Bounce (8 page)

I know I'm supposed to say I'm sorry, which is what a good daughter would say to her dead mother right now.
I'm sorry, Mom, and thank you for giving me the tools to cope in this cold, cruel world.

But I don't feel sorry—I feel mad. At everyone.

Mad at the sweater twins for dressing me like this. Mad at Ajax for dancing with Maya Glassman instead of Andrea. Mad at the It Girls for being so brutal. And at Jules for not being home when I need her, and at Mackey for never listening to a word I say, and at Birdie for falling in love and moving us here without asking and for morphing into someone I don't even know anymore. Mad at Eleni most of all.

It's not you
, I tell Stella.

She smiles.
I know it's not, honey.

I don't really hate you.

I know.

You must hate her as much as I do. Probably more. You hate her guts, don't you?

And Stella says,
Hate is a strong word, Evyn.
She gives me a little lecture on the Golden Rule and deliberate word choice. Then she sighs.
Yeah. I hate her, too.

Just like I knew she would.

I am in bed feeling sorry for myself when I smell something. French toast, I think. Also bacon. Part of me wants to eat, but the part that remembers last night doesn't want to move. Ever. Staying in bed for the rest of my life sounds like a good plan. I can finish eighth grade through one of those Internet correspondence courses and never go to school again. I can forget everything that happened.

“Oh my God. How was the
social
?”

Unfortunately, the sweater twins aren't going to let me.

“Did you get, like, a million compliments on your hair? Who did you dance with?”

“Did you hook up with anyone? Was there alcohol?”

From their loft beds, the two of them are staring down at me. They have matching mascara rings around their eyes, like raccoons. And matching bed-heads.

For a second I think about telling them what really happened, how in one evening I managed to 1) wear the completely wrong thing, yet again, 2) get asked to dance exactly zero times, and 3) incur the wrath of the most popular girl in school. For a second I wonder if maybe they'd have some advice for me—a smackeral of “sibling support” in my time of need.

But then I remember who I'm dealing with—the people who dressed me.

“Remember in eighth grade when Vinny Petrizzo spiked the punch with vodka and Jocelyn Weintraub puked all over Mr. B's shoes?”

I wouldn't tell them the truth in a million years.

“It was awesome,” I say. “I got totally wasted and kissed the soccer team.”

In stereo: “The whole
team
?”

“Well,” I say, “not Ajax. Obviously. That would be disgusting. But everyone else.”

Oh, I wish I had a camera right now. The looks on their faces must be captured.

Our stepsister is out of control.

It's hard to tell if they're horrified or proud. Either way, they have been rendered speechless, which is reason enough to celebrate.

I think I will eat after all.

I walk into the kitchen in my pajamas—flannel, with tiny horses and hay bales on them, circa sixth grade.

I walk into the kitchen with gel spikes on my head and pillow creases on my face and morning breath from the tenth circle of hell.

I walk into the kitchen and

there

he

is.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I can't believe I'm wearing horse pajamas.

“I made the mother lode of French toast.”

I can't. Believe. I'm wearing. Horse pajamas.

“You want o.j.?”

What I want is a toothbrush.

And a comb.

And the power to turn back time so I can run upstairs and start the morning over again, wearing a tube top and darkwash jeans.

I don't say anything. I'm afraid to open my mouth.

But then Linus pulls out a chair and pats it, and I sit down at the table next to him. Suddenly, I can imagine a million mornings like this one, where we will wake up and eat breakfast together, and it won't matter what I'm wearing because what we have goes beyond the superficial. What we have is the real deal.

So what if the sweater twins are here right now, running their motormouths? So what if Cleanser Boy—who very likely ruined my entire school year by asking Maya Glassman to dance—is stuffing his face with bacon? All I am thinking about is Linus. Linus Gartos, whose fingers are long and beautiful as he spatulas another slice of French toast onto my plate.

I could stay in the kitchen like this forever. The air is warm and smells like syrup. On the radio: soft rock. There is no On-drey-a. No honeymooners. There's just Linus and me, and right now that's all that matters.

Later on, we play cards—baby games like Crazy Eights and Old Maid because of Phoebe.

When it's my turn, Linus hands me the deck and our fingers touch.

“Your deal, tough guy,” he says, winking.

Tough guy.
Our private joke. Only someone whose nose has been bashed could understand.

Somehow I manage to shuffle without dropping any cards. I even try the waterfall.

“Sweet moves,” he says.

And I say, “Plenty more where that came from.”

He smiles, and I smile, and I ask him to cut the deck, and he does, and now our fingers are touching again.

I could definitely get used to this.

Sunday morning. The honeymooners are back. Eleni bursts through the door calling, “Kiiiids! We're hoooome!” It's obvious she thinks we're the Brady Bunch and should all be lined up on the stairs in exact height order, big TV smiles plastered on our faces.

I stay where I am on the couch, stuffing myself with Oreos, my dirty sneakers propped up on the coffee table.

I listen to Birdie say, “Well, the place is still standing. That's a good sign. I don't smell any smoke…” and Eleni laughs like a hyena, and then Phoebe comes charging down the stairs. “Mommyyyyyy!”

By the time they make it to the den, everyone is crowded around, asking questions about their trip. Stupid ones.

How was the drive? Was the foliage beautiful?

Did you mountain bike?

Did you have room service for, like, every meal?

(It wasn't a hotel, Clio—duh—it was a B and B.)

(Shut up, Cassi. B and B's have room service, too.)

So, was it, like, the most romantic week EVER?

Did you white-water raft? Did you bungeejump?

Did you miss me? I missed you, Mommy. I missed you, Al. Did you miss me?

Linus isn't with them (weep, weep). He had an exam to study for. But Mackey is, and although he hasn't opened his mouth yet, there he stands, right smack in the middle of it all.

“Hey, Mack.” Birdie throws an arm around him. “Congrats.”

“Or should we be calling you
Joseph
now?” Eleni smiles with every tooth. “To help you—what is it they say in the theater?
Get into character
?”

Mackey turns red and mumbles something I can't understand.

Then Thalia pipes in. “Miss Mundt—she's the stage manager? She says that the musical director, Mr. Soderberg, says that Mackey is the most talented high-school tenor he's ever worked with. At the first rehearsal, everyone was completely blown away.”

Now comes a run-through of everyone else's triumph-o'-the-week.

Phoebe:
Outstanding-plus in capital letters.

Cleanser Boy:
Two goals, four assists.

Sweater Twin #1:
Asked out by Kevin O'Reilly. Yes, THE Kevin O'Reilly.

Sweater Twin #2:
Remember that skirt she wanted? The purple suede one with the fringe? It finally went on sale—-forty-five percent off. So she bought it!

Thalia:
Finished her application essay for Williams, and it's good. Really, really good.

Betty Boop claps every time. “Way to go!” she says. “Good for you!”

Meanwhile, Birdie has worked his way over to where I'm sitting and is trying to butter me up. “Hey, Ev. Make some room for your old man, huh?” He goes in for the hug-'n'-head-scrub routine, like nothing has changed between us. “Missed you, kiddo.”

“Uh-huh.” I grab another Oreo, twist it open, scrape out the creamy middle with my teeth.

“Evyn!” Eleni notices me for the first time. “How was your week? How was school? How was the social? How was—” She stops and claps one hand over her mouth. “Errrm.”

Birdie leaps up. “Honey?”

“Errrrrm.”

“Again?”

Eleni nods wildly. Then she claps the other hand over her mouth and hightails it out of the room.

Of course, Birdie is two steps behind her.

Phoebe whimpers. “What's wrong with Mommy?”

We can all hear the lovely sound of puke hitting hardwood.

“Stomach bug!” Birdie calls out. “Nothing to worry about! Probably a twenty-four-hour thing!”

I twist open another Oreo and try not to smile.

I know I am a terrible person for feeling the way I do, because Eleni has never done anything bad to me, but I'm glad she's sick anyway. I don't know why it makes me feel good that she feels rotten, but it does.

Stella understands. She gets it, and she doesn't judge. Later, when I'm by myself, we will talk about it. Correction: I
will talk, and she will nod along like she agrees with everything I say.

I
know.
I'm not delusional. I know that Stella is me, and I am Stella. I know that when I talk to her I am really just talking to myself. And I hate that I know that. Because knowing that reminds me that I am completely alone.

Monday morning begins with a deep freeze. In homeroom, Chelsea and Jaime talk over me like I'm not here. It's just like the first week of school, only this time I'm not invisible. This time I'm prey.

I busy myself with my assignment book and try to ignore their conversation, which is about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

“Can you believe
some people
had the nerve to come to school today?” Chelsea says.

Like I had a choice.

And Jaime says, “
Some people
should think about transferring…”

Believe me, I have.

“…‘Cause this is, like, an
all girls
' school, and some people obviously, like,
aren't.
”

Ouch.

Even though I know it's pointless, I touch Stella's necklace and say the word softly to myself.
Bounce.

“I hear the Thorne School is looking for a new bulldog mascot…”

Bounce.

“Ableson, Chelsea.” Mrs. Kilgallon bangs her ruler on the desk. “Ableson. Chelsea.”

“Present,” Chelsea says.

There is now a strict no-talking-while-attendance-is-being-taken rule, so you would think it would stop there, but it doesn't. They just move on to other, more sophisticated forms of torture.

First on their list: the insult-disguised-as-extended-cough.

“Achchch
bulldog
chch.”

Then, the slow-motion passing of a notebook across the aisle, with the billboard-sized message written in pink gel pen.

Who's your barber? Boys-'R'-Us?

You can tell they've put a lot of thought into this. They've planned it out to the tiniest detail, which is downright pathetic if you ask me. They had nothing better to do this weekend than to come up with ways to make fun of me?

They think they're being clever, when really their efforts are so feeble it's sad.
She has short hair and no boobs and a boy's name, therefore she must be a guy.

Yes, that makes total sense! That's so logical!

OhmyGod, these girls are clearly, like, total airheads with, like, ten brain cells between them.

It's not as if I expected to be best friends with them. It's not as if I didn't know all along they were just using me to get to Ajax.

But that doesn't stop it from hurting.

When I get to the Latin closet there's someone sitting at my desk: a boy. Thin face. Brownish-orange hair. Glasses with chunky black frames—the kind that are so dorky they're almost cool.

Mr. Murray isn't here yet, so it's just the two of us. Me and this
Boy
at the March School for
Girls.

“Ha-ha,” I say. “Very funny. You can go back to Thorne now.”

He looks up at me. “Um. What?”

“Let me guess. Andrea sent you. You're supposed to say something brilliant, like, ‘Pardon me, is this the guys' locker room? Do you have a jockstrap I could borrow?' Well, you can save your breath. I get it.”

“Um. I'm confused.”

“Right. You have
no idea
what I'm talking about.”

He clears his throat. “You're, um, Ajax Gartos's sister, aren't you? Um, Evyn?”

This shuts me up for a minute. He knows my name. How does he know my name?

“I'm, um, Travis. Travis Piesch.”

“And I'm Evyn Plum.”

“Actually, it's, um, I-E-S-C-H.” He stands and holds out his hand to me, just as Mr. Murray bursts through the door. “
Salve, scholastici!
”

Scholastici.
Students.

Plural.

Oh.

Mr. Murray looks around, frowning. “I asked for another desk to be brought in here, but I guess no one got around to it.”

Oh, no.

“You don't mind sharing, do you? Just for today?”

Mr. Murray sees the look on my face and explains. Apparently, the Latin teacher at the Thorne School just quit, and because Travis Piesch was the only student, the Powers-That-Be decided to make an exception and allow a coed class for the first time in March-Thorne history.

Clearly, Mr. Murray is thrilled. Enrollment has doubled! We can do projects! Plays! Let's start with
Julius Caesar
!

I feel like an idiot. And feeling like an idiot means I can't look at Travis Piesch for the rest of the period.

Do you have a jockstrap I could borrow?

Sometimes I am so embarrassed for myself it's staggering.

I stand in the doorway of the cafeteria, holding the eggplant sandwich Birdie made for me because Eleni was still barfing this morning. I watch Andrea and the other It Girls laughing together and eating their sugar-free, fat-free, and carbfree lunches. I wonder how they would react if I walked over.

I think of the different approaches I could take.

Sincere:
I'm really sorry I lied to you, Andrea. I know it was wrong, and I apologize. I just wanted to be friends with you guys.

Breezy:
Welp, I guess Ajax moved on from tennis babe lust to soccer babe lust without informing me. You know how guys are.

Humorous:
Hi, I'm Devyn—Evyn's twin sister? Can you believe what a loser she is?!

But as I start to walk over, one of Andrea's clones glares at me, and her mouth forms a word I've never been called before. Ever.

My eyes tear up. My whole body stiffens. I couldn't bounce if my life depended on it.

I stand in the middle of the cafeteria, frozen. I literally can't make myself move from this spot.

I don't know how much time has passed. Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Ten years? All I know is I look like the biggest loser in the lunchroom.

No, you don't,
Stella says.

I picture her smiling at me from a table near the door. She holds up her watch.
See? It hasn't been that long.

See?
I say.
The It Girls. They're all staring at me. Staring, whispering, giggling
—

Don't think about them,
Stella tells me.
Just walk.

I imagine her hand on my back, propelling me forward.
Put a bounce in your step, honey.

When I get home, Eleni is M.I.A. Birdie is in the kitchen, and he's banging around the pots and pans, which is a bad sign. From the past thirteen years, I can tell you there are only three things my father can cook that are remotely edible: spaghetti, hamburgers, and soup from a can. Mackey and I are used to it, but this is Casa Gartos, where everything is gourmet, and I just don't see Bean ‘n' Bacon à la Birdie going over well.

“What are you
doing
?” I ask.

Birdie looks up. “Making dinner.”

“Why?”

“Eleni's still under the weather, so Chef Bird is on duty.” He lifts the lid off a pot and stirs.

I know when I ask him what he's making he'll say something like Rice-A-Roni, alphabet soup, and home fries, and when he does I will say,
Are you crazy?
And he'll say,
What?
And I'll say,
Rice, pasta, and potatoes in one meal? That's disgusting. Nobody's going to eat that.

But this is not what happens.

When I say, “What are you making?” Birdie smiles. He gestures to one pot after another. “Chicken cordon bleu. Green beans Florentine. Potatoes au gratin…You like?” He opens the oven door. “Tollhouse pie. From
scratch.
”

He looks so proud of himself, standing there in one of Eleni's aprons—white with pink roses.

I know he expects me to be impressed. He expects me to get all wide-eyed and say, “Wow! Smells fantastic! Can't wait to chow down!”

But I can't bring myself to do it.

“Suddenly you can cook?”

Birdie looks at me. “What?”

“Mackey and I get crap from a can our whole lives, and now—now that you have a new family—suddenly you can cook a four-course meal? For
them
?”

The smile slides right off his face. “I made this for everyone.”

“Sure,
Al.
Sure you did.”

I run through the kitchen and outside to the non-yard. I run
straight for Clam. I hug his neck and breathe in his Maine smell and stay that way for a long time.

Later, I go to talk to Mackey, but when I get to his door it's not computer games I hear, it's singing. Real singing. It can't possibly be my geek brother in there, but it is. I try to picture Mackey up on stage, sweeping around in his dreamcoat, bowing dramatically for the crowd, but I can't. It just doesn't make sense.

Nothing makes sense.

I'm out in the yard again when Birdie comes looking for me. He puts a tray down on the grass—everything he made for dinner. It actually looks good, and I'm starving, but I won't touch it. I can't. Eating his food would be like saying I forgive him.

Birdie pulls up a lawn chair next to me. “Are you okay?”

I stare at Clam's water bowl.

“Ev…”

Big cloud of quiet.

He doesn't know what to say to me. Birdie—my own dad. Never in my life has Birdie not known what to say to me. We have always been able to talk. Even about embarrassing stuff. Bras. Periods. When I got my period for the first time, Birdie was the one who bought me pads. Birdie was the one who took
me out for ice cream to celebrate. My friends couldn't believe it. “
Your dad
took you? You went with your dad? You talk to your
dad
about periods?” And I remember feeling proud about it. “I can talk to my dad about anything.”

Now there's only silence between us. Silence and chicken cordon bleu.

After a while, Birdie looks at me. “This isn't about the food,” he says quietly, “is it?”

I don't know what to say to that. He's right. This isn't about the food.

I want to say it. I want to say it all out loud, but how can I? Ever since he told us we were moving, he's been happier than I've ever seen him. How do I tell him that I can't stand the woman he married? That I never asked to be anyone's stepsister? That what I want more than anything is to go back to Maine, to my old house and my old friends and my old school, where I didn't have to work so hard to fit in?

I want to say it, but I don't want to hurt him. And anyway, what would be the point? It wouldn't change a thing.

So I take a bite of pie instead.

And it's good. It's so good I have to spit it back on the plate.