by Mary Strand
I grabbed a handful of Cheetos and started munching, then stopped when they tasted weird, almost fake. I reminded myself they were fake. Fake cheese, fake everything. Suddenly, I got the same feeling looking at Tess. “Chelsea was laughing at me, and you were sitting next to her and laughing, too. I saw you.”
She held up a hand. “She’s a little weird, but she’s been hanging out with Amber, so I’m trying to be nice. I guess their dads work together. But I was laughing at Ms. Mickel. God, she drones on about Jane Austen.”
I nodded, but it still didn’t make sense. She was laughing at Ms. Mickel, not me? And she didn’t love Chelsea? But she’d blown me off yesterday after school, hadn’t she?
She touched my arm. “Do you want to get together after school? We’re all going over to Amber’s house.”
She wanted to hang out. She was acting like herself again. A tiny bubble of hope fluttered inside me.
Until I remembered what Dad and Mom said this morning.
“I can’t.” A voice in my head warned me not to tell her I’d gotten drunk and thrown up yesterday or that I was grounded for life, even though Tess had done stuff like that a million times. “But maybe this weekend?”
As Tess started chattering about some kids who were throwing a party on Friday night, I felt like hugging her. We were still pals. Just like always. Now I just had to talk Mom and Dad into springing me from home confinement.
I mean, they had to. Because I was back in action.
I shuffled my feet into fifth-period Drawing, nibbling on the second Reese’s peanut butter cup I’d grabbed from the vending machine after I dumped the Cheetos in the trash. I still had a hangover, and the guy I liked more than anything had his hands all over Chelsea, but Tess and I were good again.
Hopefully.
I headed to the far side of the room, then tossed my pad, pencil, and eraser on the table and sat down. Half the kids had their sketchpads open and were already busy drawing. I stretched back in my chair, folded my arms, and yawned.
Mr. Reiman strode into the room with a heap of art supplies under his arm and a grim look on his face. I get a kick out of sketching people—like the ballistic expression on a teacher’s face the moment before he nails me with detention—but it’s just doodling. Let’s face it: I took Drawing to avoid Chemistry.
“Class, I hope by now you all have the proper supplies.” Mr. Reiman strolled around the room, peering at pencils and paper and even erasers. Whatever. I zoned out yesterday when he blathered on about art supply stores and what we should buy. Besides, I’d been too busy puking in my closet last night to do anything about it.
Mr. Reiman rolled his eyes at one girl’s sketchpad, then picked up some guy’s pencil and squinted at it. Tsking, he set it back down. “I told you what to buy. I emailed you a handout last week, before class began. Perhaps those who can’t be bothered with instructions need to spend a little time with me after school.”
The first prickle of nerves hit my spine. I glanced down at my tablet and pencils. The eraser didn’t matter, did it? But I’d grabbed my tablet out of Mom’s office yesterday before school, and I knew as soon as I glanced around the room that it wasn’t the type Mr. Reiman was talking about. The pencils? Worse. Chewed-up, trusty old number-two lead pencils, also from Mom’s office.
My hands started sweating when Mr. Reiman got to the front of my row. Five desks away from detention.
Four desks away.
Three desks—
A pad and pencil, not mine, landed on the floor next to my table. A tiny, rail-thin girl with glasses, across the aisle from me and the only person who could’ve dropped them, frowned at me. Like it was my fault she’d dropped them.
When Mr. Reiman glanced at the floor but kept talking to the kid two desks in front of me, I glared at the girl. Instead of glaring back, she reached down and picked up the pad and pencil—and handed them to me.
“You dropped these, right?” Her voice came out a bit tiny, just like her, and she gave me a big nod before darting a glance at Mr. Reiman.
“You know I—” Just as I started to tell her what we both knew, that she dropped them, she shook her head furiously at me, then jabbed her finger at the pad and pencil. A pad and pencil that, based on my quick glance, met Mr. Reiman’s requirements. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
She gave me a tiny smile just as Mr. Reiman reached me.
“Cat Bennet, right?” He glanced from his seating chart to my flushed face. “Let’s take a look.” He frowned at my eraser but nodded at my pad and pencil. I’d already tucked my worthless pad under the new one and shoved the bad pencil to one side. “You need a better eraser, but everything else is fine. I’ll give you a pass on the eraser. Today.”
As he moved back to the front of the room, I let out a relieved sigh and grinned at my tiny savior. “Thanks. I owe you.”
“I’m Megan Case.” She barely whispered the words in her soft voice. “I just thought you needed some help.”
No kidding. But I didn’t know Megan and wasn’t sure I’d even seen her before. Why was she helping me? People weren’t nice for no reason.
At least, none of my friends were.
Thursday afternoon, I rode home on the Mary Shuttle, then shot straight up to my room. Free from the lectures Mary laid on me the whole ride home. Free from the snide remarks I got from a few morons in English, like Jeremy, who didn’t read any more Jane Austen than I did. Free from—
Oh. My. God. My nose scrunched as the stench from Monday night’s pukefest hit me again. I cleaned up the mess after school on Tuesday, but I still choked on the fumes.
Despite the frigid temps, I whipped open the window, then stomped to the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth, and drowned it in liquid hand soap and water. Back in my room, I caught another whiff and gagged. I bent down, covered my nose with one hand, and swiped at the carpeting in the closet with my other hand. The dark stain just sat there.
Argh. I scrubbed harder, finally getting down on my knees to really work it, and got a slight improvement. Giving up, I grabbed a big spray bottle of cologne from my dresser and doused it over the mess. Ew. Eau de Crap. I went to the window, where no breeze fluttered in. Maybe I should just jump out and be done with it.
Oh, wait.
Jane and Liz had moved out, which meant their room was fair game. Sure, I was grounded and couldn’t drive or call or see anyone until I was forty, but no one mentioned anything about where I slept.
I grabbed my backpack and a few clothes—none of the ones in my closet, all of which stank—and walked down the hall. To my new room.
I started by tossing all the clothes Jane and Liz had left behind in a heap on the floor. Reconsidering, I plucked through the heap, setting aside the clothes I wanted. I mean, they obviously didn’t want them or they would’ve taken them to their new apartment. Which made them mine.
Stretching out on Liz’s old bed, I wriggled my toes and grinned. My life still wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely looking up.
I woke up when my butt landed on the floor.
“What the—? You—” I sputtered, pissed and groggy and not totally sure what I was doing on the floor of Jane’s and Liz’s room. Oh, yeah. I’d stolen their room. “You jerk!”
Liz towered over me, hands on her hips, acting like she owned the place. Like she owned this room.
I glanced sideways at Jane, perched on her old bed, neatly folding the clothes I’d tossed on the floor. She didn’t even seem pissed. Maybe she left that to Liz.
But Liz didn’t scare me. Much. I jumped up and hopped on her old bed again. Before I took a breath, she tossed me on the floor. Again.
“Are you stupid?” Liz looked like a thundercloud, and even Jane rolled her eyes at me. “You already have a room. Why isn’t it good enough for you?”
I sniffed. “This is my room now. You guys moved out, I moved in. End of story.”
“So you really do have a death wish.”
“Liz.” Jane gave Liz the tiniest head shake, b
ut I doubted she’d actually stop her. Jane never stopped Liz from doing anything.
I stood up again and plunked myself back down on Liz’s bed, grabbing the headboard for leverage. It took Liz five seconds to yank me off the bed this time. I glared up at her from the floor, wishing I could do Liz some real damage without getting my ass kicked. But Liz is the jock in the family, which makes her as ripped as a girl can be and still look cute. “You guys aren’t moving back in, are you?”
Liz snorted. “Why? Miss us?”
“Not in a million years.”
Liz gave me an odd look, almost like she could see inside me. Liz? No way. “We didn’t totally move out. We just, well, moved out.”
“Like that makes sense. Not.”
Jane piped up. “We promised Dad and Mom we’d spend more time here.”
I twisted in Jane’s direction. “Since when?”
“Dad wasn’t sure Mary should have to handle you, and Mom and Dad aren’t always here.”
Liz dropped onto the floor next to me. Like she was my pal. As if. “So we’re here now. Dad told us to go with the element of surprise.” Liz isn’t exactly the sneaky type, but Dad is. “You’re grounded for a while?”
“At least a month.” Lydia had spent half her life grounded, and she always made a party out of it, but the concept wasn’t exactly working for me. When I told Tess I couldn’t go to the party tomorrow night, figuring she’d be bummed, she actually thought it was funny. “I don’t care.”
Liz snorted. “You’ll care when you miss a Royals basketball game or a movie with your friends.”
“What friends?” Too late, I clapped a hand over my mouth. Liz didn’t need to know my friends were all in various stages of weird these days. Even, part of me had to admit, Tess.
Liz started to say something, but Jane held up a hand. “What’s happening with your friends? I thought you—”
“—had so many?” I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. You wouldn’t understand.”
And they wouldn’t. I didn’t understand. Drew hooked up with Chelsea about two seconds after she arrived in school on Monday. Tess was mostly nice, but not always. And The Book gave Ms. Mickel a daily excuse to torture me in English class, even if only thirty kids knew about it.
Jane gave me a pitying look that would make me want to slap her if she weren’t Jane. If she were Liz, for instance. “I’m sorry about your friends, but they’re not your only problem right now. Did Dad tell you everything?”
“He hasn’t spoken to me since Tuesday morning. I think he wrecked his vocal cords Monday night.” I shrugged. “Why? What did Dad say?”
“He thought you should get a job. As in, a paying job.”
“No way. You guys never worked during the school year.” Lydia joined the circus last summer only as an excuse to go to Wisconsin Dells and hook up with hot circus guys. And she’d done that a little too well, as it turned out.
Even Liz nodded. “We didn’t say it was fair.”
“Besides, Dad never told me I had to get a job.”
“I think he’s still trying to count high enough to work through his anger.” Liz laughed. “Last I heard, he was at a couple million.”
“Oh, like he never got pissed at you.” I fumed, pissed at Dad and starting to get annoyed with Liz and Jane, too. “I can’t believe you guys are taking his side on this.”
Jane shrugged. “We’re your allies, believe it or not.”
Liz snorted, and Jane tossed a pillow at her.
“You’re right. I don’t believe it.” I crossed my arms. “Besides, I’m grounded. I can’t go anywhere.”
Liz threw the pillow back at Jane, hitting her in the gut, then looked at me again. “I think they call it a work-release program. You get released only to go to work. Or to interview for a job.”
Wheels started turning in my head. “I get to drive to these interviews? Didn’t Dad tell you he appointed Mary my chauffeur for the foreseeable future?”
“I told Dad it wasn’t fair to Mary.” Liz held up a hand when my spine went rigid. “Hey, Mary isn’t the one who threw up all over everything.” She gave Jane a sideways grin I didn’t understand. “At least, not lately.”
Mary could fend for herself. But I didn’t want to work and did plan to get out of this godforsaken house.
Any way I could.
Chapter 3
“And you are never to stir out-of-doors, till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter Six
Dad didn’t say a word when he got home from work, but I counted his silence as a Good Thing. He wasn’t yelling or making me do a million chores or even telling me to get a job. Of course, he might be rethinking that. I mean, how stupid can a dad be? Telling me to get a job when the biggest part of my punishment is sitting at home, day after day?
But I wasn’t gonna point it out.
Mom wasn’t home from work yet—she’s a divorce lawyer and had a hearing today—but it was too late in the day to pretend to look for a job anyway. The day after tomorrow was Saturday, and I could spend all day at the Mall of America, pretending to look for a job but actually hanging with my friends.
“Cat?” As I tiptoed through the front hall on my way to the basement, hoping to avoid Dad—and homework—while I watched a movie, Dad called from the living room. Based on the stench, he was smoking one of his nasty cigars.
I stood still, hoping he hadn’t actually heard me.
“Cat? Isn’t that you lurking in the hall?”
Sighing, I trudged into the living room, where Dad sat in the old leather recliner that Goodwill wouldn’t take—which we know for a fact, since Mom tried—and chewed on the end of a fat stogie. I fanned my nose and wondered if Dad even liked cigars or if he smoked them just to annoy Mom.
Dad ignored my wild fanning. “I understand Jane and Liz talked to you about getting a job.”
I walked to the far end of the living room and cranked open a window. Brrr. Fresh air—okay, frigid—and another escape route if our little chat took an ugly turn. “Since when does anyone around here have to get a job during the school year? I thought we were supposed to focus on grades.”
I kept my back to Dad. For a clueless guy, he can be kinda perceptive. If he knew I wanted to get out of jail for a few hours every day, he’d chain me to the collar end of Mary’s leash for the duration.
“You don’t seem . . . happy lately.”
Whoa. That came out of the blue.
I glanced over my shoulder at Dad, just to make sure an alien hadn’t snatched him, then back out the window. Mr. Fogarty across the street was shoveling. Someone’s snowblower had a death rattle. A horn honked at the end of the block. Normal. Unlike anyone currently residing in this house.
“Cat?”
Shrugging, I didn’t turn from the window. “Happy? What’s your definition? Lydia’s in lockdown in Montana. Jane and Liz flew the coop. I’m stuck here with—”
The front door slammed.
“—Mary.”
Speak of the devil. “Did you want me? I told Mom I had to stay after school today, Dad.”
Seeing her blush, I snorted. “What did you and Josh have to do after school?”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You are so lame.”
“I’m lame? I’m not the one who—”
“Girls.” Dad held up a hand. “Cat, what Mary does after school isn’t your concern. I’m sorry if you’re unhappy, but none of it—whatever it is—is Mary’s fault.”
“It’s never Mary’s fault. Or Liz’s or Jane’s fault. Throw the blame on Lydia and Cat, why don’t you? Except, gee, Lydia isn’t here now, so let’s heap it all on Cat.”
Mary opened her mouth to say something, but Dad cut her off, sending her upstairs with a wave of his hand.
Dad turned to me, his piercing gaze cutting right through me. “Something’s obviously wrong, Cat.”
“And I’m supposed to pour out my hear
t to you? Like Liz, your favorite child?”
Still watching me, Dad puffed on his cigar, then blew out a ring of smoke. We both watched it waft to the ceiling.
Finally, he looked back at me. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Liz doesn’t pour her heart out to anyone, least of all me. And I have no favorites.”
I rolled my eyes as I walked right past Dad and out of the living room. Skipping the movie, I stomped up the stairs and into my room, which still reeked no matter what I did.
Kinda like my life.
I shut my door and curled up on the bed. And cried. I have no idea why.
I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of Liz’s raucous laughter, Mom’s high-pitched screeching, and Mary on her electric guitar, trying to sound like Jimi Hendrix or Joan Jett or whatever. I am so not into Mary’s lame attempts at guitar before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.
Okay, she didn’t sound half bad, but it was too ridiculously early on a weekend morning. Groaning, I rolled over and peered at the clock on the desk. Ten-thirty!
“Cat? Are you up yet?” Mom’s screech carried all the way upstairs and probably halfway to Minneapolis.
What was up with her? Sure, I got loaded on Monday and puked in my closet, but it could happen to anyone. Like, say, Lydia. Often!
“Cat?” The screeching continued, closer now, like Mom might be heading upstairs. “If you aren’t up yet, you’d certainly better be.”
My bedroom door swung open and slammed against the wall.
“I’m up!” Groaning, I grabbed my pillow and pulled it over my face.
“Not from where I’m standing.” The screech faded to a relatively normal tone of voice—for Mom—unless the pillow was just muffling everything. “I believe your father told you that you need to get a job. To help you make better choices.”
I lifted the pillow off my face only far enough to speak. “Actually, he sent Liz and Jane to tell me.”
“That’s just his way. Lord knows he doesn’t always like to handle things directly.”
