Forever for a Year (6 page)

“Bye, Scott. Thank you for dinner,” I said, and then hugged him for only a second.

“Carolina, I really enjoyed hearing about your first day of school,” he said, and I could tell he would keep talking so I went to get my laptop from my bedroom, leaving my mom to say good-bye to my dad alone. When I came back and he was gone, the house felt so hollow, like a tornado had sucked out a whole room.

I set up my computer in the living room. For the first time in a long time, my mom got a book and read next to me on the couch.

After I finished my math homework, which I always do first because it's so dull, I gave myself five minutes to look at Facebook, which some people say isn't cool. But I think people are just trying to be cool by saying it's not cool because everyone still uses it. Maybe in, like, the future when cars fly nobody will use it, but they probably will.

So after I signed in, I saw a new friend request.

From Trevor Santos.

Who I totally didn't know.

Wait a minute.

Until I clicked on his page.

And saw it was the new boy.

Wait a minute!

THE new boy.

Oh. My. Gosh.

 

8

Trevor runs even though it's pointless

“Who coaches cross-country?” I asked Mr. Pasquini, the gym teacher, after I had the front-office lady switch my schedule back. Just in case. Right?

“Well, that happens to be me,” Mr. Pasquini said. One side of his long-bearded mouth lifted up into a grin. He was a strange dude.

“And it's just running, right?”

“Oh no, young man, cross-country is not merely running. It is pushing the limits of the human spirit.”

Whatever. Don't overthink this, Trevor. So I said, “Okay, I'll run.”

Pasquini did another freaky grin thing.

*   *   *

I didn't have any running stuff with me, so Coach Pasquini lent me some old gym-class T-shirt and shorts. It was as disgusting as it sounds. And dorky, epically dorky, which I tried not to care about. But I just did. What made it worse was that after I changed, I joined the team out on the steps of the gym and discovered that not only was every boy on the team a total outcast or nerd, but the girls' team practiced with us too. I don't even know what to say about that.

Two years ago, I'm quarterback of my eighth-grade football team, I have a pretty girlfriend named Dakota (who was super nice; a bit superficial, but super nice and super pretty), my mom at least pretends to be happy, I'm basically the king of junior high, and I'm in California, which is where everything happens. Now I'm in smelly, old, torn gym clothes that are riding up my butt crack and strangling my neck, I'm on the cross-country team with girls and geeks, my mom wishes she was dead, and I'm stuck in Bumblefuck, Illinois.

And I swore I wouldn't be judgmental anymore, except I feel like judging everybody, so I feel like crap for that on top of everything.

“Gentlemen! Ladies! Gather up!” Pasquini hollered like he thought he was some kind of Civil War general. “We have a new warrior in our midst! You treat him with respect. You encourage him. You challenge him to be the best runner and human he can be. Stand up, Trevor.”

Please just kill me. But I stood up and Pasquini led the team in applause, which only made me feel like a bigger idiot. “It's Murder Monday, runners. Murder Monday. Five miles. Down Kirby Street, up Jeske Ave, back down Fridell Road, and then through the practice fields. Up! Up! You go! You go hard! You never stop moving, you never cut corners, and you never stop fighting! Go! Go! GO!”

And then the lot of us—probably forty kids, from freshmen to seniors—just started running. I had no idea where the hell any of these roads were, so I just followed the pack. Not that I would have wanted to lead even if I did know where I was going. Because I know sports are just another way to pacify the masses. One hundred percent. Watch 'em. Play 'em. Either way, they exist to distract people from their empty lives. You think you're better than someone because your NFL team won or you beat someone in a five-mile run? Then you're an idiot. Why are we so competitive? What's wrong with people? Why can't people just be chill? It's because everyone is insecure. So pathetic.

Except I couldn't stop myself from wanting to stay near the front, just behind the leaders. Want to know why? Because I'm more pathetic than anyone. I know it's all BS, yet I can't stop myself. Moments like this, where I just have to stay at the front, when I can't let anyone see me as weak, even if it's a bunch of strangers, remind me how weak I am, even if I'm fooling everyone else into thinking the opposite.

By the time we made the turn onto the forest preserve bike path, there were only five of us in the lead pack. The senior captain named Randy Chung, who had a shaved head and tattoos of Bible verses on his arms. A quiet freshman named Conchita Piniayo with thick black hair down to the middle of her back. And the other senior captain, Craig Billings, who looked like he should be related to the Kennedys.

But it was clear to me that the best runner was this junior named Todd Kishkin. He was no taller than five six, with rounded shoulders almost pointing to the ground and a beak for a nose. If I had seen him in the hall, I would have pegged him as a violin player or a math club president who had never seen a sport on TV, let alone played one. But this kid could run. My chest was burning, my legs were going numb, and this Todd Kishkin looked like he was just floating above the ground. When we turned down Fridell Road, he said, as if getting off an elevator, “I'll see you guys in a bit.” And, pow, he went into another gear and out of sight.

I wanted to ask Craig about him, but I didn't have the energy to speak. Eventually Randy and Craig pulled away from Conchita and me, and I made sure to stay side by side with her. Couldn't lose to a girl. But then, as we crossed the practice fields, just when I should've been able to outsprint her since my legs were twice as long, I had nothing left. She cruised ahead as if I were cemented in place. Everything hurt so much. I wanted to drop this pointless sport, get another gym period, forget about Carolina Fisher anyway. Who does this crap? Run five miles for no reason? This isn't a sport! It's torture!

But I never walked. Never. Might as well have, but still. By the time I got to the steps of the gym where we started, two sophomores had caught me. Then a half dozen others. Didn't care. Couldn't care. I collapsed to my knees, hard into the gravel of the cement. If you had asked me in that moment if I would ever, ever run with the cross-country team again, I would have said, “Fuck no.”

But Pasquini walked fast toward me, mumbling, “I thought so, I thought so.” Then he crouched down because I was on my hands and knees, dry heaving, and lifted up my chin and said, “You don't know what the hell you're doing, but when you do learn, you might be dangerous.” He was giving me a compliment in his way. It felt good. I wished it didn't. But it did.

I was planning on taking the late bus home, but when I finally had the energy to stand up, and after Pasquini had given the team a cornball pep speech, I saw my mom's Infiniti SUV waiting in the parking lot. Unfortunately, it had not driven itself.

 

9

Carolina will stop boy obsessing tomorrow

“I-have-to-call-Peggy-I'll-be-right-back,” I said to my mom exactly one second after I saw the request from Trevor Santos. I went to the basement laundry room because my room was too close to the living room and no way did I want her to hear my conversation.

“He sent me a friend request!” I said, except I probably screamed it, as soon as Peggy answered. Why was I screaming this? This is not a big deal. Not. At. All.

“Who?” she said.

“The new boy!” I screamed again. I was out of control. I didn't know who the heck I was anymore. “His name is Trevor Santos.”

“I can't hear you, hold on.” In the background, I could hear Katherine yelling at their mom. They were always yelling at each other. Peggy found someplace quiet, then said, “So what's his name?”

“Trevor Santos.”

“That's a sexy name,” she said.

“I know,” I said, even though I hadn't thought about it and didn't even know what would make a name sexy. “What should I do?” my voice felt almost normal. I was starting to calm down instead of acting like some hysterical girl in love with a boy band.

“About what?” said Peggy, who was having a “space-out night,” which sometimes happened. Especially when her sister and mom were yelling a lot.

“About the friend request he sent, Peggy.”

“Accept it, right?”

“But … Okay. Yeah. But…” Should I admit it? I had to. Even though it completely ruined my vow. Just ruined it. So I said, “What if I like him?”

“Then for sure accept it, right?”

“But … maybe I should wait.”

“Maybe you should,” Peggy said, not really listening. Or listening but not really thinking. Peggy was the greatest friend, except sometimes she just told you what you wanted to hear instead of real advice. So I changed the subject to talk about homework, and then about her sister's party, and then we said good-bye. After I hung up, I really wanted a new friend. Not to replace Peggy, but a second friend, so I could have someone else to call when something so major was happening, like now. With Trevor Santos. Maybe his name
was
sexy.

I said it out loud—“Trevor Santos”—but I felt like the silliest person ever and couldn't bear to spend one more second alone with my own brain.

So I called Kendra, because I had her number, and because I talked to her the second most today.

“Hello,” she said, her voice very quiet, like always.

“Kendra, it's Carolina.”

“Hi.”

“So what did you think of our first day of high school?”

“It was good.” Kendra spoke her words really fast, like she didn't like the way they tasted and wanted to get them out of her mouth as soon as she possibly could.

“You ever have a boyfriend?”

She didn't say anything. I almost said my mom was calling, which would be a lie, it's just that Kendra was not easy to talk to like Peggy, even when Peggy was being space-out Peggy. But then she finally said, “No, I've never had a boyfriend. Have you ever had one?” Which was the exact question I wanted her to ask.

“No. Never. But this boy I met today. I might like him. And he sent me a Facebook friend request. What do you think that means?”

“He likes you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“REALLY?”

She was quiet again. I felt stupid for getting so excited. Which I should. Because it was stupid. The stupidest. Definitely. Then Kendra said, “Why are you so excited?” And I felt one hundred times more stupid, until Kendra somehow said the most amazing thing ever. “It's just that you're so pretty. Lots of boys must have liked you before.”

I couldn't breathe for a second, and my eyes got watery, not sad but happy, so not tears, just so emotional because no had ever called me pretty before. I mean, my mom and dad had, and my brother, Heath, but no one else, ever. Even though Kendra was a girl, it's almost better to come from a girl, because boys can be morons a lot, but girls are usually very smart. Then I said, because I didn't want her to think I was conceited, “You're so pretty too.” And this was TOTALLY true! You should see Kendra. She has skin with no pimples, and lips that old actresses have to pay for, and big, bright eyes, like they could be white suns, but smaller. Duh. But I worried she wouldn't believe me because I said it right after she said it to me, and then I worried she thought I liked girls in a romantic way, and then I was silent.

But she said, fast but nice, “Thank you,” and then changed the subject, which was great, by saying, “So are you going to accept his friend request?”

“Yes. I don't know. Maybe. What do you think?”

“If you just want to be his friend, do it right away. But if you want to be more than friends, then you could wait. Boys like girls more when you make them wait. That's what my dad says. But it makes sense.”

“It DOES make sense,” I said, and I was sooo happy I called Kendra, and was sooo excited to have a new friend, especially one who was really smart and gave good advice.

“Have you done the history homework yet?” Kendra asked, which was great, because it let us talk about school and not just boys, but then we talked about boys again, and Kendra said she had only kissed three boys, which was two more than I'd kissed. And the one I kissed was in sixth grade when kids still had birthday parties, and I was still invited, and we played Spin the Bottle, even though it was a shoe not a bottle, and I kissed Nicholas Durant, who was not very cute. Everyone calls him Licker now, and I don't even know why. It was fine that it was my first kiss, I just wish it wasn't my only kiss.

I wondered if Kendra had done more than kiss boys. Shannon Shunton, supposedly, had had sex with a senior over the summer, but I only heard it once from Peggy, who heard it from one of Katherine's friends, who hates Elizabeth Shunton, so it might not be true. But it was definitely true that Shannon and the other popular girls had done more than kissing, like letting boys go up their shirts and down their pants. But I didn't ask Kendra about this because I worried I would want to talk about it forever, and I would never get my homework done, and then I would fail out of school and not be able to see Trevor Santos ever again.

So we said good-bye and then I ran upstairs to talk to my mom, but she wasn't on the couch anymore. She was watching TV in bed, which made me think she was missing my dad, and I felt bad because if it wasn't for me, she wouldn't have to be missing him.

Yep. Okay. Gosh. Okay.

Maybe tomorrow morning I would tell her it was okay to let Dad move back in.