B006K5TA1E EBOK (7 page)

Izzy hoists her oversized, studded hobo bag onto her desk and gropes around inside it. She pulls out a variety of makeup and other necessities of life before finally locating her mythology text and a notebook. I’ve tried to convince her that a backpack makes more sense, but Izzy is too fashion conscious for that. Passing the bag to Rachel to hold open at the edge of the desk, Izzy sweeps everything back into it, leaving only her books, a pen, and an emery board. That’s when I notice her torn and ragged nails.

“Rock climbing,” Rachel says in response to my shocked expression.

“You’ve already had your date?” I ask. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I left you a voice mail on your cell,” Izzy says.

I wonder what else I missed. Grace commandeered my phone on the weekend because hers died. Naturally, having a child trumps my need to communicate. I bet she won’t pay a dime of my bill, either.

“Was he worth it?” I ask, gesturing to the destroyed manicure.

“Absolutely. He’s a senior, he’s cute, he’s smart, he’s funny, and his parents are from the same town in Mexico as mine.” She stops filing to add, “Did I mention he’s a senior?”

I laugh. “You did, yeah.”

“Does this mean you’re turning into sporty girl?” Rachel asks.

Izzy rolls her eyes. “Never. You can’t have nails like this and work in the beauty industry. But I’m willing to cheer my man on from the sidelines if I have to.”

I have a sudden vision of myself in the bleachers cheering Mac on, and give my head a hard shake to dispel it. “Did the rock-climbing senior ask you out again?”

Izzy’s fuchsia ponytail swishes a negative. “Not yet. But he mentioned that he was going to the dance. So we”—she points to Rachel and me—“are going to the dance. I’ll have an entire night to work on him there.”

“I’m pretty proud of the fact that I’ve never attended a Dunfield dance,” I say.

Izzy stops filing to fix me with dark eyes. “Newshound owes me.”

I hold my finger to my lips and look around, only to find Mr. Sparling standing beside me. “Cut the chitchat and the manicures, ladies,” he says. “Class has officially begun.”

He walks to the front of the class and writes something on the board. Rachel uses the opportunity to slip me a note that contains only one word:
Mac
?

I shake my head. It’s not like I expected him to call me after our “date,” even though we hung out for two full hours before he left for Casino Night. But I did think he’d acknowledge me in the halls. Maybe he will if I ever run into him. Normally he’s everywhere, moving in the center of a gorgeous pack, but lately he’s nowhere to be found.

I write one word on my notebook and hold it up:
Sick?

Rachel shrugs and writes back:
Let’s stake out his locker later.

I nod just as Mr. Sparling turns. “Luisa,” he says. “I see I’m boring you already. That must mean you’ve read ahead in your text.”

Mr. Sparling has been supportive of my work for “The Word,” but if I had any notion that our editor/columnist relationship might extend to the classroom, it’s clear from his expression that it does not. If anything, I feel worse being caught socializing than I normally would.

“So,” Mr. Sparling says, and I know what’s coming next. He’ll use that time-honored teacher technique of throwing out a question to prove that I wasn’t paying attention. And since I have not read ahead, I’m probably going down. All I can do is try to minimize the damage.

“Tell the class what you know about Apollo’s sister,” he says.

Having Googled Artemis after my date with Mac, I’m able to provide so many details that Mr. Sparling finally interrupts. “Thank you. That will do. Now, moving on…”

Rachel winks, and I smile back. It felt good to know the answer and deliver it on command, something that hasn’t happened often before.

As we file out of the classroom, Rachel resumes our conversation. “So you’re sure Mac isn’t Scoop?”

“Pretty sure,” I say, although the jury is still out. Mac may not have fallen into the traps I set for Scoop, but he’s not totally in the clear yet.

“We could check out basketball practice,” Izzy suggests. Since Mac has shown his good side, my friends are all for my hanging out with him.

I shake my head. “Too obvious. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. Guys like Mac are never interested in girls like me.” A Sporty FB is not my destiny.

“Think positively,” Izzy says. “I’m going after my rock climber and I’m hardly in his league. Who knows, maybe
he’ll
think I am.”

“Your guy sounds nice,” I say. “And while Mac may be nicer than I thought, he’s still a caveman.”

“Caveman?” a voice echoes behind us. We turn to see a girl wearing a sweater that’s a couple of sizes too small. “Are you talking about that column in the school paper?”

“Well, uh, yeah,” I say. “
Newshound
, I think?”

The girl nods and snaps her gum. “This week’s column is so on the money. My boyfriend didn’t even know my last name until, like, the third time I slept with him. But I’m sick of how he treats me, so I told him to give me more respect or he’s done.”

“You told him that because of the column?” Rachel asks. The girl nods. “It just got me thinking, you know?” Izzy nods. “That’s what the best columnists do.” The girl starts walking away, but turns back to ask,

“You don’t think Newshound’s a lesbian, do you?” Rachel manages only a strangled choking sound, so Izzy says, “No, why?”

“Well, my boyfriend said she sounded gay.”

“Typical guy cop-out,” Rachel says. “You hold your ground with him.”

“I will,” she says, disappearing around the corner.

The girls give me high fives.

“See?” Izzy says. “You’re changing Dunfield one person at a time.”

“Just another few thousand to go.”

Dan is doing paperwork when I walk into the office to punch my time card.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, scowling.

I’ve seen that scowl before, but it’s never been directed at me. “I’m working tonight.”

He taps on the calculator. “It isn’t your shift.”

“I know.” It’s Grace’s shift, but I don’t see why it’s a big deal. We’ve traded shifts a hundred times, and he’s never complained before. “Is there a problem?”

Dan uses his pencil to tip his hat back so he can look me in the eye. “You tell me.”

“Grace wanted a night off, and I could use the extra cash. I’ve put a big dent in my savings lately.”

“Have y’all put a big dent in your homework? You’ve got a math test on Monday.”

Dan’s interest in my education has its downside. Mom never remembers when I have a test.

To placate him, I promise to study all day Saturday, even though it means canceling a trip to the mall with Rachel.

He smiles at last. “Atta girl. You want to keep that column, don’t you?”

“I guess so,” I say, sighing.

It was obviously a mistake to tell Dan that Mr. Sparling threatened to give Newshound the ax if my overall average ever drops below a C plus. It’s a totally unreasonable condition, because my grade in English should be all that counts. My brain only processes numbers efficiently when there’s a tip involved.

“What do you mean, ‘you guess so’? Of course you do.” Dan pats the binder on his desk that contains my first two columns. He wanted to hang them over the cash register, but I nixed that idea in a hurry. Plenty of current—and former—Dunfield students come in here; one question from any of them and Dan would start bragging and blow my anonymity.

As I put on an apron I tell Dan about the girl at school who said she liked my column.

“I’m not surprised, sugar. I bet you have hundreds of fans,” he says. “Your family must be so proud of you.”

If they are, no one’s let me in on the secret. My mother took the
Bulletin
to work to read on her break and never said a word afterward. With everything on her mind these days, I guess she forgot.

Grace is another story. I left copies on the coffee table, but if she’s read them, she hasn’t bothered to diss them. I know she’s still mad at me over the babysitting incident, but it isn’t like her to deprive herself of the pleasure of running me down.

“I don’t think they’ve read them,” I say, straightening my apron as an excuse not to look at Dan.

“They must have,” Dan insists. “Grace knows this is important to you.”

Dan naively believes that brothers and sisters are always loving and supportive. He’s also fond of Grace, even if she causes more trouble than I do.

“Don’t say anything to her,” I warn him. If Dan takes my side, it will just become an issue, and I don’t need any more issues at home. “You know how she is.”

Fortunately, noisy singing prevents Dan from arguing with me. I poke my head out of the office to see Shirley standing on one of the old wooden tables, surrounded by Paz’s crew. They’re belting out an old Beatles song in different keys and tempos:

Will you still need me

Will you still feed me

WHEN I’M SIXTY-FOUR

“Get me down, you morons!” Shirley shouts as the song ends.

“Is that any way to treat your favorite customers?” Paz asks, as Joey and Gordo help her off the table. “We made you a special birthday gift, you know.”

He lifts the lid off a box containing the numerals six and four made out of white chocolate, Shirley’s favorite.

Shirley purses her lips. “Maybe I’d treat you boys better if you didn’t advertise my age to the entire planet.” Her tone may be harsh, but I can tell she’s thrilled they’re making a fuss.

She brings an empty coffee cup down on the number six to smash it, and the guys scramble to grab pieces. It says a lot about the quality of Donner’s chocolate that they still enjoy it after working with it all day.

Joey beckons to me. “Have some. There’s plenty to go around.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I love white chocolate.”

He selects a large chunk and passes it to me. “Made with my own two hands.”

“In other words,” Gordo says, “watch for fingernails.”

“Shut up,” Joey says. “I was wearing gloves.”

“Plus a hairnet,” Gordo adds.

“Nice,” I say. “Girls love guys in hairnets.”

Joey runs a hand through his dark hair, as if fearing he might have left the net on by mistake. “It’s a regulation, not a fashion statement.”

“Then how come I have to remind you to take it off?” Gordo asks.

“You’re just jealous because I look better in it than you do,” Joey says.

Gordo reaches into his pocket. “Let’s put them on now and get Lu to judge who’s hotter.”

“Go for it,” I say. I already know who I’m going to choose, and it isn’t Gordo. The poor guy is the least attractive of all the Donner guys. Not that I’m looking.

Joey shakes his head, grinning. “Only our team should have to see that.”

“Guys,” Paz says, cutting in, “Lu’s busy.”

“My shift hasn’t started yet,” I say.

“We need a round of coffee, and Shirley can’t serve at her own birthday party.” He snatches the last bite of chocolate off my napkin and pops it into his own mouth.

“Hey!”

“You can’t afford the calories.”

Shirley gives Paz a gentle kick in the butt. “Why are you so mean to your sister-in-law?”

“She’s not my sister-in-law,” Paz says. “Grace and I aren’t married.”

“Where I come from, a baby says you’re married,” Shirley says. “Anyway, don’t call Luisa fat.”

“Why not? She calls me short.”

“You call me Shorty all the time,” I point out.

“It’s different for girls,” he says seriously. “It doesn’t matter if you’re short.”

It occurs to me that Paz has been my main window on the male world for so long that my perspective could be permanently skewed. “Look on the bright side,” I say. “I could be calling you Baldy.”

The guys start snickering behind Paz.

“Luisa,” Shirley says reprovingly, “a lady never draws attention to a man’s receding hairline.”

“It’s not receding!” Paz says.

“Of course it’s not,” Shirley says, flustered. “Have some more chocolate. And Luisa, would you mind getting the coffee?”

“Seven coffees, coming up,” I say. “Six regular, one with Rogaine.”

Shirley steps between Paz and me, arms outstretched.

The cowbells ring, and I turn to see Mac Landis standing at the door. There’s something commanding about his presence that pulls all eyes toward him. His success as an athlete seems to have infused him with confidence. Until last Saturday, I would have said arrogance.

Okay, it
is
arrogance. But any guy who can admit he adored his grandfather can’t be
all
bad.

Mac smiles and waves, and all eyes turn from him to me. Paz opens his mouth to say something, but Shirley distracts him by asking for help with the jukebox.

Mac joins me at the counter. “Did I interrupt a private party?”

“No, just the usual mayhem,” I say, gesturing to a stool. “Have a seat.” I pour coffee into a mug and slide it toward him.

He appraises me over the rim of his cup. “Nice outfit.”

“It’s fire retardant,” I say, giving a half spin so that the skirt swirls. “Didn’t some designer say everything should be both beautiful and useful?”

If Mac recognizes the quote, he doesn’t let on. “Wish I’d asked you to be in the Bootylicious Calendar. Although there’s not much booty showing.”

The weight of Mac Landis’s eyes on my crinolined backside makes me so jumpy that I forget to share my views on that sexist piece of crap.

At last he turns his eyes to the Donner guys. “Don’t some of them go to Dunfield?”

“Past tense,” I say. “They’re Cocoa grads now.”

Since Shirley is keeping the guys distracted, I offer Mac a menu. I assume he’s here because I bragged to him about Dan’s burgers.

“On the house?” he asks, grinning hopefully.

“Just the coffee, cheapo,” I say. “The burger’s on you.”

I place Mac’s order and stall for a moment, assailed by doubts. Maybe he wants to be alone while he waits. Why would he want me hanging around?

“Can’t you sit down for a few minutes?” he asks.

Mac Landis wants me to sit down with him! I realize he’s just killing time, but still. Maybe it’s because I am such a good listener. It’s probably my only advantage over people like Mariah and Brianna the cheerleader.

“I’m on my way to do my grandmother’s grocery shopping,” Mac says as I perch beside him. “She lives a few blocks from here.”

“You do her grocery shopping? That’s so nice!”

My voice swoops up at the end, making me sound more like a giddy groupie than the level-headed Lu Perez that Mac apparently enjoyed talking to last week.
That
Lu didn’t gush.
That
Lu kept the whole Mac Landis mythos in perspective.

“I owe her,” Mac says. “When I was at Lincoln Elementary, she’d make lunch for me every day.”

“Lucky,” I say. “The cafeteria food there was even worse than Dunfield’s.”

Mac looks puzzled. “You went to Lincoln?”

I shrink an inch on the spot. “Uh, yeah. I guess all the other Luisa Perezes have you confused.”

He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, I never paid much attention in class. I guess I only noticed the people sitting right in front of me.”

Untrue. He always noticed Mariah, no matter where she sat.

“Wait a second,” he says. “I think I remember you from Mrs. Burton’s class.”

I nod, instantly knowing why. “That was the year you stole my Tamagotchi.”

“I stole a lot of Tamagotchis,” he admits. “Because it made the girls chase me.”

Even at nine he was a dog. “Well, mine
died
under your watch.”

I don’t intend to say so, but I was devastated at the time. Sure, it was just a stupid pink plastic egg, but I didn’t get a lot of toys while they were still popular. Mom would wait until things went on sale (i.e., after they were no longer hot) to get them at a discount—when she could afford them at all.

The year the Tamagotchi took over the classroom, I staged a massive campaign to get Mom to buy me one for my birthday. She didn’t cave, because the new coat I needed pretty much consumed her gift budget. The night of my birthday, however, I found a Tamagotchi on my pillow. Grace said she’d found it on the bus, but Mom told me later that she’d emptied out her piggy bank to get it. It was the nicest thing Grace had ever done for me. Make that
has
ever done for me.

I took such good care of my Tamagotchi that it lived long after everyone else’s. And then, when it was the only one left to steal, Mac snatched it off my desk. By the time I’d recovered it in the school yard, it was dead.

Mac grabs my hand and gazes at me through wide blue eyes. “I’m so sorry I killed your toy. Can you ever forgive me?”

I know a hundred girls have forgiven Mac for similar crimes just because he looked at them that way, and I fall for it anyway. “You could have at least come to the funeral.”

Business picks up, and I have to leave Mac to eat by himself. When I deliver the bill, he makes a big show of leaving me a tip—fifteen percent of the pre-tax amount, calculated to the penny.

“I’d better get going,” he says. “My grandmother’s expecting me.”

“Okay, see you at school,” I say, pleased with my own nonchalance.

He walks toward the door, and I summon my nerve to call after him, “Are you going to Mariah’s fund-raising dance next week?”

He turns to reply, but Paz beats him to the punch. “Yeah, All-star. You going to the dance or what?”

I turn to Paz and find six Donner guys watching us. They’re all wearing hairnets. “Shut up, Paz,” I say.

“Oooh, Shorty must like him,” Paz says, in a singsong voice. “What do you think, guys?”

“Yup, she’s hot for him,” Gordo says. “She’s not usually that red.”

“When’s the last time Lu sounded all girly?” asks Ace, another guy on Paz’s crew.

“Never,” Paz says. “I didn’t think she
was
a real girl.”

I look at Mac, expecting to see contempt on his face. Instead he’s standing in the doorway, grinning at me.

Izzy’s mom welcomes me into the living room of their small but immaculate bungalow. She’s wearing surgical gloves and holding a paintbrush covered in white goo. Hair clips line the waist of her jeans, and the smell of chemicals fills the air. There’s a work in progress around here.

On cue, Izzy’s Aunt Alicia appears, her hair in foils. “Hola, Luisa!”

“Hola,” I say. “Another transformation?” Alicia’s hair had black-and-cherry streaks the last time I saw her. The time before that it was blond with very dark roots.

“I like to keep the boys guessing,” she says. Alicia is still happily playing the field at thirty-six, with no signs of settling down.

It’s obvious where Izzy learned to like variety, because her mother is the exact opposite—mousy and conservative. The house is mainly a study in beige, although there are splashes of color here and there in the form of gifts from Izzy that her mother feels obliged to display.

I head down the hall to the door with the prominent KEEP OUT sign and I call, “It’s me.”

Inside, a riot of color assaults the eye, from red curtains, to an orange bedspread, to yellow cushions. Books and makeup and hair accessories are strewn all over the desk, and clothes are piled high on a chair. The top of the dresser is barely visible among the photographs in bright, sparkly frames. Front and center is a picture of the three of us in second grade, wearing matching outfits and long, dark ponytails. As always, I’m in the foreground, the short one even at age seven.

Izzy is lying on her unmade bed, holding up a small mirror and applying blue eye shadow to her lids, while Rachel is sprawled on the floor, sorting through CDs. The wall behind them that used to be terra-cotta has recently become cobalt blue.

“I see you’ve started matching your hair to your walls,” I tell Izzy.

She raises the mirror to admire her locks. “It’s my blue period.”

Rachel gives me a knowing smile. “You’d better be nice to Izzy.”