Don't Ever Change (23 page)

It sounds character building—which I’m not against.

“I could take a multivitamin,” I say.

“I’ve got something better,” he tells me, taking out a prescription pad and scribbling something. He tears the page, folds it, holds it out for me. “Now that’ll have you feeling great!”

“Great,” I say, as he guides me by the shoulders back to the waiting room.

I hand Courtney the prescription.
Anemic,
I think, testing the word out in my head, seeing if I like the way it defines me.

“What is this?” my sister asks, staring at the page.

“Some prescription,” I say. “For my
anemia
.”

“He’s just written, ‘Eat a cheeseburger.’” Courtney holds up the page so I can see.

“Eat a cheeseburger?” I read aloud. “That jerk!”

Just because someone’s known you your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t be a jerk. Sometimes it means they’re an even bigger one.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I DON’T LEAVE
my room for dinner, even though both my mother and father beg me. Instead I just sulk on my bed, hungry and angry, when Michelle calls.

“You picked up fast,” she says. “Were you reading old texts and acting weird about them?”

“For once, no,” I say.

“I’m just calling to see if you checked your grades,” Michelle says.

In this moment the word
grades
—a word I’ve felt enslaved to for at least the last six years—sounds totally foreign, like something I’ve never heard before. “My
grades
? No.”

“When do you leave for Boston?”

I flip open my calendar, but there’s nothing written on it. I never circle dates.

“No idea,” I say.

“You’re being kind of bitchy, Eva,” she says.

“Sorry. I’m just . . .
hangry
, I guess.”

“Like always,” she says.

“Not like always,” I say.

“So you haven’t looked on the school’s site?”

“I don’t remember my password.” Virgo, Vegan, Shakes? Something like that.

“So you haven’t seen it.”

“
Michelle
,” I say.

“Then I’ll be the first to tell you: you’re a finalist for the Scholastic California Writing Award.”

My mother knocks twice, calls my name, so I turn away from the door and lower my voice.

“What do you mean? What is that?”

“You’re the only senior from our school on the list.”

“I didn’t apply for that,” I say. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Whatever. You’re on the list with four other people, and all of them go to, like, nightmare prep schools.”

“Oh God.”

“Roush must’ve submitted it. You’re like his pet.”

“He shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “I didn’t ask him to do that.”

“Are you going to be happy about this, Eva? Can you, like,
appreciate
good news?”

“
You
don’t sound happy for me.”

Michelle has nothing to say to that.

“Right now it just doesn’t feel good to beat anyone at writing,” I say. “There’re different styles, you know, it’s not all comparable. And what does it even mean to
win
at writing? And why would they even pick me?”

“Because you’re better than everyone else,” Michelle says. “You tell me that all the time.”

“I guess I do,” I say.

My mother knocks again. I can smell food; maybe she’s brought up a plate.

“I have to go.”

“Well, don’t freak out. Maybe you won’t win.”

Finally my mother just enters and walks over to the bed. She puts a hand over my hand that’s holding the phone.

“But you probably will,” Michelle says, annoyed.

“Eat with us, Eva, please.” My mother tightens her grip.

“Sounds good, Michelle,” I say.

She squeezes tighter.

“Dinnertime,” I say, and hang up.

“What did Michelle have to say?” my mother asks.

“That I’m a real winner.”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” my mother says, and then hugs me, accidentally mashing her shoulder into my tender jaw.

“Ow!” I moan, a real winner—and a sore winner too.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I PUT ON
my nicer lipstick for the party. I pick out a shirt that isn’t my camp shirt and immediately feel prettier, rejuvenated.
This isn’t going to be so bad,
I tell myself, stashing snacks and drinks in my tote bag. So far I’ve packed kale chips and flax crackers and a few little juice-box-size coconut waters. I’ve even got a plastic baggie of raw almonds and seaweed crumble left over from the last time Michelle and Steph and I went to the movies. I’m bringing enough to eat and drink for days—should the party last for days—but more importantly, it means I won’t be the only one there not sipping or chewing something, awkward and excluded.

On the way to Nick’s I drive down Thousand Oaks Boulevard, where the trees are big and beautiful, and besides the brand-new mega-size Bed, Bath & Beyond, everything looks pretty identical to how it’s been since I was thirteen. Roxy’s Famous Deli closed, but there’s a location in Westlake Village now where my family still goes for birthday dinners—though the Blockbuster nearby was torn down last year to make room for extra parking. It seems like something to potentially feel melancholy about or, like, protective of, because it reminds me of the opening to a short story about how the place where you’re born and grow up can change so much when you leave that you don’t even recognize it when you return.

“You can never go home again,” Courtney once said to me bittersweetly.

“No, seriously,” my father said, deadpan, “you can’t come back.”

Nick’s house is in a suburb in the foothills, where the houses all have white two-car garages and Spanish tile roofs. It’s a nice night out, and quiet, and I can’t even tell there’s a party going on until I’m at the front door, peeking through the frosted glass. Nobody answers when I knock, so I just go inside.

There’re about twenty people spread out across the living room and den, most of them counselors. It’s sort of dark inside, like mood lighting, but I notice Nick right away because he looks really different with his hair parted neatly to the side. He nods hello and then pauses, giving me a double take, as if he’s not sure it’s really me, which makes me worry most of us might not recognize each other just dressed as ourselves, not in camp clothes. But then I spy Foster across the room by the kitchen, and
he
looks like himself. Of course.

“I’ll show you where to put that,” Melly says, pointing to my tote bag.

“I’m just going to carry it, thanks,” I say.

“Why?”

“It’s just some food I brought, that’s all.”

“I never eat,” Melly says.

“Never?”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Go ahead.”

“I never eat,” Melly starts, pausing, sucking in a breath for emphasis, “at
parties
.”

“Me either,” I say, swiftly dropping my bag in a dark corner.

Booth comes over as Melly wanders off down a hallway. Booth’s wearing perfume, which I know because it’s my mother’s scent—Lancôme’s
Trésor
—so I assume it must be his mother’s, too. I can’t help leaning in closer for a longer, satisfying sniff. In a flash I’m transported, I can almost hear the clicking of high heels against a waxed linoleum floor; with my eyes closed I’m there, at school—my mom’s come to pick me up. Another whiff though and it’s just Booth. I’m not going anywhere. And no one’s coming to take me home.

“Want to hear a joke?” Booth asks.

I’m not really paying attention. Booth notices.

“Looking for Foster?” he asks, winking.

“Not really. What’s the joke?”

“What do you call a fish with no eyes?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A fsh?”

Booth frowns. “I like that answer better, actually,” he says. “You can go find Foster now.”

“I’m not necessarily trying to find Foster.”

Then Amanda and Kit and Jules see me and come over, and Booth slips away.

“Corey’s here,” Amanda says.

“Corey’s hot,” Kit says, giggling.

“Corey?” I ask. “The eighth grader?”

“Well, he’s going into ninth,” Amanda reminds me.

“I’d do him,” Jules says.

“No, you wouldn’t,” I say.

“He can
surf
,” Kit tells me.

“So?”

“So we can’t all share Foster,” Jules says, and they all laugh like it’s an inside joke.

“He’s mine tonight,” Kit says.

“Who?” I ask, startled.

“Corey, stupid.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be ‘Counselors Only’?”

“That’s, like, only a friendly suggestion,” Amanda says.

“You mean my friends could’ve come?”

The girls laugh again, probably assuming I don’t have any friends.

I retreat to a bathroom off the kitchen and call Steph to see what she’s doing.

“Before you say anything,” I stop her, “I’m not going to just apologize and apologize. Instead I’m extending what the ancient Greeks called an olive branch.”

After a little lull of silence, Steph says, “I’ll be taking that.”

“Oh, thank gods,” I say, so relieved I sink down to the tile floor.

When I tell her I’m at a camp party, she seems happy for me. Although when I say
seems
I mean exactly that, because something distinctly
un
happy was stirred up by our fight earlier. Even with this surface okay-ness, an acidic feeling still bubbles around the edges of our chitchat. This is the problem with getting everything out in the open, especially for girls, who
never
forget. My mom always says, “Put your issues in these tissues.” But they’re just tissues—soggy-ass tissues!—they can’t hold the heavy stuff. So I’ll just have to take the tissues, because I don’t want snot on my face.

Steph says Michelle’s on a date and that she’s babysitting her little brother; they’re making microwave brownies and homemade frosting. At first I don’t believe her—about Michelle’s date or the brownies and frosting—and then I can’t believe myself: Doubting Eva, so distrustful. Then someone turns up the music in the living room so loud even Steph can hear it. “God, that’s loud,” she says. I tell her everything’s about to get “camplified,” which she appreciates, but not enough to ditch her brother and come save me.

Shelby doesn’t pick up when I call her next, but Zack does. He says my name without even saying hello: “Eva.” He almost sings it.

“Never mind,” I say.

“Are we still on for tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” I say, not thinking, and hang up.

When I leave the bathroom, everyone’s outside on the patio drinking. The warm breeze makes my eyes water, so I go back inside to find my tote and reluctantly dig out my glasses, stashed beneath Baggies and books. Once I have them on, it’s heaven, I can see
everything
—even the words on the spines of my books.

“This is who I am,” I say aloud, to no one. “The girl who brings books to a party.”

“I’ll show you where to put that,” Melly says, suddenly behind me. She’s either on autopilot and doesn’t remember talking to me earlier, or she just doesn’t recognize me with my glasses on. That or she’s just losing her mind from lack of food.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, clutching my bag, “I’ll hold it.”

She leads me down the hall anyway, into a bedroom with the lights out. At first it looks like there’s a mound of coats on the bed, but then the mound moans, moves. It’s two people, murmuring into each other’s faces, one body underneath another body.

“I’m just dropping off my bag,” I say, reaching for the edge of the bed but touching a foot instead. “Sorry, sorry.”

“’S cool,” a male voice says. Instantly I can tell it’s Corey.

“Corey,” I say into the dark. “It’s Eva.”

“Oh hey, Eva,” Corey says pleasantly, like we’re at the supermarket and he’s happened down my aisle.

“I see we’re doing
this
again.”