by Josh Farrar
“Very graceful. Now, how about cleaning that up and then clearing out of my room?” she asks.
I shut the laptop, a little too fast. I don’t want her to see what I’m reading, even though there’s nothing weird or suspicious about Haiti.
“What are you up to, anyway?” she says. She tries to pry the laptop open. “Looking at naughty pictures, are we?”
“No way,” I say. “I’m writing a report.” I let her open it and look at the monitor.
“Alex, it’s four thirty on a Friday afternoon, and Spring Fling is tomorrow night. You’re trying to convince me, your older, much wiser sister, that you’re actually writing a report that couldn’t possibly be due until Monday morning at the earliest?”
“Well, I’m doing research.” And it’s true. I am.
She turns the laptop toward her; the window I was working in is still open.
“Haiti, huh?” she says. “You’re writing a report on Haiti?”
“Yeah, for social studies. Mr. Miller.”
She squints and makes a hrmph noise. “Are you sure you’re not reading about Haiti so you can impress that new girl at St. Cat’s, what’s-her-name?”
Who told her? And if she knows, how many other people do, too? I feel my entire face turning a dark, burning red. I cradle my cheeks in my hands to keep her from seeing, but it’s pointless. “Bijou,” I say, totally busted. “Her name is Bijou.”
“Oh my God, that was a wild guess, but I totally hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”
I don’t bother responding, but she can tell. Like Rocky said, girls can always tell.
Dolly is thrilled. “You have a crush!” she squeals. “It’s totally adorable.” Disgustingly, she hugs me.
“Don’t tell Mom, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” She lets me go, puts her cello against the wall, and sits on the edge of her bed. “Alex, that’s so sweet. With everything she’s been through, maybe a nice boy like you is exactly what she needs.”
“What do you mean, ‘everything she’s been through’?” I ask. “Do you know anything? I mean, specifically?”
“Well, no, but she must have been through a lot. I mean, she lived there. She survived it. I’m sure anybody who did has a major story to tell.”
“Do you think her whole family really died?”
“I have no idea. Where’d you hear that?”
“Just around.” The truth is, Ira had told me, although he couldn’t verify it, and neither could Maricel. Could it possibly be true, though? Losing your whole family is way too much to handle without getting put into a mental hospital or something. And Bijou definitely didn’t look like somebody who needed to be locked away. I’d only seen her the one time, drinking a ginger ale at Peas n’ Pickles. But to me, beautiful or not, she didn’t look like some battle-scarred victim. She looked like a regular seventh-grade girl. She looked strong, not scarred or even scared.
“Well, there are bound to be rumors, but I wouldn’t believe anything that doesn’t come directly from her. Not that you should go up and ask her those kinds of questions. You should definitely hold off on that. Just let her share whatever she wants to share, whenever she wants to share it.”
“God, I’m not that stupid. I wouldn’t do that.”
Dolly gives me a goofy look, puts her hand on my shoulder, and gives it a shake. “Alex, it’s so sweet that you like her.”
“Please don’t tell Mom. I can’t deal with that right now. She’s so … cheesy about stuff like this.”
“Okay. Won’t say a word.” She brushes her hair back behind her ear. “Promise.”
7
Zip Your Fly
I don’t need an alarm clock. I’ve got Dolly’s cello.
Every weekday, my sister is up, out of bed, and starting in on a half hour of practice by 7:15 a.m. On Saturdays, she waits until eight thirty, which my mom seems to think I should consider a major blessing.
People believe the cello to be this soothing, mellow instrument, but if you live underneath one, you won’t think of it that way first thing on a Saturday morning. You’ll think some insane doom-metal band has suddenly arrived to play a concert right in your house. Dolly’s room is in the attic, directly above mine, and I can hear the cello vibrations shake her wooden floor, inches from my ceiling, as soon as the bow hits the strings. Plus, there’s a vent that runs between our rooms. I can even hear her breathing. It’s horrible.
I’ve been complaining to my mom for two years, but she says that with Dolly’s mountains of homework, morning’s the only time she can practice. Dolly practices two hours a day, manages straight As, and is going for a scholarship at Juilliard, while I’ve got almost no musical talent, and a B is cause for major celebration. So I can complain all day, but my sister’s going to play whatever she wants, whenever she wants. This morning, it’s Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1, which I’ve heard approximately sixteen thousand times.
Since I’m obviously not getting any more sleep this morning, I decide to give Dolly a hand by helping her keep the beat. It seems like a fair trade-off to me; if I have to wake up before the sun does, I should at least be allowed some entertainment. I pick up my basketball from the floor and start bouncing it against the ceiling in time to the Bach. After ten seconds, Dolly’s glorious music comes to an abrupt halt, and the basketball takes a solo.
“Alex, come on,” she says, her volume no louder than if I were sitting right next to her. “It’s not like I want to practice. I need to. I’ve got a recital coming up in three weeks.”
“I’m trying to help you, Doll,” I say between basketball bounces. “You were slowing down in that one section, so I thought I could be like … what do you call it? A metronome!”
“Fine, I guess I’ll stop for a while and go eat breakfast with Mom. There’s all kinds of stuff we need to catch up on. Your new love interest, for example.”
I stop bouncing the ball, and she laughs. “Forgot about that, didn’t you?” she calls out before starting to play again.
It’s probably for the best. I’ve got a dance to get ready for, and it starts in just ten hours. I’ve got to study up on some French vocabulary, and I’ve got to put my outfit together.
Girls think that guys don’t stress out about what they wear. I can’t speak for all of guykind, but for us Episcopal schoolboys, who spend roughly 70 percent of the week (that’s five days) in uniform, getting dressed for a dance is a big deal, and there’s nothing easy about it. We might not want to admit it, but it’s true.
Three hours later, Nomura calls and informs me he’s wearing what I call his “second uniform,” the outfit he has on 99 percent of the time he’s not in school: white button-down shirt, khaki pants, brown dress shoes instead of black. I’ve given Nomura solid wardrobe advice before, but he ignores it; he wants to look like the captain of some debate team. He even claims it’s an intentional strategy to find a real, genuine person, not just a pretty face; if a girl can’t see past his clothes, he says, nothing good will happen between them anyway, so why bother spending money on trendy clothes that will be out of fashion in six months?
“I’m wearing black DKNY jeans, light-blue polo shirt, black Converse,” I say.
“No jeans at Spring Fling,” Nomura reminds me.
“You don’t think I can get away with black ones? You have to look pretty close to even tell they’re jeans.”
“Why risk it? Remember Fall Ball? Chris Donatello was kicked out for wearing jeans. No questions asked. You don’t want that.”
“Christianity makes no sense. I mean, Jesus walked around barefoot all day, and I can’t even wear jeans to a dance?”
“Put on some black dress pants and get over yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“So, do you have a game plan yet?”
“Just what we talked about. The cards.”
“Excellent. I think it can work.” I notice that he says “can,” not “will,” work, but I let it go.
“Thanks. I’m on it. But di
d Ira do his part?”
“Relax. The deed is done.”
“Sweet.” Okay, I’m really, really starting to get nervous. I try to remember what Rocky said about staying relaxed. But can I pull it off?
“Oh, and last but not least: zip your fly!”
The zipper reference is no joke. Last October, during Fall Ball (my first St. Cat’s dance ever), I went to the bathroom and must have forgotten to zip up afterward. Totally clueless, I had my fly down for at least five songs. Nobody noticed until Jenna Minaya pointed at me and yelled, “I see London, I see France” from across the gym. Angela Gudrun and a bunch of other girls burst into an endless fit of laughter. Needless to say, it was the end of my evening; I mean, how could I ask a girl to dance after exposing my shorts in public?
But Nomura isn’t just literally reminding me to zip up. He’s also warning me that, as much as the dances fill our heads with a thousand images of our future girlfriends, there are risks involved, too. By talking to Bijou, I could either succeed in presenting myself as somebody she might actually find interesting, or I could ruin my chances of ever getting another St. Cat’s girl to so much as look at me.
Dances are dangerous.
8
Spring Fling
It’s seven fifteen, and Ira, Nomura, and I are hovering around a bowl of lime-green punch. It’s like Rocky predicted—I haven’t talked to anybody but my two best friends for the forty-five minutes I’ve been at St. Cathopher’s Spring Fling. But it’s early yet, and I’m still optimistic. Tonight just might be my night.
The punch doesn’t taste like lime; it doesn’t taste like anything at all, but it’s so sweet that undissolved sugar crystals coat my tongue. After each sip, I swish the liquid around in my mouth, not letting it settle too long; I don’t want my tongue to be the color of a shamrock when I finally get my chance to talk to Bijou. She’ll think she’s getting hit on by a leprechaun.
I’m starting to get jumpy. The DJ is playing “Umbrella,” “Rock Your Body,” and other oldies-but-baddies guaranteed to keep us—well, me, anyway—off the dance floor, so there’s nothing to do but stand around and wait. Every single guy in our class is here except for Rocky and Trevor, but the boy-girl ratio is way out of whack. At least half the St. Cat’s girls aren’t here yet, and the ones who are, huddled in a corner by the bleachers at the far end of the gym, aren’t the cool, popular ones. They’re the shy, superawkward girls, like Elana Brooks and Meredith Chan, who can’t even make eye contact without erupting into fits of giggles. Nomura, Ira, and I stay far enough away that eye contact, especially in this room’s dim lighting, isn’t even a possibility.
Bijou, of course, is the only girl I care about seeing, but she’s not here yet. Somehow I think I’d feel whether she’d arrived already without even laying eyes on her, but believe me, I didn’t leave it up to my sixth sense. The first thing I did when we got here was circle the entire perimeter of the gym, and I’ve had my eyes locked on the only entrance ever since. Bijou is not here.
“Maricel definitely talked to her?” I ask Ira. I look down and see that I’m wringing my hands, so I give them one good shake and put them in my pockets, where nobody can see them. “You’re sure?”
“How many times can I say it? Mari did the job. I promise.”
“But what did she say?”
“Look, I didn’t follow her around and listen in on their private conversation, but I’m sure she told Bijou exactly what you guys told me to tell her to say.”
I turn to Nomura. “Are you sure this is a good plan?”
“Yes,” he says. “As good as we can come up with, anyway.”
“It seemed good when you suggested it. But now it sounds pathetic and desperate.”
“Or just plain direct, maybe?” Nomura says. “You need to chill, man. You’re making me nervous, and I don’t even have anything at stake here.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“And … you’re welcome for helping you.”
“Sorry … thanks to both of you for helping me out. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You haven’t done anything yet,” Ira reminds me.
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “Thanks for your support.”
“You bring the cards?” Nomura asks.
I pat my right front pocket. “Got ’em,” I say.
He nods in approval.
Some of the other guys are shoving and horsing around with one another, trying to create a spectacle. We pay as little attention to them as possible, sidestepping them when they get too close. They’re a nuisance, like mosquitoes, but not a threat. Hands in pockets, we bide our time.
Ira tells Nomura and me about Rise Again, a movie about a female Iraq War veteran who saves the world from an army of flesh-eating zombies. Nomura and I nod, pretending to follow the absurdly complicated synopsis, but Ira makes no sense whatsoever. He couldn’t care less that there are a dozen girls in the room, and twenty more on the way; he’s as into the Syfy Channel as he was when we were eleven.
Then the doors swing open.
“Dude!” Nomura whispers, punching me in the bicep. “They’re here.”
I turn around to see Rocky and Trevor overlooking the dance from the threshold like little lords. “Ick,” I say to Nomura. “Who cares about them?”
“Not those idiots. Look behind them.”
My heart leaps as I see Mary Agnes, Maricel, and, last but definitely not least, Bijou sidestep Rocky and Trevor to circle the edges of the room. Mary Agnes is a couple of strides in front, pointing up to the streamers and other decorations along the walls, the balloons floating toward the ceiling. Maricel looks up, politely admiring, but Bijou is checking out all the kids clustered to the right of the DJ. It’s her first dance, in America at least, so maybe she’s nervous (although there’s no way she’s as edgy as I am, is there?). I pat my pocket again, checking for the tenth time that the index cards are still there, and amazingly enough, they haven’t disappeared since Nomura asked about them three minutes ago.
Mary Agnes, Maricel, and Bijou have put their coats down near where the dorky girls are sitting. Mary Agnes waves at a couple of them and seems to still be pointing out the finer elements of the decor. She’s probably running the dance committee single-handedly; that’d be her style.
I notice for the first time that Bijou is at least two inches taller than any other girl in the room. God, I hope she’s not wearing heels. That would probably make her taller than me.
Suddenly, a tap on my shoulder. When I see Trevor and Rocky, who even by his standards has a scary amount of product in his hair, my stomach churns. These two are the last thing I need to deal with right now. Even worse, Rocky points in Bijou’s direction.
“You weren’t writing any report, were you, Schrader?” he says. “You were studying up on that extremely cute new girl. What’s her name again?”
“Bijou,” says Trevor. Ick. I hate to hear her pretty name come out of Trevor’s greasy mouth. I saw her first, I want to say. But don’t, of course.
“I like it,” says Rocky. “Very French-sounding.”
Did Maricel tell Jenna or Angela, and one of them told Rocky or Trevor? Or did Rocky simply hear that Bijou is Haitian and put two and two together? Either way, I’m screwed now. Rocky’s bound to sabotage me; it’s his favorite extracurricular activity. He really excels at it.
“I give you props for trying to do some research on her. It’s a smart move, seriously,” he says. “But I think you might have picked the wrong letter in that encyclopedia. You don’t want ‘H.’ You want ‘V.’ For ‘vodou.’”
“What?” I say, bracing for an argument. One I’ll probably lose.
“Breathe, Alex, breathe.” Rocky laughs. “Don’t have a fit. You’re so nervous all the time. Just chill.”
The fact that he’s right makes him that much more annoying. Every time I get into one of these face-offs with Rocky, my heart goes a million miles an hour and I have to breathe through my mouth not to show it (w
hich probably makes me look like the biggest nerd on the planet).
“Dolls, zombies, animal sacrifices—that’s creepy stuff,” Trevor says. “You’d better watch yourself, Schrader. If you make her mad, she could put a curse on you and mess you up bad.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Of course, I’ve seen the same dumb horror movies on cable that everyone else has. I’ve seen old witch ladies drive pins into the soft fabric of a doll’s heart; I’ve seen their victims clutching at their chests and falling dead to the floor. But just because Bijou’s Haitian doesn’t mean she’s into that spooky stuff.
Rocky jabs Trevor and nods in my direction. “Look at Schrader, trying to figure it all out. Taxing that tiny brain of his to come up with all the answers. But he’s in way over his head.”
“So when it comes to girls, you two have all the answers, right?” I ask. I want it to come out edgy and sarcastic, but instead it actually sounds like a sincere question. I need to improve at this face-off stuff.
“Not answers, Alex. Questions,” Rocky says. “Like, how is a geek like you ever going to have a girlfriend at all, much less a gorgeous girl like that? I mean, she’s frickin’ hot. That, my friend, is an unsolvable mystery.”
“Maybe I’ll just be myself, and you guys will keep being yourselves,” I say, calmer now. “And eventually Bijou will see that I’m a nice, normal guy, right about the same time that Angela and Jenna figure out that the two of you are complete losers.”
For a second, Trevor looks almost impressed that I’m capable of talking back to them without tripping over my own words. But then he looks me up and down and says, “Alex, are those pants pleated? You are rocking it old-school tonight, grandpa. You should have stuck with the cords.”
“Nice one,” Rocky tells his friend. “But cords or pleats aren’t going to make a difference, are they? The bottom line is, the two of us own this school. Every girl here wants to be with us; every guy here wants to be us. And that’s never gonna change.”
“Amen to that!” Trevor says.
