Bounce (4 page)

On Saturday we go to Cleanser Boy's soccer game. I didn't want to come, but Birdie insisted. He mentioned such things as Family Unity and Show of Sibling Support. Also, Lunch.

“Eleni made us a picnic,” Birdie said this morning. “Quesadillas. And brownies!”

I am beginning to think he's getting married just for the food.

At Casa Gartos, Birdie is becoming the world's leading expert on fine cuisine. He always seems to have something in his mouth, and it always seems to be the most delicious thing ever, because Eleni Made It.

Have you tasted this pesto? It's unbelievable. Eleni made it.

Try this spanakopita. Eleni made it. It's out of this world!

In our old life, I was the one who cooked. Chicken potpie and manicotti. Pigs in blankets. Hash. Also, I sewed buttons on Birdie's shirts. And gave him foot rubs. I cut his hair, and I did as good a job as any barber.

Now, Eleni is the boss.

“Al,” she said last night. “I'd really love you to be cleanshaven for the wedding.”

Two seconds later, Birdie was beardless.

In my whole life I have never seen Birdie without a beard.
Even in pictures from when my mom was alive, there it was—as much a part of him as his nose. Without it, he looks weird, just vaguely familiar, like someone I've met before and can't quite place.

Also, he's wearing new clothes. Khakis. A shirt that requires ironing. Some stupid, preppy-looking jacket with a corduroy collar. Birdie wouldn't be caught dead in that jacket. But Al is the ultimate prepster.

Al eats pesto.

Al shaves.

And now, Al is climbing the bleachers to shake hands with a bunch of Eleni's friends.

“Frank,” she says, smiling like crazy. “This is Al Linney, my fiancé…Walter, Marlene. My fiancé, Al…Jane? Gus! Yoo-hoo! This is Al!”

The bleachers are full of Eleni's people.

Also full of my March School classmates, sans lampshades. Today it's all about jeans and thigh-high boots.

“Do those girls go to March?” one of the twins asks me. “Are they in your class? Are they cool?”

And the other one says, “Are you friends with them? What are their names? I think the one with the blond hair is Corey Ritterman's little sister. Do you know her? Is she a Ritterman?”

“That's not Corey's sister. She looks nothing like her.”

“Yes, she does.”

“No, she doesn't. The hair, maybe, but that's it. Look at her face. Her face is totally different.”

“Want to bet? How much do you want to bet that girl is
a Ritterman?…Hey, do you know her? Her last name's Ritterman, right?”

I make myself smile and shrug. “I don't know,” I say. “I'm still trying to put names with faces.”

It's not exactly a lie. I just happened to leave out the fact that not one of those girls has talked to me yet. And that I have spent five consecutive lunch periods in the bathroom stall.

The sweater twins have a million friends. They are constantly at someone's house, or instant messaging, or on the phone. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't understand my predicament.

Right now a trio of high-school girls is climbing the bleachers. Clio and Cassi squeal and run over to them, and I'm left with Mackey, who has his headphones on full blast, and Thalia, who's knitting a woolly blue sausage.

“It's a garter,” she explains. “
Something blue.
For my mom to wear under her dress.”

“Oh,” I say. “Uh-huh.”

“She's all set for the old, new, and borrowed, so…”

“Ah,” I say. “Good.”

I look over at Eleni, who's got her hand on Birdie's thigh. It makes me mad, that hand, but I don't know why. I just want her to take it off. I try my mental telepathy trick, but that doesn't work. So I have to look away.

I turn my attention to the soccer field. The Thorne boys are all huddled together, chanting something I can't understand. A bullhorn blasts, somebody kicks a ball, and everyone in the bleachers starts cheering.

I don't get it. The game just started. Nothing's happened yet. Why all the excitement before we've even scored?

“Go, Gartoooos!”

I look around for the loudmouth and spot him, over by the fence. He is wearing a leather jacket and jeans with a tear in the knee.

He is tall with big shoulders.

And curls.

Curls flopping on his forehead in the most beautiful manner.

At one point he looks up and waves to us, and something comes over me. A warmth in my stomach. A buzzing in my ears and, I have to say it, a rapid heartbeat.

I know exactly what this is because I felt it all summer long. Whenever Darren Peet, the water-ski counselor, took off his sunglasses, I would get like this. Then, if he ever smiled at me, my face would turn bright red.

Jules calls it my crush-blush.

But Darren Peet was one thing. All the girls in my bunk loved him, the whole camp loved him, you were
supposed
to love him.

This is different. This is Linus, my nineteen-year-old almost-stepbrother. I'm pretty sure what I'm feeling is illegal.

The soccer game is a blur. I keep one eye on the field, pretending to be watching, while the other eye is stuck on the fence.

I'll say one thing, Linus knows his soccer. You can tell by the way he yells instructions. He understands exactly where
Ajax needs to go (
Deep! Deeeeep!
) and what he needs to do (
Shoot! Shooot!
).

At some point, when Ajax has the ball and is running up the field, Linus starts jumping around, clutching his head in his hands and bellowing—part orangutan, part mental patient.

Now I feel free to turn my head and stare with both eyes. Linus is way more interesting than soccer. There's something about him. It's not just his curls. Or his shoulders. Or his teeth. It's beyond looks. It's the entire package. It's his whole earsplitting, spastic person, and I am starting to understand the difference between a crush and real love. Darren Peet was nothing. Linus is—

Bam!

My head snaps back hard.

Oww.

Soccer ball.

Owwww.

Soccer ball. In the face.

Owwwwwwww, my nose.

“You're supposed to tip her head forward and pinch the bridge. Like this. Direct pressure.”

Owwww.

“No. You have to tip her head
back
and put ice on her neck. That slows the bleeding.”

“Are you insane? She'll choke.”

“Shut up, Clio. I took first aid.”

“
You
shut up, we took the same class. And I know for a fact—”

“Mom. Here. It's all I could find.”

Owwwww.

“Evyn? Sweetheart? Fresh tissues. Here, let me take those…Your dad's getting some ice. There you go, keep the pressure on. That's it.”

“See? I
told
you, Cassi.”

“Thalia, honey, go see what's taking Al so long…”

“Hey. Tough guy.” Deep voice. “I got hit in the nose once.” Big, warm hand on my shoulder. “With a baseball bat.”

He's touching me.

“You guys remember that? The game against Everett Tech?”

He's actually touching me.

For a second, I feel no pain.

Stella? It's me, Evyn. Can you see my nose? My
shnoz
, I should say.

Tonight, Stella looks down at me, concern in her eyes. She reaches out a hand of comfort.
Oh, honey.

It's okay, I tell her. I only have to wear the splint for a week. And anyway, it was worth it. Linus gave me a piggyback to the car. Did you see that? Did you see him touch me on the head when we said good-bye? It was completely worth it.

Stella smiles, nods. She understands.

Hey, Stell?

She raises her eyebrows—red-gold, like her hair.
Go on,
is what she means.

Did you wear a garter when you married Birdie? I never even heard of garters until today, and it made me wonder. Also, what did you wear that was old and new? Who did you borrow from? Which part had blue on it?

Suddenly, I want to know every detail about her wedding day. About marrying my dad. And about boys in general.

I want to be able to ask a million questions and have her answer every single one. And when I need advice, I want her to give it to me for real.

Not just in my imagination.

In the morning, I walk to the bus stop with Phoebe. I'm wearing new socks (diamond pattern) and shoes (black, chunky).

When I told Birdie I needed a fashion overhaul I thought he would hand me a five spot and send me down the street to CVS for a two-pack of knee-highs. What I did not expect was him broadcasting my private business to everyone in the house. What I did not expect was Eleni whipping out her wallet and saying why don't Clio, Cassi, Evyn, and Evyn's giant throbbing shnoz pop over to Copley Plaza for some shopping—her treat?

Half an hour later I was in the middle of Jasmine Sola, trying on platform heels while the sweater twins fought over the last pair of purple fishnet stockings.

That is why this morning I am walking to the bus stop in the right socks and shoes.
Put a bounce in your step,
Stella says. So I do. But I can assure you, that is not what people will be looking at.

When we get to the corner, Phoebe's friend Hannah gapes at me.

“Bear attack,” I tell her, which was Birdie's suggestion.

“When in doubt,” he said at breakfast, “use humor.”

“When in doubt,” I said back, “skip school.”

But would he listen? No.

So here I am, traumatizing innocent first-graders at the bus stop.

“It wasn't really a bear, was it?” Hannah whispers.

Phoebe shakes her head. “My
brother
did it. With a
soccer
ball. They stopped the whole game and
everything.
There was
tons
of blood. Only he didn't mean to, it was an accident. Right, Evyn?”

“Right,” I say.

Cleanser Boy has been apologizing to me every hour for the past thirty-six hours. I don't know whether he actually means it, or whether his mom is making him do it, but before I left this morning he started in again. “I'm really, really sorry, Evyn. I hope you're okay.”

“I'm okay,” I said.

Hannah, however, is not.

“Your
eyes,
” she says now, a great sorrow in her voice. “
Look
at them.”

Phoebe nods solemnly. “That is what happens. When you break your nose. Your eyes turn
black.
”

Hannah takes a step closer to me. “Did it hurt real bad?”

“Yes,” I tell her.

“Ohh.” She pats my arm. “I'm sad for you.”

Phoebe pats my other arm. “I'm sad, too.”

It's the kind of compassion only six-year-olds can give.

Then Hannah says, “
I
know, let's do Miss Mary Mack!”

And Phoebe says, “
O
kay! You want to play, Evyn?”

I shake my head. “You guys go ahead.”

Soon they are chanting and patty-caking at warp speed.
They're giggling like a couple of nuts. This is what it's like, being six.

I wish I could be six today.

I walk into homeroom expecting the worst. When I sit down, I feel the eyes burning into me from all directions.

After ten minutes of staring at my desk, I summon the courage to look up, and when I do, the girl to my right is smiling at me. Not in a mean way, either.

I turn to my left, and there is another one.

Two smiles—from the same two people who ignored me all last week.

“You're Ajax Gartos's sister, aren't you?” the first one asks.

“Well,” I say, “not exactly. We're—”

“No way!” the second one squeals. “Your brother is sooooooo petute!”

Petute?
Um, what?

The girl in front of me whips around. “I was at the game on Saturday. I saw everything. Look at your
face.
Ajax must feel awful! His own sister.”

“Yeah, I'm not really his—”

“He's your stepbrother, right? Didn't you just move in with them?”

“Um. Yeah. We moved a few weeks ago. From Maine? My dad's marrying his—”

“Ableson, Chelsea.” The homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kilgallon, is taking attendance. But nobody's listening.

“No
way,
” says a girl a few desks down. She comes running over. “You live with Ajax Gartos? What's he
like
? Does he like anyone?”

Suddenly, I'm surrounded.

I heard he likes Wendy Rhenes.

Nuh-uh. He likes Jana Benson.

Does he wear boxers or briefs?

Mrs. Kilgallon raises her voice. “A-ble-son. Chel-sea.”

Oh, he is definitely a boxer man.

Erica Sussman said that Carli Meyers said that her brother Paul said that Ajax does a hundred push-ups every day at soccer practice.

Don't you love the name Ajax? I love the name Ajax.

“Girls!” Mrs. Kilgallon is mad now. She picks up a stapler and bangs it on her desk. “Sit! Down! Or you! Will get! Detention!”

Everyone scatters. The room is dead calm.

“Ableson, Chelsea.”

“Present,” says the girl to my right.

When Mrs. Kilgallon isn't looking, she leans over and whispers, “Hey. Sit with us at lunch?”

I smile. Ableson, Chelsea, smiles back.

The girl to our left, Jaime, smiles, too.

And miraculously, I forget that my face looks like roadkill.

For the rest of the morning, I feel like a celebrity. People stop me in the hall. They ask me how I'm doing, where I got my shoes, if I want a piece of gum.

At lunch, a table of headbands flags me down, and I go over. Each one is prettier than the next, and I know right away these are the It Girls—the ones everyone wants to sit with. And they saved a seat for me.

“Ajax Gartos is your brother?” they ask.

I nod.

They move their chairs closer, and I start opening my lunch.

“Your brother is the hottest guy at Thorne,” I'm told by a girl with blond, wavy hair. Her name is Andrea, but it's pronounced On-DREY-a, and she is clearly their leader.

“We need to know things,” Andrea says, opening my milk for me and sticking in a straw.

“Like who he likes,” says another girl.

“And if he's going to the social next Friday,” another pipes in.

“Is he?” asks a girl with shiny lips. “Going to the social?”

I have no idea. I don't even know what the social is. But I know what I'm supposed to say. “I think so. Yeah.”

Little squeals of excitement all around.

Andrea nods. “Good. What else?”

Everyone is looking at me. Suddenly, I'm the one with the answers.

I have to come up with something good.

“Well,” I say slowly, “he has a poster of that Russian tennis player on his wall. You know—the really pretty one with the braids?”

Andrea smiles. “He likes blonds.”

“Uh-huh.” I pause to take a sip of milk. “And he likes spicy food. And hummus.”

All around me, heads nod. They want me to keep going, so I do. I tell them everything I know.

When the bell rings, Andrea stands up.

“Find out who he likes,” she tells me.

I say I'll get right on it.

“You do that.” She gives me a little pat on the shoulder, for encouragement. “‘Bye for now,” she says, and I say, “ ‘Bye, Andrea.”

As I walk away from the table, it occurs to me: The whole time I was sitting there, no one asked my name.