by Cyn Balog
Other than that, my first day of school was everything I’d expected. In class, nobody talked to me, and everyone attempted to sit as far away from me as possible. During lunch, one lost freshman tried to sit at my table, but three other freshmen pulled her from the brink before it was too late. “Don’t do it!” they cried. “You still have worth! People still love you! We have a seat over here!” She heaved an enormous sigh of relief and scurried off to join them. Things could have been worse, though, I tell myself.
I’m trying to think of how when the bus pulls up outside the bakery, and I can already tell that we have no customers. Through the glass, I can see the outline of someone—probably that dude Christian, leaning against the counter, looking bored. I’m thinking I should have shown him a couple of things he can do—folding boxes, refilling the cookie trays, sweeping the floor—when he doesn’t have anything else to do. As I’m climbing off the bus, a little fearful that the doors are going to close on me again, which kind of hurt, I drop my brand-new trig book. It falls into the gutter, open, where there’s a small river of sandy water from last night’s rain. As I rush to pick it up and minimize the damage, I see behind me a small flash of fire-engine red from someone’s car. Someone’s really nice car. I turn, because it’s impossible to avoid looking at a car that’s that tiny and sporty and sleek, if only to see what idiot would buy a mode of transportation that has absolutely no storage, no passenger room, and no traction in bad weather. Oh my God, I fully realize I am turning into my mother.
Beyond the glistening BMW hood ornament, I see a waterfall of equally shiny blond hair. Evie’s. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, giggling spinelessly at the driver.
I drop my books again.
I knew it.
I knew it.
I knew it.
I stand there for a moment, holding my breath. Then I pick up my books and run into the bakery, only to throw them down again on the linoleum. Then I scream. Scream like there’s no tomorrow. Scream every curse word, in every odd combination I can think of, until I’m red in the face and want to puke. Christian just watches me, squinting.
Finally, I calm down. I’m still breathing hard, but my voice lowers a few octaves. “Sorry,” I say. “You see, that guy out there … I sort of … ‘Hate’ is too nice a word.”
I don’t know, was I expecting a reaction from a guy who has yet to utter more than three syllables to me? Because he just stares at me, looking confused.
“That girl out there. She’s my sister. And she’s only fourteen. And obviously stupid.” I clench my fists and let out a growl. “Is English your second language? ’Cause you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”
It kind of just slipped out. I guess that fear I harbored, the one of his maybe stabbing my heart with the butter knife, has been trumped by the fear of having to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to a little Rothman niece or nephew.
He clears his throat. I wait eagerly for his words, though I’m not sure why. Was I expecting this stoner dude to hold the key to the universe? “She’s your sister?” he finally asks, clearly shocked.
I sigh. “I know. It goes against the laws of nature that two completely opposite-looking creatures can be related by blood. I get that.”
He shakes his head. “What the hell is a scumbling screwfinger?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. I vaguely recall those words escaping my lips during my vent. My inventory of expletives could probably use some work.
He’s still looking out the window. “Are you jealous?”
“Of course not. That guy’s a jerk. And I have a boyfriend.” At least, for the time being. “He’s been in California for a few years, but he’s …” My voice trails off when I realize I’m explaining something to someone who should not matter. Why is it that suddenly all the things that never seemed to matter in my life do?
He nods, looking unconvinced.
“What?” I demand. I mean, what did he mean by that? It’s her right to spend time with jerks if she so chooses. Okay, yeah, maybe I was a little bit sore about having to take the bus home while my younger sister got a ride, but I was not jealous of who she had to spend that entire ride home with. It would be like riding home with nails screeching across a chalkboard. “Why would I be jealous?”
He shrugs. “Because I am. That’s a sweet ride.”
I think I liked him better when he didn’t talk.
I growl again, then gather my mountain of books and run upstairs. My mom is nowhere to be found. I’m so eager to get my sister in trouble that I call, “Ma?” over and over through the apartment. I hear a faint “Hi, hon” echoing, but can’t tell where it’s coming from. Sounds like she’s stuffed in a closet, under a pile of clothes. I throw everything in my arms onto my bed and turn on my computer. There’s an email from Wish that must have come last night, after I’d gone to sleep. More of his goofy countdown: 00:20:04:36! CAN’T WAIT!!!
Then I find my mother lying on the floor of the living room. At first I think she’s trying to do push-ups, which is something my mother never, ever does, since she runs around like crazy all day baking and has the physique of a matchstick. Then I realize she’s Swiffering under the couch. She cleans like a madwoman.
“Ma, did you see what Evie is doing—”
She picks her head up. “Hi, hon. How was school?”
I hold up my hand and beckon her to the front window. “Glorious. Mom. Look. Look what Evie is doing.”
She pulls the cloth off the Swiffer and smiles at all the dust she’s collected, then dips one of the slats of our metal blinds and peers outside. “Wow. Nice car.”
“Ma, that’s Rick. He’s way older than her. And a jerk to the highest power.”
She nods, very seriously. “Wow. In what way?”
“You know, full of himself. Player.”
I think she’s going to whip down the stairs and drag Evie from the car by her hair. Instead, she starts to chew on her pinky fingernail. “Nice car.”
Frustrated, I look out the window myself. They’ve somehow moved closer together. I can hear Evie’s girly “a-hee-a-hee-a-hee” from here. She sounds like an asthmatic donkey. “He’s two secs away from swallowing her head.”
“You think?” She doesn’t sound very concerned.
“Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“Like drag her from the car by her hair?”
I shrug. Well, why not? “She’s only fourteen.”
She smiles at me. “Thank you, Love Police.” Then she turns back toward her Swiffer. “They’re only talking. You’ll probably be doing a lot worse tonight.”
I realize, at that moment, how completely out of it she is. No, I won’t. I have morals. I have dignity. I have a body that, when unclothed, scares even my shower curtain. My mouth hangs open. My own mother is encouraging me to get nasty with my boyfriend. Aren’t there laws against that?
She runs a dust cloth over the TV, then inspects the tiny room. “What do you think? Good enough for the honorable Mr. Wishman?”
It takes me a moment to realize that this was a special psychotic cleaning binge. She did it for my boyfriend. “Um.”
“We’d better leave for the airport soon, hmm?” she asks, checking the clock.
“Change in plans. He’s coming in late,” I fib. “After midnight. So I’ll just see him at school tomorrow, I guess.”
She closes her lips. “Oh. Bummer.”
I take one last look out the window. Rick now has his arm around Evie and is playing with her hair.
So today is a red-letter day. The day my sister gets involved with her first scum-sucking pig. The day my boyfriend, who I haven’t seen in years, comes back to town. And the day I’ll be doing trigonometry until my head falls off. Perfection.
10
I’M SITTING AT THE LIVING ROOM coffee table, drinking Diet Coke, half watching Oprah and half trying to determine what sine is and what relevance it has in my life. I hate math; Wish is a math geek. If he were here, he’d laugh at me
and say, in a very Buddha-like way, “Duh, Gwen. The answer is twelve,” without even having to think.
As I’m about to burst into tears, Evie saunters in. Again she looks like she’s going to break into song.
I push my pencil against my notebook so hard that the tip almost breaks. “Your ever-so-dreamy new boyfriend is a turd,” I say, not looking up.
She practically floats into the overstuffed chair across from me. “He is not my boyfriend,” she says, not very convincingly at all.
“I’ll give it a week before he is.”
She clicks her tongue. “Dough, I’m not an idiot. I remember what happened last week. I know what he’s like.”
“Then why were you …”
“I’ve always wanted a ride in a BMW. But that’s all he’s good for. Seriously.” And she gives me this wholesome grin, the heart-melting kind. “I’ve got your back, girl.”
Since Evie has never done anything really trashy to me before, I guess I have to believe her. However, she’s new to guys, and as I’ve learned, girls can do some pretty warped things for guys. I’ve known normal, sweet girls who’ve fought like mad lions over men. Stranger things have happened. “So you’re seriously telling me you’re never ever going to see him again?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Well, that’s impossible. He’s in study hall with me, and—”
“He’s driving you to school tomorrow, isn’t he?”
“Well, yeah,” she says, biting her lower lip. “I’d rather be caught dead than in that little bus.” She thinks for a moment and then says, “Oh. No offense.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, just take it from someone who’s older. Don’t get too close. Guys can bite. And by the time they do, you’re the one wearing the dog collar.”
She wrinkles her pert nose. “What does that mean? It’s pretty nice of him to agree to come all the way over from his winter home on the mainland to pick me and Becca up.”
“He should apply for sainthood,” I agree.
She cranes her neck to look at the clock, then sits up straight. “Well, I’ve got to jet. I need to get a shower in.”
I scowl at her. “Are you going out with him tonight?”
“Arf, arf,” she says, pretending to beg like a puppy. “No dog collars here. It isn’t just with him. It’s a group thing.”
“You’re going to a party on the first night of school?”
“It’s not a party,” she says. “At least, I don’t think it is. He said something about going to the Airport. Like, a bunch of people are going to hang out there. I think it’s the name of a new restaurant or something. It can’t be the real airport, like where planes and stuff come in, right?”
I shrug and suddenly want to stab myself in the eye with my pencil. My own sister is going to be welcoming Wish back to Jersey tonight, and I won’t be there. Who knows, maybe they’ll have a parade and strippers and fireworks, too. I wonder if, with all the fanfare, he’ll even care that I’m not there.
11
THAT NIGHT, I can’t sleep. I have these two competing visions in my mind: one of Wish trying to find me among his horde of admirers, then bursting into tears when he realizes I’m not there, and shouting to the heavens, “Why, God, why?” And the other of him being tackled by a crowd of hot, naked cheerleaders as soon as he comes up the ramp.
A little after eleven, I hear voices on the street below, and then a car door slams and footsteps quickly but lightly ascend the rickety staircase outside. Evie. When the door swings open, I almost tackle her in the kitchen, in the dark. She lets out a little scream and then I realize I must look like a complete psychopath, jumping on my sister like that. So I cover up by whispering, “Oh, sorry. I forgot you were out. I thought you were a burglar.”
She takes a deep breath, recovering. “Who the hell would want to steal from this place?”
“Sorry,” I say. “So, how were things?”
“Fine.” She yawns and makes a move like she’s going to head to her bedroom, and I jump in front of her, nearly tripping over our kitchen table.
“Where are you going?”
“To pee, and then bed,” she says.
It’s late, and I’m tired, too, but the only thing I’m fully aware of is that if I have to go to bed without getting the lowdown on what happened tonight from her, I will not live through the night. I grab her by the wrist, open the fridge, and say, “You want something to eat?”
She yawns again. “God, no.”
I slam the refrigerator door and stand there, blocking her from the bathroom. “Um, so, really, did you have a good time?”
She shrugs. “Look, you have nothing to worry about with Rick. I don’t even think he’s my type.”
“I don’t care about that,” I say, which is true, for the moment. Right now, all I want to know is whether Wish got naked with some pom-pom-wielding harlots. “Like, so did that new restaurant have good food?”
She laughs. “Oh, get this! It wasn’t a restaurant. We actually went to the Philly airport. To see Wish. So why weren’t you there?”
At least it occurred to her that I should have been part of the welcoming party for my boyfriend. “Well,” I say, “I thought it would be overwhelming, so many people there …”
“You got that right. It was a madhouse. I think the whole school was there.”
Except me. Great; my boyfriend, the celebrity.
“Oh. How does he look?”
She nods. “Good. Really good.”
I’m not sure why I asked that. Evie isn’t the best at description. Everything looks good or fine or okay to her. Fishing for information with her is about as fun and easy as clothes shopping for me. “Did he … say anything to you?”
“I didn’t really talk to him. He was kind of busy.”
Busy. Since getting Evie to elaborate is impossible, all kinds of meanings for “busy” fill my mind. Busy trying to find his luggage at baggage claim. Busy signing autographs. Busy having sex with a cheerleader behind the Auntie Anne’s pretzel stand. I realize I’ve gnawed the inside of my lower lip to a bloody pulp, so I start working on the upper.
“He had to get home early, too,” she continues. “He was kind of in a rush. Only stayed a few minutes.”
“Oh?” I ask, my mood brightening.
“Can I pee now?” she asks, waving me aside.
“Freely,” I sigh.
I walk to the living room and peer out the blinds. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe I’m hoping he’ll pull a Romeo and appear beneath me. He used to do that before, when we were kids, just show up and throw pebbles at my window, at all hours of the day, because the rickety staircase to our door sways pretty badly and always freaked him out. When all I see is a circle of the empty sidewalk below, illuminated by one buzzing streetlamp, and my queer, confused expression reflected in the glass, I finally trudge off to bed.
12
THE NEXT DAY, when the alarm goes off, I feel like there’s a fifty-pound weight on my chest. It’s not easy to pull myself up. Finally, I do, then turn on the light and rifle through my drawers until I find my only pair of semi-cool jeans and a frilly white blouse my mother bought me to wear “only for special occasions.” I figure meeting my boyfriend for the first time counts as a special occasion. I spent all night mentally going through my closet and drawers, and this is what I decided on. I’m hoping against hope that if I wear it unbuttoned at the neck, with jeans and flip-flops, it will look very peasanty and flattering. Either that or I will look like a tool in a frilly church-lady blouse.
When I’ve dressed and sufficiently tamed my hair (this time it’s more of a trapezoid), I stuff an Eggo into my mouth and find Evie peering out the living room blinds. “Hey,” she says. “I forgot to tell you. I asked Rick, and he said it would be cool if you came with us.”
Just what I needed. Charity from my little sister. I give her a small snarl. “I’d rather walk.”
She gives me a “suit yourself” shrug. “He’s trying to be nice.”
“He didn’t mean to,” she says.
“I’m sure it was just a slip of the tongue. He probably meant to say ‘sex goddess’ instead.”
She exhales. “I think he’s trying to change. He’s being nice.”
“Because he wants to get into my sister’s pants.”
She gives me a confused look and begins to launch into a protest but then turns to the window. “Your ride is here.”
Holding my chin up as high as I can, I grab my bag and walk out the door. I might as well be riding to school in a giant inflatable hot dog. Still, as I climb aboard, I’m just happy the bus driver doesn’t close the doors on me. Though I’m the only passenger on the bus, I’m glad. Nobody can see my nervous breakdown. Except, of course, the bus driver. She keeps staring over the gold rims of her Top Gun sunglasses, into the rearview mirror, at me. Probably thinking, Is it any wonder she’s the only person on the island who doesn’t have an alternative method of transportation? She can barely breathe, much less carry on a social life.
The end of the trip comes too quickly for my liking. Out the grimy window, I see the normal tight circles of students everywhere on the green, waiting to be let in. I scan the crowd quickly, hoping to find Wish’s head, to see him before he sees me. I don’t. I see Terra there, talking to a bunch of jocks, and throngs of other people I’m not friends with. But no Wish.
Maybe he isn’t here. Maybe he decided to take the day off, to recover from the jet lag. That’s possible, right?
Then I realize I’m hyperventilating. The obnoxious bus driver clears her throat loudly, as if to say, “Get off now.” For a second I want to command her to close the doors and drive, drive anywhere, but she’s not my limo service. Shark pit, here I come.
I step down the stairwell, but suddenly the doors almost fly closed, right on my face. The bus driver laughs sadistically. “Just kidding, hon!” she cries as I turn and glare at her. I wish she would save her warped sense of humor for a day when I’m not about to vomit all over myself.
