“I’m not even sure I should keep playing. We sucked at the dance.”
“No you didn’t,” I said.
His expression changed, and it made me wish I had settled on a specific shred of positive feedback. Instead, I just kept grinning.
“Or I was thinking we’d call ourselves Heimlich Maneuver,” Forrest said, plopping into our denim sectional couch.
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, that was a cool thing you did.”
“You’re probably just happy that Piper’s okay,” I said, immediately sorry that I had.
“She’s a cool girl.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said.
“We’re not going out anymore, not that we ever even were.”
I was happy to hear him say it, but I knew my path wasn’t clear. Rumors were flying about who Forrest would date next. Lauren and Charlotte, twins in the eighth grade, were both supposedly interested.
“So you’re a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy?”
Why could I not stop myself from saying dumb things?
Before Forrest could answer, Trevor stepped backward out of the game closet and pivoted toward us, carrying what must have been eleven board games. They were stacked so high they blocked his face at the nose, so we could only see his eyes.
“Hey, guys,” Trevor said, his voice muffled by the armload of colorful boxes. As he walked, arms completely extended, the boxes prevented him from seeing the edge of a little half-moon carpet my mom had in front of the fireplace. He stumbled and pitched forward just as he was asking if we wanted to play Life.
It was as if someone grabbed both of his feet from behind. Trevor was momentarily airborne and then belly flopped to the floor. The board games splatted on the floor, and most lost their lids and their contents.
“Oh, my gosh, Trevor, are you all right?” I asked.
But Trevor didn’t answer me. He quickly gathered himself and went tearing up the stairs, in search of his mom, I guessed. On the floor, the little Life cars were mingled with Monopoly money and Parcheesi pieces.
“That kid’s an idiot,” Forrest said.
“You are so mean!”
“Yeah, that’s what Piper always said. And Taylor.”
I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and try not to say something stupid. Here was my opportunity. Or at least I could change the subject and ask him if he really was moving. The For Sale sign remained in his front yard. I checked it regularly.
“Dinner, guys!” my mom called from above.
Upstairs, at the table, Forrest was sitting in the seat farthest away from mine, but it did afford me a good view of him. His table manners left something to be desired. I saw his mother take the napkin that was folded under his fork and put it in his lap. He ate his barbecued kebabs with gusto and left the chunks of red pepper, zucchini, and onion on his plate. Mr. and Mrs. McCann asked a few polite questions of me: How’s school going? and so on. I told them about the track team and how I now liked running.
“Oh, that’s marvelous,” Vera said. “Forrest, you’ve been running some, too, for football. Right?”
Mrs. McCann offered this bit of conversation hopefully, like she was throwing a long pass. Her son caught it.
“Yeah, we do hills in football,” he said.
“Jemma’s running 5Ks now,” my father said proudly.
“I’ll run with you sometime,” Forrest said. “We’ll see who’s faster.”
“You might be faster, but I’ll finish,” I said, hoping this would be taken as gently teasing, not obnoxious.
“Oooooohh,” Trevor said. “That sounds like a challenge, Forrest.”
“Bring it,” Forrest said, and the parents laughed appreciatively.
“Don’t you wish you were in shape like them?” my mother said, leaning toward my dad. “Peter hasn’t sprinted since the time the lawn mower took off without him.”
And with that, it seemed like we were excused. I knew Forrest and I would be stuck playing a board game with Trevor, and I thought of the jumble of pieces downstairs. Before I tackled that, I wanted to get to the s’mores. I took the sectioned tray of graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate pieces outside to the grill. I carefully stacked up three s’mores and placed them on the grill. I closed the lid and enjoyed the pillow of warmth it provided in the cold autumn night.
The screen door creaked open and Forrest walked out. I could see him only in outline, the kitchen aglow behind him. He was tall and his wavy hair was just the right amount of messy. I even liked the way he walked, one of those long-limbed, gangly boy shuffles. How much I liked him hit me again, as if for the first time.
“Got one of those for me?”
“Sure, they’re cooking now.”
And then we stood together, smelling the melting sweetness and just waiting. It reminded me of the time we were on a ski lift together and I couldn’t think of enough to say to fill the quiet. I wondered if this was what it felt like when you were a couple, just being in the same spot thinking your own thoughts together. I opened the grill, and the s’mores were most certainly done, but I closed it again because I wanted to stay there with him. I thought about updating him on the Pink Locker Society, but Forrest broke the silence.
“What you said before about me, about Taylor and Piper—”
I cut him off.
“Sorry, that’s not my business really.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings.”
OMG. Just like that we were having a real conversation about the very topic I most wanted to discuss.
“Well, maybe you just need to tell a girl why you don’t like her, if you don’t like her anymore. Girls want to know.”
Forrest leaned against the low stone wall near our grill and shook his head.
“Girls always want answers. I don’t have any answers, Jem.”
It was the first time he had shortened my name this way.
“But you must know how you feel—if you like someone or not. I mean, if you don’t know, who does?”
I tried to say this kindly, like a friend would. He shrugged and looked like maybe he didn’t actually know. Was that possible? I certainly knew how I felt.
“I’m taking a break from girls, actually,” he said.
“Yeah, that’ll work,” I said, with a giggle.
Over his shoulder, I pictured Lauren and Charlotte, their shiny hair and bright smiles. The imaginary twins waved at me, and Charlotte winked.
“That won’t work. Girls will always like you. You’ll eventually say yes to someone.”
Forrest shifted lower on the stone wall and sat down. He stared at the ground a while. My s’mores were definitely dripping all over the inside of the grill now. Then he stood up.
“Okay, better plan. I need a cool girl, who’s a friend, who will act like she’s my girlfriend, but she’s not. A fake girlfriend would be perfect.”
My heart started that familiar drumbeat in my chest.
Was he saying me? Because I could play that role. I’d win an Oscar. But I wouldn’t be acting.
Then Forrest turned to me and held me in his gaze long enough that I think he was considering me for the job. With my eyes, I tried to say “I accept the job.”
“For-rest! Jemma! Can you guys play a game with Trevor?”
It was his mom, Vera, poking her head around the screen door.
“Sure, Ma,” he called.
Then, to me, Forrest said, “Sounds like you better get all those game pieces cleaned up.”
I gave him a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look.
But before he walked away, he found my hand in the dark and squeezed it twice. It wasn’t like he held my hand or laced his fingers in with mine. He just leaned toward me, found the hand dangling at my side, and gave it a squeeze-squeeze. It happened so fast there was no time to decide to squeeze his back. I watched him go into the house, my mind a blank.
Then w
hen the door slammed, my mind refilled again with all the thoughts I had been holding at bay—what he said, what he meant, what I said and he probably thought I meant.
Playing a game of Life with someone you like brings up all kinds of issues. As the game gets started, you have to get married, and before you know it, you have little ones in the backseat—pink and blue pegs that look to me like lowercase i’s. Did Forrest ever think, as I did, about what it would be like to be married and have a family? That thought was even more on my mind because of what arrived in the mail just days ago: as promised, an invitation to Ms. Russo’s and Mr. Ford’s December wedding.
After the squeeze-squeeze, as we sat on the floor playing Life, I was on high alert for other signs that maybe Forrest liked me. Would it be wrong to say I’d be his fake girlfriend, if for me, I would not be faking it?
“Just spin the spinner already, Trev,” Forrest said.
Trevor seemed to be enjoying this game so much, he didn’t care how long it took.
We had eaten our s’mores by now and were all starting to yawn.
When it was my turn, Forrest startled me by saying, “Wait!”
I looked up and saw him reach his hand toward my hair. He narrowed his eyes, like he was looking for something in my ponytail.
“Ew! What’s that?” he said.
“What? What?” I said, my hands flying up to my hair. “A bug maybe? From when we were outside?”
“Let me see,” Trevor said, invading my personal space.
“Back off,” Forrest said. Then he reached in with his thumb and pointer finger and grabbed it, tugging on a few strands of my hair, too. He thrust the mystery invader right up in my face. It was too close for me to focus on, so I pulled back to see.
“It’s a dust bunny,” he said, and blew it off his fingertips.
“Thanks,” I said, gathering myself and straightening out my ponytail. “Isn’t that what apes do for each other? Groom each other’s fur?”
What I didn’t say, but thought, was that I thought this was what apes who were mates did for each other. There were about two more hours to fill as the adults laughed and talked upstairs. We finally finished Life and gave a unified “No” when Trevor asked to play again. We did play a little cards, Crazy 8s mostly, and then my mom came downstairs to tell us the McCanns were leaving. Trevor was half asleep on the couch. Forrest gave him a nudge and we all started the parade upstairs.
As the McCanns were pulling on jackets and the grown-ups were hugging, my mom said, “We’ll definitely have to do this again. I’m so glad you’re not moving.”
They’re not moving!
“Aww. I feel guilty you invited us to dinner because you thought we were moving,” Mrs. McCann said as she jiggled an arm into her jacket. “But the stars just didn’t align, and, like I said, it’s probably best anyway. The kids don’t want to leave.”
I looked at Forrest and he looked at me. Trevor leaned in and smiled, blocking my view. Monkey in the middle. And then we were standing on the porch, the three of us, waving good-bye. I watched the McCanns’ red taillights until they faded from view.
Twenty-seven
Due to the s’mores and so much more, sleep did not come quickly that night. My head was like an adding machine, tabulating and adjusting all that had happened in search of the bottom line. Progress was made, you might say. (Duhh! This was huuuuge.) When even I had enough of the remembering and analyzing, I checked my phone for PLS messages. It was oddly comforting to see that while I was going through good times or hard times, there were other girls out there doing just the same.
While Forrest and I were talking over the gas grill, Queen Quitter had checked in with a message. My last response to her on the PLS Web site had been about women’s sports in general. In case she didn’t know, I told her about Title IX and those “girls from Yale.” I hoped the story wouldn’t make her feel guilty for wanting to quit but would encourage her to do what she wanted to do. “Tell someone what you’re thinking,” I wrote. “It’s a different kind of brave, but you can do it!”
Dear PLS,
Shock of all shocks, I took someone’s advice. Namely, yours. And no, everything did not magically get better overnight. But I do feel a tremendous relief. Like taking off tight-tight shoes. I told my parents that I was just not happy ice-skating so much. (There! Now, you almost definitely know who I am.)
Hello, Tia Abernathy. Also known as Taylor’s best friend.
At first, my parents were so surprised. You would have thought that I told them I was leading a secret life as a spy! But they calmed down and I told them I just couldn’t keep doing it, that it was taking so much of my energy, I could barely think about anything else. I am officially taking the next 3 months off. It’s only been two weeks, but I already think I might miss it a little. Is that crazy?
Anyway, if you want to know if I ever go back to the ice, just listen to the morning announcements or watch the sports pages of the newspaper. What am I doing with all my extra time? Sometimes nothing, but next week I’m starting something brand new. I’m taking lessons to learn how to dive. Like in a pool. I can’t wait! The PLS rules, and I’m your friend for life!
Queen Diver (formerly Queen Quitter)
Could it be that working for the PLS was the one thing that I am really good at? Not that I said anything, like, miraculous to Queen Quitter. But I think I really helped her. I hope I did, even if Tia is Taylor’s friend.
I went to sleep with a smile on my face. But I slept less than usual. With Forrest on my mind, I was up earlier than my parents that Sunday morning. I poked around the house, which was far from the neat and tidy place it was before the dinner party. I went downstairs and saw that the Life game was still out. Then I opened a few of the games that had spilled when Trevor took his tumble. While I had been pulling the pleasantly charred s’mores off the grill, Forrest had cleaned up the games—sort of. A close inspection showed that game cards and game pieces shared the same bag. Nothing had a rubber band around it, and some of the game boards weren’t folded correctly. I fixed them happily, knowing who had touched them last.
After I ate breakfast, I could have woken my parents up, but I decided to go for a run instead. I put on my shorts, sweatshirt, and sneakers. Then I left a note on the counter, telling them which route I was taking. It was the kind of morning that tricks you into thinking it’s warm, but it was only warm and sunny on the porch. By the time I descended the steps and jogged to the sidewalk, I wished I had worn my mittens.
But after a few blocks, I felt myself fall into rhythm and my body heat cranked up. It was cold enough that by the time I got home, I knew my cheeks would be flushed red. My mind started to wander the way that it did only when I ran and when I stood in the shower too long. Ideas or connections would just come to me. For one, I decided that there was no reason why Bet had to depend on MSTV and Principal Finklestein to air her show. I would help her find another way. Maybe I’d even help her set up her own Web site.
I also decided that I was going to commit myself to becoming a runner. (I wasn’t worried anymore that being an athlete was going to make me an extra-slow bloomer. That turned out to be not true.) And no, I wasn’t the fastest person on the team, but I liked it and I could run for a long distance without having to stop and walk, like some people did. I would talk to my coach about training in a more focused way. Left-right, left-right. My feet seemed to know how to do this without me even thinking about it. Sometimes it felt like it would be easier to keep going than to stop. But only sometimes.
Do you ever think you see little hints (from fate, from God—who knows?) that point you in the direction you need to go? I found out that the race number that Ms. Russo gave me belonged to K. Switzer, also known as Kathrine Switzer. She was the first woman to sign up and run in the Boston Marathon. Do you imagine she crossed the finish line to a great celebration of girl power? Not exactly. Because it was 1967, and it had been a men-only race, one of the guys in charge of the marathon tried to push h
er off the course. But still she finished.
So I don’t know who our Mystery Pink Lady is, but she must know that I’m on the track team. That race number, and the story behind it, felt like a valentine, something intended especially for me.
My jogging path wound, as it always does, by Forrest’s house. I looked to see if the For Sale sign was gone. From a few houses away, I didn’t see it anymore. The garage door was open, and I could hear someone bouncing a basketball, though I couldn’t yet see who was bouncing it. Left-right, left-right. I slowed my pace. Please don’t let it be Trevor. Please don’t let it be Trevor. And then I looked up. It was Forrest.
I liked him morning-rumpled. His hair was a little bed-heady, and he was wearing a faded green hoody over flannel pajama bottoms. Forrest went in for a lay-up at the top of his driveway. Ka-chung! Miss. He tried another. Swish. His back was to me as he went after the ball. Right then I could have stopped or kept on going. I slowed my pace to a jog and then to a walk. I kicked some leaves as I got closer. He heard me and turned around.
“Hey,” he said.
I couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he was glad to see me or just amused at the sight of me on the lip of his driveway.
“Hey, Forrest,” I said. “Let’s see how fast you can run.”
Ask the PLS
Dear PLS,
What do I do if I get my period at school? I know you’re going to say “Be prepared,” but what if my locker jams and my mom doesn’t pick up her cell phone and the school nurse is out and my teacher is a guy?
The What If Girl
Dear What If Girl,
Wow, you’ve thought of everything—everything that can go wrong, that is. The good news is that things usually go more smoothly than that. The best approach is to be prepared for any situation. Have supplies with you, tucked in your bag. Then it won’t matter who’s answering their phone or which gender your teacher is. Lots of girls tell us they store their pads in a pencil case or makeup case. No one knows what’s inside, except you. Think pink!
Dear PLS,
Best Kept Secret Page 9
