A Match Made in High School (16 page)

I didn’t get it. Ginny had totally stabbed Sam in the back. And Sam could simply write it off? How was that possible?

“How can it not matter?” I asked, trying to tone down the sound of my doubt so I didn’t get her riled up. Sam looked at me like I was a moron. “Because we’re friends!”

Because they were friends? It couldn’t be that simple. Could it? I mean, they were only friends because Sam had forgiven Ginny. But Sam had only forgiven Ginny because they were friends. It was like one of those algebra problems where you needed to have A to find B. But to find A, you needed to have B. Those were so tough to figure out. But Sam had.

She knew that if you just used one variable to assign a value to the other variable, then you could figure out both of them. Sam recognized that friendship contained forgiveness, then used forgiveness to resolve the friendship. She seemed to know far more about both those things than I ever had. Until then.

There was still no sign of anyone outside. I needed to stall for more time. “Whatever happened with that boy?” I asked. “What was his name? L-something?”

“Logan Clarke,” she said. “We were kind of a couple.”

“Were?”

“I broke up with him last week. He kept wanting to copy my homework. I let him at first, but after a while, I realized it was all he really wanted. He was truly tacky.”

Sure, at eleven, Logan Clarke had been after homework. But give it a few years, and he’d be after something entirely 182 Kristin Walker

different. I had a sudden feeling that if Logan Clarke had been in that shed, he might have suddenly found a trowel lodged between his ribs. “Well, I’m proud of you for not caving, Sam. Because believe me, you’re better off without a guy like that.”

“Speaking of. How’s your marriage going?” she asked. Sam didn’t seem concerned that I was staying out there with her. Or maybe she’d expected it.

“Not so hot,” I said. “We had our first fight. A biggie.”

Even as I said that, I recognized how absurd it was that with all the fighting Todd and I pretended to do, that the night at the bonfire had been our first real one.

“Over what?”

I had no idea why I was about to pour my soul out to a kid in a toolshed. But it was Sam, so I did. “He thinks I’m an insensitive snob. He says I judge everybody.”

Sam huffed. “He’s wrong. You are, too, sensitive. You always know when I’m sad about something. And everybody judges. They’re a liar if they say they don’t. But not everybody has the guts to say what they think out loud. You do. And you don’t give a hoo-ha about what other people think. That’s what I like about you best.” She rummaged in the cookies and popped one in her mouth.

“It is? You think that’s a good thing?”

She held up one finger while she chewed and swallowed.

“Sure. You’re a real person, Fiona. You don’t let the fakes and phonies get away with their stuff—so what? If they don’t like it, tough.”

My legs were going dead from the cold. I shifted to a kneeling position. “Yeah, well, pretty much nobody likes it.”

She chewed and swallowed another cookie and said, “I like it. And Marcie likes it.”

“Marcie and I aren’t friends anymore,” I grumbled.

“
What
?” she said through a mouthful of half-chewed cookie. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Gabe? The guy I liked?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s been dating him since the summer.”

Sam’s eyes bugged. She swallowed her cookie. “She what?”

“And she totally lied to me about it.”

“She told you she wasn’t dating him, but she was?”

“Well, no. She just didn’t tell me about him.”

Sam twisted her mouth up and cocked her head sideways. “That’s not lying, Fiona.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. She never said she
wasn’t
dating him. She just didn’t tell you she was. Because she didn’t want to hurt you, obviously!”

“If she didn’t want to hurt me, she shouldn’t have gone out with him in the first place!”

Sam slapped the cookie package. “Fiona, what if this is her
one
true love? What if she and Gabe were destined to be together? You’d have Marcie throw all that away? You wouldn’t let her be happy like that? What kind of friend does that make you?”

What could I say to that? She was totally right. She’d nailed the truth. Again. I suddenly got the distinct impression that I was kneeling at the foot of a child Buddha. Some 184 Kristin Walker

prophet of teenage wisdom who doled out morsels of insight while seated between a potting bench and a bag of old fertilizer.

“Sam,” I said. I was about to tell her how great she was when we heard my dad’s voice outside getting closer and closer.

“Sure, Jake,” he yelled extra loud. “You can borrow the snow shovel. It’s right here in the shed.” The door flung open and there stood Dad and Mr. Pickler with phony looks of disbelief on their faces. But this time, I kept my mouth shut about the fakes and phonies. I played like I was as shocked as they were.

“Samantha!” Mr. Pickler cried. “Here you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He shoved me aside as he reached in to embrace his daughter. She fought him a little, but not with too much conviction.

“Oh yeah?’ she said. “Well, if you were looking so hard, then why are you here to borrow a stupid shovel?”

Mr. Pickler stroked her hair and lied right to her. At least I figured it must be a lie. “Because your mother is so worried, she’s pacing the sidewalk outside our house in her bare feet. She refuses to come in. I wanted to shovel the snow for her. Then I was going to go back out looking for you.”

“You were? She is?” Sam seemed to buy it. Or maybe she just wanted to.

“Of course, Monkey-child.” He hugged her tighter. “We couldn’t live without you.”

As the proclaimed queen of detecting fakes and phonies,

I could tell that this was not a lie. Sam knew it too, because she hugged her father back.

“Please come home,” he said.

“Whose home?” she asked. “Mom’s or yours?”

“You know what? Wherever
you
are is home. You make it home. Now will you come?”

Sam tossed her hair. Dramatics. A good sign. “Maybe just for tonight. Ape-man.”

Of course we all knew—Sam probably, too—that it wasn’t just for one night. But we let Sam have the last word. She needed to know that her message had been heard loud and clear.

We piled out of the shed. Sam headed off through the snow with her dad—his arm pulling her close. My dad did the same move on me and we walked toward the house.

“You’re a good person, Fiona,” he said. I didn’t fully buy it. But to my surprise, I didn’t deny it, either.
Progress
, I thought.

MoNdAy MoRNING AT SChooL, JuST AFTER FIRST

period, I heard this earsplitting screech of feedback from outside, then someone shouting through a bullhorn. There was no mistake; it was my mother’s voice. I ran to the window. Outside, a group of people marched around in a circle. Carrying signs. Picket signs. The bullhorn screeched again and I heard my mother shout, “
Hey, ho! Hey, ho!
” and then the rest of the picketers—whom I hoped to hell were other parents—shouted, “
Marriage ed has got to go!
”

This, evidently, was her Elizabeth Cady Stanton–inspired

“great idea.” A full-on, strike-style, picketing protest in the snow. If it hadn’t been my mother, I might have thought it was kind of cool. But . . .

“Is that your
mother
?” Callie Brooks was suddenly at my side with her upper lip curled in obvious disgust. I was not about to expose my seething humiliation to her.

“Yeah, it is! Where’s yours? Why isn’t she out there helping?”

Callie glanced sideways and smoothed the front of her argyle sweater. “She works,” she mumbled. “But she signed the petition. Sent a letter.”

“Oh,” I said, because there was really nothing else to say, hostile or otherwise.

The picket line kept going the whole day. When Principal Miller tried to do afternoon announcements, they could hear her on the outdoor speakers. So the picketers cranked those bullhorns up to ten and drowned her out. After the last bell, Mom and PTA president Cybil Hutton stayed behind to relive the good times, so I rode my bike home. When I got there, there was a voice mail from Zinnman’s Ophthalmology saying that my contacts were ready. Not that I needed them anymore for cheerleading. But I’d already paid for them, so I figured I might as well pick them up. Dad was home early from NIU, so I grabbed the car to run out to the mall. I pulled into a parking spot and slushed through the grimy snow to the entrance. Inside the glass vestibule, I kicked the dirty dreck off my Chuck Taylors. When I looked up, I saw Marcie standing on the other side of the interior doors. Watching me.

Oh, crap. First Monday of the month. Nail appointment. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten.

There was no way to avoid her. I took a deep breath and pulled the door open. I got hit with the cinnamon-scented air from a pretzel shop nearby. “Hey Mar,” I said. I’d meant to say “Marcie.”

“Hey Fee. What’s up?”

Even though I was inside the warm, gleaming mall and not outside in the freezing muck, I pulled my coat tighter around me. “Just picking up some contact lenses.”

188 Kristin Walker

“Oh,” she said. She hiked her purse higher on her shoulder. “I thought you liked your glasses.”

I turned a palm up. “I ordered them a couple of weeks ago for cheerleading. I have to pick them up anyway.”

“Yeah, Ga—” She stopped, and then started again. “I heard you weren’t doing cheerleading anymore.” She looked beside me, above me . . . anywhere but at me. I huffed. “I don’t think you could ever call what I did cheerleading.”

Silence. The only sound between us was the instrumental Christmas music playing over the mall speakers. I could tell she didn’t know whether to laugh or not. That tore me up. The old Marcie would either have laughed along with me or told me to shut up because I was great for just trying. Suddenly, all the fight drained out of me. I was done with it.

“Marcie, listen. About Gabe . . .”

She reached out and stepped toward me. “You don’t know how sorry I am for going behind your back. And I’m so sorry for calling you selfish. I was just so frustrated because I couldn’t tell you about Gabe.”

I took a step toward her. “No, Mar. I’m the one who’s sorry. I was being selfish. I was a total self-centered brat—

you were right. I had no claim to him. It was all a fantasy. Just pretend. Gabe Webber never gave a crap about me and never would have, either. But he cares about you. I should have been happy for you. I know that you were only trying to protect me.”

Tears filled Marcie’s eyes and tumbled down her perfect peach cheeks. “I was, Fiona. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

I said, “I’m sorry too!” Then I bawled, and we hugged. Hurried shoppers eyed us as they tramped out the door. When Marcie and I were finally done blubbering, we decided to hang out for the rest of the afternoon. Her appointment wasn’t for another half hour. So she sat with me while the doctor showed me how to put in and take out my contacts and told me how long to wear them each day.

Then we went over to the nail salon, where Marcie wanted to treat me to a French manicure as a peace offering. And as a peace offering to her, I agreed to get it. I had to admit, even though my nails had been torn and stubby, the technician magically made them look . . . well, girly, as my dad would say.

As our nails dried under a purple UV light, I told Marcie about Dad getting drunk and asking if I was gay. She laughed out loud like it was the funniest thing since stink bombs. Mar was back. Damn, I’d missed her.

When we were done at the salon, we wandered over to the food court. She got a Diet Coke. I got a regular. We sat at the least filthy table we could find.

“I have to tell you something,” she said between sips. I mocked surprise. “You’re dating Gabe Webber? How could you?”

She cocked her head and raised one eyebrow. “Ha, ha.
Too
funny. No, something else.”

“What?” I couldn’t take my eyes off my fancy fingernails. They looked so grown-up holding my plastic cup and straw. I pretended the cup was crystal—I lifted my pinkies and sipped my drink like the Queen of England to make Mar laugh. 190 Kristin Walker

But instead of laughing, she said, “Johnny Mercer wants to bang you, bad.”

I froze mid–queen sip and gulped. Then choked and sputtered. Coke came out of my nose, which, if you’ve never had the pleasure, actually kills. The bubbles are like tiny razor blades slicing up your mucous membranes. I grabbed my nose and a couple of napkins at the same time. Marcie just sat there laughing at me.

I mopped up my face and the table. And my shirt. And the floor. “Omigod Mar, you are so NOCD.”

“He’s actually a very sweet guy. What do you think?”

“Think about what?”

“About going out with him.”

I looked at Marcie like she’d just asked me to join her cult because the mother ship was returning for them soon.

“You’re not serious.” It was more of a begging question than a statement, really. I thought about Johnny telling me he liked me at the bonfire. Then his note. And even though I found myself glad to hear he might not hate me . . . “I’m really not interested,” I said.

“A phone call, then. Just give him one call. I’m telling you, Fee, he’s a great guy. You know that prank you pulled that he took the blame for? The announcement one? Did you know he got in huge trouble for that?”

“What? No! He said everything was okay.”

“Well of course he’s not going to tell you he got in trouble. He likes you, Fiona.”

He was the second person I’d treated like garbage after

they’d tried to protect me. First Mar, now Johnny. “How much trouble?” I asked.

“He’s had to stay after school every day for a month, filing papers for Principal Miller to earn back your iPod and speakers. Actually, I think today was his last day.”

I set my cup down. “
What
?”

“And that’s not all. She’s making him go to this interpersonal-skills-slash-anger-management workshop over winter break. And he has to pay for it. Can you believe that?”

I leaned my elbows on the table and held my forehead in my hands. “No, I can’t. Oh, Mar, I feel horrible.” I sat up.

“I’m paying for that workshop. And he can have my iPod and speakers.”

Mar waved me off. “He won’t take them. I know he won’t. He’s that kind of guy, Fee. Now, Gabe? Gabe would take your money. But not Johnny. No way.”

I picked up a napkin and started shredding it slowly.

“How come I’m only hearing about this now? This has been going on for a month?”

“He made me
swear
not to tell anyone about it. And you and I weren’t talking, so . . . Don’t tell him I said anything, okay? He only told me because it ran into our ballroom dance lesson time. Otherwise I bet no one would know. He has never complained once, Fiona. I think he actually enjoys it because it’s for you.”

I got that same skin-full-of-bees sensation I’d had when Todd found out I’d had a crush on Gabe. Like every single nerve in my body was a strand of those fiber-optic light balls 192 Kristin Walker

you get at the novelty store next to the lava lamps, and someone was running their hand over me. The closest thing to it I could think of was absolute, pure, life-threatening terror. Only, not scary.

I crumpled up the napkin shreds into one hard lump. Marcie leaned toward me. “Come on, one phone conversation with him won’t kill you. One call. You said yourself you think he’s a riot. If it’s his size that’s bothering you,”

Marcie said, “then honestly, I’m surprised.” She sipped her Diet Coke. I knew she was pausing to dare me to deny it. I didn’t.

She chopped at her ice with her straw. “You know, Fiona, sometimes the best-looking guys are the ones with the most bottom-feeder mentality toward girls. Looks only go so far. Trust me.”

Hold on a tick. That was the second shady comment she’d made. Was there trouble in Gabe Webber paradise? Should I pursue this obvious invitation to investigate? Nah. I decided to leave it for another time. I’d filled my drama quota for the day.

“Yeah, but looks have to get you on the road first.”

“Johnny’s not bad-looking! He’s just . . . husky. He has gorgeous eyes, you know. And you’ve got to admit his voice is sexy. But mainly he’s just a good guy, Fee. He’s thoughtful, sensitive. He’s funny and super smart.”

I swung for the obvious joke. “If you like him so much, then why don’t you maaaarrrry him?”

“I am married to him—that’s how I know,” she zinged back.