chapter five
Kristina refuses to go to school on Monday. I don’t really blame her. Far as I’m concerned, she deserves time to mope. Time to contemplate her abandoned virginity and the fact that a disease is eating away at her bones. She deserves whatever she wants right now.
And honestly, I don’t really want to face her, and even though my lameness offends even me, I skedaddle out the door while she’s arguing with Mom. Mom is blabbing on about keeping up appearances.
I should go back inside and yell at her to leave Kristina alone to chill and watch TV all day if that’s what floats her boat. Instead I clutch my backpack, run to the garage, take out my hot pink bike, and hop on it, zipping off down the road, not wanting to pick sides or face my sister and everything that’s happened.
My shame turns to anger and it propels me along, and for a while I forget how much I hate exercise as I pedal. Soon my butt is aching, but at least the wind dries my damp hair. I consider it a free blow-out without having to deal with Mom’s annoying hairdresser in her clothes two sizes too small and two decades too young.
I finally reach the school just as my legs are telling me to stop pedaling already. I’m about to pull into the parking lot when a horn honks behind me. I almost fly off the seat of my bike. A car streaks by and through the rear window I see Bree, one of my sister’s teammates, giggling in the passenger seat. I recognize the driver too. Drunk Pimple Guy from the party.
His car is a Pile, capital P. Rusting and dented, an ugly thing from the 1990s. I want to give them both the one-finger salute but I’m afraid to take my hand off the handlebar in case I wipe out.
I drop one foot to the ground, watching as they squeal into a parking spot. I could waste more energy being mad at them and their low IQs and thus low form of seeking entertainment, but my heart isn’t in it. I don’t even bother to watch them get out of the car.
Instead I picture my sister’s face. Her bitter and broken laughter. The way she stepped on the gas pedal on the way to Devon’s, drove like she was Thelma or Louise in the movie our mom made us watch on an imposed “Girl’s Night.”
In my daydreams I never get as far as having sex, but when I imagine kissing, it’s like licking my favorite ice cream on the hottest day in summer, not dropping the entire scoop on the ground and watching it melt.
I hop back on my bike and head to the almost empty bike racks. Riding a bicycle to high school is apparently a faux pas. Especially a bike like mine. It’s expensive of course; Mom picked it out—only the best for the Smiths—but who buys pink bikes after their ninth birthday besides my mom? I’m not crazy about my mode of transportation, but it beats the bus.
A lump clogs my throat. I won’t cry. I won’t. Not only would it be humiliating, but Kristina would kill me. I agreed to her cone of silence. Bawling in public wouldn’t be a great way to keep her secret.
“Hey, Tess, right?”
I turn and the kid from the frosh party is standing behind me, an inquisitive look on his babyish face. I try to remember his name.
“Jeremy,” he supplies.
“Oh yeah. Clark Trent’s friend.” My lips turn up as I think about his friend’s name. “Are you going to be in the Honor Society too?”
Jeremy stares at me. “No, I’m not smart enough.” He glances around. “Uh, where’s your sister today? Don’t you usually get a ride with her?”
Thunk. The mention of my sister sends spikes of pain through me.
I turn and concentrate on opening my bike lock and unraveling the chain from around the bike seat. When I peek up, his cheeks are practically smoking, they’re so red. He looks guilty, like he’s been caught browsing a girly website or something.
“Why are you so interested in my sister?” I ask, redirecting my anger at him for reasons not his fault.
“I just noticed her car is all.” His cheeks stay red. “She always parks in the same spot. And you’re usually with her.”
I wind my bike lock through my bike wheels.
“No, seriously. Because of her red Toyota. My friend has the same one in black. I’m into cars. I noticed Kristina drove a red one.”
Great. Kristina has a stalker. The car was Kristina’s sweet sixteen present. At the time I didn’t think she’d done anything to deserve it, except have rich grandparents, but Mom thought it was the best thing since leopard-skin spankies. And now, under the circumstances, spoiling Kristina doesn’t seem so bad.
“I don’t think I’d ever buy a red car, the cops tend to pull over more drivers who drive them. I can’t remember where I heard it, but it makes sense, you know? Not that I think it’s bad your sister has a red car. I mean, it suits her. She’s doesn’t seem like the type to speed or anything.”
For some reason, Jeremy’s still talking.
I stare at him, wondering why he’s going on and on. I shrug. “I just decided to ride my bike today is all.”
“Is Kristina sick?”
Man, I’ve been at school for less than five minutes and I’m already getting quizzed about her whereabouts and her health. It’s not a good sign. I don’t want to explain things all day. I want everyone to ignore me like they usually do.
“She’s fine.” The lie makes my insides percolate like Mom’s morning coffee.
His cheeks recharge with color as if he feels my mood. “I just thought, you know…I wanted to ask Kristina if she saw the pictures I posted on Facebook. From the party. It’s no big deal.”
He’s obviously nervous and it makes me a little less annoyed by his intrusion. The thing is, a few days ago she would have been all over his pictures. He would be the happiest guy on the planet right now, because Kristina would be giving him props for the cool pics of her. But even though he has no idea, it’s all changed.
“She hasn’t seen them.” I start to walk away but he follows slightly behind me. I take a quick look over my shoulder and his whole body is deflated. He looks so sad that guilt nibbles at my crusty core. “I mean, I doubt she’s had time to look them up. We had a really busy weekend.” I want him to go away, to stop making me feel bad about being creepy to him, but most of all to quit reminding me why Kristina’s at home.
I swallow another big lump, desperately wishing for my self-centered and carefree sister back but I’m afraid that girl is gone forever and I’m not sure what to do about it. When we reach the front doors of the school, Jeremy darts ahead of me, opens the door, and holds it while I pass by him. At least her stalker has nice manners.
“I have to get to class,” I tell him, and practically run to get away. I keep my head down as I pass a group of kids in the hallway and wind my way past bodies until I’m almost at my locker.
Melissa leans against it, her eyes on the floor. Even though we don’t have any classes together, she checks in at my locker almost every morning before we face our school day.
Her long hair hangs in front of her face and it almost looks like she’s praying. She’s wearing an oversized yellow T-shirt, probably her dad’s. She’s always raiding his closet instead of wearing the plus-size clothes her stepmother buys for her. A long blue skirt covers her flip-flopped feet like she’s trying to hide.
“Hey,” she whisper-calls in her soft voice when she spots me. Her eyes dart around as if to make sure no one is paying attention to us. As if anyone cares what she and I discuss before we rush off to class.
She pushes her long bangs behind her ear. “I tried calling and texting you all weekend but you didn’t get back to me.” I hear hurt in her voice. “What happened?”
Melissa’s parents finally allowed her to get a cell phone for high school this year, though she has to pay for it with the money she earns helping out her church’s secretary. Her social life is even worse than mine. Church both days on the weekend, Saturday for work, Sunday for services. And she has strict weeknight curfews.
“Oh, you know. My mom had all sorts of family stuff lined up and another one of her stupid parties on Sunday.” I glance over my shoulder as if someone called my name or I heard something interesting. Avoiding her eyes, I add, “Anyhow, I didn’t have my cell phone charged.”
That much is true at least. I always forget to charge my phone.
When I look back at her, Melissa rolls her eyes ever so slightly. “I don’t know why you even bother with a phone. Except you get it for free. Like everything else in life.” She says it lightly and smiles, but I’ve heard it a million times before and barely register it. She’s always teasing me about the things I have. It’s not my fault my family can afford things and my mom loves to spend.
She pushes away from the lockers and I step forward to get my stuff.
“So…” she says, her voice soft but excited. “Tell me about the party. Did anything happen? How was it?”
The party. It seems so distant, like it happened or even mattered a lifetime ago. I grab the books I need for the morning from my backpack and blow out a deep breath of air, wishing I could confide the truth. The party is old news. My sister’s cancer is new.
I’m torn by my promise to my sister and my friendship with Melissa. We’ve always shared things. Melissa narrows her eyes when I say nothing, a slightly resentful expression on her face. Her parents don’t believe in parties and she’s not allowed to go to any.
“It was lame,” I finally say to throw her off the scent. I can’t stir up the energy to tell her anything else. It strikes me how much time we spend discussing the lives of others. She’s dying to find out if anything scandalous or exciting happened.
“I took off early.” I shove my backpack into my locker and stand on my tiptoes to reach my sketchbook off the top shelf. My elbow knocks my blown-up picture of Randy McGovern, a wildlife artist I scanned off the Internet. I automatically straighten it out, taking care not to wrinkle his face.
“How early?” The way Melissa bobs her head around reminds me of an agitated burrowing owl.
Blushing, I close my locker door. “Early. I just had to get out, you know?”
Melissa glances around to make sure we’re still alone. “Kristina must have been pissed off. She really wanted you to make an effort.” She snarls her lip. “To socialize.” She makes it sound like a curse word.
It’s my cue to make snide remarks about Kristina, or boast about how we’re too intellectually superior to care about stuff like that. Even I know we make fun of my overly gorgeous sister to burn off our own insecurities. I can’t do it though. I can’t play along today, no matter how much I know I should, to keep up appearances. It’s too much work, so instead I shrug.
“What was she wearing?” Melissa demands, pushing back bangs that refuse to stay behind her ear.
For a moment I have an image of Kristina’s low-cut tank top with the push-up bra, but it’s replaced by the picture of her distraught face in the car on the way home from Devon’s. Who cares? I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
Melissa clucks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, sounding more like an old woman than a high-school freshman. An old woman disappointed in me.
“Well, were her and her friends all drunk?”
I shake my head.
“Was Kristina all over a guy trying to make Devon jealous?” Melissa won’t stop and the mean streak in her voice makes her sound harsh. I wonder if it’s always been there and I never bothered to notice before. I wonder if I sound the same way.
I shake my head again and press my lips tight.
“Were the volleyball girls doing the girl-kissing-girl thing?”
I regret telling Melissa about the time Kristina and her friends dared each other to kiss at a sleepover at our house. Mom and Dad went out to a university party and one of the girls brought wine coolers and they’d knocked them back and got silly. I’d spied the kissing when I’d gone to the kitchen for a snack.
“No.” I snap and slide my lock in place and shut it. “It’s not like she’s a slut. And she doesn’t get drunk. A waste of her precious calories.”
Melissa sucks in a quick breath and stands straighter, tugging on the strap of the backpack slung over her shoulder. She carries it around all day instead of ditching it in her locker, mostly I think because she keeps stashes of chocolate bars and snacks in it. It doesn’t seem fair the way our metabolisms work, but we don’t really talk about it. Her stepmom is on her case about losing weight, even in front of me. She tells Melissa to ask God for help controlling her appetite. I haven’t seen God giving out helpful diet advice though. Melissa also has a skinny little stepsister, which doesn’t help. She can’t stand her sister and I think weight is half the problem.
I glance away from Melissa. Of course the first thing I spot on the wall is a poster for a rally in the gym, featuring an action shot of Kristina. She’s high off the ground, her arm high in the air, about to spike a volleyball over the net.
“The party was stupid,” I say to end the conversation. For the first time in my life, I lie by omission to my best friend. I don’t mention how Kristina dragged me around the party like a loser. I don’t tell her about Jeremy taking our picture or how he kind of stalked me in the parking lot on Kristina’s behalf. It seems trivial now.
Melissa stares at me, as if I’ve somehow betrayed her. But I can’t play the game.
She finally says, “Oh,” and glares at me as if trying to snap me out of my quiet mood. Then she frowns. “Well, I have to get to class.” She spins away from me and marches off, getting caught up in the crowd of kids rushing around, without even checking in to make sure my homework is done. My stomach flutters with dread because, for the first time ever, the answer to Melissa’s question would be no. I’ve actually come to school with an assignment only half-finished.
I wait for a break in the swarming bodies and then jump in, joining the flow toward my art class, and realize I didn’t even tell her about the Oswald Drawing Prize, knowing she’d moan and groan about how with my family money, I shouldn’t go after scholarships or awards. I imagine explaining it’s not about the money, but that winning will change my life. But now, even without the Drawing Prize, that’s already happened. It doesn’t mean I should give up my dreams too, does it? I head down the hall contemplating it, and spot the gaggle of volleyball girls surrounding the water fountain outside my classroom.
All of the girls are tall and thin with identical low-riding jeans and long ponytails sprouting from their heads. I duck my head down quickly and try to get past unseen.
“Hey, Kristina’s sister!”
Gee stares at me. Gee is her nickname, anyhow. The volleyball girls all have cute nicknames for each other, like Gee and Cee and Bree, but they can’t be bothered to remember mine, even though they’ve been to my house a million times with Kristina.
“Where’s Tee?” Gee says. “We have volleyball practice at noon.”
Pretty, eager faces stare at me.
“Um, she’s sick,” I say, wishing they would ignore me and leave me alone like they’re supposed to. It’s only her first missed day of school and they’re on me already?
“So?” Gee says and flips her hair back.
I try, but I can’t remember her real name.
“Our big game is coming up. Tee should be tougher. It better be more than a little cold,” she tells me, as if I’m responsible for Kristina’s absence and/or health.
“Whatever,” I manage to mumble. She has no idea how stupid she’s going to feel when she finds out the truth. I shrug and hurry past her, hoping she chokes on her own words later. Worse than a cold all right.
I zoom away and rush inside my class, even though I’d rather run to the bathroom and hide inside a toilet stall all day. Mr. Meekers is my art instructor, but he’s also one of the faculty advisors for the Honor Society. He’s everything I don’t expect an art teacher to be. He wears dress pants and ties, and he’s strict and has a bad disposition. I’d prayed to be in Miss Ingles’s class. She’s had listings at real art museums and wears long flowing dresses with scarves wrapped around her neck. She has jet-black hair like Cleopatra and speaks in a soft voice. She’s much more of an inspiration and I imagine she’d be much easier to talk to, but I got Mr. Meekers. If I had her, I’d consult with her about the art award. But with him, I’m on my own. Still, staying in his good books is imperative to getting into the Honor Society, and Melissa wants that so badly. And me, I want it too.
I notice Clark Trent glaring at me through his Superman glasses. He’s seated a few aisles from my desk, but instead of talking to his neighbors or texting people on his cell and ignoring my entrance like the rest of the class, he’s staring at me. I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him, but ignore him and plop down in my chair, wondering if it’s possible to have a heart attack at the age of fifteen. I imagine cancer, black like an army of ants, eating away at Kristina’s flesh from the inside, and lay my head on the desk and think about how it would feel being an only child. It makes my heartbeat fluctuate even more and the fear of heart failure makes me sit up. If I have to choose between Kristina never being born or being sick, I pick sick. Sick is better than not at all.
I swallow and swallow and stare at my desk until Mr. Meekers clears his throat, greets the class, and stands and pulls down the Smart Board screen, announcing we’ll be watching a film on oil-painting techniques. He tells us to take notes for our exam and most kids groan. I wonder again why he is teaching art instead of science or biology.
He doesn’t ask us to hand in our assignments that are supposed to be due today, an essay on sociopolitical issues in art. I pray none of the smart kids, like Clark, will remind him, and suddenly have a clear vision of how annoying I must be to regular people who aren’t jonesing for Honor Society position.
Someone turns off the lights and the movie begins. I try to concentrate on the brush strokes but it’s hard. When the movie mercifully ends, Mr. Meekers turns on the lights and babbles, but nothing soaks into my brain. Thankfully, the bell rings, releasing us from our seats.
I grab my books and stand and almost slam straight into Clark. His cheeks look splotchy.
I glare up at him. “What?”
His eyes get wrinkly in the corners as he squints down at me.
I try to step around him, but he moves in front of me and won’t let me by. He smells like a bubble bath and I fight an urge to giggle, and work hard to avoid the visual of a naked Clark soaking in bubbles. I wonder if he wears his glasses in the bathtub.
“Why were you such a jerk to Jeremy this morning?” he asks, his voice stiff and his cheeks splotching even more.
The naked bubbles pop. “He’s stalking my sister,” I mumble.
His eyes narrow behind his black-framed glasses.
“She’s not interested in younger boys,” I say, wishing he’d go away and leave me alone and quit adding to the already too heavy bag of guilt and dark emotions weighing me down. God, I’ve talked to more boys this morning than the whole month and a half of school. And I’m not exactly doing a great job of it.
Clark pushes his glasses up on his nose. “He only wanted to know if your sister saw the pictures she told him to post.”
He’s right. “Sorry. He caught me at a bad time. I’m having a bad day. I had to ride my bike to school and I hate exercise.”
Clark stares down at me for another second as if deciding whether I’m serious. And then he smiles. He has nice teeth. Really white and straight. He didn’t go to elementary school with me but my guess is that he wore braces in grade school. “You know,” he says. “You’re in the pictures too. Maybe he’s stalking you.”
Laughter spills out from my lips and surprises me. It’s a relief to find out he has a sense of humor. I like it better than confrontation.
“Yeah. Because I’m so stalkable.”
He pushes his glasses up on his nose again and studies me. “Not really. You’re not online very much. Do you even have an email address?”
“Of course I do.” My cheeks warm and my insides flutter like hummingbird wings. I want to ask how he knows I’m not online. I contemplate supplying him with reasons. That social networking is stupid and for people with less stimulating things to do with their free time. But apparently he uses it. And maybe, just maybe, deep, deep down inside, I’m a little afraid that if I joined a bunch of these sites, no one would friend me and I’d be a social outcast online as well as off. People don’t run up to me with their cameras and ask to take my picture with them. They run past me without seeing me and grab my sister and pose with her.
Or they did.
“You kids have a question?” Mr. Meekers asks from the front of the room.
Everyone else has cleared out of the class.
“No, sir.” I start to walk and Clark falls in step beside me. He’s taller than me and somehow walking beside him isn’t so scary. It makes me feel almost…feminine. I imagine for a moment leaning up to kiss him and then hope like heck he can’t read my mind.
“Have a good day, Mr. Meekers,” he calls behind us, oblivious to my lechery. “So, is your sister sick or something?” he asks as we leave the classroom.
My legs suddenly are harder to move. When I missed a full week of class in middle school, no one even blinked an eye. Kristina is gone for a few hours and I’m already on inquiry number three. On top of the invasion of my privacy, I know it’s messing with time and energy I should be devoting to being in the Honor Society. This is the crucial first semester when the selection is made. If I don’t make Honor Society my freshman year, Melissa’s dream of our becoming chapter leaders and attending the national conference will fade. I feel sorry for myself and a flash of resentment erupts toward Kristina.
It’s quickly followed by a rush of shame. I’m worrying about losing my spot in a club for smart people. Kristina is fighting bone-eating cancer. She wins.
“It’s no big deal.” The words taste queasy as they leave my mouth. It is a big deal. A big freaking hairy deal.
No matter what my family wants, no matter how long they try to put it off, people are going to find out that Kristina has cancer. And maybe then they’ll leave me alone. I hurry away from Clark, heading deep into the crowded hallway, and immediately get sucked up by a swarming locust cloud of kids all going in different directions. Noise and chatter fill my head. I imagine eyes staring at me from everywhere, curious, wanting answers, wondering where my sister is.
Instead of going to my locker I keep walking, moving against the crowd. I keep my head down and march on, until I’m going out the front doors of the school. I bolt down the steps and run to my bike. I’m even clumsier with the English books I’m still carrying, but manage to fumble with the lock, yank if off, and get on the bike, steering with one arm. I pedal as fast as my feeble legs will take me.
Tears blur my vision but I keep pedaling, zooming around a corner, almost home, when I cycle over a rock or something and, as if in slow-motion, flip over the top of the handlebars.
I do a graceless body plant on the pavement and my books go flying. My elbow instantly feels the burn from scraping concrete. Papers scatter into the air.
Car wheels screech behind me and I close my eyes and wait to be plowed over.
“You okay?” a voice calls out.
I open my eyes, relieved to find I haven’t been flattened on the road, but humiliated nonetheless. I realize it’s the same stupid car I saw at school earlier. The one that cut me off. The guy from the party is staring at me through the windshield, his eyes wide and gawky.
“I’m fine.” I’m horrified. My eyes are filled with tears and I wince as I stand up. My leg is killing me but I don’t need him to know that as I begin to fetch my books and papers.
The car engine shuts off and a car door slams. I turn and see he’s pulled the car to the side of the road and jumped out. He walks over, picks up my bike, and rolls it off the road to the sidewalk.
“Better move out of the way or you’ll be roadkill.”
He smiles and his eyes twinkle with amusement, probably at my overwhelming clumsiness. He watches me as he puts my bike down on the sidewalk and walks back to me. “Hey, you’re okay, aren’t you?”
No, I want to scream. No, I’m not okay. And then, as if I’m a balloon filled with water, his kindness pokes a hole in my psyche and it starts to leak. Just like that, my nose gushes out gross liquids and tears stream down my face. I’m aware on some level that I should be embarrassed, but I collapse and sit in the middle of the road, crying like a little kid, while Drunk Pimple Guy stands there watching me crack up.
So much for the sturdy intellectual reputation I’ve been striving for.
He looks down at me and around at the empty road and then puts out his hand, grabs mine, and pulls me up. I let him help me to my feet, but drop his hand as if it burns as soon as I’m standing. He motions with his head for me to follow him and I walk slowly to the safety of the sidewalk.
“I guess you’re not okay?” he says, but his voice isn’t judgmental.
I plunk down on the edge of the curb and put my head in my hands, but sense him sitting down beside me. Instead of saying anything, he sits quietly. My meltdown settles and with it my sense of normality returns. I realize what a complete and utter ass I’m making of myself. I snuffle, wipe my snotty nose on the back of my hand, and take a deep breath. A sigh escapes and drains the rest of my energy.
“I’m guessing this is about more than falling off your bike.” He hugs his knees close and kind of rocks on his butt and doesn’t look at me.
I start to giggle but it’s kind of hysterical and completely inappropriate and reminds me of Kristina. I’m aware he must think I’m a freak maybe, or bipolar and in serious need of my meds. I don’t want my sister to die. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want her body eaten up by cancer.
“My name’s Nick,” he says. “And you’re Kristina’s little sister. I remember meeting you at the party but I was pretty wasted.” He chuckles but it sounds self-conscious. “Sorry if I was a jerk or anything.”
“You weren’t a jerk. Just slobbering over my sister.” I want to take my words back. I don’t want to open up a conversation about her.
He lifts his shoulder in a shrug, but doesn’t deny it or say anything more about Kristina.
“Your parents give you a first name?” he asks.
“Surprisingly, yes,” I tell him. “Tess.”
“Looks like Tess is having a pretty crappy day.” The way he refers to me in third person makes me smile. “Does she want to talk about it?”
“She doesn’t,” I tell him.
“Well, maybe she should,” he says. “Tell her it helps if you get things off your chest. That’s what my therapist tells me.”
I look at him and he’s grinning. I wonder if he really does have a therapist.
“Nah,” he says, as if I spoke the question out loud. “I don’t have a therapist. Too rich for my blood.”
Not mine but I don’t tell him that. Part of me wants to tell him to go away, but in a strange way, I’m actually grateful for his company. He’s not all in my face or flipping out, and honestly it seems to me having a breakdown with company is somehow slightly less terrifying than doing it alone.
So we sit on the curb. He rocks back and forth, kind of humming a song under his breath. I don’t say anything, and for a moment I let myself feel what I’m feeling without trying to hide from it. Nick doesn’t scream or run away from me, and it’s the most emotionally exposed I’ve ever felt in front of a boy. But the thing is, I don’t get struck by lightning. I don’t turn to ashes. And he doesn’t laugh at me.
I watch little ants crawl all over my sneakers, and sniffle, and wipe under my eyes. “Did you know ants can lift up to fifty times their own weight? That’s like an eighty-pound kid lifting four thousand pounds.”
Nick blinks, his features void of emotion. “And you’re telling me this, because…?”
I shrug. “My head is full of useless facts.” I glance sideways at him. “You really want to go to a therapist?” I ask him. “I could spot you a loan.” I don’t know what prompts me to say that. I sense he really does want to and it makes me like him a little better.
He laughs out loud and the sound gives me a tiny jolt of pleasure. “I don’t take handouts.” His voice is light but I sense some acidity under it. “Not even to improve my emotional health.”
I nod. “You just get drunk instead?”
His lips straighten in a thin line and he looks away from me. My glow vanishes and I blush, wondering who I think I am, trying to act all mature and capable of witty repertoire. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I probably deserved it.” He smiles but it fades fast and its absence makes him look kind of sad. We’re both quiet for a moment as we sit on the curb. It’s surprisingly comfortable. I don’t feel the need to get up or escape from him.
“So,” he finally says. “Let me guess why you’re so unhappy. You just got your first period?” His eyebrows wiggle up and down.
A laugh spurts from my mouth like water from an unclogging tap, and I quickly put my hand over my lips. “That’s a totally jerky thing to say.” I try to sound mad, but don’t cut it.
“I know.” He grins and his eyes light up and they’re blue and much nicer when he’s not drunk and smelly. “Okay then. Let me guess. You got an A minus on a test? Or worse, a B plus?”
I turn my head, trying to hide my smile, wondering how he knows I’m a brainiac. And then I look down at my loose jeans and hoodie and remember it’s kind of obvious. Look at me. I ooze geek. It’s not like he’s thought about it before this moment. A sigh slips out again.
He stands then and holds out his hand to pull me up. When we touch, a thrill races through me and my cheeks blaze. Man, what is wrong with me today? I would be a mess if boys talked to me all the time.
“Things aren’t always as bad as they might seem.” He checks his watch. “You are aware, Tess, that you skipped out of school in order to have this near-fatal collision? And that skipping is frowned upon by the faculty?”
Technically, I am skipping, but for once, rules don’t matter. I’m entitled to an emotional health day. Like the days when Mom called in sick for Kristina so they could go to movies or to the spa. They asked me to join them, but I’d always said no. Afraid I’d somehow be caught. I sense those days are over now.
“What about you?” I say. “You’re obviously skipping too.”
He jumps off the curb to the road. “Sort of. I’m heading off for my tee time.”
“Tea or tee?” I make the motions of drinking from a cup and then swinging a club.
He swings at the air. “I get free golf games once in a while, a perk of my job as grounds keeper at Largurt Country Club. I figure it’s like a phys ed class, you know. I should get credit for it.”
“My dad golfs there,” I tell him. The only reason Dad has friends outside work is for golf.
He nods. “I know who your dad is. He’s a gold member. He has killer clubs.” He glances at his watch again. The strap is beat-up and its face looks scratched. It’s funny, not many kids my age actually wear watches. “You want a ride to wherever you’re going?” he asks.
“No.” My voice drops. “I’m heading home. And I have my bike.”
He dangles his car keys around his finger. “I could put your bike in my trunk and give you a lift if you want. I don’t mind.”
“No, it’s okay.” I don’t want him near our stupidly big house. Or Kristina, which I know makes me a really bad sister, but for some reason I want to keep him for myself. I remember what Kristina said about him. That he’s a boy-slut. But he seems pretty nice. And it’s not like he’s about to make any moves on me.
“You’re the boss.” We both walk to my bike on the sidewalk, with my books piled beside it, close to where he’s parked.
In the sunlight his face doesn’t look pimply. He’s got normal teenage skin. He takes a step and bends down to pick up my bike, straightens, and holds it out to me. “You sure you’re okay to ride this crazy pink thing?”
“Fine,” I tell him, and take the bike. “I’m fine.”
We both know I’m lying, but he holds out his hand and takes my books while I climb on my bike. When I’m on, he hands them to me and I tuck them under my arm and grab the handlebar with the other hand.
“See you around, Tess the freshman.”
“Tess the Mess,” I mumble and start to pedal away.
“Hey,” he calls. I look around and he winks at me. “You’re kinda cute when you get all flustered.”
My insides smoosh around. The bike wobbles.
“Well, for a freshman,” he calls.
“My sister told me you were a man-whore,” I yell over my shoulder and then wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
I hear him snort. “See ya around,” he calls. I hide a smile and concentrate on the road so I don’t wipe out in front of him…again. He called me cute! Ha! Even though it’s pretty clear he only said it because he feels sorry for me, it was nice. People surprise me. That much I know.
When I get home, Kristina is locked in her room. I tell Mom she needs to call in sick to the school for me. She gives me a funny look but goes ahead and calls the school.
I go to my room and pull out my sketchbook. Lines and textures flow from me. I’m inspired by images in my head. I’ve decided on a piece that is sort of a volcano landscape but suggests so much more, says something a little deeper. I sketch and know I’m not quite where I want to be, but getting closer. I lose myself in my work and slowly the realities of life disappear.
Escape is one of a million reasons I love art. I want to win this contest so badly I can taste it. The taste is better than warm pecan pie, my favorite dessert in the entire world. Winning would change my life. Change how people see me. How I see myself. It would show everyone who I am. Besides Kristina’s little sister.
Through the walls, Kristina coughs. My concentration broken, I put my pencil down. My giddiness fades. I’m thinking about winning a stupid contest. Kristina is thinking about dying.