And I don’t know if my heart can survive that kind of beating.
Chapter Six
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In sixth grade, I tell my Dove Girl, Jewel and I would sneak out of our houses at night and lie under the tree in my front yard. We’d pretend to be on another planet. All we could see were shadowed leaves and night-cloudy sky through the branches. Sometimes it rained on us. We wore our pajamas there; sometimes all I wore was a big T-shirt. We talked about things like life on Mars. We whispered.
Under the tree in the drizzle, we had our first kiss. My first kiss. His first kiss. Our first kiss.
But I don’t actually count it as a real kiss. It was more of a peck. It didn’t change anything between us.
Not like today at the troll.
When he kissed me for the second time ever today, it felt amazing.
His lips, like the soft rain.
But I pushed him away.
I just don’t know. I don’t know if I should kiss Jewel.
It’s like we’ve always been one step away from Couplehood and kissing him is like a promise to him, that I’m saying we’ll be in Couplehood for sure and forever.
And, okay, yeah, to me a kiss means a lot too.
I’m still thinking about it, aren’t I? But should I be? Do I want to move to Couplehood with Jewel? Further into our cocoon? Or do I want to leave the cocoon? Does my answer change when I think about Simon Murphy?
One thing’s for sure. My Dove Girl has sent me way more than I asked for.
At lunch on Monday, I sit alone. Jewel has lunch fifth period and I have it sixth. Clara and Jeremy don’t show.
When Simon puts his tray down across from me, I sit up a little bit on my plastic stool. “See ya” meant “I’ll sit with you at lunch in front of the whole world!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Simon’s crew at their usual table: Mike Corrigan and another guy arm wrestling, a girl shredding an orange with her manicured nails.
I’m looking at Simon and his dimple. Right by his lips.
I want to touch his skin. Just like I wanted to touch Jewel’s yesterday.
“Glorious meal, eh?” He waves his hand like a game show hostess across his yellow plastic tray.
I say, “Gee. You’re easy to please.”
“Not when it comes to girls.”
Whoa.
Two tables away, his friends huddle around Corrigan. Yesterday he found out he’d won a football scholarship to the University of Washington. Everyone’s drooling over him.
I point my chin toward them and say, “My dad worked at Udub.”
“Good school.”
“So, Mike’s gonna be on scholarship?”
I want to know why Simon isn’t over there celebrating.
He’s eating carrot sticks. Simon Murphy is sitting across from me eating carrot sticks. Which he brought from home. Like we’re sitting in his kitchen.
Our first public appearance.
I’m so, so glad that Jewel isn’t here to see.
“Well, listen,” Simon says. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Something, eh? Sounds thrilling.”
“Bloodbath.” He smiles. Chomps a carrot stick. “Are you going?”
This is so not just “See ya.”
“I’m gonna be a witch.”
“Well,” he says, “how are you getting there?”
“Broomstick, duh.”
“That’s only for hags,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”
Simon Murphy is asking me to the Bloodbath. Simon Murphy, who dated a senior cheerleader. Simon Murphy, who knows about octopi. Simon Murphy.
But I’m going with Jewel!
That’s just for goofs, though. That’s not this. That’s not a date. That’s just a thing. Like any other thing with Jewel. But, God, he just kissed me. So it would be a date. Wouldn’t it?
I have to say something now, though. To Simon. Jewel can deal. Right? Because I want to go with Simon. I do. Yes.
“Oh. Well. Okay then.”
How can I do this? What about Jewel? This isn’t me.
I could still back out.
“I’ll pick you up.”
I stare at my tray. I’m going to the dance with Simon Murphy. Instead of going with my blend-into-the-lockers best friend. Who kissed me yesterday. Who I kissed back.
Jewel and I picked out our costumes together. I’m supposed to do his makeup. We told Tommy. He kissed me! I let him! How can I go with Simon?
How can I not?
Simon collects his things. “Catch you later.”
All through English class, I alternate between popping my leg up and down in excitement over Simon and freezing in contemplation of Jewel.
We’re having an assembly, so no Spanish today. Thankfully, I won’t have to deal with being in the same room with both of them. But Jewel’s in my study hall.
I shut my eyes. I think of Edgar Allan Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” the story where that guy murders another guy and almost gets away with it but turns super-guilty and has a breakdown because he’s sure people can hear the corpse’s heart beating underneath the floorboards, where he has put the body. My heart is like that.
I’m afraid that somehow Jewel can sense what’s going on. And I’m afraid that Simon will realize how much this means to me. Which is how much exactly? On a scale of one to ten. And why? I have a date to the big dance. So? Now will my life be complete? Will I be, like, Halloween Queen? I so need to get a grip.
Dove Girl, quiet my heart.
After English, in my locker, I find a note from Jewel.
I look at it, notebook paper written on in blue felt-tip. Folded up, Alice written in tiny letters on the front.
My heart beats.
He’s included a photo of the troll. Black-and-white. Beautiful.
Alice, the note says. I’m writing because I’m afraid if I try to talk to you, I’ll just freeze up. I guess I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while, but I didn’t mean for it to actually happen. Or did you like it? Do you want to go to the dance with me, as my date? I’ll buy you a corsage made for a witch. Wilted to perfection.
For one whole second, I’m excited. Then I remember.
I’m so not showing up to study hall. If Jewel’s heard about Simon by now, which is possible, I can’t face him. If he hasn’t, I still can’t face him, because I need to tell him that I won’t be his date and that I’m ditching him for the Bloodbath entirely.
When did I turn into this person?
I feel horrible. I’m ditching Jewel. I’m basically forcing him to hate me. But I’m also allowed to have a crush, right? I never promised Jewel anything. He’s my best friend. Not my boyfriend.
Thank God Mr. Smith is the study hall monitor. I wait outside the room until I see him making his way down the hall.
“Mr. Smith,” I say when he gets there. “Could I spend this period in the studio? I really want to do some watercolors.”
He writes me a pass.
Just by avoiding Jewel right now, I feel like I’m breaking the rules.
I get out my notebook, tear off a piece of paper, and write a note.
I ask him to meet me at the troll after school.
I walk down the empty hall, fast so I won’t flip out, and I slip the note into his locker.
The VW’s rear windshield is newly decorated with a Day-Glo heart, spray-paint pink, filled in with squiggles. A garnish of love graffiti for the beast’s meal.
I lean against the troll’s fist, out of the misty rain, waiting for Jewel. I think about what to say to him. I love you as a friend…. It’s not you, it’s me….
Jewel walks from the direction of school, his hood up against the drizzle and his eyes down.
He gets to where I am. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t look at me.
“I got your note.”
“I figured.” He moves his gaze to the pink heart.
“I don’t know what to say.” I c
lose my eyes, then open them and speak to his forehead. “I can’t go with you. I have … a date, sort of.”
I let my gaze meet his. My eyes instantly water. “But I still want to hang out with you. You’re … my best friend.”
He finally looks at me. He’s heard. It’s obvious. His eyes are empty. Someone slapped Simon five on a new chick or something, in front of Jewel. Possibly on purpose.
In this instant, I want to erase everything with Simon and just go back to normal with Jewel. But I also know that it’s impossible. Because now Jewel and I have our own kiss-weirdness so even if there weren’t a Simon Murphy in my life, there would not be normal with Jewel, either.
“Why don’t you come for dinner,” I say. “Lasagna. Saturday before the dance.”
He looks back at the VW. “Wouldn’t your boyfriend be pissed?”
He turns, keeps his head down as he walks through the rain.
I don’t think about it; I just run after him. “Hey,” I say. “Hey.”
He turns around.
“That’s not fair. For you to be mad at me for having a date to the Bath.”
He just looks at me, rain falling between us.
I go on. “I know we were supposed to go together. We do everything together. But you know … I’m allowed to have a date who’s not you. Isn’t that okay? And you might … go out with someone.”
Jewel and someone else? The thought is like someone stealing from me.
He stands there.
“Is it because Simon’s … what? Popular?”
“Alice, that’s so not it.” He walks away again. I don’t follow him.
I walk home feeling like something so low. Like I deserve to be eaten by the troll.
Because what Jewel really meant was: I’m breaking his heart.
Chapter Seven
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When I go to bed and close my eyes, I hear Jewel’s voice, shaking. So I sit up and trace my Dove Girl with the tip of my finger, starting with her eyes, extending to her long nose, her uneven heart of a mouth. Then her head; lastly, the place where her skin turns into the wings of a dove. I try to memorize this shape. Peace. What it is to be still, calm.
I’ve tried drawing her in my sketchbook. She ends up too pointy or too mean-looking. Mean like me, according to Jewel. Maybe. Probably.
What if it were two weeks ago? What if Jewel had kissed me then and Simon and I had never hung out? And kissed? Then would I go with Jewel to the Bath as his date? Would I become his girlfriend?
What ifs. That’s all I’ve got because my Dove Girl doesn’t talk back. She just sits there, looking like the Buddha or something.
The Buddha reminds me of Vanessa’s new Zen thing.
I wonder what Vanessa would say about my boy situation. As if I would ever ask her.
I already know the answer, anyway. Deep down. Yeah. Yes. If Jewel had kissed me and Simon hadn’t, I’d be with Jewel. I’d be his.
We’d stay in our cocoon.
Tuesday morning, I take a quick shower, put on my sweater, jeans, and orange puffy vest, grab an apple in the kitchen, yell goodbye to my parents shuffling around in their room, and start my walk.
Dad used to drive me to school on his way to the university. But I like walking. School is one mile away, almost exactly, which gives me enough time to mellow before hitting the hallowed halls.
I head down Phinney and almost step on a slug. I think it’s a fat stick at first. Then I stoop to look at it. It’s a teeny alien, with those eyes on top of its head. Now that I think of it, I feel a little alien: a strange girl on an even stranger planet that should look familiar but doesn’t.
I remember the Chihuly slug from the museum. I have glassblowing on Saturday.
I keep walking, careful where I step.
Jewel and I usually meet at Thirty-fourth and Phinney.
He’s not here.
Still mad, then. Still … whatever. Hurt.
I keep walking, having an imaginary conversation with him.
“Morning,” I say, in my head.
“Morning,” he says. “How’s my girl?”
And his eyes shift toward me.
I smile.
And then maybe he’d touch my elbow and we’d walk along. He’d tell me his dreams.
I reach Ultra Convenience, four blocks from school, and Simon’s car is parked out front. I stop, considering running into him.
He walks out of the store.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”
Nothing wrong with this.
I ignore the swarm of bees in my stomach as I get into his car.
He gives me some Juicy Fruit from his fresh pack. You can totally smell that stuff on his breath all day. Now it’ll be on mine, too.
We drive slowly past the park.
“I wish I could still play at the park,” I say.
“Like a kid?”
Maybe I’m being weird, talking about this stuff. Maybe he wants to talk about parties or something.
Before I know it, we’re in the school parking lot. Then he’s holding open the front door for me.
I don’t think anyone even saw us come in together. Good. Or maybe not.
Mr. Smith asked me to come up with a design for the cover of our “portfolio showcase,” which will come out right before Thanksgiving break. I’m doodling.
For the showcase, Mr. Smith takes photos of our paintings, drawings, and sculptures and then gets the portfolio made at Kinko’s. If we have a few bake sales, we can get color copies.
I guess it’s an honor to be asked to do the cover, but really I think Mr. Smith suggested it because lately I’ve been doing more staring at the wall than actual art.
I doodle the shape of an artist’s palette, but that’s lame.
Apparently, Vanessa thinks so too. “Creative much?” She peeks over my shoulder.
“Constantly.”
She raises the red oil-soaked brush in her hand over my paper and for a second I think she’s going to ruin my scribbles.
She lets the brush dangle only millimeters away from my paper.
“Va—” I start, but before I can finish she’s walking toward the sink.
That night after dinner, Mom and Dad ask me to walk to the café by the railroad tracks to see Jewel’s photos on the wall.
“All right,” I say.
“Think he’ll want to come with us?” Mom asks.
There’s no way I can invite him anywhere right now. “He’s in the darkroom.”
At the café, I sip ice water while my parents drink decaf Americanos as they walk around to each of Jewel’s photos. I stay close. I spend as much time looking at my feet as I do looking at the photos.
“Grayfur is so cute,” my mom says.
Hearing the cat’s name makes me flash on such a vivid memory of tying on her superhero cape; I feel stricken. “Yeah.”
Mom puts her arm around me. “Sick of these photos?” she asks. She thinks I’m bored. My own mother can’t even tell when I’m sad.
“Not at all,” I say.
Part of me wishes that Jewel would come in right now and we’d just face each other. It has to happen sooner or later. If I haven’t lost my best friend forever.
Chapter Eight
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It’s like Jewel and I had agreed to avoid each other.
He misses two days of study hall.
I plan to skip the school art show on Thursday night. My entry is one of the watercolors of the canal that got rejected by the Green Bean. It could be hanging with Jewel’s photos there right now, but it’s not good enough. So it’s tacked to a bulletin board in the school lobby. I wish I had a beautiful glass sculpture to display—something colorful and amazing.
Mr. Smith expects us all to go, but I hope he won’t notice if I’m not there. In a pinch, I could mention what’s going on. Not that I’d
tell him everything, but he’d probably understand that if Jewel and I are fighting, it would be officially not cool for us both to go to the show.
The people from my workshop set up for the show during class on Thursday. I mix up fruit punch while Vanessa cuts a block of sharp cheddar into little cubes and sticks toothpicks in the middle. The toothpicks have those sparkly cellophane curlicues at their tops, some kind of fancy.
I remember a time in fifth grade when she was at my house and we made cookies with whatever we could yank out of my cupboard: marshmallows, hot cocoa mix, butterscotch chips, walnuts.
We leave everything on Mr. Smith’s desk so he can put it in the staff room fridge.
“Hey, Vanessa,” I say. “What are you putting in the show?”
She looks at me from under her heavy black eyelashes. “That city I made.”
The city is cardboard boxes painted in metallics. She made them somehow look heavy and solid. Jewel mentioned wanting to photograph the city. It’s good. Unique. “Cool.”
“You?”
“Nothing special.”
We’re standing here in the art room, talking. Why do I feel so uneasy?
I pick up my bag and get out of the room. Vanessa’s schoolbag is made out of silver duct tape. She follows me.
“Did you make that bag?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s easy.”
It reminds me of doing magazine collages with her on my bedroom floor; we ran out of glue and resorted to masking tape. The results weren’t pretty. I smirk at the memory.
“What?”
“I was just … do you remember those collages we did?”
She stops walking and looks at me.
“Collages? For Smith’s class?”
I guess she doesn’t remember. I guess it doesn’t matter. “Never mind.”
We keep walking and, at the door, go our separate ways.
I can’t stay away from the art show completely. I do care about it. Any event that brings out the curlicue toothpicks is something I don’t want to miss, pathetic as that sounds. I don’t get into the coffee shop art shows like Jewel does; I’ve gotta take what I can get.
Thursday night, I’m staked out on the brick side of the school, kneeling in the garden by the big window. I’ve worn a black sweatshirt, hoping I won’t be spotted.
The Opposite of Invisible Page 5
