I simply can’t bring myself to stop crying. And I don’t want to. I have never felt so hurt and betrayed in my entire life. I think that entitles me to a few stupid little tears. Even if I am standing in the middle of downtown San Francisco, in some strange alleyway, surrounded by empty glass bottles and abandoned shopping carts.
I look into the eyes of my two best friends, my mouth unable to form any sort of comprehensible sound. Finally, Jade reaches out and pulls me into a hug, and I sob silently on her shoulder.
THE GREAT ESCAPE
The clock on the wall reads 11:59 p.m., and Mason still has not called. What on earth is he waiting for? A sign from God? When your girlfriend walks in on you making out with another girl and then storms out, you call. It’s the decent thing to do. You call and apologize. Then you beg for her back. And tell her that you were a stupid, selfish jerk who doesn’t deserve her, but if she finds it in her heart to forgive you, you would be forever indebted to her.
That’s what you do.
You don’t not call!
I stare at the silent phone, trying to decide whether or not to pick it up and call him. Jade and Angie lectured me in the cab on the way home about not doing exactly that. Something about how it will make me look desperate and I’d probably just end up going over to his house and hooking up with him. And that would be a huge mistake.
But I don’t care. I pick up the phone anyway and lightly finger the speed-dial button I’ve always been so quick to push without hesitation. I tell myself that maybe he’s not calling because he’s afraid to. If I call him first, then I’ll be showing him that it’s safe to talk. And I do want to talk. Honestly, I do. Mostly about how sorry he is and how he’s going to make it up to me, but that’s still talking.
I press down the speed-dial button and hold the phone tentatively up to my ear. It rings three times before someone answers. But there’s so much background noise that I can hardly hear anything.
“Hello?” I say.
I hear more loud noise that sounds a lot like music mixed with distinct laughter.
Where the heck is he? It’s nearly midnight. He can’t possibly still be . . .
Oh my God. My heart shudders in my chest as I realize . . . He’s still there. He’s still at the Loft party. He hasn’t even left. But that would mean that he didn’t run after me. That would mean that he didn’t leave Heather waiting alone on the bed while he rushed to the bathroom, sat on the cold tile floor with his head in hands, thinking long and hard about what he did.
“Hello?” I say again, despite my better self telling me to just hang up and save my dignity.
Then, over the loud noises and giggles and music, a voice comes on the line. It’s crystal clear. And it’s female.
I’d recognize that voice anywhere. After all, I spent the last five years wishing that voice would say more than two words to me.
It belongs to Heather Campbell.
“Mason Brooks’s phone,” she says, imitating a bubbly secretary. Then she breaks into hysterical fits of drunken laughter. There’s a loud rustling on the other end, and it sounds as if the phone is being put through the spin cycle of my mother’s washing machine.
And then from farther away, but still clear as day, I hear Heather’s voice again. “Mason, someone’s calling for you! I think it’s your . . . ex-girlfriend.”
My whole body freezes and the phone slips out of my hands and falls into the down comforter on the bed, where it’s immediately swallowed up in the fabric, until the heartbreaking sounds of laughter and music are almost completely muted and then . . . total silence.
I’m barely able to bring myself to look down at the screen. The line is dead.
I don’t hear anything from Mason for the rest of the weekend, and I actually manage to convince myself that he’s spending the time coming to his senses and preparing an apology. So by the time I get to school on Monday morning, I’m half expecting to find a dozen red roses stashed inside my locker along with a ten-page letter from Mason confessing his utter stupidity and shortsightedness. Maybe he’ll blame it on alcohol. Maybe he’ll tell me that Heather held a gun to his head and forced him to make out with her. Either way, I’ll have to think long and hard about whether or not I will forgive him.
But when I dial the combination and open the locker, I’m devastated to find that it’s empty. Well, except for my usual textbooks, binders, graphing calculator, and of course, the page from Contempo Girl magazine with Mason’s picture that I taped to the inside of the door. But there is no letter. No card. Not even a Post-it. Nothing.
I hastily rip the picture of him from the door, crumple it up, and throw it in the back of my locker to rot with all the candy bar wrappers and brown paper lunch bags. Then I slam the locker door shut with a loud bang.
All around me, people are whispering and pointing. Like I’m some kind of circus freak. And unfortunately, I know exactly what they’re saying.
“Look, there goes that poor girl who used to date Mason Brooks.”
I can see the same E! News reporter again in my head. This time, he’s reporting a much more tragic story: “It appears Mason Brooks just can’t handle the new celebrity pressure that came with his magazine photo op. A mere five days after the magazine hit newsstands, Mason was seen canoodling with one Heather Campbell at a local party. According to sources close to the couple, his former girlfriend, the one who is responsible for his fifteen minutes of fame to begin with, was said to be ‘absolutely crushed.’ Whether or not the duo will eventually rekindle their flame is yet to be determined.”
I lower my head and begin to walk to first period, trying to ignore all the whispers and stares. I guess this is that celebrity backlash you always hear about. I realize what it feels like to be stalked by the paparazzi. But not in the good way, like I just released a hit record or my boyfriend signed a multimillion-dollar contract with a new soccer team. More like the kind where I’ve been pulled over for drunk driving, I’m facing time in prison, and the photographers want to get that tabloid cover shot that they can plaster next to the headline LAST DAYS OF FREEDOM.
Because the truth is, this school is like one giant tabloid magazine. The latest breakup, fashion blunder, trip down the stairs, locker stuffing, or spilled food tray in the cafeteria is always the hottest topic buzzing through the gossip mill. And with word of Saturday night’s Loft party streaming the halls faster than high-speed Internet, it’s now my face on the current cover.
Maybe Mason is just late getting to school. Maybe he was up all night crying and polishing his apology speech so he slept through his alarm and is racing to school (roses in hand) right now, ready to get down on his knees and beg for my forgiveness. Maybe he’s . . .
OH. MY. GOD.
I stop dead in my tracks and stare down the hallway.
This is not happening. This is not happening. Wake up, Madison! Wake up!!!
But it is happening. Right before my very eyes.
Mason and Heather have just walked into school . . . together. Yes, as in hand in hand, totally smitten, full-on couple mode.
This is unbelievable! First he tells me he would never, ever date her. Then I catch them making out at a party that he didn’t even want to go to, then Heather answers his cell phone only hours after I left, and now suddenly they’re America’s sweethearts?
What am I missing here?
I watch them walk blissfully down the hall and I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. He whispers something in her ear, and she breaks out laughing. Not the polite kind. The other kind. The kind you only hear from a person who is totally head over heels for someone.
Don’t cry, I instruct myself. Whatever you do, do not cry in the middle of this hallway.
I stand frozen like a decorative statue in a museum as people maneuver around me, slowly starting to clear out and disappear into classrooms. For some reason, I can’t seem to move. That is, until I notice that Mason and Heather are walking right toward me. And I know that I have to move my feet. I
have to get out of here before they see me. I have to run!
And I do. My feet unfreeze, and instantly I’m booking it in the opposite direction. I make it to the back entrance of the school, push through the double doors, and scamper into the parking lot. I fumble around the front pocket of my backpack for my car keys and unlock the door to my cheap, used crapmobile. The one my parents bought for me on my sixteenth birthday not because it was totally sporty and fast and cool-looking. But because it was under ten thousand dollars and still had a working engine.
I plop down in the seat and, without even thinking, turn the key in the ignition, throw the car into drive, and peel out of the parking lot like a race-car driver with a death wish.
“Mason Brooks would be nothing without me,” I bellow to Jade later that afternoon. It didn’t take long for my despair to turn into anger. Four hours to be exact. And honestly, I’m glad about it. It’s a whole lot easier to be angry at Mason than to feel slighted, cheated, betrayed, and abandoned by him.
I’m sitting on Jade’s bed, skimming through the latest batch of magazines to arrive in her mailbox, while she sits hunched over next to me, painting her toenails a dark shade of purple. “You know I’m the only reason he even got elected class president in the first place,” I continue, gaining momentum as I go. “I ran his entire campaign. I was his right-hand man!”
“Right-hand woman,” Jade corrects.
“Yes!” I violently flip a page. “And, if I hadn’t sent that stupid picture in to the magazine, he would still just be plain old Mason. The guy that no one even cares about.”
“Totally,” Jade says faithfully. If she is getting at all tired of hearing me rant about Mason, she certainly is doing a good job hiding it.
“I mean. Mason and I were together for two years. Two whole years. In high school time that’s like two centuries. And he goes and leaves me for Miss perfect body, perfect hair, perfect everything Heather Campbell.”
Jade scrunches her face up. “She’s not that perfect, Maddy.”
I toss my hands up in the air. “Of course she is. Even her name is perfect.”
Jade takes a sip from her can of soda and then says, “Oh, please. It’s totally generic. I like your name. It’s unique.”
I snort. “Yeah, right? Madison Kasparkova?”
She nods. “It sounds like you’re a famous tennis star or something.”
“Yeah, except for one tiny problem. I don’t play tennis.”
Jade laughs. “Insignificant detail.”
The truth is, no one in my family is a famous tennis player. The name Kasparkova comes from my great-grandfather on my dad’s side. He emigrated from Russia in like 1912, and no one ever bothered to Americanize his name. The most frustrating part is that nobody can pronounce the darn thing, leaving me throughout the majority of elementary and middle school known simply as “Maddy K.”
“You know what the real bummer about this whole thing is?” I ask, clearly not expecting Jade to venture a guess because I don’t even wait for her to speak before I continue. “Mason comes out of this looking like a god. He’s dating Heather Campbell now. He can practically do anything. And that issue of Contempo Girl is going to be on the stands for at least another three weeks and he’s going to reap the benefits. It’s so not fair.”
Jade shrugs casually as if yes, this thought has crossed her mind but it really hasn’t bothered her in the slightest. “Don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“No, he won’t,” I say immediately.
“Sure he will,” Jade assures me, applying a second coat of polish to her big toe and then leaning back to admire her work. “Mason Brooks may be a local celebrity, but he’s still not immune to Karma. Nobody is.”
There’s something about the way that she pronounces the word Karma, like a magic spell had been placed on it. “Karma?” I repeat with skepticism.
“Yes,” she replies, twisting the cap back onto her nail polish bottle and placing it on the nightstand. “Karma comes after everyone eventually. You can’t get away with screwing people over your entire life, I don’t care who you are. What goes around comes around. That’s how it works. Sooner or later the universe will serve up a nice, steaming-hot plate of revenge to Mason Brooks. No matter how good his hair looks after soccer practice.”
“Sounds like wishful thinking to me.” I look down at the magazine in front of me and stare at a bright and glossy advertisement for tampons featuring a girl in tight white spandex pants (who is obviously supposed to be on her period and not caring in the slightest that her white pants are practically hugging her crotch) riding piggyback on the back of a guy who I assume is her boyfriend. I scowl at the picture and grunt in disgust. “Boys just don’t act the way they do in the tampon ads, do they?”
“Huh?” Jade leans over to see what I’m referring to. “Oh, right. No, they don’t.”
“They don’t give you piggyback rides when you’re too tired to walk. They don’t come to your rescue when you’re in trouble. They just take what they want from you and then move on.”
Jade nods solemnly. “Yep. After I told Seth I wasn’t ready to have sex, he simply moved on to someone who was.”
“And I was already planning this big bash for Mason’s eighteenth birthday next month. He knew that!”
Jade shakes her head in disgust. “Ungrateful scum.”
After about fifteen more minutes of good, old-fashioned guy bashing, I fear that we’ve started to sound like bitter, midlife divorcées and I decide that I should probably get myself home before the cynicism starts to permanently stick to me.
I was hoping I’d be able to skip the family dinner that night since I pretty much lost my appetite ever since I threw up in a back alley in downtown San Francisco. Plus I haven’t exactly told my parents and my sister yet about what happened with Mason. Partially because I’m just not sure I can say the words aloud without bursting into tears again. But mostly because I suppose I’m still clinging to the hope that this is all just a bad dream, that Mason will eventually come to his senses, dump Heather Campbell, and crawl back to me on his hands and knees.
But from the moment I walk through the door, I can tell that skipping dinner is not going to be an option.
“Sit down, Maddy,” my mom says sternly as I attempt to pass by the kitchen and head upstairs to my room. “We need to talk.”
I know right away that my parents are pissed about something.
“I already ate,” I protest as I slump into the chair next to my little sister, Emily, who is shoveling pasta into her mouth.
“I think you’re in trouble.” She states the obvious with a mouth full of red sauce.
“The school called this afternoon,” my mom begins. “They said you didn’t show up to any of your classes and wanted to know if I would excuse your absence.”
“And?” I reply blankly. “Did you?”
My mom looks to my dad and then back at me. “Yes, but only because I trust you had a good reason for skipping school.”
“I did,” I assure them. “Now can I go upstairs and study?”
But I can tell from the look on my father’s face that the answer is a very firm (and slightly annoyed) no.
I sigh and slump further down in my seat. “Do I really have to tell you?”
My parents exchange a glance before replying “Yes” in absolute perfect synchronicity. Sometimes I swear they practice that kind of stuff before they go to bed at night.
“I want to know too!” Emily chimes in, but my mom quickly shushes her.
“Fine,” I sputter, feeling the tears already starting to well up in my eyes. “Mason kissed another girl on Saturday night and then they showed up together at school today. So now we’re probably over. As is my life. That’s why I left early.”
There’s a loud clank as my sister’s pasta fork hits the plate and she stares at me in astonishment. I quickly look to the floor.
“Who’d he kiss?” Emily asks eagerly, and I’m fully expecting
my parents to shush her again and inform me with sympathetic eyes that I don’t have to answer that, but they don’t. Instead they both continue to stare at me, and I soon realize that they’re just as curious as she is.
But I’m really not in the mood to satisfy anyone’s drama-hungry curiosity, so I simply scoot my chair away from the table and mumble, “I don’t really want to talk about it. Can I be excused now? I have to study.”
My mom quickly nods, and I stand up and walk away, leaving everyone in a stunned silence.
As soon I reach my room, I shut the door behind me. I do actually have homework to finish, but I can’t possibly imagine doing it. Instead, I prepare for a long night of what is commonly referred to as “wallowing.” And it makes perfect sense. For about forty-five minutes straight I do nothing but stare at the wall. Eventually, I even become convinced that it might possibly be a wall-staring world record. But because I don’t have the energy or the will-power to get up from the spot that I’ve decided to occupy for the rest of the night and check the Internet to see if it really is a world record, I suppose I will never know.
THE DALAI WHO?
For the rest of the week I did my best to avoid both Mason and Heather at all costs. And after four days of making myself completely invisible at school, you would think that Mason, being the good class president that he is, would have taken notice of my extended absence and picked up the phone to see how the person in his previous relationship was doing after walking in on the shock of her life.
But no. There were no phone calls. No text messages. No e-mails. Mason had gone radio silent.
That is until he showed up on the other side of my front door on Friday afternoon to exchange all of the “stuff” that we’d left at each other’s houses over the past two years. No, I’m not kidding. Those were the first words he had the nerve to say to me after what happened at the Loft: “I came by to pick up my stuff.”
The Karma Club Page 4
