We walk in silence for a minute, rounding the corner into the colored cardboard aisle. The green and brown paper practically screams at me, broadcasting what could have been. All the fake leaves and trees that would have been designed for the dance are going to stay in Hobby Lobby for someone else to buy.
I swallow my disappointment, a rock slowly choking its way down my throat, and ask the question I know my mom wants to hear. "What would you do?"
She stops the cart and finally looks at me. Her eyes are twinkling. I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head. She's gone into senior class president mode. She had the same sparkle when she remodeled our kitchen, like she could barely contain her joy as she bashed down the walls of my grandma's house.
"Do you really want to know?" she asks, voice in full-blown Disney character mode.
I nod, even though I want to cry. I remind myself that her idea is going to be good. My mom would never want me to fail, so it's probably best I do whatever she says.
"If I were in charge, I'd use the theme, 'Shot Through the Heart'." Mom's eyes get big as she expands on the idea. "I would hang red heart bull's-eyes all over the gym and have little Cupids holding shotguns."
"What about the fake trees?" I ask, hoping one of my ideas will survive.
"Marty, no one thinks a forest is romantic." My mom starts loading the cart with red and pink cardboard. "You want to be remembered, right?"
I nod again, moving my head without thinking. Smile and don't move. Smile and don't move.
"I do," I say.
"'Shot Through the Heart,'" Mom repeats. "It's going to be great."
***
We get in line to pay, our cart full of all the things my mom has picked out that will make the Hot Shot Dance a night to remember. Pink and red paint, big sheets of white paper on which to write out her theme: "Shot Through the Heart". Glitter and glue and sequins to make the gym come alive.
I push the cart up to the cashier, trying my best to be excited about what's in the bin.
"We forgot the glue gun," my mom says. "Run and grab one, please."
I walk back down the yarn aisle, taking my time. The dance will be great, I remind myself. And my mom means well. She really does. She has a knack for these things; she can't help it if her creative mind takes over.
A black spool of yarn with silver specks intertwined in the thread catches my attention. It reminds me of something Lil would like. It's weird that even though I don't know her, I feel as though I do. Maybe it's because she wears who she is right on her skin and in her words.
Lil didn't speak a word to me in English yesterday. She didn't even look in my direction.
"You can't have your seat back, Jock Strap," is all she said when Alex walked down the row toward her. He didn't respond, just smiled at me and went to his new seat. Lil stared forward and picked at her nails for the rest of class. By the end, she had stacked a huge pile of black polish in one corner of her desk. She didn't even throw it out when she left.
Just looking at the yarn makes a bubble of frustration rise in my stomach. Not at Lil. At myself. It makes me want to tear off my skin and crawl into someone else's. Someone like Lil, who says what she wants, who can sleep with any boy and not care and smoke cigarette after cigarette out in the open for the whole town to see. Who can say you smell like virgin and I want to get laid and 'Shot Through the Heart' is a terrible theme because no one cares about Bon Jovi anymore!
I take a breath. And then another. And another. Once my blood pressure eases back to normal, I put the yarn down, grab the glue gun, and find my mom at the front of the store. She's talking to Mrs. Rogers, Pippa's mom, when I walk up behind them.
"Did she honestly think changing her daughter's last name would make a difference? We all know she's back," Mrs. Rogers whispers.
My mom leans in closer. "Poor Marty had to show the girl around school." She shakes her head. "I just hope she stays far away from us."
Lil? I hold my breath, wishing I were invisible so they would keep talking; but at that moment, my mom turns and finds me standing there, glue gun pointed directly at the two of them.
"Found it." I shrug and smile.
"Marty." My mom tucks my hair behind my ears and smiles. "We were just talking about you."
"Hi, Mrs. Rogers," I say.
"Your mom was telling me how spectacular the Hot Shot Dance is going to be. It was always my favorite when I was in high school." Mrs. Rogers grabs a basket and hooks it over her arm. I grit my teeth, squeezing my jaw so tight I feel like enamel might chip off.
"I'm excited," I squeak out.
"It was good to see you, Marilyn," my mom says as she ushers me toward the door.
"You too."
They eye each other for a second before Mrs. Rogers takes out her cell and turns toward the scrapbooking aisle.
"What about the glue gun?" I ask.
My mom places it on one of the cashier stations. "We'll get it some other time."
CHAPTER 5
Back in my room, I sit on my bed next to the Hobby Lobby bag full of decorations and rub the ear of the gray stuffed rabbit my grandma gave me when I was a baby.
We never named animals on the farm when I was younger. Harder to eat a burger when you'd named the cow Sally, Grandma would say. So I never named him.
I replay my mom's conversation with Mrs. Rogers over and over, trying to understand what they meant. Did Lil change her last name? And they said back, which means Lil's been here before?
But every few seconds, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see the pink and red cardboard sticking out of the top of the bag and start singing, Bon Jovi's song "You Give Love a Bad Name". Then I picture Jon Bon Jovi's gigantic blonde-highlighted 80's hair and the way he dresses like an eighteen year old when he's really, like, eighty, and I get distracted. When my brain gets too clouded over, I decide maybe I need to write some words down and get them out of my mind.
What's in a name?
Rose by any other word would smell as sweet,
Except that's not true.
A rose is a rose because we call it so,
Year after year,
A rose can never be anything but a rose,
Unless people decide to name it otherwise.
When I'm done, I pull my dance design out of my purse and tear it into scraps of paper so tiny it can never be put back together. I throw them into the garbage and flop back down on my bed.
I'm staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I put on my ceiling in junior high when my computer dings with an email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I can practically smell u thru this computer.
I look around my room, bubbly nerves shooting through me. The email address is one I've never seen before. I check my armpits. They don't smell. I put on two layers of deodorant today and vanilla perfume.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I don't mean 2 b rude, but who is this?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Why do u always say things u don't really mean? Of course, ur being rude. I just sent u a weird email. While we r on this topic, what person under the age of 30 uses email?
I gape at the response, my stomach twisting in all sorts of contorted positions, tangled partly with anger and partly with intrigue: who could possibly email me like this? I want to type back that email is underappreciated by young people. If I can't live in a time when actual letter writing is cool, at least I still have email. Plus, how else is my future husband going to send me love letters? I'm sure not saving text messages from him to show my kids. Then it clicks. Only one person makes me feel this way.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Lil?? How did u get my email?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Ms. Everley thought I might n
eed it. Ur coming to a party with me tonight, Pollyanna.
A party? I sit back in my seat and stare at the email. The clock ticks on my nightstand; my favorite DVD, West Side Story, leans against it. My Saturday night plans. I love when Tony and Maria sing 'Somewhere'. It always makes me cry. Romeo and Juliet put to song. Could there be anything better?
Two days ago, I would have said no. Now, I don't know the answer. I look at my no-name rabbit and the patch of material I've worn down to the stuffing. Why do I always rub in the same place? Because it's safe? Because my fingers automatically go there? It's worn so thin almost nothing is left, yet the rest of him is fluffy, practically new. My computer dings again; another email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Matt will be there.
A gulp and a choke and I almost throw up on the keyboard. And then my fingers type the response my heart, not my brain, knows I should say.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Okay.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Pick u up on the corner of Washington and Forest in 30 mins.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
What does RPMcMurphy stand for?
Lil doesn't respond. I sit back in my chair and scroll up through our conversation. My stomach tickles with butterflies. I can't believe I agreed to go to a party with a girl my parents don't want me to have anything to do with. And Matt will be there. MATT WILL BE THERE.
I look at the bag of decorations sitting on my bed. My gaze moves to the torn up pieces of paper in the garbage can beneath my desk.
My mind is already made up. I just need to pick out what to wear.
***
I come down the stairs twenty minutes later dressed in a black cotton long-sleeved shirt and my favorite dark jeans that hug my legs clear to my ankles. I tied a red scarf around my neck; I look Parisian, maybe, and artistic. French kissing, I say to myself and picture Matt. I stood in front of my mirror and practiced my "surprise" face, eyebrows arched and eyes twinkling, for when I see Matt and say, "I had no idea you'd be here." I even practiced touching his arm nonchalantly.
With my makeup redone and fresh pink lip gloss shining on my mouth, I walk into the family room. My mom and dad are watching Dateline.
"I'm going to meet some people at the movies," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Who?" my mom asks, tilting her head over the top of the couch so that she can see me.
"Um," Stumbling over words, I say the first name I can think of. "Alex Austin."
"A boy?" My mom sits up and smiles.
"It's not a date," I snap. "He's just a friend from English class. I mean, he wears sleeveless undershirts under his football jersey." Panic is rising in my veins. I'm used to little blemishes on the truth. You look pretty today, even though it would take a blowtorch and plastic surgery to fix the person's problems. I love foreign films, even though reading subtitles while watching a movie makes my head hurt. I even lie to myself sometimes. Everyone likes you for you. You're pretty even when you cry. A boy hasn't kissed you because he's waiting for the exact right moment to fall head-over-heels in love.
Some days, the white lies work. On others, I want to scream from the top of a building and cut all my hair off.
My mom slouches down on the couch and goes back to rubbing cuticle cream on her fingernails. I think I see a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "Just be home by midnight."
"I will." I head toward the door and almost run into the wall.
"And don't forget you're a Hart," my dad yells after me.
Ugh. The dreaded line. I hate it when my parents remind me I'm a Hart. It's like they're placing the world on my shoulders and telling me to run a marathon. Or clamping a chastity belt around my waist so no boy can ever get close to my lady parts. Some days, I have a hard time being seventeen, let alone a girl with perfect posture and the vagina of a saint.
"I will," I repeat, grabbing my black pea coat out of the closet.
And then I'm out the front door and standing on the porch, the cold autumn air circling around me. I take a deep breath, letting it clear my mind, and realize I just lied to my parents. I'm meeting the one girl they would never want me to hang out with.
Something swells up in my gut. It's the same feeling I get when words come from the back of my mind and I have no choice but to put them down on paper. An uncontrollable giggle slips from my lips. This might be the most exciting thing I've ever done.
***
Lil pulls up five minutes late. I hear angry guitar music blaring before I ever see the car. Taking a breath, I force the door open.
"Hi," I say.
"Pollyanna," she nods.
"Why do you call me that?"
"You just answered your own question."
"Huh?" I ask thoroughly confused. "Well, if I asked you to stop, would you?"
"No."
I slouch into the seat and cross my arms over my chest.
"Fine, Marty." Lil rolls her eyes. In the moonlight they're still bright blue, almost glow-in-the-dark colored.
"I like your shirt," I say appraising the gold sequined tank top she has on over black jeans. "But aren't you going to be cold?"
"Are you my mother?" she asks.
"No, I just thought you might want a sweater or something."
"I'll be fine." Lil grabs her black leather jacket out of the backseat and places it between us.
"So where are we going?" I ask. As the words come out, it dawns on me that this one answer is important. That I've agreed to go to a party with a girl I don't know, whose name sends my dad into a chicken-choking fit, who prompts Saturday morning gossip sessions in Hobby Lobby. My earlier excitement wanes and I realize the heaviness of what I've done.
Lil lights a cigarette, pulls the gear shift into drive, and smiles at me. "Lake Loraine."
***
"Lake Loraine," The words get caught in my throat.
"Do you have a problem with that?" Lil asks.
I can only gape at her. During the day, Lake Loraine is a huge reservoir on the outskirts of Minster. But at night, it becomes a breeding ground for bad decisions. I've heard stories of huge bonfires with psychedelic hippy drugs and sex tents where people trade partners. A boy from the next town over drowned in the reservoir four years ago. It was rumored that he was at one of those parties, but no one would come forward and say it was true.
Worried Lil might say something else about my virgin stink or tight thighs or lack of penis knowledge, I shake my head.
The sky is velvet black with clouds blocking any light from the moon. The perfect night for an illegal party with a bunch of random people in the back woods.
We pull up to the remote side of the reservoir and drive down a barely-there path covered with overgrown grass. The car bumps and shakes, making my stomach even more upset. My parents would kill me if they knew I was here, like, murder in the first degree. Drinking vodka at Sarah's is nothing compared to partying at Lake Loraine. My parents would probably have me automatically tested for an STD if they knew I even touched a cup of beer.
"How did you hear about this?" I ask as Lil parks the car.
"You need to open your ears more. You'd start hearing a lot of things."
I get out of the car without asking another question.
"Follow me," Lil says. I take a breath and straighten out my jeans. I'm a Hart, I remind myself. My amazing social skills allow me to adjust to any situation. Be a leader, Marty, my dad's voice rings in my ears. No one follows a follower.
But how can I be a leader when I've never seen a mushroom or smoked pot? And I have no choice but to follow Lil. At Lake Loraine, I'm blind.
We walk for what feels like a mile in silence. I trip over branches and jump every few feet, terrified that some crazed, hallucinating person is going to jump screaming out of th
e trees. In my head, I start to sing songs from West Side Story to keep myself calm.
I should have stayed home. I should have curled up in my comfortable pink fleece pajamas with my no-name rabbit and watched Tony and Maria fall in love.
But then what if Tony didn't meet Riff that night of the dance? What if he decided to stay home and watch Leave it to Beaver on TV, or whatever people watched in the 50's? He never would have seen Maria. He never would have fallen in love with her.
And then I hear it. Music. Real music, not the songs in my head. Smooth melodic tones with a heavy bass beat waft through the air; they get louder the closer we walk. I actually like what's being played, and it calms my jitters. It sounds like sunshine bouncing around the black forest.
"Who is this?" I ask.
Lil doesn't miss a beat. "Bob Marley."
I picture his poster on the wall at Vinyl Tap. His dreadlocks and smoked-out eyes. A pothead, my mom would say. But the music is peaceful and fresh. Way clearer than the man in the picture.
"I like it," I say, and bob my head to the beat.
Lil rolls her eyes. "Can you try not to be so green? It's Bob Marley, not an orgasm."
Playing Nice Page 5
