Furious (21 page)

What I have in my hands is Raymond’s official resignation as the manager of the Furies. It’s signed and dated, and clearly influenced by Ms. Pallas. I recognize the tone, which is even more pontificating than Raymond’s usual style. I’m surprised he didn’t get it notarized.

Don’t write me off as some super-naïve type who doesn’t understand that society would be a mess if nobody gets punished when they do something wrong. I get it: you can’t let everyone off the hook.

But who made three angry high school girls judge, jury, and prison guards? How do you know what’s right? How do you know when the punishment fits the crime? How do you judge people clearly when you’re all wrapped up in your own hate and delusions of world domination?

You say you want to punish people who abuse their power. Well, open your eyes, little missies! Guess who’s in danger of abusing their own power? Do I need to name names?

Be careful! You are messing with forces bigger and more powerful than yourselves.

I hereby give my notice. I am cutting all ties with your endeavors. I will be devoting more time to my studies, my violin, and color guard practice. I will, however, fulfill my obligation to our joint Western Civ project. Ms. Pallas is blackmailing me into it. My other option is to take an F, and I’ve never gotten below a B-plus in my life on anything. I am not about to let it happen now.

Sincerely, Your former manager

I read his resignation twice. The first time through, it annoys me so much I start to crumple up the paper. Raymond just won’t give up. What we did to Alix’s dad hardly qualifies as having delusions of world domination. And what’s wrong with passion?

I stew on his insults a little, but my mind quickly loses its grip on them. The warm feeling of having Raymond in my life rushes back to me. I don’t want to be mad at him. I don’t want to be mad at anyone. Life is too good right now for that. I have my best friend back. I have Alix and Stephanie, who are feeling more and more like the sisters I never had. Ambrosia looks out for me. My foster mother leaves me alone. He-Cat is the best pet ever. And, of course, I have my date with Brendon coming up.

The second time I read Raymond’s resignation, it’s a whole different experience. It’s weird how the same words that made me flash with anger a minute ago now make me smile tolerantly. This is classic Raymond—the Raymond I love and who loves me.

I flip to the second page, which is his promised contribution to our class project.

1.
Our rage that patrolled the crimes of men, that stalked their rage, dissolves—we loose a lethal tide to sweep the world
. Aeschylus

2. Oedipus was tortured by the Furies for killing his own father, even though it was in self-defense and he didn’t even know it was his dad. Fair?

3. The chorus swears to avenge themselves by setting loose all their evil powers on the land of Athens … They do not let up; they do not go home (Cliff Notes; Fourth Stasimon, Aeschylus,
The Eumenides
)

There are more quotes and ideas in a numbered list that fills the page. I flip it over looking for an explanation. It’s blank. We can use this stuff in our project somehow. Who knows? It could come in handy.

21

I
hear my name
and whirl to see Brendon running down the hall to catch up with me. He’s wearing his intense, serious expression, which, on the knee-buckling scale, comes in a close second to his grin. I order my heart to slow down and my books to stay in my arms.

“How about today?” he asks.

“Today?”

“After school. You and me.”

“You mean, our … like, getting together?” I can’t bring myself to say the D-word, because maybe that’s not what he has in mind. Maybe he just wants to hang out like I’m one of his surfer bros. Except for the fact that I’m a lousy surfer. I’m sure he noticed that.

“Yeah, our date,” he says. “But not surfing. I have a better idea.”

No neoprene! I want to pump my fist in the air, but I restrain myself. “Like what?”

“It’s a surprise. Meet me at—” He checks his wrist. He’s wearing one of those mammoth sports watches with enough buttons and dials to navigate a ship. “At 3:47. At the boardwalk in front of the roller coaster. Okay?”

“3:47?”

“3:48 is okay, too, but don’t be late. It has to be close to that time. You said you like secret places.”

Parrot Meg does her thing again: “I like secret places.”

His expression explodes into that grin. “It doesn’t get much more secret than this.”

*   *   *

In autumn on a weekday afternoon, nothing much is going on at the boardwalk. I wonder why Brendon wants to meet me here, of all places. The shops selling tacky souvenirs and overpriced corn dogs are closed until spring, and so are the rides. At first I wonder if this is about mini-golf, but Poseidon’s Kingdom is closed, too.

A deserted boardwalk on a dreary, gray day like this one can be kind of eerie. Most people think it’s too lonely to hang out with games and rides that sit there doing nothing. They prefer the bustling summer crowd, to get lost in the energy, the pushing and laughing, the lines of hyper kids. I prefer the empty boardwalk. I guess I’m different that way. There’s the sound of waves smashing on the beach, something you can’t hear when there’s music blasting and summer crowds. Overhead, the bright red and blue cars of the gondola sit still in the sky. I pass the motionless Pirate Ship ride and then the mechanical gypsy fortune-teller machine, whose eyes seem to follow me as I head for our 3:47 meet-up. Is the gypsy looking at me with pity or with a laughing, mocking expression? Does she know something that I don’t?

What if Brendon doesn’t show up? How long should I wait? What if he’s playing me so he can laugh himself sick? I just know that’s it. He’s home, smirking to himself at the image of the pathetic, naïve girl waiting among all the boarded-up rides and games. He’s going to tell his friends what he did, and they’ll get a good laugh out of it, too. The perfect follow-up to my mini-golf humiliation.

Why did I agree to meet him? How could I have fallen for this? I am an idiot! Why don’t I learn? Ambrosia is right! Don’t trust him! Don’t trust anyone. Embarrassment and anger, they both start building inside of me.

But when I get to the roller coaster, I see a hand waving from a little farther down the boardwalk. The distrust drains away. He didn’t lie. He’s here. He walks faster, breaks into a little jog. I steady my nerves, steady my everything.

“Hey!” he says, rushing up a little too close to me, then backing away.

“Hey!”

“You made it!”

“I made it!”

“I’m glad you made it. And all that!”

“Me too!”

He beams at me. I beam back. I play with my hair a little. He looks at his hands. What happened to all the exclamation points in our greeting? It’s like they fell off a cliff. Could our date have turned any more flat and awkward so quickly? I’m a loser. He’s sorry that he ever suggested meeting me here, meeting me anywhere.

“Hey.” He starts again.

“Yeah,” I say.

Thank goodness, in that awkward moment there’s the sudden
clickity-clank
of the Giant Dipper behind us. It makes me start, and I have an attack of the nervous giggles. A workman must be putting the famous wooden roller coaster through its paces to find out what repairs are needed. Good distraction. Brendon and I study the train of cars inching up the tracks. When it reaches the high point and shoots over the edge and comes tearing down the first wild dip, I don’t know why—we aren’t even looking at each other—but we get the same reflex. We put our arms in the air and squeal, imitating all the thousands of summer and weekend riders.

That breaks the ice a little. We both like roller coasters. That’s interesting. We can talk about that.

“I like roller coasters a lot,” I say.

“I like roller coasters, too!”

“The boardwalk’s fun when everything’s open in the summer.”

“But it’s even better now.”

I jump on that. “I was just thinking that! I’m glad you suggested meeting here. There’s a certain feeling to the boardwalk when no one else is around, a sad happiness.”

“Or a happy sadness,” he quickly adds. “Most girls I know think it’s too boring in the off-season. They get depressed by the whole ghost-town feel.”

The cars make another loop, and I raise my voice almost to a shout to be heard over the rumble. “I don’t mind depressed at all. I’m more of a ghost-town kind of person than most.”

He’s studying me, really listening, which I take as encouragement to go on. “I like being the only thing moving here. When everything around me is still like this, I can almost feel the blood going through my veins. It makes me feel really alive.”

When he doesn’t respond—just more of his serious look—I want to take back my words. Why did I say something so bizarre? Blood through my veins? He doesn’t have a clue of what I’m talking about. It’s even worse when he
does
respond: “I can leave if you want to be the only thing moving.”

“Oh no! That’s not … I mean, I didn’t mean … not at all. I’m glad…”

“I’m just teasing you. I’m not going anywhere. What you said about feeling alive? I feel it here, too.”

He checks his watch and motions for me to follow him down the boardwalk. He has a high-spirited, skipping walk that I never noticed in school. Maybe he doesn’t have it in school. There he has to act cool and aloof to fit in with those Plagues. He dashes over to the Tsunami ride. “When I was eight, I threw up my entire guts on this ride. The centrifugal force on half-digested cotton candy was awesome.”

Well, that wasn’t the most romantic memory for him to share, but in a strange way it is romantic. It’s the sort of thing you tell someone that you don’t want to pretend with, a person that you want to know the real you, barf episodes and all. To reciprocate, I point to the Double Shot, a tube of metal with cages at both ends.

“And on our left, we are passing one of my worst memories. I came here with a group of…” I start to say kids in my group home, but leave out the group home part. “At the first drop, I cried so hard they had to stop the ride to let me off. I still cringe thinking about that walk of shame.”

“Care to indulge in some Dipping Dots?” He mimes purchasing a large bowl at the boarded-up stand, and as we walk we pretend to share the cold treat, oohing and aahing over the delicious flavors and chiding each other for being pigs and taking more than our half.

“Here’s something you can’t do in the summer!” Brendon makes a dash to a kiddie ride, a ring of wildly painted sea creatures that, when powered, go round and round and up and down. He scans for a security guard, then jumps into the seat of a purple-and-yellow whale with big green eyes. “Good old Bulgy!” He strokes the creature’s neck. “This dude rocked my world when I was five.”

Brendon looks totally ridiculous on that ride, a muscular surfer with his knees folded to his chin in order to squeeze in. But so cute. Playing with the steering wheel, making stupid little-boy driving sounds, he looks happy and open, just like the little kid he probably was in kindergarten. I wish I had known him back then.

I stand outside the gate of the ride and extend my hand in his direction. He slaps it like kids usually do with their parents. We touched. He gives me a sheepish look and hops out.

“What a dork. I haven’t done anything like that in forever.”

“It’s my bad influence. I bring out the dork in people.”

He thinks for a second. “That’s a good thing. I’m happier being a dork than a jerk.”

He checks his watch again. Why does he keep doing that? Does he have somewhere else to go? Is he bored with me? He must be bored. He doesn’t
seem
bored, but people can act one way and feel another. That’s happened to me before. It’s happened to me a lot. It embarrasses me to think that he’s bored and is looking for a way to dump me. Then I feel kind of mad about that. I’ll beat him to it. I’ll dump him first. I wish I had a watch to check, too.

“Well, this was fun,” I say, super peppy. “But I have to go now.”

“What?”

“Thanks and everything. I liked seeing your secret spot.”

It’s Brendon’s turn now to fumble for words. “But this isn’t … you have to go? I thought. When I said … I want to show you…”

I am so relieved. He looks too disappointed to be faking it, so I must have been wrong about the dumping part. I backpedal hard. “I guess I can stay a little longer. I mean, I do have something else to do, like I said. I didn’t make that up. But if you want me to stay…”

“I want you to stay.”

“For real?”

He leans in closer and I think:
He’s going to kiss me.
It’s going to happen. He’s going to kiss me on the lips in front of the Ferris wheel. But instead of lips, his finger moves gently over the corner of my mouth. “You had a little crumb there. Must have been an escaped Dipping Dot.”

I blush. That was almost a kiss. It made my legs go weak. “I’m a messy eater.”

“It’s settled, then. You’re staying?”

I nod.

“Good. Because this isn’t the secret spot. This is just the boardwalk.”

Again he checks his watch. “It’s time.” He reaches out like he wants to take my hand and I start to give it to him, but we both change our minds at the same instant. He walks quickly, and I take giant steps to keep up.

“Come on,” he urges.

At the far end of the boardwalk, behind the Logger’s Revenge ride, there’s a hole in the chain-link fence that cordons off the boardwalk from the cliff above the river that empties into the ocean. Using both hands, Brendon widens the opening so it’s just big enough for me to squeeze though. When I’m on the other side I do the same for him, and then we’re both standing on a high, narrow cliff ledge.