I mumble condolences. Apparently Hamlet is a senior phenomenon everywhere, because Phil went to the high school I would have attended if we hadn’t moved, and he did a Hamlet paper senior year, too. As we make our way down the hall, Chelsey babbles on about her boyfriend, about his car, and about the way she plans to wear her hair for the homecoming dance, which is over a month away. As we walk, I glance into the classrooms on either side of the hallway. The yearbook committee pores over a stack of yearbooks from days gone by. Mitchell, a guy with red hair and invisible eyebrows, who was in my English class last year, snaps pictures of his committee friends looking at pictures. How totally meta.
Next door, the French club smears chunks of baguette with gooey cheese while conversing in fractured French. A Warren Miller movie plays a few doors down. Who but the ski club would watch a movie while wearing ski goggles?
We’re about to go through the double glass doors that lead to the commons when I spot Adam in one of the math classrooms. He’s talking to Little Nate and the pear-shaped, striped-shirt guy from lunch.
I pull Chelsey to the wall. “What club is that?”
Chelsey cocks her head. “I’ll find out.” She walks through the open doorway and asks in a chipper voice, “Hey, you—chubby guy with the unflattering striped shirt—what club is this?”
“Chess club,” says Chubby Stripes, completely unfazed by the personal assessment that only Chelsey could get away with.
“Thanks!” Chelsey flips her ponytail and waves good-bye. I slip from my hiding place and follow her through the double doors.
“Chess is, like, the national sport in Nerdville,” she says, “don’t you think?”
As a former resident of Nerdville I can attest to the correctness of her assumption.
“Why did you want to know what club that was, anyway?” asks Chelsey. “You’re not thinking of joining it, are you? That would be such a Vanessa thing to do.” She rolls her eyes.
I slide my book bag higher on my shoulder and force a laugh. “Of course not. I would never join chess club.”
Seriously. Never.
As we walk down the corridor toward the locker room, we pass the student activities bulletin board where the chess club has a flyer inviting new members. It’s right beside the glass-enclosed trophy case, which I can still remember peering into when I was just seven years old.
“Look at that, Nora.” Dad had pointed into the case at the plaque titled RIVERBEND HIGH SCHOOL STATE CHESS CHAMPIONS. There were seventeen brass nameplates, with the oldest dating all the way back to 1976. I followed his finger to the third name from the left, his name, and felt like royalty. I can’t help noticing that the plaque is still there as I quicken my pace and hurry past it.
Chelsey hooks her arm through mine. We squeeze through the door into the locker room, still joined at the elbow, and I cannot believe that I, Nora Fulbright, am on a walking-arm-in-arm basis with Chelsey Oppenheimer, who could write the book on how to be popular. Well, the board book version anyway. I should be overjoyed—I’m practically her protégé. But I can’t help wondering how Chelsey would feel about her protégé’s choice in guys.
Five
DAY TWO OF SCHOOL WE WEAR our cheer uniforms and the guys wear their jerseys in an effort to drum up some last-minute school spirit before tomorrow’s opening game. I arrive at the commons and find Krista waiting with a pair of tall lattes. I slip into a chair and she slides a drink my way.
“Extra hot, nonfat with a sprinkle of cinnamon,” she says.
“Thanks!” That Krista. What would I do without her?
I quickly scan the area—no sign of Adam. I wrap my hands around the cup to warm them. “Is it just me or is it freezing in here?” In my sleeveless top and butt-skimming skirt I am rapidly turning into a cheersicle.
Krista has a cute purple cardigan draped over her shoulders. “I know, it’s awful. I heard someone say the AC is messed up. Again.” She sips her latte through a thin red straw, a technique she claims keeps her teeth white and shiny, then she leans way in. “By the way, every single person with testicles was checking you out when you came in.”
I smile. “Guys can’t resist a girl in a uniform.”
She clears her throat and glances at my chest. “Or a girl who’s recently been crowned Queen of the Nipple Kingdom.”
“What?” I follow her eyes. With the arctic chill in the air it looks like I shoved a couple of jelly beans in my shirt. I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh my god! I should have worn a padded bra. Give me that sweater!”
Krista laughs and dodges my grab. “No way. But I’d be happy to lend you the muskrat. It’s in my locker.”
I groan. The muskrat—a heinous pelt of a sweater that Krista’s mother insists she keep in her locker all year long—just in case.
“I guess I’d rather be warm and rodential than look like this.”
“Excellent point. Or should I say ‘points’?” Krista laughs her ass off. “Sorry,” she says. “Look, I have PE first period and can leave early. Give me your combo and I’ll stick the sweater in your locker.”
The first bell rings and I head to bio with my arms crossed firmly over my chest. Between periods I race to my locker and find the muskrat in all its fuzzy glory. It’s a longish, brownish wraparound with horrific faux-fur trim and a belt. All I need are buckteeth and a tail to complete the outfit. But the sweater is not all Krista has left for me. The inside of my locker door is dominated by a huge heart drawn in red Sharpie. Inside the heart are the words Jake + Nora. Crap! Anyone passing by will see it. I slam shut the locker door and head to French.
The morning is much like yesterday was and like I suspect the rest of the year will be with my current load of classes.
Give me a B!
Give me an O!
Give me an R-E-D!
Thankfully, the day picks up at lunchtime when Chelsey stops me before I even make it to the commons. She’s wearing a little jacket that looks like it was custom-made to go with our uniform.
“Nora? Why are you wearing that—that ‘thing’? You’re supposed to be wearing your cheer uniform.”
I untie the sweater and pull it open. “I am wearing my cheer uniform, but I was freezing.”
“Whatever,” she says. “Ugly sweaters aside, me and some of the other girls are heading to Flying Pie for pizza. Want to come?”
“Sure!” I find Krista in the lunch line and we meet the Monarchs out in the front circle. It’s plenty warm outside—much warmer than inside—so I peel off the muskrat and we all climb into Becca’s mother’s SUV. We have not even walked halfway across the Flying Pie parking lot when I make an astonishing discovery. My cheer uniform is like a superhero suit! It’s like I slipped into a phone booth, put on my uniform and came out a different person. Nora Fulbright—Super Cheer Girl!
Everyone we pass in the parking lot wishes us luck in the game tomorrow. The restaurant is packed with people who have first lunch, and as I make my way to the restroom, at least a dozen guys smile and say hi. Guys I’ve never spoken to before. I take a quick glance down at my chest. All clear. It’s definitely the uniform that’s getting me the attention. At Chelsey’s suggestion we do an impromptu cheer and the owner gives us a free round of soda. We are so hot!
I know what Mom would say about all the attention we’re getting—that a woman should not, for any reason, allow herself to be placed upon a pedestal. She’d quote her own superhero, Gloria Steinem: “A pedestal is as much a prison as any small, confined space.”
But I must say, life on a cheerleading pedestal is a pretty cushy prison.
By the time I stroll into Mr. Bolger’s class, even in this ridiculous sweater, my confidence, which was so rattled yesterday, is fully restored. I do a quick scan for Adam, who is not yet here. I slide into the seat beside the one he sat in yesterday. Mr. Bolger stops me. “Same seats as yesterday, please.”
Sigh. It would be a lot easier to have some face time with Adam if we sat next to each other. I make my way
to the back of the class.
“Hey, Nora!” The football player who gave Jake a fist bump yesterday is holding his hand out for a high five. I slap his hand and wink. My god. When did I learn to wink?
“Nora!” Elsa waves from across the room. “You were so awesome at practice yesterday! You nailed that new tumbling pass!”
I wave back. “Thanks!”
Where is Adam? He should be here, watching me being popular.
“Yo, Nora!” Little Nate gives me a double thumbs-up. He cracks a grin. Wow. I didn’t know they even made front teeth that big. I think about how Jake blew Little Nate off yesterday.
“Yo,” I say, and give him a smile before I slide into my chair.
The bell rings and the front row has an empty chair where Adam should be. I didn’t see him at lunch, but then again, I ate at Flying Pie. He’s probably just late again—still a little confused about the geography of Riverbend High.
Mr. Bolger shuts the door and calls names off his roster.
Could Adam be out sick? Of course I didn’t pass him this morning on my way to school because, lamely, I drove a different route. I worried that he would see me and wonder why I didn’t stop and offer him a ride. After how much it freaked me out yesterday, my days of toting around illegal passengers, even Adam, are over.
God, what if he was walking down the street wondering where I was, not paying attention, and wham! he got taken out by a school bus. I picture the scene at the hospital. Adam, in a coma. His entire body in traction. I stand beside his bed in a black cheer uniform. My face, stained with tears, is buried in my hands. My nose is pink from crying. Adam’s parents, Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad, hold each other, weeping. They’re faced with the awful decision about whether to take their precious only child off life support before he ever had a chance to earn that 4.0.
I pick up a pair of black and silver pom-poms and do a mournful dirge of a cheer, raising my pom-poms in a slow, shuddering circle around my head, taking great care not to knock into any of Adam’s wires or tubes:
Heal those bones
You gotta
Heal those bones (I do a little sob/torn gasp here, but soldier on)
Shout one out for Adam through my megaphone
(fist pumps) Go. Adam. Rock. Adam.
Heeeeaaaaallllllllll (Herkie jump), Adam!
Adam’s eyelids flutter open! His face breaks into a weak smile. There is a chorus line of nurses in white dresses, clapping. Clapping. Clapping.
“Miss Fulbright!”
Mr. Bolger is two feet away from me, clapping.
I stiffen in my chair. Once again the entire class stares at me. Thankfully, Adam is not among them. Mr. Bolger leans in and speaks in a firm voice. “I realize that some of the math might be over your head, Miss Fulbright, but I trust that responding with the word here during roll call is not too much to ask of you.”
My temples pulse as my body pumps all available blood into my face. I raise a tentative hand. “Here.”
Mr. Bolger shakes his head as he returns to the front of the room, where he grabs a pile of worksheets and hands them out. Anyone who has had any algebra ever could solve these problems. I’m racing through them when I’m distracted by the girls in front of me, whispering excitedly. The guy in front of them turns in his seat and speaks in a hushed voice. “I was at the next table over. I saw the whole thing. She totally almost died.”
Who almost died? When? Where?
“Excuse me?” Mr. Bolger is at his desk fiddling with a Rubik’s Cube. He pushes himself up to standing. “Mr. . . .” He scans his roster. “Mr. Heniff, is there something you need to get off your chest so the rest of the class can stay focused on their work?”
“Oh.” The guy who “saw the whole thing” turns back in his seat so he’s facing the right way. “We were just talking about, you know, the thing that happened in the lunchroom.”
Mr. Bolger clasps his hands at his waist. “No, Mr. Heniff, I don’t know what happened in the lunchroom. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”
The guy shifts uncomfortably. “What? You mean you want me to tell you? Here? Out loud?”
“Yes. Tell your story to the class so that you will stop hissing to the ladies behind you and we can all stay focused on our work.”
The guy starts to talk, and Mr. Bolger stops him, insisting that he stand for his oration. For a Mister Rogers lookalike, this guy is brutal! But Mr. Heniff obliges. He rises to his feet, shoves his hands into his front pockets and tells his story.
“So, me and my friends were eating lunch in the cafeteria when all of a sudden, like, one table away, this guy jumps behind this girl and wraps his hands around her chest. My friend was, like, ‘Dude, check it out, that guy is humping her from behind.’ So we all check it out, but pretty soon we figure out that he’s actually doing that choking thing to her.”
“He was choking her?” asks Mr. Bolger.
“No, she was choking. He was doing the Heimlich maneuver,” chimes in a girl a couple of rows up. “I was there, too. It was amazing! Her face had gone this kind of pasty color, and he had his hands like this on her chest.” She places her own folded hands below her sternum and turns so everyone can see. “After three or four squeezes, something came flying out of her mouth.”
“A chunk of hot dog,” says the Heniff guy. “It landed right near my chair.” He reaches into the front pouch of his backpack and holds up the trophy. Mr. Bolger looks like he’s going to puke.
“He saved her life,” gushes one of the girls in front of me.
“He’s a hero,” adds the girl beside her.
“Who?” I ask.
They point to Adam’s empty chair. “The guy that sat there yesterday.”
I bolt to attention. Adam? Saved someone’s life? Of all the days to grab lunch at the Flying Pie! I should have been there to watch. Or to cheer. Or to hand him a sponge or clamps or something.
“Yeah, that was him,” confirms someone else. “And then he took the girl to the nurse’s office.”
Mr. Bolger presses his pale lips together and nods. “Well. That’s some story. Our Mr. Hood deserves quite a bit of credit. And now, can we please finish our worksheet without further comment?”
People adjust in their seats. Pencils scratch on paper.
So, Adam did not get hit by a bus or even a car on his way to school. He’s probably still at the nurse’s office with the girl. That lucky girl, who had his arms wrapped all the way around her. Who was she?
At the end of the day I’m fumbling with the dial on my locker when I look up and, in the throng of people squeezing through the hallway, I see him. Adam. He’s alone, reading a book as he walks, magically managing to avoid a collision with walls or people. Today he’s traded in the khaki shorts for Madras plaid, with the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled down against the chill of the malfunctioning AC. Absorbed in his book, he is completely oblivious to the fact that everyone he passes stops to stare. People point and whisper. In two days he has gone from being the anonymous new guy, to being pegged a loser by Jake and a citizen of Nerdville by Chelsey, to being a Riverbend High living legend. In history, it’s all anyone talked about:
—My friend said he’s already been through medical school and came here only because his parents wanted him to have a “normal” high school experience.
—I heard that girl was technically dead for, like, seven minutes and he brought her back to life.
—Someone told me that back where he used to live, he pulled a whole class of kindergartners out of a burning school bus. Man. That guy could have any girl he wants.
He probably could. And I want him to want me. He’s about to walk right past me when—
“Adam. Hi.” I wave shyly.
He lowers the book, and when he sees me, his face lights up. In the cartoon version of him, little stars would sparkle at the edges of his eyes. “Hey! I haven’t seen you around today,” he says. “How’s it going?”
He noticed that he hasn’t seen me
! “I’m good. Really good. Um, I want to apologize again for the awful ride to school yesterday. The whole day was kind of out of whack. I just wasn’t myself. I stalled out at the light. Then I almost killed Stuart Shangrove—”
As I talk, Adam watches me like he is bird-watcher and I am a new, rare breed. And like a bird, I seem to be chirping incessantly, trying to explain away yesterday’s insanity and make room for a new start. I am mid-babble when he reaches toward me and puts a finger so close to my lips that I feel warmth radiating from his skin. I am suspended in a breathless Sistine Chapel moment, when God and Adam reach out their fingers and almost touch, almost touch, almost touch.
And like the Adam reaching out for God on that legendary ceiling, this Adam, my Adam, never quite touches me. Instead, ever so slowly, he withdraws his hand. “Shhh,” he says, almost in a whisper. “It’s all good. You were having a bad day. We all have those sometimes.”
He smiles and I am teetering on the top of a mountain, on the head of a pin.
The girl next to me slams shut her locker and I am jolted back to the moment. Adam pushes an unruly wave of hair behind his ear. He swallows. “You might think it’s nuts, but I do worry that the soccer ball affected you more than you think it did. I still feel awful about that.” A pushed breath escapes his lips, followed by a laugh. “But really, it was pretty funny when Joshie thought you might be dead.”
I laugh with him and, laughing, I relax. Words, at last, come easily, like they did that first day. “It was pretty impressive that you knew how to blind me with your flashlight and confirm that I was concussion-free.”
“It’s what they do in the movies,” he says with a shrug.
“Well, apparently helping girls in life-threatening situations is a specialty of yours,” I say. “I’ve heard all kinds of rumors since lunch about the amazing Dr. Hood and his extraordinary lifesaving exploits. I wish I could have been there to see it.”
Adam cringes. His shoulders fold in. “And I wish people weren’t making such a big deal about it. I only did what anyone else would have done.”
How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend Page 6
