he wanted to get real corn stalks. I hadn’t been to an orchard since I was little, and it sounded like fun. We didn’t talk much on the ride down. He pulled into the orchard parking lot and got a wheelbarrow, and we went to pick out a bunch of smaller pumpkins the kids could carve.
I picked up a pumpkin and then dropped it when I saw it had a slug on it.
“Ugh, I don’t remember pumpkin picking being so slimy and gross when I was a kid,” I said, wiping my hands on my jeans.
After we put the stuff in the car, he suggested we sit at one of the tables and have a doughnut and some cider. I wasn’t a huge doughnut fan, and I’ve seen one too many TV reports on cider and diarrhea, but I ate half of a powdered sugar doughnut. I had to wipe my mouth constantly to get rid of my sugar mustache.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” he asked.
Was he asking me out? Okay, play it cool. Don’t get too excited. Remain calm.
“Tomorrow…tomorrow…what’s tomorrow? I think I’m free,” I said.
“Do you want to help out at the party?” he asked.
Oh crap. He wanted me to keep an eye on the punch bowl and wipe runny noses so he could go out with his girlfriend—probably to some expensive restaurant or something. I’d have to weasel out of it gracefully.
“Because I was asked to write something on the party for the newspaper, and I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to do it so you could get a byline for your resume,” he said.
Well, I did want to write for the newspaper because it would be cool to have an article to put with my resume when I tried for another internship at the local paper. I said I’d do it and asked if I’d have to wear a costume. He said he was borrowing a magician’s cape from Jayson and going as a vampire. Okay, so it meant he was going, but was he bringing a date? I didn’t have the guts to ask, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know anyway.
Dating the It Guy Page 18
