All These Lives (13 page)

Two minutes pass before he writes back, sliding the piece of paper across the small distance between our desks. His handwriting is neat and precise, like one would expect, even though his blue pen looks like it might be running out of ink.

My mom irons my jeans. Why?

No reason,
I write back. At the front of the class, Halbrook stands with his back to us, writing in barely decipherable letters on the whiteboard.

I think we should talk and get it over with. I’m sorry about what happened, and I know you’ve been avoiding me.

I don’t know why I ever thought it was a good idea to exchange notes with Jack during math class. Clearly, he has only one thing on his mind.

Disappointing. And here I thought he was different than all the other boys.

What do you mean we haven’t talked? I thought I said hi at the start of class. Am I hallucinating again?

You did, but then you turned away before I could say anything back. Anyway, I didn’t mean to kiss you.

I know—and after careful consideration, I’ve decided I won’t be pressing charges.

I see him frown, two creases at the top of his forehead. He opens his mouth as if preparing to say something, then closes it again, remembering himself and where we are. It probably also occurs to him that there is no way I’m going to admit anything ever happened in a public forum. So, instead, he pulls out a black pen—his blue one has finally given up on life and, in turn, he has given up on it.

I think it’s important to discuss things. It’s always better, in my experience.

I glance up briefly to catch Lauren giving me a disapproving look. Ever since she came back from being suspended, she’s been even more devout in her commitment to schoolwork. I make a point of pretending to copy down Halbrook’s notes. I bet that’s what everybody else is doing—pretending. The only two people in the world that ever truly understand anything that Halbrook does, not to mention writes, are Halbrook and Lauren. Jack might act like he does, too, but you can never really tell with him.

We ARE discussing things. Anyway, I’d think you’d be a little more relieved that I’ve decided to withhold legal action (for now). I’m not usually so forgiving when boys cram their tongues down my throat.

Jack’s response is in front of me within seconds.

That’s not really how it happened.

And then, before I’ve even had the chance to think about my reply, another piece of paper lands in front of me.

All right, fine. Let’s not talk about it.

There’s something inherently pissy about this note, even though it’s barely two sentences long. It’s in the way the letters on the page are more pointy than the ones before them, the way the
i
’s are dotted—intentional and angry and almost square.

When I glance over at him, Jack has his math face on again. His focus is completely on the board ahead, and his hands are dancing all over his page, replicating in small, neat letters the illegible squiggles Halbrook has on the board.

I squint, cock my head to the side, and struggle to see the way everybody else sees, the way Jack sees. But … nothing. Maybe I should get glasses.

*   *   *

You know when you walk into a room and you get the feeling that someone is talking about you
right now
? That’s the sense I get, standing in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that volume control and general subtlety have never been Candy’s strong suit. She is standing in the lunch line.

“I feel more sorry for her than anything,” she is saying nonchalantly, shrugging as she brings a bottle of water to her lips. “If our roles were reversed, and by some imbalance in the universe
she
had Spencer, I would totally be breaking down in class, too, and, like, making out with geeks in the library.”

Candy snort-laughs at her own joke, and the pack of girls surrounding her release their own set of hyena laughs.

My palms feel moist and sticky as I walk toward them.

“Oh,” Candy says when she sees me coming. She diverts her gaze from mine and faces forward in line again. I go and stand right next to her, close enough that it’s uncomfortable for both of us, but not close enough that I’m tempted to gag or hold my nose. I can’t help it, I’ve always thought Candy smelled like mushrooms.

The girls that were cozying up to her just a second ago keep some distance between us and them, but don’t leave entirely, afraid they’ll miss some sort of throwdown. If it should come to that.

“Did you do something to your hair?” I ask her with a bright smile. “It looks washed.”

She swallows, but doesn’t answer.

“I really like it. I think the last time you had it like this was in … third grade?”

Now she narrows her eyes at me. “I heard you and Jack were making out in the library.” Her voice is unnaturally loud, even for Candy, and I feel her watching me closely, trying to measure my level of embarrassment.

“Well, I usually don’t kiss and tell,” I reply evenly, “but I’m happy to report that he doesn’t have the same salivary condition Spencer has.”

Candy folds her arms across her chest. “Like you’ve kissed Spencer. You’re a liar.”

“There’s a fly stuck to your eyelashes.”

“And a bitch,” she hisses.

“And if you’re going to wear a nose ring, you should really keep your nose in the air less. Things don’t look quite right in there, you know?”

Her mouth falls open. Then, she seems to collect herself. “It’s a
nasal septum piercing
, not a nose ring.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Again, not right. Did you know they sometimes just fall through? Spontaneously? And then they, like, break the—what did you call it—the septum?”

Everybody seems to be holding their breath. “Anyway,” I smile, “you girls have a nice lunch. Say hi to Spencer for me, okay?”

Without waiting for her answer, I turn and walk away. Lauren is nowhere to be found and while I consider sitting with Jack for a nanosecond, he quickly shifts his gaze as soon as I catch it. When I’m walking past his table, I think I see him move his bag from the seat next to him, but I’m probably imagining things.

So I head to the library, pull out one book on various eye conditions and another on cats.

It’s quiet in here, and deserted. Mrs. Uri, who hasn’t seen me, sits huddled in her corner, reading one of those magazines she leaves out to inspire us, nibbling on a sandwich and breaking her own rule. Part of me wants to say something, since I’m in a confrontational mood today, but I end up just flipping idly through my books and watching her eat.

I feel like I truly understand her by the time the bell rings. And she’s riveting. Especially the way she obsessively wipes down the surface of the table following each bite.

That’s not all I’m doing, though. I’m also trying to figure out who saw and how and from where. It’s funny how one can feel invisible and unseen, eating illegally in the library or letting one’s lips be kissed by geeky boys, all the while totally unaware that you’re being watched.

I bite into the flesh on the side of my mouth until it starts to bleed. I want to find a smaller space to hide, in between the shelves, or inside the pages of this book, or in between the letters of a word.

Five.

I want to fold myself inside out and disappear. Grow smaller, smaller, smaller, till nobody can see me.

22

The first boy to ever throw rocks at my window late at night is tall, with dark tufts of brown hair, eyes a little too close together, and a two-day shadow. He doesn’t serenade me—he can’t play the guitar—and he doesn’t help me climb out, shushing me as I giggle, entangled by bushes and my own feet. This boy is hardly worth coming down for at all, but I owe him.

He’s my father.

“Shh. I don’t want to wake your mother.” He breathes heavily, holding himself up on the ledge of the window by placing his full weight on his arms, like an upright, creepy-father version of push-ups.

I blink and try to undo the image. Where is Spencer and the boom box he will use to prove how sorry he is for picking Candy over me? Where is Johnny Depp? At this point, even Jack Penner would do. It’s just my luck that it’s my father, and he’s refusing to disappear.

“I … got something. Will you … come down and see?”

There are so many things wrong with this scene, but all I say is, “I’ll be right down.”

He shushes me, but I’m already slamming my window shut, worming my way into clothes I can afford to be caught dead in—jeans, an oversized T-shirt, and my coat—and heading down the stairs.

Once out the front door, I head around the corner to the start of the driveway. Dad is leaning against the garage door staring straight ahead, his breathing still loud.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” I tell Dad, hugging my coat to myself, “but lack of sleep stunts growth. Particularly in adolescents.”

“I’m sorry, hon. But I couldn’t wait to show you this.” My eyes follow Dad’s to the end of our driveway, where a huge white RV sits, tires smothering a layer of decaying snow. “Well?”

I open my mouth and allow saliva to gather on the tip of my tongue, wetting my words so they slip out more easily and harden in the cool, wintery air.

“Dad,” I say slowly.

“I know,” he nods, as if I’ve already finished my impending lecture. “It’s not a good time.”

“And it’s winter.”

“And it’s not at all sensible.” He sounds like he’s talking to himself, or maybe the RV, since he can’t tear his eyes away from it. “But if not now, when? You know, why not right now? Everything feels like
now
.”

He turns to look at me. “Do you like it?”

I don’t say anything.

“There are beds and a kitchen and a TV. It’s like being at home but smaller, cozier.”

Is he trying to convince himself or me?

“My mother,” I say slowly, my toes tingling where the cold air chews through my holey socks, “is going to kill you.” Sure, Mom and Dad had been talking about renting an RV soon, but we all know that Soon is when we don’t have to worry about starting off the trip with four and coming back with three. Soon is after—
if
—we get our miracle.

Dad laughs, runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I went to the RV store in the morning, fell in love, and let her spend the day at Rick’s while I figured out what I’d say to your mother.”

The obvious questions are which parts of the RV have Dad convinced it’s a “her,” and what exactly he figured he’d say to my mother. Instead, I say, “Rick?”

“Guy from work,” he explains.

“So you waited until Mom was asleep to sneak out and bring it home?”

Dad looks sheepish but doesn’t say anything.

We stand there for a long time, just staring out at the street, at the RV.

So. Dad wants to run away. Who would have thought?

He’s still smiling. “It’s cold. You go on inside so you don’t catch something. And get some rest or you’ll be falling asleep in class tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “Last day before I’m exiled. Might as well enjoy the outdoor sights—find the constellations, breathe in the wind.”

“You’re smoking again, aren’t you?”

Dad sighs and looks down, sort of ashamed, but not quite. “Don’t tell your mother.”

I shuffle back inside, leaving Dad to plot his own method of escape. We all have ours. Mine apparently involve ill-advised makeout sessions. My mother’s are God and my barely existent acting career. My father’s are cigarettes and RVs. I don’t know what Jena’s are, but I’m sure she has some.

An hour or two passes, and I drift in and out of sleep. I hear the sound of the front door downstairs creaking open. Holding my breath, I listen to find out whether it’s my father coming in or my mother, having woken up, going out to behead him.

When twenty minutes later I hear voices, I figure it’s number two. Too bad I didn’t ask how he feels about cremation while we were outside bonding.

Mom is speaking in a very controlled but firm voice.

I’m expecting a door to slam—the closest Dad ever comes to asserting himself—and I refuse to let myself sleep until I hear it.

Half an hour passes, though, and nothing. An hour.

My head hurts. Elephants march across my eyelids and they weigh down my eyelashes.

I dream that a boy comes to my window, throws stones, and strums a sweet, homemade melody, inspired by me. His voice is husky, rich, and controlled; his kiss is anything but.

We giggle and breathe not-whole secrets, but whispers of secrets into the night. My hands melt into his strong, rough-but-not-farmer-rough hands.

The night envelops us in its warmth, a world where there is nothing but us and love and tonight and an eternity of more.

It’s a good dream, but it’s over too soon and then I’m remembering that no boyfriend of mine can do that now, because my father has tainted that particular fantasy.

I’m the last one to get up in the morning.

Why didn’t anyone wake me?

I jump into the shower and get dressed for school. When I go downstairs, I accept Mom’s offer to pour me a bowl of cereal. Jena sits across from me reading, and Dad is on his laptop. I search for rolled eyes behind backs, proof of the silent treatment, battle scars and traces of last night’s “incident.” Surely there were some.

“What are you staring at?” Jena asks, in turn staring at me.

“Do you know Dad rented an RV?” I ask loudly, still looking at my mom and dad, who are drinking a cup of coffee and typing away on a keyboard, respectively.

“Yeah, I do,” she says.

I have plenty more questions: Did he throw snow pebbles at your window, too, and make you come out to see? Do you know if this means he now actually believes what he’s been saying from the start, that you’ll be okay, or does this mean he believes the marks all over your body, the way your limbs are loose and tired—like your bones are not only sick, but absent? Does he think things are getting better, or that they’re about to get worse?

I don’t ask any of those questions, but I find out answers that are actually useful.