I want to say: Stop deluding yourself.
I want to say: It’s his stupid game. Stop playing it.
Sari sighs, shifts her Tornado bag to the other shoulder. I want to give her something, make her remember she has a life all the time, not just on Thursdays.
As we walk up the stairs, I say, “Hey, Bloodsuckers opens on Friday.”
Sari raises her eyebrows, says, “Hmm.”
“From the commercials, it looks seriously bad. Definite cheesy effects.” We swing around the landing. Sari goes first, and I follow her up. “I think it may have to be seen.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on—so bad, it’s good.” I’m about to remind her of The Worm, a movie we saw last year that was so truly, truly bad we both fell out of our chairs, we laughed so hard. We could hardly walk home. We kept shrieking, “The worm! The worm!” and cracking up.
I’m just about to say, The worm! The worm! when Sari says, “I don’t know if bad movies are tops on my list of life experiences.”
I joke, “Are you kidding? They’re essential life experiences.”
But Sari doesn’t get it. Instead, she looks annoyed. Not like she looked annoyed at David, but something else.
In this tight voice, she says, “Yeah, well …” She shoves the door to the third floor open, says, “Maybe not to everyone, you know?”
Sari goes through the door, and before it swings shut, I follow. Sari doesn’t look back, just keeps heading down the hall. And after a while, I stop trying to keep up and let her go.
I have a few minutes before class, so I sit in the third stall of the bathroom and think.
First I let my brain empty out completely, until all I know is blankness.
Then I let in the image of Sari pushing the door, let the words “Yeah, well … Maybe not to everyone” echo for a while.
Then I think of her walking by David’s table, think of her face when he didn’t look up.
And what I decide is this:
David is treating Sari really, really badly.
And that’s why she’s in such a crummy, insecure mood.
I don’t think she would have been so nasty otherwise.
I really don’t.
I mean, I couldn’t deal with what she’s dealing with.
Not that I’ll probably ever have to.
The fact is, I have a nervous breakdown exchanging three words with David Cole.
That’s not my imagination; it’s the truth.
I know because now I have actually exchanged three words with David Cole.
It’s not that big a thing.
But it’s not a nothing thing, either.
If that makes any sense.
For the past few weeks, ever since he bumped my chair, I always end up sitting at the same table with David Cole in art class. I do not plan this. He always sits at the same table I do. I have no idea why.
It was the day we were doing eyes. You’d think by now that I’d have, like, a hundred portraits, but I don’t. So far, all I have is body parts, because that’s all Ms. Rothstein’s let us do. I have page after page of noses. Two whole pages of ears. Three and a half of mouths.
I could tell David was having a hard time. Not that I spend my whole time staring at him, but I noticed he kept putting his pencil down and sighing. At one point, he even tried to look over at what I was doing, but I put my arm around my sketch pad so he couldn’t see.
Then I heard him say, “You know what? Eyes are a complete drag.”
Even though that was about the dumbest thing I’d ever heard, I knew someone would agree with it, because people love to agree with David Cole. I waited for whoever he was talking to to say, Yeah, right, man.
But no one did. Then I looked up and saw he was talking to me.
“Don’t you think?” He grinned. “I mean, they’re not like nostrils. Nostrils are cool. They’re the best.”
I said, “Nah, earlobes.”
I absolutely did not mean to say it. But it’s like I forgot who I was talking to—I guess because I never thought David Cole would make something as geeky as a nostril joke.
“Earlobes are okay too.” He pointed at me. “You drew a seriously good ear last week.”
I shrug. It was a good ear. Very twisty and cavernous, closed and open at the same time.
Then he held up his pad, showed me his eyes. “So, what do you think?”
I tried to keep from wincing. Frankly it wasn’t much. Just two bow shapes connecting, with a lot of wild lines for lashes.
After a moment, I said, “You need the inside part.” He frowned, and I pointed to my own eye. “You know, the …” Then I held up my drawing and showed him. “This part.”
I had done these two enormous eyes that filled the entire page. If you look at them long enough, you feel almost hypnotized by them. I have to confess, I think they’re quite cool.
Looking at the eyes, David Cole’s own eyes got wide. Like he was imitating them.
“That’s really something,” he said, but in his Cool Dude voice, a kind of dry drawl that sounds like he’ll crack up laughing any second because you’re so slow, you take him seriously.
I knew not to take him seriously and went back to my work.
I heard him say, “Come on, I mean it.”
I shook my head. Because that’s how they get you: pretend to be nice, then make you hurt.
“Hey …” I felt my sketch pad tug away from my fingers, so I had to look up. Right into David Cole’s face. “I’m serious, okay?”
He grinned, gave me back the pad. “But you can’t take me seriously all the time.”
Not looking at him, I said, “Yeah, believe me, I don’t.”
He laughed. “Cool with me.”
Then he went back to his work. “Cool with me.”
There is no way I could tell Sari any of this. She would just say it’s because I’m her friend, that that’s why David is nice to me. And I would have to tell her that that’s not true. Because I honestly don’t think David Cole remembers that I am Sari’s friend.
At any rate, he has never once mentioned her to me.
As I leave the bathroom, I have this vision: Sari, David, and Thea go on one of those shows where everyone screams and throws chairs and the audience claps for their favorite. The show could be on “Guys Who Cheat and Women Who Love Them,” but they could tell Thea it was about something else, like “Perfect High School Couples.”
I don’t think I could ever be on a show like that. I’m not crazy or dumb enough. Plus, I think you have to wear a miniskirt, and I don’t have one.
I would be in the studio audience.
Because of my meditation session in the bathroom, I am now late for my next class, which is math.
My dad says it’s lame to hate math. But I have sound, logical reasons for hating it. For one thing, I am not good at it. (Dad says this is because I have decided to hate it, but he’s wrong.) For another, this year, freshman algebra is taught by Bernard McGuiness, who has an unnervingly long nose hair and smells strange.
But thirdly, I have the same math class as Erica Trager and her Pradettes. Which makes me feel like I have been banished to the very lowest circles of hell.
I always try to get to math early, so I can sit as far away from Erica and her cronies as possible. But by the time I get there, every single seat is taken—except for one, right next to guess who.
I’m pretty sure that prolonged exposure to the toxin that is Erica Trager is a definite health risk, but the fact is, I don’t really have a choice. So I sit down next to her.
Erica, of course, doesn’t even notice. She’s all busy yakking to Michelle Burke about some vitally important thing that happened to her over the weekend. It’s weird—for girls who are supposedly so cool, all they do is talk to each other. If you listen, it isn’t even talk. They just make noises, like, “No” and “I’m saying” and “Totally.” They’re like a bunch of orangutans—except not as cute or smart.
I get out my notebook and start writing Erica Trager sucks over and over. I try not to listen, but it’s impossible. It must be something pretty spectacular in the world of Erica, because she’s leaning in close to Michelle and whispering intensely, like she’s passing state secrets or something.
“And the thing is—”
Michelle interrupts her. “Oh, I know …”
“No, but the thing is … she told him that, after graduation …”
“After graduation …?” Michelle prompts her.
I slow down writing. I’m not entirely sure why. But something tells me to listen.
“After graduation, she wants, you know, some promise”—Erica looks over her shoulder at Mr. McGuiness to make sure he’s not looking over here—“that they’ll stay together. But David …”
I stop writing altogether. My pen just stops dead on the tail of the first “s” in “sucks.”
Michelle gasps. “No!”
“Yes. And they have been fighting about it. Constantly.”
Then Michelle forgets to whisper and says in a normal voice, “Oh, my God. So, what …?”
And suddenly, Mr. McGuiness appears at our table and asks Michelle if she has something she’d like to share with the class.
Michelle says no.
Then Mr. McGuiness asks Erica if she would like to solve the problem on the board.
Normally, I would enjoy watching Erica try to pretend she has a clue how to figure out the circumference of a circle. But right now, my mind’s on other things.
Like Sari, David, and Thea.
Sari will flip when she hears David and Thea are fighting. She will be thrilled. According to Sari, David + Thea fighting = David + Sari in love.
But I’m not so sure it does.
The thing is, you can’t believe everything you hear from Erica Trager. As I’ve said, she’s one of those people who’s always talking about somebody, probably because there’s nothing she can say about herself. (Hi, I’m Erica. I’m a jerk.) She’s obsessed with Thea Melendez because she wants to be Thea Melendez, and she’s always pretending to “know” everything about everybody.
It occurs to me that I am the only one, aside from Sari and David, who knows that any of this is going on.
That David Cole is fooling around with Sari Aaronsohn every Thursday is something that a lot of people would like to know. It’s sick, when you think about it. But the fact is, I could be popular overnight, just from knowing this. And somehow, when I look at Erica and the Prada Mafia and know that I know something they don’t, that makes me feel … well, powerful.
I think maybe I should ask my parents to let me transfer. Eldridge is definitely warping me.
By the end of the day, I am really feeling like I want to be home. As I head to my locker, I think about how I will go to the kitchen, get a soda, some popcorn, and just go to my room and shut the door.
I think about being on my bed, the radiator rattling, my feet shoved under the blankets. Maybe I’ll draw, maybe I’ll fall asleep. Nobo will try and jump on the bed. I’ll probably let him.
Quiet will be very good.
On my locker, there’s a note. Opening it, I can see it’s from Danny.
I feel a squiggle of guilt. Ever since that time he came to my house, it’s been weird to see him at school. Like here, he’s supposed to be Nerdboy Danny. But now that I know he’s not, I don’t exactly know how to act around him. I keep meaning to ask him if he wants to do something sometime, but I never quite get around to it. And whenever I see him, I’m always scared he’s going to ask me if I want to do something.
The note says: I found the perfect place in my room for Nomi. I put it right next to my desk. I am keeping it very safe, because I’m sure it’ll be worth something someday!
I smile. For no reason, I think of David Cole telling me not to take him seriously, but that he was serious about liking my work.
I like people liking me like this. It’s a lot better than …
I can’t think of what exactly. But I have an image of Sari giggling next to David at Erica Trager’s party. It’s definitely better than that.
“Hey.”
I look up and see Sari. She’s smiling, so I guess she’s not mad at me anymore.
She asks, “What are you doing right now?”
I think of my bed, the popcorn, and quiet. “Um, nothing, really.”
“Want to go somewhere?”
Sari’s eyes are bright, excited. She’s rocking on the balls of her feet. What ever it is she’s got planned, she’s psyched about it.
And I guess I like it that she wants me to do something exciting with her. Because I say, “Sure.”
“Cool.” She nods, then sees the note. “What’s that?”
“Uh, nothing.” I shove the note in my pocket. “Something from Danny.”
“Oh, God.” Sari groans while she pulls on her coat. “Spare us the attentions of Nerdboys. What did it say?”
“No big thing.”
“Oh, puh-leeze.” Sari shrugs her Tornado bag onto her shoulder.
Then looking back at me, she says, “You do know he has the saddest crush on you.”
I say, “He does not.” And wonder why I feel like my best friend has just insulted me.
Sari doesn’t tell me where we’re going. But it doesn’t take too long to figure out that we’re headed to the park.
They have soccer practice in the park. After school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
It’s Monday.
With David Cole and his friends on the team, practice is almost as big a deal as games. A lot of people show up to hang out on the wall and watch. And on Fridays, they all go to McClaren’s, where they supposedly sell you beer if you have a fake ID.
It’s a very cliquey thing. No Undesirables allowed, just the Chosen Few.
Definitely no ninth graders are allowed.
As we get closer, I start worrying what Sari has planned. There’s no way I’m going to tell her about David and Thea fighting. She’s the one who used the words “mad” and “psychotic” to describe how she felt about David, and I don’t think you tell things like this to a mad, psychotic person.
As we wait for the light to change so we can cross over to the wall, I ask Sari, “What are we doing?”
“Nothing,” she says innocently.
“What if Thea’s there?”
Sari snorts. “She has tutoring. For calculus. She keeps telling everyone she’s dyslexic. She’s not dyslexic, she’s just dumb.”
Thea may not be there, but her friends are. Naturally, they’ve taken all the best spots on the wall, so Sari and I have to sit way down at the end. From where we are, we can hear them giggling and talking. Every once in a while, one of them will get excited and shriek, “Oh, my God” or “No!”
And, of course, every time David Cole does something—makes a pass, scores a goal—they all cheer.
But so does Sari.
Really loud. Clapping and everything.
So loud that people turn around and notice.
David gets the ball. He streaks toward the goal, slides and shoots the ball in. The guys on the field, the girls on the wall, everyone explodes. David leaps up from the ground, and his teammates gather around him, whooping and cheering. You can tell he loves it. He punches the air at the poor dumb goalie, yelling, “Yeah, yeah!”
Sari lets out a whoop and raises her fists in the air. Three girls with perfect hair turn to glare at her.
Sari pretends not to see them. But I glare back.
For so long that they finally look away.
I look back at the game. Everyone’s rushing around after the ball, kicking at each other for control. From down the wall I hear, “Get it, get it!” Then I hear someone laugh, and I know they’re laughing at us.
These people think wherever they are, it’s their personal territory. Like it’s their right to sit on this wall and we have no right at all to be here. Like we’re invading their sacred space or something.
&
nbsp; I want to yell at them: I don’t want to be here. I don’t care about your ridiculous games, or how outrageously cool you are, or whatever power you think you possess. Please do not make the mistake of thinking I do.
Out loud I say, “God, they’re obnoxious.”
Sari doesn’t look away from David. “Who?”
“Them.” I nod back at the girls. “All of them.” I mean the jerks on the soccer field, too. Including David Cole.
“Oh.” Sari shrugs. “Who cares?”
“They do. They think they own this wall, like we don’t have a right to be here.”
Sari sighs. “You know what? Just … chill.”
I stare at her. “What do you mean?”
For a second, Sari doesn’t say anything, and I think she’s going to apologize, say she didn’t mean it.
But she says, “I mean, it’s not like you know any of these people, and I just think you should chill out about them. I mean, why do you care?”
Her voice is very forceful, like she’s been wanting to say this for a long time. But she doesn’t have the nerve to look me in the face.
I say, “I don’t care all that much.”
“Then why do you talk about them all the time?”
“I don’t talk about them all the time.”
“Yes, you do.”
She thinks she’s being so strong, I can tell. Telling me the truth. She’s looking at me now, so sure she’s right.
I think: I hate you.
I want to say: The reason we talk about “them” all the time is because you’re always talking about David. And the reason you’re always talking about David is because, secretly, you just want to be one of “them.” And what makes it even worse is that I don’t think you like David that much, you’re just all hot about what he represents, the cool ones, the Exalted Ones….
But before I can say any of this, Sari blurts out, “They’re just people, you know? So what if they care about what they wear? So what if they have money and they haven’t read every book under the sun—that doesn’t make them evil, you know? People just get so jealous of them, it makes me sick.”
I don’t say anything. Everything I think of is too violent, too final. I don’t even feel like I know Sari anymore. This girl sitting next to me, cheering a bunch of airhead soccer players like they mean something …
The True Meaning of Cleavage Page 10
