by Lara Zielin
“Sure,” Jess said, lifting her small shoulders in a shrug. “They’re just pretty much the worst things for you ever.”
“Yeah, well, Sylvia likes them,” I muttered. I hadn’t meant to bring up her name, but there it was. Lots of days we shared a package of cupcakes and a bag of chips for lunch. If we weren’t going off to McDonald’s, that is. My mom said I should get used to the idea of eating healthier since my metabolism would one day slow down and I wouldn’t be able to eat any of the stuff I loved without gaining fifty pounds. Sylvia would say that the only time to worry about something was when it was staring you in the face. And then she’d reach for another cupcake.
“That’s pretty cool about Sylvia and the prom court,” Jess said. “I just hope she doesn’t screw it up.”
I swallowed a thick chunk of frosting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jess unsealed a bag of what looked like banana chips. She popped one into her mouth. “I’m just saying, I don’t think she’s spending all that time with that new girl, Beth Daniels, because Beth is helping her with her homework.”
The last chunk of cupcake went down like a rock. “What do you mean, time with Beth? How do you know?”
Jess shifted in the front seat so she could look at me directly. “I have seventh hour with Sylvia. She’s skipped class with Beth twice now. I’ve seen them walk out to the parking lot together. I don’t know where they go, but they’re definitely together. I noticed she hasn’t really been in fencing class, either.”
I shrugged. “Maybe it’s a pregnancy thing.”
“See, that’s just it,” Jess said offhandedly. “If it’s a pregnancy thing, why isn’t she hanging out with you? Aren’t you guys best friends?”
“Of course we’re best friends,” I fired back. “Just because she hangs out with someone else for a little while doesn’t mean we’re not best friends.”
“Except Beth pretty much hates you,” Jess said, chewing on another banana chip.
“For fuck’s sake, how do you know all this?” I asked, my blood surging. “First you figure out Sylvia’s pregnant before everyone else. Now you know how a girl who’s been at school for a matter of days feels about me.”
Jess stared out the windshield. “When all people see about you is your deformity, they sort of expect that’s all you see as well. I got really good at learning how to be invisible, kind of. I can pretty much be in a classroom or a hallway and watch and listen without anyone noticing.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t give me that ‘oh, I have a deformity, I’m invisible’ crap. I don’t believe it for a second.”
Jess put her claw hand in my face. “This is what people see.” I pushed it out of the way. Jess didn’t even blink. “And I am invisible a lot of the time. But if you have to know, I figured out Sylvia was pregnant when my mom and I were buying a gift for my cousin at Baby Warehouse. I saw Sylvia there with her mom.”
“So? How did you know Sylvia and her mom weren’t picking out a gift too?”
“Technically, I didn’t. But when I saw Sylvia with the note in gym class, plus the fact that her skin is all glowy and she’s rounded out, I put it together. It’s not rocket science.”
“Except now you’re spying on Sylvia and Beth. And me. Why?”
Jess folded up what was left of her banana chips and put them in her lunch sack. “I have business class with Mrs. Wagner and about a thousand of her stupid cheerleaders. All they talk about is the prom. Some of them are worried that Sylvia might actually get the crown. I’m tuned in because I want to see how all this goes down.”
I sat back. “Get the crown? How’s that possible if Sylvia was only nominated as a joke?”
“Yeah, but think about Tommy Oakwell. Or other kids who have more in common with people like Sylvia than Tiffany Holland. What if they all vote for Sylvia?”
I stared out the window. I’d never thought about it that way before. “Mrs. Wagner used this funny word the other day,” Jess continued. “Groundswell. I looked it up and it means ‘a surge of support.’ She said a groundswell could actually turn the election.”
I turned down the CD player so I could focus on Jess’s words. “Are you serious? She thinks Sylvia has a chance?”
Jess nodded. “But here’s the thing. She says she’ll never let Sylvia win. She says a pregnancy should disqualify her. And in case you didn’t know, Mrs. Wagner counts the ballots.”
That day after school, I was getting ready to head over to Sylvia’s house when Fitz jogged up to me in the parking lot.
“Hey, Aggie,” he said. “You got a sec?”
I pushed down the surge of happiness I felt at the sight of him. He has a girlfriend, I reminded myself. And Neil might want to get back together. “What?” I asked.
“I just, you know, wanted to catch up,” Fitz said. “Wanted to make sure we were cool or whatever.”
I kicked the heel of my boot against the ground. “Why wouldn’t we be cool?”
Fitz looked toward the end of the lot where cars were streaming onto the main road. “Just, you know, the Becky Quinn thing. Allie has a big mouth.”
So do you. And I bet you used it on Becky. I plastered an expression of boredom on my face. “So? What do I care about any of that?”
“I didn’t say you did. I just, you know, invited her over when I thought you were still stuck on Neil Bromes.”
“I’m not stuck on Neil Bromes,” I said, wanting to believe it.
“Yeah. I hope not, after Jefferson’s party. Real gentleman, that one.”
I squinted at him. “Why are we talking about this?”
Fitz stepped closer. The afternoon sunshine radiated off his skin. “Because even though you wear all that makeup, you’re pretty easy to read.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fitz smiled. I stared at the way his lips moved. “You pretend to hate the Bass Masters, but I think you secretly like it.”
“I not-so-secretly think you’re full of crap,” I said.
“You pretend to be annoyed by me, but I think deep down you like me.”
I felt naked. Like all of a sudden I was standing on top of a mountain in nothing but my bra and underwear.
“Let’s go out sometime,” Fitz said. “At the very least let’s go to prom. You and me.”
“Prom is stupid,” I said. Nothing about my voice was convincing.
Fitz leaned in closer. “See. You’re doing it again. I think you pretend to think prom is stupid, but somewhere underneath all those black clothes, you’d love to go.”
The words of Neil’s e-mail came rushing back to me. I want to see you and work this out. It had been four days, but I hadn’t e-mailed him back yet. I should have. Because what if Neil wanted to go to prom with me? I couldn’t just go jumping into being with Fitz before I’d found out what Neil had to say about our relationship. Could I?
“I—I don’t know,” I stumbled.
Fitz’s blue eyes darkened. “I was never dating Becky if that’s what your hang-up is.”
“I don’t care about Becky,” I said. “I thought we’d established that.”
“So, then, is it Neil?”
“No.”
Fitz studied my face. “See, that’s the thing. I don’t believe you.”
I tilted my chin. “I don’t care what you believe.” I said it even though my brain was screaming at me to shut up. I was being a total bitch. Fitz asked me to the prom, and here I was, saying no so I could figure out where things stood with Neil—God knows why.
Fitz laughed, but there was no warmth to it. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll see you around.” He turned and started across the parking lot. I thought about calling after him, just so we wouldn’t end the conversation on such a sour note, until I remembered I was on a mission to find Sylvia. I shoved thoughts about Fitz to the back of my brain. I’d worry about him later. Right then, I had to hunt down my best friend.
Chapter Sixteen
THURSDAY, APRIL 16 / 3:32 P
.M.
I drove to Sylvia’s house and parked my car on the street across from her driveway. Her car wasn’t there, and neither was her mom’s. Her house was dark and quiet.
On my way over, I’d texted and called her every five minutes, letting her know where I was and that I was waiting for her. I didn’t care if I had to sit there all night: I was going to talk to Sylvia no matter what it took.
I wanted to know what was going on.
Where r u? I wanted to text her.
Why r u ignrng me?
R u mad at me?
But I kept my fingers off the keys of my phone. I figured it would be better to not have this conversation anywhere, or any way, but in person.
After a few minutes in the car, I rolled down a window. The sun was sparkling through the new buds on all the trees. I took a deep gulp of air, then cracked open Catch-22. It actually wasn’t half bad—nothing like the last book we’d read in class, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce, which had me about stabbing my eyes out.
I was so engrossed in chapter 31, where a character named Doc Daneeka is running around trying to convince people he’s not dead, I almost didn’t notice when Sylvia pulled into her driveway. It was the slam of the car door that finally jarred me back to reality.
I looked up in time to see Sylvia getting out of the car. She was carrying a box of something, resting it against her stomach.
I bolted out of my seat and up the blacktop. “Hey,” I said, “I’ve been wait—” Beth emerged from the other side of the car. I hadn’t even noticed her.
“What are you doing here?” Beth asked. Her horseface wrinkled with disdain.
“Hey, chill,” Sylvia said to Beth. “If Aggie wants to come over, she can.”
Before I could voice a relieved thanks, Sylvia turned back to me. She shifted the box in her hands. It looked like it was filled with orange paper. “So, why are you here, exactly?”
My chest started to hurt—the same dull ache I’d experienced the day Neil had dumped me. “We need to talk,” I said, ignoring whatever was going on inside my ribs. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“What are you, her babysitter?” Beth asked.
Something in my head exploded. “Can you shut the fuck up for five minutes? I’m not talking to you.”
Beth balled her fist and took a deep breath. I put my weight in my heels and was getting ready to fight her when Sylvia yelled “Hey!” Both Beth and I turned.
“Cut this crap out,” she said. I noticed her eyes were ringed with dark circles that weren’t makeup. “I don’t have the energy for it. Beth, Aggie and I need to talk. Maybe you should just go inside the house.”
Beth trembled with fury, but obediently, without another word, she went inside the small bungalow. Once she’d slammed the door shut behind her, Sylvia rounded on me.
“Seriously, Ag,” she said, “what are you starting all this for?”
“Me?” I asked, squinting at her. “Are you kidding? I just wanted to talk to you.” I tried to get my voice under control. “Didn’t you get my text messages?”
Sylvia pulled her phone out of her pocket. “The stupid thing’s been blowing up because of the prom court thing. I’ve gotten so many calls and texts, I’ve stopped answering.”
Jess’s word from lunch came thundering back to me: groundswell. The Tommy Oakwells of St. Davis High were rallying around Sylvia.
Sylvia scrolled through a couple of messages. “Damn, are you trying to stalk me or what?”
I would have laughed except for the fact that my heart felt like it was in my feet. “Sylvia, what is going on? Why haven’t we been talking? What’s happening with the prom?”
Sylvia set down her box and put her hands on her lower back. “It’s only been since Monday that we haven’t talked,” she said. “Seriously, this feels like you’re going all Single White Female on me.”
“It just seems like a lot, when we used to talk every day,” I said, suddenly feeling small and stupid. Was I imagining things? Surely not, with Beth Daniels inside Sylvia’s house, where I could bet she was peeking out the windows.
“There’s just some stuff going down right now,” Sylvia said, looking off toward a neighbor’s house. “I can’t tell you about it.”
“What?” I asked. “We tell each other everything. What’s different this time?”
Sylvia shifted her gaze from the house to me. “It’s kind of complicated right now. It might be a bad time for us to hang out, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Sylvia glanced back at the house. The living room curtain twitched.
“Look, Ag,” Sylvia said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve never, ever given a shit about who your mom is. You know that. But right now, it’s probably not the best time for me to be hanging out with the principal’s kid. I just need a little space. That’s all I’m going to say.”
My mom. I was back to being the principal’s bitch, only this time, somehow, it was in relation to Sylvia. The ache in my chest started to throb. “So, what? We’re not friends anymore? Because of my mom?”
Sylvia’s voice was suddenly hard. “Because of a lot of things.”
“What other things?”
“Well, some of the stuff you said about Ryan, for starters.”
“Ryan? What’d I ever say about him?”
“That he won’t stick around for me.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re mad at me because I was honest about what I thought of him?”
Sylvia put her hands on her hips but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, come on. Seriously? This is stupid.”
“Oh, so you think it’s stupid that I’m having his kid? Do you think it’s stupid that maybe I’m freaking out a little? I mean, I’m going to be raising a person that’s half him. And you want to go dissing him at every turn.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—”
“Forget it,” Sylvia interrupted. “You wouldn’t understand.” She picked up her box and started walking toward the house. “Just—let’s talk when prom is over.” But she didn’t even look at me when she said it. She just stepped into the house and closed the door behind her.
I stood in the driveway, dazed, for at least ten seconds before my brain kicked in. Sylvia had dumped me. We weren’t friends anymore. I took a deep breath and was summoning the energy to make my way back to the car when I spotted an orange piece of paper on the ground. I bent over and picked it up.
It was rectangular, with a couple boring straight lines on it. There was no writing, no date, no nothing. I had no idea what it was.
A breeze whipped up and rattled the branches overhead. I dropped the paper, which tumbled away, and walked to the car. The engine roared and the tires squealed when I took off down the street. I waited until I was at least a mile away before I started bawling like a stupid baby.
Chapter Seventeen
SATURDAY, APRIL 18 / 10:25 A.M.
Saturday morning, bright sunlight streamed into my room, forcing me awake. After peeing and brushing my teeth, I tried not to stare too long at my reflection in the mirror. I hated how I looked without makeup.
When I got downstairs to the kitchen, I stopped. My plans to drown all my feelings about Sylvia in a tower of frozen waffles and at least a gallon of maple syrup were zeroed out at the sight of my mom. She was standing at the counter making pancakes from scratch. She looked up when she heard me. “Good morning,” she said. She was still wearing her pajamas. I glanced at the clock. It was ten thirty.
“Mom, are you okay?” I asked. My mom was never in her pajamas past seven. Ever.
She flicked a couple drops of water onto the griddle. They hissed and danced. “Never better. Why?”
I grabbed a mug and poured myself some coffee. “Just, you know. It’s not really like you to still be in your pajamas.” Making pancakes. And not working.
My mom ladled her pancake batter into
perfect circles on the griddle. “I decided to sleep in. When I got up, I wanted pancakes. I figured you’d eat a few.”
My stomach rumbled. “Sure. Where’s Dad?”
“He left to get the oil changed in the car and run some errands. It’s just you and me.”
I couldn’t remember the last time my mom and I had been alone in the house together—and in the same room. It actually wasn’t half bad standing in the kitchen with her, both of us still in our pajamas.
“Sense and Sensibility is on,” my mom said, placing the first batch of fresh pancakes onto a plate. “I’m recording it on the DVR. You want to watch it with me?”
I wrapped my hands around my mug. “I don’t think so. I hate that British love crap.”
“I know. But this version with Kate Winslet is so wonderful.”
I hesitated. “It’s just not my kind of thing.”
My mom stacked more pancakes onto the plate. My stomach rumbled so loudly, I figured Al heard it down at the hardware store.
“Give the movie ten minutes,” my mom said. “We’ll start it while you eat. If you hate it, you walk away when you’re finished with breakfast. Deal?”
I stared at the pancakes. “Deal.”
An hour later, my mom hit pause on the movie so we could take a bathroom break. I’d made it all the way to the part of the movie where Kate Winslet’s character is in London, sending note after note to Willoughby. She refuses to let herself admit he’s not replying.
“I feel so bad for her,” my mom said, standing and stretching. “She’s so in love.”
“She needs that book He’s Just Not That Into You,” I said.
My mom laughed. “Hurry up and do your thing so we can get back to watching.”
When I came back from the bathroom, my mom had cleared the breakfast plates and had two bowls of ice cream out.
“Ice cream?” I asked. “Before noon? Are you kidding?”
I was starting to question whether or not my mom was on some seriously trippy cancer drugs.
