“Yeah, I asked him.” I nibble on a french fry. “I was right. Fell off his bike. Nothing noteworthy.”
Disappointment clouds her face as she plays with the tab on her Coke can. “Well, that’s not very fun. I thought for sure there was some kind of weapon involved. So you really talked to him?”
“I said I did.”
“Maybe this assignment will be good for you after all. You never talk to people you don’t know well. I’m proud of you, pumpkin.” Jac wipes a fake tear from her eye. “My little girl is coming out of her shell.”
What I really want to do is crawl into a hole. She’s only trying to help—just because she turns everything else into the Jac Show doesn’t mean she’ll do it with this. “Hey, I still don’t know where he goes in between fifth and sixth period. Want to be my assistant analyst?”
Jac puts her hand over her heart. “I would be honored. Maybe we’ll find something scandalous after all.”
“Uh … maybe,” I say. Like someone as normal as Sean Griswold could be scandalous. Honestly.
Jac is waiting outside of my class when the fifth period bell rings. I don’t bother to ask how she got there so fast. Probably embarrassed Mr. Boyle with an excuse about female problems. She wears a long trench coat and black sunglasses. I already regret asking her for help.
“Where did you get the outfit?” I ask.
“This guy last period had it on and I told him he could copy my homework if I borrowed it. Very James Bond, right?”
“It smells funny.”
“Just adds to the authenticity.”
I spot Sean across the quad, skirting around the cheerleaders, walking with his shoulders slightly hunched. It’s not an insecure, Charlie Brown–style walk, but more like he’s an island. Not unreachable, not deserted, but still alone. “There’s Sean. We have to be quick. Can you take those glasses off so you can actually see him? I don’t want to lose him again.”
Jac salutes me and hitches up the collar of her coat. “The sunglasses stay. Just call me the chameleon.”
I grab her hand and weave through the crowded quad until we’re a few feet behind Sean. We follow him through the cafeteria, a shortcut to the west wing of the school.
Field Research is tough work, especially with the baggage. Jac lowers her sunglasses at every boy who cruises by, catcalling and purring. When a gangly senior reciprocates her advances with a head nod, she stops completely to flirt. I nudge, then push. “Sorry,” she calls to her admirer. “Top-secret assignment!”
Sean pauses in front of a hallway and looks behind his back. Jac and I both point to the wall and loudly discuss the history of the Spirit of ’76 mural. He disappears and we’re about to follow him when I realize where he’s gone.
“He’s going into the Hall of Terror!” I say, grabbing Jac’s arm to stop her.
“I know. How cool. And I’m totally going to blend in with this trench coat.” She turns around the corner and since my hand is still on her arm, I involuntarily follow.
Involuntary is putting it mildly. I swore I’d never come back here.
The Hall of Terror is the hallway where the halogen lights burn out sooner than they should. Some say ghosts of past students drink from the water fountain. It is also where the Goths/Druggies/Freaks hang out.
If you have a locker in this hallway, you switch with someone ASAP. Sure, they’ll know your locker combo, but people that fried can’t even remember their own name, so who cares? Not that I’m trying to regurgitate Modern American high school stereotypes. I’m sure the unsavories have feelings too. Artificial feelings resulting from abusing illegal substances, but feelings nonetheless.
Okay, I am biased, but here’s the reason. I had a locker in this hallway at the beginning of the year. It was close to most of my classes, so I declined the two offers to switch. One day, while I was getting my books out of my locker, the looks-like-he’s-twenty-and-probably-is junior with the locker above me leaned down and said, “Those among the living should not walk among the dead.” Then, he BIT me. Seriously, like a vampire—although this was more like a nibble on my shoulder. A warning. I was so freaked out that I didn’t even care when my new locker was across the school. Better to be late to class than risk a vampire hickey.
“Stop!” I finally get out, my shoulder aching from the memory. “We can’t go in the hallway. It’ll look … suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
My brain works fast. If she knows I’m simply scared, she’ll drag me down the hallway just to help me overcome my fear. “Yeah. We have to be stealth. Let’s peek around the corner instead.”
We squeeze behind the wall so we have a better view of the people coming and going. The hairs on my arms stand at attention as each person walks by, but Jac just smiles at all the future criminals.
“Hey, look,” she says. “He’s talking to someone.”
I stick my head out from behind the corner and survey the hall. I spot Sean standing by my old locker talking to a guy whose back is to us. The guy says something and Sean laughs. Laughter seems out of place in the Hall of Terror, but for some reason Sean does not. He sticks out appearance-wise with his hair, crisp polo, and Adidas sneakers. But everybody that walks by is oblivious to him, like he’s just another school ghost.
“Well, we better get to class,” I say. “Mystery solved.”
The other guy takes something out of his backpack and shakes it before handing it to Sean. I can’t tell what it is, but it looks like a pill bottle. I’m about to duck back around the corner when Sean makes eye contact with me. I freeze and stare back. He gives me the same bemused look I got in biology when I rambled on about cuts. He mumbles something to the guy in front of him, who also turns around. The guy’s face, dominated by a mushroom-shaped nose and watery eyes, breaks into a smile. Either that or he’s flashing his fangs. Vampire Boy.
“What’s wrong?” Jac asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I dodge around the corner and take off. I am not willing to risk my neck, or my life, in the name of therapeutic research.
EIGHT
PFE
February 1—After school
Topic: Questions
1. Why is someone like Sean Griswold hanging out in the Hall of Terror with the kid who almost sucked the life out of me?
2. Why is it that the more I find out about this guy, the more I’m totally baffled by him?
3. Why is Jac going psychotic over this whole thing and insisting I talk to Sean ASAP?
4. And why do I have this weird desire to branch out in my research and do exactly what she suggests?
My mom is not a crier. She’s not incapable of crying. She cried when my oldest brother left for college and she cried when she fell down the stairs and broke her leg in three places. But she’s not one to get weepy during a movie. I had never even seen her cry about the Dad thing. Which is why I’m worried to see her sprawled out on the couch in the middle of the day, inhaling a can of mixed nuts and bawling her eyes out. Is it a really good Oprah rerun, or is Dad getting worse?
“Mom?” I close the door softly behind me.
Mom sniffs and wipes her eyes. She’s still in her workout clothes from this morning. “Oh. Hey. I didn’t hear you come home.”
Maybe I should talk to her. I haven’t really talked to her in weeks. She seems so depressed. It makes me wonder if she was like this for the last few months and I just didn’t notice. And why wouldn’t she be? Dad and Mom are soul mates. They met back in college, at Penn. Dad was going to dental school and Mom was an art history major from Arizona. Dad was cleaning her teeth and asked her what she liked to eat—his not-smooth way of asking her out. She thought he was commenting on her breath and got offended. But not too offended, because they got married three years later. I guess even oral hygiene can be romantic in the right setting.
And now he’s sick. I’m almost willing to give in a bit to perk Mom up. Almost.
“I just talked to Caleb,” Mom continues. “He�
��s having a hard time being so far away while things are … he’s just having a tough time.”
“Oh.”
“He said to tell you hi.”
Hi. You’re eight years older than me and I hardly know you and you get to go to school in freaking London and hang out with cool British scholars and stay away from the drama and then complain about it while I get to suffer here. Hi.
“You hungry?” Mom asks.
I drop my backpack on the ground and kind of smile. “Gyros?”
“Really?” Mom props herself up on her elbows. “Like from the mall food court? That’s a great idea. Let’s wait until Trent and Dad get home and we’ll all go together as a family. Maybe we could talk about what we’re going to do for spring break.”
See, this is why you never give in to parents. I’m thinking a little step like gyros, and she’s going for a bomb like spring break. “I don’t—”
“I’m just going to go freshen up.” Mom’s eyes shine. “We haven’t done something as a family since … well, in a while.”
Since I found out you’re all liars? I bite my tongue. This is my own doing. If Vampire Boy doesn’t kill me, family bonding will.
Two hours later, my family is getting their bond on in the King of Prussia mall. The plus side of Mom’s enthusiasm is she’s also eager to buy me some new clothes. The downside is everyone tries way too hard to act like hanging out is normal and not a Very Big Step toward mending our family’s battered group dynamic. Ms. Callahan’s words, not mine.
Somehow, I find myself in a dressing room trying on bathing suits for my mom. I try to argue, but she’s riding this buzz I can’t kill. She keeps talking about the spring break trip she wants our family to take, even though we’ve never gone all together. It’s driving me nuts.
Although doctors don’t know exactly what causes MS, they do know that there are factors that may bring on a relapse. The doctor said that heat is a trigger for my dad, which may be why he had his first occurrence in Cancun. Last spring break. So really, our family should be moving to Antarctica, not planning a beach party IN THE SUN.
And I’m the one in denial.
Mom gives up on the wild Hawaiian-print bikinis she’s been flinging over the dressing room and hands me a black one-piece with a halter neck.
“Do you have it on?” Mom asks.
I look at my butt in the mirror. There are two looks in our family. My dad’s a Euro-mutt: Greek, Spanish, and Swiss. So my brothers have these cool blue eyes with strong jaws reeking of alpha maleness. Then there’s me, straight from the Colombian side: ample butt and enough body hair that my mom let me shave my legs in the fourth grade. At least I got her waist and skin that looks like it’s perma-tan, both qualities set off in the suit. But the body hair—genetic joke. “It’s not me.”
Mom yanks the door open and peers inside. “What? You’re beautiful! That’s the best I’ve ever seen you look. In anything.”
“Stop it.” I cover up the low neckline.
Mom shakes her head. “Wait until spring break. Your father will have a heart attack.”
“That’s if he doesn’t have an MS attack first,” I say under my breath.
“What’s that?”
The heart attack line reminds me that, despite the tears earlier and the overall happy tone, I’m still generally pissed. Who I’m mad at or why I’m mad all melt into one sizzling eruption. I don’t like the suit, okay? Gosh, it’s nearly ten degrees outside and you have me in here trying on bathing suits, which by the way only adds to the objectification of women.
“I hate this,” I snap.
Mom flinches, then her eyes glaze over. “Let’s go find the boys.”
We don’t say a word as we leave the store and step onto the escalator. The buzz of nearby shoppers only deepens the tension I’ve once again managed to create. I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I mean, I am sorry that I can’t really communicate whatever it is I’m feeling, but an apology doesn’t change that my mom’s planning a trip that I don’t think should happen.
Trent and my dad are in the Gap, stocking up on a mountain of boxer briefs. Unlike me, Trent is using the peppy parental mood to his full advantage.
“Isn’t it weird to underwear shop with your family?” I ask Trent.
“Feeling left out, little sis? Want to go pick up a training bra?”
I turn to my dad in a huff. “Dad!”
He ignores the argument and holds a pink miniskirt against his waist. “Is it me?”
I roll my eyes and snatch it from him. “It’s more Trent.”
“I think you’re right.” Trent grabs the skirt in a larger size and squeezes his skinny butt right into it. He looks better in it than I would, a fact almost as tragic as seeing my brother in drag.
A salesclerk frowns at Trent, who’s now sashaying around the store. Mom and Dad burst into a fit of giggles. Well, she couldn’t have been too hurt by what I said if she’s laughing again. I bury my face into a flannel shirt and count to ten slowly before taking a peek to see if the humiliation is over.
It isn’t. Standing in front of me is Sean Griswold. And he’s not smiling.
“Hey,” I say, because what else would I say?
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Hiding from family.” I point to Trent, who is now dancing with a mannequin while my parents hold their stomachs, laughing.
A hint of a smile tugs on the corners of Sean’s mouth. “He’s a natural.”
“Yeah, well, we’re hoping he moves to New York soon and makes it big. Everyone needs a dream, I guess.”
Sean nods. We stand there in silence, watching as the saleslady finally asks Trent to remove the skirt and leave the mannequin alone.
“So, what’s up with you?” Sean asks, back to his darker mood.
“Nothing. Just hanging out with my family.”
“No. I mean …” Sean lets out a breath. “Look, I got this weird phone call today from some girl trying to make her voice deep. She told me to meet her at the mall by the gyro place at six and that she’d be wearing a red shirt.”
I look down to assess my outfit. Sure enough, my shirt is the predicted color.
“So I come, I don’t know why. I don’t get many calls like that, so I’m curious. And then I see you sitting there with your family but you don’t even see me. And the weird thing is I seem to be seeing a lot of you lately. More than usual. I guess we see each other every day, but every time I turn around in the halls, you’re there. So what gives?”
I have no doubt that my face matches my shirt. It’s hard for me to answer Sean because I’m too busy planning all the ways to get back at Jac. She knew I was coming to the mall. She knew what I wore to school today and that I probably hadn’t changed. She must have figured I wouldn’t be researching Sean so much after the hallway incident. So she brought my research to me.
“I, um … the thing is … that wasn’t me that called but I think I know—”
“And who is this?” Trent swings his arm around my shoulder, interrupting my confession.
I shrug Trent’s arm off. “This is Sean Griswold. He … I … We go to the same school. Sean, this is my annoying brother, Trent.”
Sean holds out his hand and Trent shakes it. “Trent. Right. You almost took state two years ago in swimming, right?”
“Almost.” Trent beams. “The punk ahead of me was juicing. You a swimmer?”
“Yeah.” Sean scratches his nose. “I’m training for a triathlon right now, but mostly I bike.”
Triathlon? Are freshmen allowed to do triathlons? Don’t you have to be older and in amazing shape and … superhuman to do that?
“Cool,” Trent says and means it. “Let me know if you ever want to go swim some laps at the Y or something. I’m buying my boxers, sis, and then we’re out. Did you find a bra yet?”
“Shut up,” I say. Trent smirks and leaves.
“So,” Sean says.
“So,” I say.
“That wasn’t you tha
t called me, then?”
I shake my head no, afraid that if I open my mouth I’ll divulge too much information.
“Weird. I wonder who it was.”
“Maybe it could have been another girl in a red shirt.”
“Yeah, but hey, I like that shirt.”
I get a lot of compliments on this shirt because, in addition to being a color I look good in, it says SERENITY NOW. Most people think it’s a tree-hugger thing, like Jac’s MAKE LOVE NOT WAR shirt, but it’s actually something George’s dad says in an episode of Seinfeld when he’s trying to calm himself down. Most kids my age don’t get it; they’re too busy watching reality crap, so I feel like I’m walking around wearing my own private joke.
“Thanks.”
“Episode 159, right? Final season. One of my favorites. Although I love any episode where George freaks out. Which is pretty much all of them.”
He knows the episode number. He knows the episode number! Never, in all my fifteen years, have I met someone versed enough in Seinfeldese to know episode numbers! “You … you like Seinfeld, then?”
Sean shrugs. “More like obsessed. I’ve got a bunch of memorabilia I bought off eBay and have the whole series on DVD. I even went one whole day using nothing but catchphrases.” He blushes and fingers a folded navy sweater. “Man, when I say it out loud, it all kind of sounds stupid, huh?”
Actually, it is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, he knew the episode number! “No. Well, kind of.”
“Seinfeld, huh?” Sean squints a little, like he’s sizing me up. “I would have guessed your syndicated show of choice would be more like Friends.”
I roll my eyes. “First off, they hang out at a place called Central Perk. Anything involving the word perk nauseates me.”
“Understandably so.”
“And,” I add, building momentum, “the closest thing they have to a Kramer is a Joey. I mean, who would you rather be friends with?”
“Yeah, but Elaine is no Jennifer Aniston.”
“Spare me,” I say. “The Jerry/Elaine dynamic is far more compelling than that whole Ross/Monica thing.”
Sean Griswold's Head Page 5
