I count to two hundred.
Then I say I have to go home.
As I walk away, I want to look back to see Sari’s face. See if she’s even noticed I’m gone.
But that would be weak. And I am not weak.
Sari is.
But I’m not.
10
—Hollow Planet: Desert of Souls The attack would be swift, merciless. The key objective—a victory that would send a terrible message to the enemy: We are more powerful than you dreamed. Fear us.
It’s 11:30, and I know for a fact that time has stopped. The clock will never move again. I am stuck in French class forever, for the rest of my life.
Madame Balmain is asking me something. Unfortunately, she’s asking it in French, which I don’t speak. What she’s asking me sounds sort of like, Would you like to kill the big stupid cat? But I know she can’t be asking me that, so I just say, “Non, merci.”
She raps her knuckles on the desk. “Non, merci?”
Non, merci beaucoup? I don’t know. I try to give this very French shrug. Madame Balmain sighs and says, “Lea …” She repeats the question—which still sounds to me like, Would you like to kill the big stupid cat? And Lea says, Yes, I would like to kill the big stupid cat on Wednesday, thank you very much.
There is only one way to restore the flow of time to the universe. I raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom.
Madame Balmain is probably hoping I never come back. She’s probably hoping I just disappear into some Spanish class and never darken her porte encore.
Walking right out of the building wouldn’t be the worst idea.
It wouldn’t be the best idea, either.
There’s no one else in the bathroom, so I figure I can sit here for five minutes, until the universe gets moving again and shoves that second hand forward. I sit in the middle stall and have a look at what Eldridge is up to.
And that’s when I see it.
On the wall, someone has written:
Top Ten Eldridge Sluts
Alex Harding is number one. That’s not a huge surprise. Alex makes a thing of going for guys on the wrestling team. I don’t know, but from what I hear, guys on wrestling teams aren’t really big on hand holding and pecks on the cheek.
But here’s the thing: Sari is number two.
The handwriting on the two names is different. So someone started with the obvious—Alex—and then someone else added Sari.
Thea, it has to be Thea. Or one of her friends, someone who saw Sari at the wall.
There are a few other names on the list. Someone wrote Mr. Barry, which is good, and Melissa Goldfarb, which is really mean, because Melissa’s ugly and very shy and couldn’t be a slut even if she wanted to. They even wrote ha, ha afterward. Just so you get how hilarious the joke is.
I look at Sari’s name again. Whoever wrote it used a purple fine-point pen. I try to remember if I have ever seen Thea use a purple pen, but I don’t have any classes with her, so I have no way of knowing. But it doesn’t look like Thea’s handwriting. It doesn’t look like Her, if you know what I mean. This handwriting is all scripty and cutesy, like the person might have made a heart on the “i” of Sari’s name—that is, if they weren’t calling her a slut. Thea doesn’t seem like a heart-on-the-“i” type of person.
I wonder if Sari has seen this.
I don’t think so.
For one thing, if she had seen it, she would have written something back.
Sari will freak. The thing about being called a slut, it’s not so much about what you’re doing, it’s about how you’re doing it. There’s a basic difference between girlfriends and sluts. Girlfriends are chosen.
Sluts are stupid.
Sluts give it up to guys who don’t care about them.
Sluts get used.
I better wipe Sari’s name off before she sees it.
I take some toilet paper and spit on it. But just before I start rubbing at her name, I stop. Something about this feels wrong. I look up at the bathroom wall. Tons of stuff is scribbled all over it, in pencil, in ballpoint pen, in felt-tip pen. This is one place you’re allowed to say anything you want. The rule is: You see something you don’t like, you write something back.
But you don’t wipe it off.
Ever.
Without thinking, I crumple the paper in my hand.
Maybe Sari should see this.
I leave the bathroom the way it was when I came in.
At lunch, I look around the lunchroom for Sari and her dumb Tornado bag. Not that I would sit with her if I saw her, but for some sick reason, I want to know if she’s here. If she’ll come over if she sees me.
But she’s not here, so I’ll never know.
Danny’s not here either. Since the two humans who would deign to be seen in my presence are absent, I’m doomed to eat lunch by myself.
Which is okay, I tell myself. I have done it before. I have survived.
But I’m just taking Cinescape magazine (required literature for all sci-fi addicts and other maladjusts) out of my bag when I sense a distinctly alien presence nearby.
I look up and see Erica Trager standing near my table.
Like it isn’t a mistake. Like she wants to be there.
She even smiles at me. Which nearly makes me lose my lunch.
“Hi.”
I do not owe Erica Trager anything good. So I see no reason to say hi back.
“No Sari today?” Erica Trager has this gross, chirpy little voice that makes her sound like a psychotic doll. Instead of “Ma-ma,” it says, “Pra-da.” It cannot be natural; she must choose to talk this way.
I say, “No, no Sari today.”
“Just … you always eat lunch with her, right? Like, I always see you together.”
Erica Trager knows I eat lunch with Sari. Erica Trager knows who I am? Alternative universe time.
I say, “She’s busy preserving rats’ brains in formaldehyde.”
This is absolutely not true. But I figure it will disgust Erica Trager.
I figured right. Erica wrinkles her perfect, probably surgically altered nose like she’s going to vomit, which would be most excellent, all over her Prada shoes.
Then she says, “Well, you’re just a really good friend to her, that’s all I can say.”
And she walks away.
For about three seconds, I think of following her and making her tell me what she meant by that. But I don’t. First, because I’m not sure that Sari and I will ever eat lunch together again, and second, because Erica Trager and I are members of different species, and I can’t still quite believe that we had an actual conversation.
After lunch, I find a note on my locker. A piece of paper folded over with my name on it.
Before I open it, I think what it might be:
Dear Ms. Horvath,
You are just too strange to attend Eldridge Alternative. Please leave the building at once and never return.
Sincerely,
Jeannie Carsalot
a.k.a. Gee-She-Farts-a-Lot
Dear Jess,
David and I are running off together. We are going to get married and have a million children—all of them named David.
Your former friend,
Sari
P.S. Please pass this note to Thea.
The message is from Sari. But that’s not what it says.
It says: Meet me on the wall after school. We must talk!
Which means only one thing: Sari has definitely seen what’s on the third-floor girls’ bathroom wall.
At first, I think the best thing would be not to go. Just let Sari wait until she figures out I’m not coming.
I imagine her sitting there, getting colder and colder, frowning and wondering where I am. Wondering why I haven’t rushed to her side, panting, Ooh, ooh, Sari, what’s happened? Ooh, ooh, please tell me.
Wondering if maybe she was a jerk and that’s why I’m not there.
This is what I’m thinking as I’m walking to the park
, not really admitting to myself that I’m going. Part of me really wants to turn around, say, Screw it, and never see Sari again.
But then I do see her. Across the street, sitting cross-legged on the wall. And then she sees me and starts waving like a madwoman, and I have no choice anymore.
She’s smoking a cigarette, something she does only when she’s seriously upset. And never around me, because she knows cigarette smell makes me puke.
She says, “Did you see it?”
I don’t know what to say. I get up on the wall next to her.
Sari says, “You saw it, right?”
“That stupid list?”
Sari nods. Her mouth is really tight. Her whole body looks like she wants to hit something.
I think: I should have wiped her name off. I am a rotten friend.
“I know who it was,” she says. “Who wrote it. I totally know who it was.”
“Who?”
“Give me a break. It was Thea.”
I’m a little surprised that Sari’s so sure. “You recognize the handwriting?”
“I don’t have to. I just know it was her.”
Sari lights up another cigarette. “Well, the joke’s on her, because here’s what I’m going to do.” She takes a deep drag. “I’m going to tell David he’s got to choose. Her or me.”
I turn and look at Sari. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Wow.”
I can’t believe she’s finally going to say it. I can’t believe she’s willing to risk it. I mean, she has to know if she pushes David to choose, he’ll pick Thea.
I feel a rush of excitement that feels weirdly like happiness. And it’s not just that it’s always cool when something real is about to happen. It’s because I know that once David says, No—once he says, Are you crazy?—then Sari will see.
She’ll see that shell never belong. That they’ll never let her because any outsider threatens their power. And once she sees that, shell be the Sari she used to be. My friend.
I ask, “When?”
“Right after this. When I get home, I’m going to call him.”
I ask, “Will David do it?”
“He better.”
“But what if he doesn’t?”
Sari shrugs. “Then I guess we move on to step two.”
I guess: “You tell Thea.”
Sari nods.
Then she says, “Not that I want to do that.” She’s practicing, I can tell, for how shell say that to David. Swing the leg, fiddle with her sweater, look down at the ground. Of course, I don’t want to do that, David.
“But you think he will dump her?” What I’m trying to get here is: Has he ever told you he would? Because this is too important; I have to know.
Sari makes a face. “I’m not sure. He’s totally gutless when it comes to her. It’s pathetic the way he jumps when she speaks. ‘Oh, David?’ ‘Yes, dear?’ ‘Lick my shoe.’ Of course, darling.’”
I laugh.
Sari frowns. “I don’t even know why I love him so much.”
I keep quiet.
Sari gives a big sigh. “But I do. And believe me, Thea is going to be seriously sorry she screwed with me.” She grins. “Can you imagine if, at the senior party, David comes with me and Thea has to be there all by her sorry self?”
“She’d be really upset.”
Sari laughs. “Excellent. It’ll be excellent.”
She laughs again, then stops. Almost like she laughed because she didn’t know what else to do.
For a while, we both watch our feet swing against the stone. Somehow, talking about Thea has left us with nothing else to say to each other.
Then I hear Sari say, “Uh, you know, yesterday?”
“Forget it, it doesn’t matter.” It does matter. But I couldn’t stand it if Sari says the wrong thing, like it was my fault too. If she does feel like that, I’d rather not ever know.
“I was a jerk.”
Instantly, I say, “You weren’t a—”
Then I see she’s smiling.
“Okay, maybe a tiny little bit of a jerk.”
Sari picks at her fingernail. “I don’t know, for some reason, I felt like you were judging me. And you’re the only person I can talk to about this, so, I don’t know, I just freaked out.”
It’s funny with Sari. Just when you think she isn’t paying attention, she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on in your head, she shows you how wrong you are.
I think: She knows me really, really well.
I say, “I was judging them, not you. You’re totally different from them.”
She nods. “No, I know. Just … what you think … is really important to me.” She looks me in the eye. “You know?”
I swallow. “Same here.”
“I mean it. There’s no one else I would ever trust with this. If I didn’t have you as a friend, I think I’d go totally nuts.”
I say, “You are nuts.”
“Yeah, well, so are you.”
“That’s probably why we’re friends.”
“Probably.”
For an hour, we sit there on the wall. We talk about what will happen, what David will say, what Sari will say back. Despite what I said, Sari is right. I did judge her. And -I feel pretty rotten about that, particularly now, when we’re getting along like nothing weird ever happened.
I wish I could hang out with her much longer, but I can’t because it’s a school night.
Jumping down from the wall, I say, “Call me. When it’s over.”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
And we wave good-bye.
As I walk home, I can’t believe how much better today feels than yesterday.
Later that night, after dinner, my dad and I are clearing the table when the phone rings. I know it’s Sari. Immediately, I put the stack of plates down and say, “I’ll get it.”
I grab the kitchen phone, say hello. Sari says, “It’s me.”
I tell my dad: “I’m going to take it in my room.”
When I get to my room I yell, “Okay.” Then I wait until I hear my dad hang up in the kitchen. Then I tell Sari it’s okay, go ahead.
She says, “I did it. I talked to him.”
“And?”
For a long time, Sari doesn’t say anything. Then I hear, “I told him I thought it was time to … change things.”
“And what did he say?”
“Um … he said he thought things were okay the way they were.” There’s a long silence after that. Sari’s whispering, so her parents don’t hear. But even over the phone, I can hear that she’s at least thinking about crying. Or she has cried and doesn’t want to start again.
“So, what’d you say?”
“I told him that I didn’t agree.”
“And?”
“He said he needed to think about it. How he’s been going out with Thea for a really long time and how it wouldn’t be fair to her and—”
I say, “Well, this isn’t fair to you.”
Sari doesn’t say anything.
Finally, I say, “I just don’t think he’s being very nice to you.”
Sari sighs. “I know, but …”
But what? I want to ask her. I don’t get it. How can Sari be so tough and so confident before she talks to David and so scared and weird after she talks to him?
“Did you tell him you’d tell Thea?”
There’s a long pause. Then Sari says, “I thought I’d save that. Like if he says, I’ve thought about it and, no,’ then I’ll say, ‘Fine, we’re over, and I’m off to tell Thea.’”
“Did he say when he would decide?”
“No. I didn’t think it would be too cool to pressure him.”
I don’t know what to say.
“It is a big thing,” she says, suddenly all defensive. “I mean, when you’ve been going out with someone a long time.”
Translation: Which you wouldn’t understand, since you never have and probably never will go out with someone.
&
nbsp; For a while, neither one of us says anything. In the silence, I shout at Sari in my head. You used to be the bravest person I knew. You would do anything. Say anything. And now you’re afraid to stand up to this guy who treats you like dirt?
Oh, and by the way, you used to be a great friend. But lately, you’ve been a major cow.
Sari says, “If he thinks about it and says no, then I’ll tell Thea.”
I listen hard, trying to hear if she means it or not.
She says, “I won’t put up with that. I’m not just going to be dumped like that.”
I still can’t tell if she’s trying to convince me or herself. I say, “Okay.”
She laughs. “Come on, you know me. I have no mercy.”
And I laugh too. That does sound like the old Sari.
I just hope it really is.
11
—Hollow Planet: Thorvald’s Hammer With a deafening explosion, the battle was joined.
It’s been three weeks since Sari told David he had to break up with Thea. Three weeks since he said he would think about it.
Guess what? He’s still thinking about it.
I mean, I guess he’s still thinking about it. Sari hasn’t actually said anything. And I think she would have told me if David had said to her, I am dumping Thea. It’s you I love.
Here’s the thing: If someone’s madly, psychotically in love with you, it doesn’t take them three weeks to figure it out.
I can’t say this to Sari. She doesn’t need me hurting her feelings.
But I don’t think she’s going to the senior party.
Everybody’s talking about the senior party these days. It’s the biggest event of the year. It happens the day before graduation, and it goes on all night, with everybody drinking and dancing until dawn. It’s always held at a secret, undisclosed location. Only three kinds of people are permitted to know where it is. They are
Seniors
Cool people
People who date one of the above
Now, anybody can crash. But you have to know where it is and be cool enough that you won’t immediately get thrown out. So everybody’s trying to figure out where it might be or who they can get to invite them.
One day, I’m putting my books away in my locker when I hear some girl talking about it. She’s behind me, and I don’t see who she is. I don’t immediately recognize her voice, but I don’t not recognize it, either, if you know what I mean. I start to half listen.
The True Meaning of Cleavage Page 11
