Boy Proof (7 page)

“What ho!” Rue says, offering me half of her tofu sandwich.

I shift away from her.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I say.

“Try me,” she says. She’s being sincere. She’s being genuinely nice. She probably tells people that she’s my friend, but I can’t get past the sprouts stuck in her teeth.

“No way.”

Rue’s face sinks, like I’ve punched her. And, in a way, I have. She’ll bounce back, though. I’ve noticed that Rue has somehow acquired those kinds of skills.

“Ten times, I must have mentioned the invitation to you. I even put it on the fridge,” Mom says.

“No, it’s not true!” I say.

“I give up,” Mom says, and leaves the house for her dinner date.

I walk over to the fridge and there it is, an invitation to the twentieth anniversary of
The Nemesis
TV show at the Museum of Television and Radio.

I hate when Mom is right.

Mental note: When you pick your battle, make sure it’s one you can win.

“How’s the news?” Mom asks, bringing me my dinner, freshly ordered in from the coffee shop down the street.

“Not good,” I say, cracking open my meal in a box.

Mom takes the zapper and channel-surfs to
E! True Hollywood Story,
which doesn’t make the whole wide world look or sound any better.

I head down the hallway to my room. I’ll do my English homework first. It’s easier. I’ll attack the trig before bed, so that the answers to the problems seep into my sleep.

English homework assignment: What is your personal philosophy of life?

I take pen to paper.

They are destroying everything anyway, so what’s the point?

I try to fall asleep, but I am filled with the thought that I am powerless. I open my mouth but I have no voice. I cannot scream. The cars on the street suddenly sound like missiles falling, like in
Terminal Earth.

I lie there and I listen, afraid, heart beating fast, so loud in my ears I want to yell, Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

What if this is it? What if I have to live through the end of the world, like they do in the movies? To me, this
is
the end of the world. To me, this is real. I try to get out of the house, away from the bombs.

I wake up on the living-room floor.

My knee is skinned and bleeding. I start to laugh at myself for being so stupid as to believe a dream was real. Even worse, I’m still clutching my trigonometry textbook.

“What’s going on out there?” Mom asks. She’s run out of her bedroom, scared by the noise I am making. She thinks it is an earthquake.

“Nothing,” I lie. “I just fell.”

“Well, what are you doing up at this time of night?”

“I was going to make myself some Sleepytime tea.”

“Oh, no, Victoria, I don’t want the kettle screaming at this hour. I have to get some beauty sleep. I have a seven
A.M.
call tomorrow.”

My mom finally has a new job. She is playing Mrs. Claus in a Movie of the Week. This means freedom from her always trying to bond with me and asking questions. At least for the next little while.

“Okay,” I say. I will microwave the water. She will never know. I need to sleep tonight. Tomorrow there is another quiz in trigonometry and I have to pass. I am slipping. I feel myself slipping.

I turn the computer on and log on to the
Terminal Earth
site.

Geranium7: Hey Eggtoria. Are you going to the
A Dream for the Moon
screening at the Cinematheque? Saba Greer is going to be there. I am going to take the train up.

Eggtoria: yep.

Geranium7: We are all going to go and try to meet Saba Greer. We have decided to all wear a white rose on our cloaks, so that we’ll know each other.

Eggtoria: Got it. White rose.

Geranium7: Ok see you there. Can’t wait to finally meet you.

Mental note: Do not wear anything Egg-like at the
A Dream for the Moon
reception.

Anyway, there is no chance in hell that I would ever wear a flower on my cloak. I am curious, though, to see what everyone else looks like. I wonder if they’re as boy proof as I am. I worry that I am really the most awful girl ever.

Knock, knock.
My instant messenger says,
Do you want to accept a message from Catburglar?

Catburglar. Who is that? I don’t know that name. I am intrigued. I accept.

Catburglar:
Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.

Eggtoria: What? Who is this?

Catburglar: That’s my philosophy. It’s a quote from the past. “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.” I got your info off the
Lion
contact sheet. I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep.

Max Carter.

It blinks at me. Begging for a reply.

His philosophy is so right. So multilayered. I wish that I had thought of it. It even looks good written in Latin. I would like to engage in a discourse about what exactly “earth” and “stars” mean. I want to talk about how even if there is no
easy
way to the stars, there still
is
a way. I bet he would have something clever to say about it. But I wonder if my words would look as pretty as his, written and blinking on the computer screen.

I log off. Suddenly I don’t feel like chatting.

I grab a PowerBar and head to school.

“I tried IM’ing you last night. Why’d you log off?” Max walks up to me.

He hands me a clementine section. I accept it; the juice squirts in my mouth and tastes good.

“I didn’t feel like chatting. I was studying.”

“What did you do this weekend?” Max asks.

The sun is making his eyes glitter. They are blue with flecks of yellow. I put up my defense field.

“The Science Fiction and Fantasy Club went to the Museum of Television and Radio.”

I am afraid that Max is going to make fun of me. I am prepared for it.

“Go ahead, make your lame geek jokes,” I say.

“Why? I love sci-fi,” Max says. He lifts up the sleeve of his T-shirt and shows me his ankh tattoo.

I’m surprised at how sculpted his arm muscle is. I didn’t have him pegged as a person who lifts weights. His skin is incredibly white. I reach out and touch the ink. The tattoo looks as though it should feel raised, but it’s not — it’s smooth.

I feel a shock. He doesn’t seem fazed at all. He goes on talking.

“It’s from
The Sandman
and also from
Logan’s Run.
”

“I know, death, sanctuary. Whatever. Big deal, you like sci-fi,” I say.

“One thing that I really love about sci-fi and fantasy is how they talk about taboo issues and open up a conversation about them,” Max says. “That’s how I started to become politically aware.”

I think about that for a moment. I knew it already but hadn’t really articulated it before.

“Like
Terminal Earth
talks about environmental apocalypse and drug resistance,” I say.

“And fear of the other,” he adds. “So, see, I love it. I love sci-fi. I just love real life, too.”

Max points at the nuclear radiation symbol on my T-shirt. His finger brushes the side of my breast, though he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he pulls his sketchbook out of his backpack as we are walking to Global History.

“I wanted to show you this,” he says, and opens the book to a picture of the Gas Pump Lady Liberty. It’s his editorial cartoon for the
Melrose Lion.
It is the Gas Pump Lady Liberty sculpture draped with furs and boas and diamonds. In the corner of the drawing are the backs of the paparazzi who are taking pictures of her. The caption says “Real Art for the Angelino.”

“This is great, Max,” I say, looking at him with my real eyes, to let him know I mean it.

I gently take the book from his hands and run my fingers over the thick paper, feeling the way the ink bumps and scratches. I can tell that the pressure Max uses on the pen is as intense as he is.

“I wanted to show you first.” He nods at me like a co-conspirator. Like we’re friends.

“Victoria, do you want to make some money for yourself?”

“Money is power in this corrupt world,” I say. “What do I have to do?”

“You would be an Awkwardly Tall Elf,” Mom says. “There are a lot of tall elves at the North Pole, and Santa is beginning to worry. It’s only for one Saturday.”

I don’t want to be an Awkwardly Tall Elf, but I do want to have my own money. I want freedom. I want independence.

“Are there prosthetics for the elves?” I ask.

“Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?” Mom says.

I look at her, dumbfounded.

“Two reasons, Mom.” I have to spell everything out for her. “One, I want so much makeup on that no one could possibly ever recognize me. And two, I like special-effects makeup. Try to keep up with the details of my life, okay?”

“We really aren’t cut from the same cloth, are we?” Mom says.

“No, we aren’t,” I say. “I’m just like Dad.”

Mom presses her lips into a line and grinds her teeth. I watch her count to ten and exhale. I know exactly which buttons to push to drive her crazy.