Where I Want to Be
Page 12
Then the Group barged in, and I thought maybe it would.
Lindy Limon, Faulkner—named for her famous relative—George, Ella Rose Parker, Alison Sonenshine, and Jeffey Makinopolis. Not a single girl from my old school came close to the Group’s fabulous factor. As a unit, they were terrifying.
I stared down at my wristwatch, noting every aspect of it, as they stripped off their lacrosse uniforms while discussing a party Lindy might be throwing on Saturday.
Alison, the Loud one, was dominating the conversation as she turned to Ella. “Get past it. If they come together, so what? Him and Mia McCord have been hooking up since kindergarten. It sucked what happened to you, but it didn’t suck anything special.”
“Are you still talking about Jay-Kay?” asked Faulkner. She was the Sweet one of the Group, the only one with classroom crossover appeal—example, she was our class president.
Jay-Kay was Julian Kilgarry, new VIP friend to Elizabeth Lavenzck. Though I’d never met him personally, girls gave his name when they wanted an extreme. As in, “The lead singer was amazing, like an older Jay-Kay.” Or “He was a hottie, but not Kilgarry hot.” My one sighting was last fall, when Natalya pointed him out at MacArthur’s Homecoming game. In a word: drool-worthy. Iron jaw, inky Irish curls, and eyes the precise color of a June sky at sunset. In the last picture I’d ever taken of my mom, framed next to my bed so I can see it every day, that same blue is diffused behind her.
After Homecoming, I’d become temporarily obsessed, clicking Julian’s “View My Complete Profile” on Facebook several times a week to see what he’d updated. I knew all his passions (lacrosse, chess, journalism), seen all his pictures and tags, and read every line of text he’d ever thought to post.
“Kilgarry’s like the king of hit it and quit it.” This from Lindy, the Ditzy one, the Party Girl, who never said anything unless it was a cliché.
“Oh, like you know,” said Ella, the Beautiful and Quirky one, which also made her the most Fascinating since I wasn’t as used to her peculiar habits as the rest of the class. For example:
1. On the first Wednesday of every month, Ella baked cookies for both sections of homeroom.
2. She owned at least a dozen pairs of paper-thin kid leather gloves, in an array of rainbow colors, that she wore to protect her hands from the sun.
3. She always claimed the third desk in the third row of every classroom she ever sat in. And apparently, she always had.
Ella’s oddness seemed as natural to her as her long legs and gold-link charm bracelet, but the real reason she got away with it was because she was so beautiful. You can’t be that strange unless you’re that gorgeous.
Now Jeffey—the Gazelle, tall and skinny, who was signed with a New York modeling agency—gave Ella a long blink, as if she didn’t get it. “Then why’d you ask him to Alison’s?”
“Because he’d dropped so many hints,” Ella answered. “It was more that he asked me to ask him.”
“Convenient.” Alison snorted. “Since you worship him.”
Ella, wrapped in a towel and on the way to the showers with the rest of the Group, had stopped to thumb through her cell messages. Suddenly she raised her phone and snapped a picture of their mirrored reflection. “So you claim.”
“Looze!” Faulkner squealed. “I hate having my picture taken. You know that.”
Ella clicked again. “Why? Because you’re secretly revolting?”
“Because I’m in a towel, for one. Dumbass.”
“One more,” said Ella. “I always end on odd numbers. It’s my thing. You know that, Useless.” Mimicking Faulkner as she clicked in her face. Mean nicknames was another Group trademark: Tard, Donut, Zero, Looza, Useless, Dumbass, Lardass, Dali Lardass. And if what Natalya said was true, the Group had secret nicknames for everyone.
“I know mine, but only because I’ve been here since kindergarten. I’m Zaweirdski and the Wad and Nub,” she’d once confessed. “One day I’ll tell you more about that last one.” She’d looked slightly flustered. “You’re something, too. Whatever it is, that’s the only thing they call you. Don’t worry, though. You’ll never find out.”
Tal was right. To our faces, the Group was vaguely, indifferently polite.
“Did you hear Julian’s father’s car dealership is kaput?” Lindy broadcast as I rapped on the door for Tal to hurry. I knew she was holed up on purpose, hoping to wait them out. So unfair. It was a hundred times more awkward to be here on the outside than safe in a stall. “Kilgarry Saab. Tragic. I hear they’re totally poor.”
“That’s a tacky rumor,” said Ella with chilly authority. “And you should shut up, Looze. People are listening.”
Instant silence.
Ella meant me. I was “people.” So I hadn’t been invisible to Ella. She knew I’d been eavesdropping.
I glanced away, but when I looked back, she was staring right at me. My pulse points jumped. I’d never looked Ella Parker in the eyes, which were white-gray, almost a noncolor.
Her phone was poised at me. She snapped. I flinched. She smiled, an uptick at the edges of her mouth. Like we were in on something together. It was a moment that felt as important as a kiss or a secret.
Then it was over. As Ella pocketed the phone and brushed past me toward the showers. Nearly bumping into Natalya, all pinned up and making a break for it.
praise for where i want to be
“Masterfully weaves the past and ghostly present into the story as the line between imagination and reality, life and death, blurs for the characters and readers alike in this powerful story.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“A tender and nuanced exploration of sisterhood and self.”—BCCB
“Griffin … overlays her story with a supernatural patina that will immediately draw in the audience.”—Booklist, starred review
A NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST
ADELE GRIFFIN, a two-time National Book Award Finalist, is the critically acclaimed author of numerous novels for young adults, including the National Book Award Finalists Where I Want to Be and Sons of Liberty, the Vampire I sland series, Overnight, My Almost Epic Summer, and The Julian Game. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.