Continue the contest to the last!
Beat ’em hard!
Beat ’em fast!
Victory’s yours! Use your skill!
Who’s gonna win?
Nora will!
Oh, Mr. Franklin. If only I had your confidence.
I wake at ten o’clock in the morning to the sound of pissing rain. Welcome to fall in Seattle. And winter. And spring. Mom brings me breakfast on a little wicker tray with foldable legs. She toasted a bagel and smeared it with an extra thick layer of cream cheese. A little bowl of blueberries sits at the back of the tray along with a cup of “energizing” tea that was a nice thought, but makes me gag. Perched on a plate, folded in half so it will stand, is a pale green index card with Mom’s thought for the day printed on it:
Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men.
—Joseph Conrad
Joshie whisper-shouts outside my door, wondering if I’m awake yet.
“She’s awake, but she might want to be left alone,” Mom cautions him.
Joshie throws caution to the wind and bounds into my room with the chessboard in his hands and Copernicus at his feet. If Joshie were not wearing cowboy pajamas and a pair of felt antlers I would send him and the chessboard packing, but he is eager and cute and he greets me with a kiss. “Mom said you had a hard night and I told her I knew what would cheer you up.” He offers me the chessboard like it is a trophy.
“I don’t know, Joshie.” I do know, actually. There is not a single molecule in my entire body that wants to play chess.
He grins mischievously. “Please? You won’t be sorry.”
What is he up to? His smile, his outfit and the fact that he felt so let down about the debacle with Phil’s papers persuades me to give in. “Okay. But just one game.”
I scootch to one side of the bed. Joshie snuggles in beside me and levels the board. Completely out of character, he insists that I play white, so that I get to go first. We line up our pieces, and I move e2 to e4. Joshie mirrors my move. We go back and forth a couple of times when Joshie makes the most blatantly boneheaded move ever, leaving me with no choice but to put him in check.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
“What?”
“You let me win.”
Joshie shrugs coyly. His antlers tilt to the left. “I thought you needed to win something.”
I choke back tears. Am I so pathetic that an almost-seven-year-old in antlers is compelled to let me win?
“Are you okay?” He rubs the little mound that is my foot sticking up beneath the blanket.
“I’m pathetic,” I say. “Just pathetic.” I pull the comforter to my face, and as much as I don’t want to cry in front of him, I can’t help it. My shoulders shake as I heave great snuffly sobs.
He removes the antlers from his head and places them on mine. “Poor Nora. Poor, poor Nora. When I’m sad, Copernicus has me tell him about it. I could listen if you want to talk.”
I peek over the top of the comforter. “Oh, Joshie. It’s such a long story.”
He manages a sympathetic smile. “I like stories.”
“Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh.” He flops onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his chin resting in his hands.
“Okay. Here we go.” I start with the day Adam showed up and kicked a soccer ball with Joshie. “I hardly slept that night. I kept thinking about him and thinking about him. You know how sometimes you meet someone and you just feel an intense connection?”
Joshie nods. “I felt that way about a pill bug I found yesterday.”
Whatever. I continue as though I am lying on a couch and Joshie has grown a goatee and is settled beside me in a leather chair, scribbling an analysis of my psychosis onto the pages of a notebook. “I wanted him to like me, you know? And I didn’t feel like it was good enough to just be me. I needed to show him that I was cute and popular and as smart as he was. But I had already switched into lower-level classes because I didn’t want all the cheerleaders to think I was some know-it-all brainiac. Then I got this guy, Mitch, to show me Adam’s schedule, but in exchange, I had to go on a date with him.”
“Copernicus didn’t like Mitch,” Joshie says.
He is one smart little dog. I reach for a tissue, blow my nose and continue my saga. “Trust me, that was the first and the last time I’ll go on a date with Mitch. So, anyhow, once I knew Adam’s schedule I switched into his classes, which were a lot harder than the classes I was in. I figured I could lie and tell people that my mom is making me take AP classes.”
Joshie scrunches his eyes. “I thought it was good to be smart.”
I sigh. “It is. And it isn’t. But I wanted to be someone different this year. I wanted everyone to know me as Nora Fulbright—fun, cute cheerleader.”
Joshie looks like he is trying to puzzle out a solution to Goldbach’s conjecture—the unsolvable math problem that kept me and Phil busy during long family car rides. I keep going. “Anyhow, I switched into Adam’s classes but I wasn’t sitting anywhere near him, which made the swap with Mitch sort of pointless. So I swapped seats with this guy in biology class but he wanted a date with Chelsey, and so I swapped Chelsey a couple of Phil’s papers to get her to go out with him.”
“Ahhhh.” Joshie’s “ahhhh” sounds so—professional.
“And there is this girl with totally amazing hair in AP US history, and she agreed to swap project partners if I would give her one of Phil’s papers, too. She was entering a scholarship contest and wanted to get ideas about how to write a killer paper.”
“Highlights,” says Joshie.
“Right, Highlights.”
“Did she win?”
“No. It turns out Phil’s paper was so over-the-top good that all it did was make her feel bad about herself. In the end, she never even entered the contest. So, anyhow, nothing has worked out. Chelsey got caught cheating, and everyone knows that I’m the one who helped her. God only knows what’s going to happen Monday. I might even be suspended. But worse than that, Chelsey hates me. The whole cheer squad hates me because the halftime show looked like crap, and Chelsey missed her shot at performing for the cheer coach from Louisville. Krista hates me, and she should, because I’ve been a terrible friend. And the most ironic thing of all is that I’ve been trying so hard to be the girl I think Adam would like that I have become a girl nobody could like. Ever.”
As I cry, I shake so hard that chess pieces tumble off the board. Copernicus yips when Betsy Ross smacks him squarely on the nose.
“Oh, Joshie. How do I fix things? How do I let people know how sorry I am?”
Joshie knits his eyebrows and blinks a couple of times. “Is this a trick question?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Why don’t you just say ‘I’m sorry’?”
I shake my head. “If only it were that easy.”
Joshie slaps the bed and Copernicus scrambles up. “Copernicus ate my hot dog again this morning, and then he said I’m sorry.” He kisses the tip of the dog’s long black snout. “See? And we’re still friends. That’s just the way friends are.”
So all I need to do is tell Krista I’m sorry and kiss her snout? Could it work? We sit in silence. I pull Joshie into a hug and rub his cheek with mine. “You’re so smart.”
“It runs in the family,” he says, then wriggles away and bounds from the room.
I lean back into a pile of pillows. Again, I pick up the chess book and flip from chapter to chapter, reading the epigraphs that appear in italicized print below the chapter headings. I read the one on chapter thirteen twice:
We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is part of a chess player’s nature.
—Rudolf Spielman
Do I have a chess player’s nature? And what exactly does that mean? Dad sacrificed a family to take a job all the way across the country. Phil sacrificed popul
arity by being a total science and math geek, and settling for a social life that revolved around his computer, Zeebo and Louis. And me? I have sacrificed my shot at having an off-the-charts popularity quotient by being obsessive about Adam. I sacrificed my friendship with Krista by lying. Maybe Joshie is right? There’s nothing more to lose. Maybe it’s time to sacrifice a little pride and tell people I’m sorry.
I text Krista: R U There?
It’s almost noon. She must be back from church by now. Maybe her family went to brunch? Maybe she’s with Dex? Maybe she’s out scouting for a new best friend?
Sigh. I grab my bathrobe and head for the shower. I’m halfway out the door when my phone chimes, telling me I have a reply.
Why do you want to know?
I send a message right back. Can we talk? Now?
Krista’s response stings. No. Busy.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off another round of tears, but it doesn’t work. I toss the phone, the evil phone, onto the bed, and as it hits, it rings.
It’s Krista. “Okay, the curiosity is killing me. What do you want?”
Her voice, just the sound of it, is like a scoop from Molly Moon’s on a sweltering day.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Pretty good.”
The pause in our conversation is pregnant enough to birth an elephant.
“You texted me,” Krista says.
“Right. Yeah, I guess I did.” I pause for a deep breath in and out. “Look, I’ve been a real jerk.”
“And?” Her tone is sharp.
“And I want to say I’m sorry.”
Without thinking, I launch into a history of my deceptions. “Do you remember when we met at freshman orientation and we started talking about when we were little kids and went to summer camp?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“And you told me you went to Girl Scout camp every summer?”
“Yeah.”
“And I told you that until I was twelve I went to camp on the East Coast?”
“Uh-huh.” She sounds skeptical.
“Well, they were these sort of kid-genius camps. So when you were at Girl Scout camp making lanyards and collecting firewood, I was dissecting pig hearts, learning what happens when you mix volatile chemicals and exploring how Hemingway uses dialogue to establish character.”
“Blech,” says Krista. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“I didn’t want to seem like a show-off. At middle school I got picked on all the time for being a know-it-all. Kids were nice to me if they needed help with homework, or on a science project. That’s it. You were the first person who seemed to like me for who I was, not for what I could give you, and I didn’t want to wreck that.”
“You’re such a moron, Nora.”
My heart skips a frightened beat.
“I would never judge someone that way,” she goes on. “Especially not my best friend.”
My heart picks up its lost beat, and I tell her everything. I tell her about switching classes this year because of what Chelsey said to Vanessa the day before school started, and that I didn’t want the cheer squad to peg me as a brainiac. “And then I met Adam.”
I can almost hear Krista’s eyes rolling in their sockets. “Yeah, Adam. What’s up with that?”
I flop onto my bed and hug a pillow to my chest. “The first time I met him I felt this incredible zing. It’s nothing I’ve ever felt before. But when I told you I thought he was cute, you almost gagged.”
“Oh, crap, Nora. I’m sorry. It’s not that he isn’t cute. I just really wanted you to go out with Jake. Dex really likes him, and I had all these romantic ideas about the four of us hanging out and, you know, being the maid of honor and best man at each other’s weddings. That kind of thing.”
“You wanted me to marry Jake?”
“Well. You could have divorced him later. It’s just that Jake is so hot! You have to admit he’s hotter than Adam.”
I’m a little bit offended. “There are different definitions of hot, Krista. I mean, there’s temperature hot, you know, like the boiling point of tungsten. Five thousand, six hundred and sixty degrees Celsius, right? Crazy hot! But there’s also spicy hot, like capsaicin.”
“Cap—what?”
“You know. Capsaicin. The chemical that makes chili peppers fry the insides of your mouth.”
Krista laughs. “Did you really think I never figured out that you’re smarter than the average wildebeest?”
Outside, on the shades-of-gray scale, the sky has brightened from light charcoal to dark aluminum. I laugh, too. “Okay. But you have to agree with me that Jake and Adam are both hot. It’s just that one of them will melt tungsten and the other will burn the crap out of your tongue.”
Krista agrees—reluctantly, but I’ll take it. I tell her about switching classes. About how I figured I could cover my brainiac tracks by telling people my mother was making me take AP classes. I told her about all of the swaps.
“Wow. For a smart girl you’ve had a pretty solid run of stupid,” she says.
And how.
“Look,” she goes on. “One of the reasons I always liked you was that you’re different from most people. When you said we should try out for cheer, I wanted to because I thought about how awesome that would make us. I know, how shallow can you get? But at the same time, I didn’t want to because I thought the girls would be a bunch of stuck-up snots. Then I figured it would be okay because you and I would have each other. So, yeah, some of the girls are pretty into themselves. But some of them are really nice. And I don’t think there’s anyone on the squad who would like you less because of how smart you are.”
“I get that now. But Chelsey made that crack at practice and I guess I kind of panicked.”
Krista groans. “Chelsey’s super sweet. But if she went to medical school? You would not find me in line to have her take out my tonsils. I’d probably go home without an arm. So, yeah, she’s a little dim, but come on, all she cares about is how well you cheer. So you can stop being all ‘Poor me, my brain is bigger than a basketball.’ If you hadn’t been so busy stressing about what people think of you, you would have noticed all of this.”
Krista is totally right. She and Joshie should partner up and open a therapy business.
“A lot of people are pretty angry at you,” she says.
I hesitate before asking what I really want to know. “But what about you? Are you still angry at me?”
Krista says exactly the right thing. “Meet me at Molly Moon’s in a half hour. I’ll buy you a double dip.”
Sixteen
ON MONDAY, EXCEPT FOR THE forgotten disco ball still dangling from the ceiling, the commons is pretty much how it was before the dance. I wish I could say the same for myself. I search out a table far from where the football crowd gathers and hide behind my math book. It was Krista’s idea to meet me for a pep talk. I’m not ready to face anyone from cheer. I don’t want to see Mitch—what if he pitches a follow-up tantrum? And I’m prepared to fling my book bag over my head and become invisible if I spot Adam.
Joshie’s advice worked great with Krista—but who else would be so willing to accept my apology? And do I even have the guts to try?
Looking around the commons, it’s like I’ve returned to a crime scene. There should be yellow tape marking off the place where Mitch had his fit. A corpse-shaped figure drawn in chalk, identifying the spot where I landed at Jazmine’s feet on the dance floor. Even with my eyes glued to a book, I sense people slowing as they pass, whispering behind their hands.
I jump as Krista drops into an empty chair. She catches her breath. “Whew! Sorry I’m a little late! Is that mine?” She points to one of the two lattes on the table—the one with a straw.
“Double-tall half-decaf nonfat mocha, no whip,” I say.
She smiles and sucks a sip through the straw, then takes a bite of my granola bar. “I didn’t see you all the way over here. You look . . .” She chews the granola bar slowly.
“Like crap? I know. I feel like it, too. How am I going to face these people?”
Krista’s shoulders droop. “Look. You told me the truth. Do the same thing with Chelsey. If she’s okay with you, her drones will be okay with you, too.”
“I wrecked her chances of getting into Louisville!”
I wait for Krista to say something I hadn’t thought of. To shine some hopeful glimmer of light on the situation.
She nods. “Yeah. That pretty much stinks.”
I fold my arms onto the table and bury my face. “It’s not just Chelsey I’m worried about. I should apologize or at least say something to Mitch.” I look up. “As skeevy as he is, I did agree to go out with him, right? And instead of it being his dream date it turned into a nightmare. And Swordhands—the guy who went out with Chelsey—that couldn’t have gone worse! I’ve made all these other people miserable with my lame-ass swaps.”
I bolt upright at the sound of familiar laughter from across the commons. Jake and a couple of other football guys laugh like mad at Geoff the Fish, who sits on the floor in the debris of a chair he just sat in and flattened. He gets up and rubs his butt. They laugh louder.
I groan. “I don’t ever want to talk to Jake, either.”
Krista rubs my arm. “Don’t worry about Jake. According to Dex’s report on the way to school this morning, Jake is completely over you. He had a great time at the dance with Fluffy, and spent all day Sunday with her, too.”
“Stop it! Tell me her name is not Fluffy.”
Krista crosses her heart. “They were made for each other. And for the record—no way will she be my bridesmaid. I—” Krista freezes.
“What?”
From where she’s sitting, Krista has a perfect view of people lining up for coffee behind me. She leans in. “Adam just got into the coffee line. He’s with Hair Girl.”
I can’t look. “God! I am so embarrassed! I’ve pursued him relentlessly and it’s clear that it’ll never work. He was so sweet at the dance. And he’s been sweet in class. But he’s that way with everyone.” I pause. “And he thinks cheerleaders, me in particular, aren’t smart enough for him.”
How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend Page 19
