Class Favorite (11 page)

“Don't you have class?” Jason asked Kirstie.

“Don't you?” she asked back.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He laughed.

“Kirstie is new,” I informed Jason. “She moved here from Raleigh.”

“Cool,” he said.

“So how'd you get stuck helping my girl here out?” she asked him.

“Volunteered.”

“Wow, Sara,” Kirstie said, looking to me. “You better hold on to this one. He's a keeper.”

I blushed, then Jason brutally clarified, “I'm just helping out.”

“You play basketball, right?” Kirstie asked him.

“Yeah. How'd you know?”

“I can tell. You just have that kind of body. Doesn't he, Sara?”

I couldn't tell if she was somehow trying to help me out or if she was hitting on him, but she was making me uncomfortable.

Kirstie reached over and pushed my hair off my face. “I can't believe this,” she said. “With friends like Arlene . . .”

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said, glancing at Jason.

She sighed. “Look, let's get together later and figure it out, okay? But I gotta get to history or they're going to suspend me before I get my first report card.” She looked to Jason. “You headed this way?”

Jason dropped the remaining bits in the trash like a dead fish. “Yeah, I guess I should probably get to class.”

“Cool, we can walk together,” she said. When Kirstie looked at me, her face was both apologetic and hopeful. “You got it from here, Sar?” Kirstie asked.

“Yeah. Sure,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. The aching in my stomach started creeping up again. Kirstie had talked
of friends coming to each other's aid, and I wondered why she was bailing on me now. Not to mention she was taking my crush with her, even if Jason wasn't there under the most optimal circumstances. “I got this. Y'all go on.”

“You sure you're okay?” Jason asked as he stepped around the trash can.

“Yeah, totally. I mean, you've done too much, anyway. Thanks a lot for helping me and all.”

He did that wonderful quick-wink again and said, “No problem.”

As I watched them walk down the hall, I realized that my brief interaction with Jason was a total fluke. He was just taking pity on me. And Kirstie—had she been flirting with him? Or was I being hypersensitive?

Suddenly, from far down the hall Kirstie turned to face me. Walking backward she hollered, “Polish remover!”

“What?”

“Nail polish remover! It'll help get those little stickies off your locker.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Alone in the quiet hallways, I dragged the trash can back to where Jason had gotten it, then tore off a bunch of blank sheets of notebook paper and covered the mess in the trash. I picked up my bag, knowing I wouldn't go to my last class. As I stood staring at my defiled locker, my shoulders started
to shake, and I finally started bawling—really hard crying, the kind that makes your head hurt. I put my face in my hands, not wanting to see that stupid locker and all its disgustingness, not wanting to think that it must be Arlene who did it, or whether or not Kirstie had been flirting with Jason. I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and walked away.

I ran out the back entrance of the school, the breeze from my stride drying the tears on my cheeks. The leaves on the trees that surrounded the edges of the field were just beginning to bud. There was a light breeze blowing over the camouflage patches of tan and green grass on the athletic field. I whipped my hair out of my face, but the wind pushed it back. They say the weather in Texas is unpredictable, but to me, the consistency was as mind-numbingly rigid as an algebra equation. It was always cool to warm in the winter, and hotter than a hillbilly in the summer. As I headed toward the bleachers in the distance, I thought how my life was more unpredictable than Texas weather.

I turned up the collar of my corduroy jacket and stuffed my hands in my jean pockets. As I came upon the bleachers, I saw a dark figure sitting alone beneath them.

A guy squatted, smoking—I could see the little white streams of smoke. I didn't know anyone who smoked, especially not at our age. The smoker spotted me coming toward him and tossed a white bit to the ground. When I got closer, I saw that it was just Shiner.

Only one thing could come from the biggest jerk in school: pure torture. I sought solitude and found Shiner. I knew the little weasel would be ruthless, and even though I was not in the mood, I prepared myself.

“Well?” I said, looking down at him sitting on a patch of dirt. His skinny knees in baggy shorts were pulled up to his chest, and his puffy Dallas Cowboys jacket was wrapped around his bare legs.

“Well, what?”

“Well, are you hot or are you cold?”

Shiner glared back at me, and I didn't care that I was starting it this time. I mean, he
was
wearing a winter coat with shorts. He always did that, every fall and spring, and it bugged the crap out of me. Besides, I was sure that by then the whole school knew about my locker, so what did I care what Shiner thought of me?

“Leave me alone, Thurman,” he mumbled, looking back down at the dirt.

“You shouldn't smoke, you know. Cancer, emphysema, bad breath . . .” When he didn't acknowledge me, I asked, “Hey, what's wrong with you?” He never let me get at him without spitting something back at me.

“I said go away. And before you start,” he warned, “I didn't do that thing to your locker.”

“I didn't say you did. I didn't even
think
you did.”

“I'm just saying. I might do a lot of stuff, but I wouldn't do that. That was really messed up.”

I sat down next to Shiner, mindful of No. 8 on my list: friends. But would he help or hurt me as a friend? Then I remembered No. 3, that I should try harder to be nice, so I settled into the dirt beside him. He ran his pale hand through his hair, and he looked tired, but not from lack of sleep—something seemed to be bugging him. I realized I hadn't been in such close proximity to him since the Fall Ball. I briefly considered that maybe he wasn't really an imbecile—maybe he just played one in our school.

“What's up with you?”

“Nothin'.” He picked up a rock and tossed it past me.

“Why aren't you in class?”

“Ms. Weaver kicked me out.”

“What'd you do this time?”

“I didn't do nothin',” he answered quickly.

“Yeah, right.”

“It's true,” he answered defensively. Shiner was always getting kicked out of class, and Ms. Weaver was notoriously evil. She once tried to have a kid expelled just for wearing a Papas and Beer T-shirt. And, one time, rumor has it, she taught school in Dallas and tried to enforce the no-hats-in-class rule on a kid named Jonathan Steinberg by making him take off his yarmulke. His parents threatened to sue the school, because
of the whole freedom-from-religious-persecution thing, and Ms. Weaver dropped it, but not before Dallas could drop her. Supposedly that's how she ended up here. Kind of like a sentencing.

“You mean to tell me you were just sitting at your desk, minding your own business, and suddenly Ms. Weaver yelled at you to get the hell out of her class?”

“Pretty much.”

“Come on. You were probably gleeking on someone, or making disgusting noises or gestures or
something
.”

“I was not,” he snapped, looking up at me. It was really a shame he had such bad skin. He might not be bad-looking if it weren't for all those red splotches on his face and neck. “She just hates me, that old witch. I didn't do anything, and she just starts hollering at me. I swear it.” He grabbed another stray rock and chucked it. He gazed across the field as he took a breath, and I swear it looked like he'd been crying.

“So what happened then?” We sat facing the school—I guess so he could see if someone was coming out to bust him for skipping.

He stuffed his hands back into the pockets of his Cowboys jacket, giving me a sideways look. I don't know why, but I got the feeling he wanted me there. And not in the usual creepy Shiner kind of way.

“That dumb old woman,” he began. “It's history, okay, and
we were talking about Jim Bowie and the Battle of the Alamo. All I said was that Jim Bowie was a lot like my dad. You know, 'cause they're both drunks. Ms. Weaver kind of gasps, like she can't believe I'd say such a thing about our school's freakin' namesake. But, okay, he
was
a drunk.”

“Jim Bowie?”

“Yeah. And my daddy. Total alcoholics. But Ms. Weaver got so mad and said it wasn't true about either, and when I said it was so, she told me to go to the principal's office. Screw her.”

“Sucks.” I didn't know what else to say. What I really couldn't believe was that Shiner was saying his dad was a boozer as if he were stating that he was a car salesman. It was pretty sad to think that that was his life, but he seemed okay with it. “At least your day wasn't as bad as mine.”

“Oh man, what is up with you today? Were those tampons some weird feminist statement or something?”

“Don't be stupid.”

He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Whoever did that is an awful person, and I hope she totally gets busted.”

“She? Why ‘she'?”

He looked past me to the school. “I just mean whoever. Besides,” he continued, “whoever did do it will be sorry if you find out. You really busted out the brute squad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've never seen you so mad. Even I was afraid to say anything to you.”

“Really? Huh.” I guess I'd fooled everyone. Maybe I was learning something about fake confidence. “But, I'm pretty sure I'm still the school's official biggest loser.”

He shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes on the ground. “You ain't that bad.”

The sun was beginning its descent over the maple trees on the other side of the field, and I realized we'd been sitting for a while. I wanted to get going before school let out.

“Well,” I said, standing up and dusting off my butt, “I guess I better go.” I started walking back toward the school, but stopped after just a few steps. I turned back to Shiner. “You know what?” I said to him. “You're not that bad either.”

9

Are you overly emotional?

The guy you've been crushing on just said your new haircut is “really interesting.” How do you react?

a) By faking cramps and going home to cry in bed for the next two days. You knew you looked like a freak!

b) You tell him, “Thank you,” and agree that the new style is interesting and unique.

c) By demanding to know exactly what he means by “interesting”? Is he insulting you?!

 

I pounded across our front yard through crabgrass and sprouting daffodils, and immediately noticed our Texas flag jerking in the wind. It hadn't been hung since Dad left a few months ago. He used to put it up every morning on his way to work and take it down after dark. Sometimes I'd help hold the flag, being extra careful that it didn't touch the ground. Once, when I was
little, I let the corner touch the grass, and I was sure we were going to have to burn the whole thing. But Dad had only winked at me and said, “I won't tell if you won't.”

I knew no one would be home—Mom was still at the bank, and Elisabeth was running somewhere like she did every day after school. I was looking forward to crawling in my bed, shutting the blinds, pulling the comforter up over my head, and hiding there for the rest of the evening.

I pushed open our ancient oak front door and immediately noticed something was different. For as long as I could remember, that door had always made a ruckus when we opened it. In the months before Dad moved out, Mom had nagged him every week to oil it, but he never got around to it. He always said he would, but then he'd concentrate on other things like the loose brick we always tripped over on the front steps, the starter on the lawnmower, or the latch on Mom's bedroom window. It wasn't like he wasn't fixing anything—in fact, he loved repairing things. It just seemed like he fixed everything
but
. Dad even told Mom where the WD-40 was so she could fix it herself. It became such a big deal that I even offered to do it. Elisabeth called me a brownnoser, but it seemed easy to do. Mom told me not to bother. A couple of days later, Dad was gone, and Mom hadn't mentioned it since.