Furious (20 page)

When I get to Stephanie’s, one of the ever-present gardeners with a weed whacker lets me in the front door and then a housekeeper with a vacuum cleaner points me in the direction of Stephanie’s room. I enter without knocking. The room is a jumble of posters, papers, pens, markers, tape, and other assorted art supplies. Stephanie and Alix are sitting cross-legged on the carpet, huddled over a paper banner to color in bubble letters. I smell pot, which is a drug that Stephanie approves of because it grows in nature.

They don’t look up. Things are too quiet. Something’s wrong.

“Greetings and salutations?” I ask.

Alix gives me a halfhearted hello. She’s got a smudge of blue marker ink on her chin, which clashes with the red of her stoned eyes. She arches one brow, a message to me that my instincts about a problem are dead-on. I’ve just walked into a major drama scene. Stephanie, I can see now, is crying. She’s one of those near-silent criers, meaning that her shoulders are shaking and she sniffs pathetically every few seconds.

“I’m self-medicating,” she says, showing me eyes that are bloodshot from both tears and weed. “She’s driven me to this. That’s how awful she makes me feel.”

Alix puts down her marker, pats Stephanie on the back. “Nothing wrong with self-medicating. We all need coping tools.”

“Who?” I ask. “Who makes you self-medicate?”

I’m using my most sincere caring and concerned voice, but, like I said, my heart isn’t really into it. Is it so wrong to want to feel good, to not feel pissed off? All day I’ve been practically giddy about Brendon. I want to smell flowers. I want to giggle. I want to tell Stephanie,
Shut up! Stop crying
.
I’m not in the mood for negativity today
.

But I also know that when a friend is upset, the world should stop, so I plop down on the floor between them, trying hard not to show my real attitude. To cover up, I take Stephanie’s hand and give it a light squeeze.

Alix offers me a hit of the joint, but I turn it down. I don’t have anything against pot for other people. They can get as stoned as they want, but I’m wary of it. I can never count on how it’s going to make me feel. Sometimes I get relaxed and friendly. But more often, I want to unzip my body and step out of it like I stepped out of the wet suit. I don’t want to risk the feelings of paranoia and weird social vibes that I sometimes experience. Not today, not when I feel so happy.

Stephanie takes another hit, and her words come out with a cough and a cloud of smoke. “If she was just apathetic. In her case, apathy would be a treat. I could handle apathy.”

“Who?” I ask again.

Alix makes a growl of disgust in the back of her throat. On the other side of the door the vacuum kicks on, so she has to talk loudly over the whirl of the motor. “Her mom. She called Stephanie a naïve, vapid hippie and told her to grow up. I heard it myself.”

Stephanie’s shoulders start shaking again. “And I told her she’s a self-absorbed jerk who drives a gas-guzzling pig mobile.”

“Ugly, ugly mother-daughter scene,” Alix explains for my benefit.

Stephanie grips a black marker like a dagger and scribbles hard, dark lines on the poster board. When that brings no relief, she hurls the marker across the room and it leaves a line on the white wall. “Guess what real estate developer is going to turn the city’s only green space into a new mall? Guess who said that her job feeds me and keeps a roof over my head and I have no right to complain about anything?”

As if to answer her questions, the vacuum clicks off and we hear the housekeeper say, “Missus, can I help you with your packages?”

“Let’s do it,” Stephanie says.

Alix takes another hit. “I’m game. Long overdue.”

They look at me. “Um, I’m not sure.”

Stephanie’s features tighten, like she bit into a lemon. “What do you mean? Why not?”

“I’ve been thinking. Remember what Ms. Pallas said?” Stephanie gives me a blank look, so I explain. “The stuff about compassion and forgiveness.”

Alix tries to push the joint on me again. “Sure you don’t want some of this? Sounds like you need it.”

I wave it away and focus on Stephanie. “I agree, your mom’s awful. And her values suck.”

Stephanie’s head is bobbing. “She called me pathetic.”

“But she’s still your mom. That’s got to count for something.”

“And I’m her daughter! Doesn’t
that
count? What about me?”

Alix, with narrow, bleary eyes: “You didn’t have any problem teaching my dad a lesson. I’m a daughter, too.”

I’m wasting my words. I see by the tension in Stephanie’s face that she is already miles away on a train of anger. She stabs a finger at me. “There are only two people in the world that I can count on, Alix and you. Okay, three—Ambrosia, too. You owe me!”

Alix bounces her fist twice on her chest, finishes with her index finger pointed at my nose. “Remember how we helped with the Leech. It’s Steph’s turn.”

I suck in my lips and hold my breath, as if that can ward off peer pressure that’s about two hundred times stronger than any normal-variety high school peer pressure. I have to inhale sometime, and when I do I feel myself letting in Stephanie’s anger.

She’s right. They’re right. I do owe them. I owe them the world.

The vacuum clicks on again and the whir provides the background to the notes of our song. Stephanie begins; Alix and I join in. I don’t want to let them down, so I try. I
really
try.

Only right from the beginning, something’s missing. Each note sounds vaguely flat, and our harmony has an awkward tone. Even worse, I feel alone and lost. Where are they? Where are my others? Where am I? I keep trying, but the whole thing fizzes out at note number fifty. There’s no sense going any farther. We all know it and give up.

We listen without comment as the front door opens and then slams shut. We watch out the window as Stephanie’s mom gets into her car. Through the front windshield we see that she’s whistling happily. Our song didn’t touch her. The car comes alive with a roar, and she blasts music as she pulls away.

“What the hell happened?” Alix snaps.

Stephanie turns from the window, slides down the wall, knees to her chest, a disappointed and depressed lump. “It didn’t feel right. Not like the other times.”

Alix, also mystified: “Something felt … I can’t explain it … it felt not angry enough.”

Stephanie nervously bounces her palms on her thighs. “Exactly!”

My turn. I need to say something. They’re waiting. “It could have been the pot. It made the two of you too mellow to be furious.”

“I didn’t feel mellow,” Stephanie says.

I overexplain. “You know how pot is. Yeah, I bet that’s it. It took the edge off your anger. Anyway, good try, everyone. We tried. We’ll do better next time.”

What I don’t say: It takes a lot out of a person to whip herself into a rage, to hold tight one hundred percent and block out any soft feelings. You need to stew and wallow and burn the endless fuel of fury. And right now, this minute, I’m too happy, too full of hope and possibility and thoughts of Brendon. I’m not into so much hate.

“Yeah,” Alix says. “We tried.”

But her look—confused, let down, and skeptical—tells me that she suspects that a little pot had nothing to do with our failure.

*   *   *

Ding, dong, ding.

“Good afternoon, Mr. H.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. H.”

It wouldn’t be daily announcement time without a burst of static, the Thought for the Day, followed by the upbeat voices of Mr. and Mrs. H piped live over the loudspeaker.

“What are the Hunter High announcements today, Mr. H?”

“Well, Mrs. H, the SAT prep class begins after school and continues every Thursday for the next ten weeks.”

“Mr. H, due to yet more rain, color guard will practice indoors today. Members should meet Ms. Pallas at the gym. Yearbook photo sign-ups begin next week for seniors. And to conclude, we offer these two words about in-school Halloween costumes for the upcoming holiday. Ready, Mr. H?”

“Be appropriate!”

Announcements end with another
ding, dong, ding,
followed by the bell sending us off to our next period.

“Wait!” I yell to Raymond, who’s gathering up his books and obviously trying to get out of the room quickly to avoid contact with me.

To put it mildly, things suck between us. We’re hardly talking. The list of taboo topics keeps expanding. Alix’s dad, of course, but also how tight I am with Stephanie and Alix. Then there’s what he calls Ambrosia’s negative influence on me. Ms. Pallas. The Furies. Even the weather. What friends can’t talk about the weather without pissing each other off? Raymond blames the Furies for all the storms. He says he doesn’t know how and doesn’t know why, but he’s certain of it.

Well, maybe he does have a little point—not about the weather, but about Alix’s dad. I’m ready to admit anything if it means smoothing things over between Raymond and me. The truth is, I miss my best friend. I’m dying to share the news about Brendon with someone who will be as thrilled for me as I’m thrilled for myself. I miss him in a hundred different ways. Not having Raymond is a huge gap in my life. No one can take his place. I hurry across the room and position myself in front of him. He doesn’t give me a chance to say anything.

“I’ve given this serious thought,” he begins. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. You can’t fire me as your manager, because I have already resigned.”

I don’t comment on his resignation and instead hand him a makeup present that I brought to school for the occasion. It’s wrapped in yellow tissue paper with a green bow. He closes his eyes and feels it all over. Eyes pop open in disbelief. “No! Is this what I think it is?”

“Yes. To show how sincere I am about missing you. You know what she means to me.”

He tears off the wrapping and addresses my ceramic frog planter by her given name. “Francine!” To me: “Are you sure you want to give this away? You know I’m a big admirer. I’ll treasure her always.”

“I know you will, Raymond. I miss you. I’m sorry.”

So just like that, ninety percent of the tension between us drains away. It’s amazing what a present and an apology can do. Everything’s going to be better between us now. I just know it. I motion for Alix and Stephanie to go ahead to the next class without me. They exchange dejected looks, but they’ll get over it. Raymond and I have a lot to cover in the few minutes between classes. We haven’t talked—a real talk—in days. We’re used to knowing everything about each other.

As we walk he tells me he’s making progress on the violin tune that’s been stuck in his head, and he hums it for me. I still don’t like it. Something about the rhythm grates on me. I describe my first surfing lesson with Alix. He says that his mom misses having me stop by. I tell him I like his mom a lot. He wants to know what cute thing He-Cat did lately.

“And the Leech?” he asks.

“Some of our lesson has worn off. She’s not begging my forgiveness anymore. But it’s okay. She basically leaves me alone. That’s a big improvement. I can live with that.”

“Prepare yourself for my big news,” he says. “Wait for it … wait for it … I joined the color guard.”

“What?” My voice jumps an octave and at least ten decibels. “You hate marching-band music.”

“Ms. Pallas kept on me about it. She said I could even write a song for the band. You know how I’ve harbored a long, secret desire to wear a snappy electric-blue-and-white uniform with epaulettes. You should join, too.”

“No way.” I salute him and he snaps his heels together and returns the salute.

“But Meg, it’s got high-step marching. It’s got the John Philip Snooza version of music from
Zorba the Greek
. By Jove, it’s got flags. What more could you want?”

We reach the section of hallway where we split in different directions. “Correction,” he says. “I should say, ‘By Zeus, it’s got flags,’ considering the band’s Olympus theme this year, and your personal connection to all things ancient. Ms. Pallas said to encourage you to join.”

“The woman’s relentless. I swear she’s made it her personal mission to get me into the guard. Ms. Pallas is … you know what I’d like to tell her to do?”

He breaks in, takes me by the arm. “Ms. Pallas is not someone to mess with. Seriously, Meg. Don’t mess.”

“What do you know about her? Are you still snooping? What did you find out? Tell me what—”

I’m stopped short by the way he is squinting hard at me, like he can’t quite get me into focus.

“What?”

“You’re thin, but only in all the right places.”

“You’ve noticed. Yes, I am now the proud owner of hips and a waist.” I show them off by doing a fashion-model spin.

“And boobs! Sigh. How quickly you children grow up!”

“Boobs? Me?” I drop my head to my chin and peek down the unbuttoned top of my shirt. What I see there takes me by surprise. When did
that
happen?

I raise my eyes again to find Raymond’s pinky finger extended in my direction. “We’re okay, then? You and me?”

I hook my little finger to his. “Friends forever.” We pull and break.

“I have something for you, too.” He removes a couple of sheets of paper from his backpack and hands them over.

My eyes skim the first sentence:
The law is reason, free from passion.
And the second:
The virtue of justice consists in moderation.

“Promise me you’ll read it.”

“What is this? Are you auditioning for a guest spot on Hunter High’s Thought for the Day?”

No snappy comeback, just an earnest “Promise?”

I make an
X
over my heart. I remember Brendon. “I have big news, too.”

His eyebrows lift with interest.

“Too late to go into it now,” I say. “There’s plenty of time later.”

Let me be blunt: The three of you are neither moderate nor free from passion.