I'm Not Her (5 page)

All of the girls are tall and thin with identical low-riding jeans and long ponytails sprouting from their heads. I duck my head down quickly and try to get past unseen.

“Hey, Kristina’s sister!”

Gee stares at me. Gee is her nickname, anyhow. The volleyball girls all have cute nicknames for each other, like Gee and Cee and Bree, but they can’t be bothered to remember mine, even though they’ve been to my house a million times with Kristina.

“Where’s Tee?” Gee says. “We have volleyball practice at noon.”

Pretty, eager faces stare at me.

“Um, she’s sick,” I say, wishing they would ignore me and leave me alone like they’re supposed to. It’s only her first missed day of school and they’re on me already?

“So?” Gee says and flips her hair back.

I try, but I can’t remember her real name.

“Our big game is coming up. Tee should be tougher. It better be more than a little cold,” she tells me, as if I’m responsible for Kristina’s absence and/or health.

“Whatever,” I manage to mumble. She has no idea how stupid she’s going to feel when she finds out the truth. I shrug and hurry past her, hoping she chokes on her own words later. Worse than a cold all right.

I zoom away and rush inside my class, even though I’d rather run to the bathroom and hide inside a toilet stall all day. Mr. Meekers is my art instructor, but he’s also one of the faculty advisors for the Honor Society. He’s everything I don’t expect an art teacher to be. He wears dress pants and ties, and he’s strict and has a bad disposition. I’d prayed to be in Miss Ingles’s class. She’s had listings at real art museums and wears long flowing dresses with scarves wrapped around her neck. She has jet-black hair like Cleopatra and speaks in a soft voice. She’s much more of an inspiration and I imagine she’d be much easier to talk to, but I got Mr. Meekers. If I had her, I’d consult with her about the art award. But with him, I’m on my own. Still, staying in his good books is imperative to getting into the Honor Society, and Melissa wants that so badly. And me, I want it too.

I notice Clark Trent glaring at me through his Superman glasses. He’s seated a few aisles from my desk, but instead of talking to his neighbors or texting people on his cell and ignoring my entrance like the rest of the class, he’s staring at me. I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him, but ignore him and plop down in my chair, wondering if it’s possible to have a heart attack at the age of fifteen. I imagine cancer, black like an army of ants, eating away at Kristina’s flesh from the inside, and lay my head on the desk and think about how it would feel being an only child. It makes my heartbeat fluctuate even more and the fear of heart failure makes me sit up. If I have to choose between Kristina never being born or being sick, I pick sick. Sick is better than not at all.

I swallow and swallow and stare at my desk until Mr. Meekers clears his throat, greets the class, and stands and pulls down the Smart Board screen, announcing we’ll be watching a film on oil-painting techniques. He tells us to take notes for our exam and most kids groan. I wonder again why he is teaching art instead of science or biology.

He doesn’t ask us to hand in our assignments that are supposed to be due today, an essay on sociopolitical issues in art. I pray none of the smart kids, like Clark, will remind him, and suddenly have a clear vision of how annoying I must be to regular people who aren’t jonesing for Honor Society position.

Someone turns off the lights and the movie begins. I try to concentrate on the brush strokes but it’s hard. When the movie mercifully ends, Mr. Meekers turns on the lights and babbles, but nothing soaks into my brain. Thankfully, the bell rings, releasing us from our seats.

I grab my books and stand and almost slam straight into Clark. His cheeks look splotchy.

I glare up at him. “What?”

His eyes get wrinkly in the corners as he squints down at me.

I try to step around him, but he moves in front of me and won’t let me by. He smells like a bubble bath and I fight an urge to giggle, and work hard to avoid the visual of a naked Clark soaking in bubbles. I wonder if he wears his glasses in the bathtub.

“Why were you such a jerk to Jeremy this morning?” he asks, his voice stiff and his cheeks splotching even more.

The naked bubbles pop. “He’s stalking my sister,” I mumble.

His eyes narrow behind his black-framed glasses.

“She’s not interested in younger boys,” I say, wishing he’d go away and leave me alone and quit adding to the already too heavy bag of guilt and dark emotions weighing me down. God, I’ve talked to more boys this morning than the whole month and a half of school. And I’m not exactly doing a great job of it.

Clark pushes his glasses up on his nose. “He only wanted to know if your sister saw the pictures she
told
him to post.”

He’s right. “Sorry. He caught me at a bad time. I’m having a bad day. I had to ride my bike to school and I hate exercise.”

Clark stares down at me for another second as if deciding whether I’m serious. And then he smiles. He has nice teeth. Really white and straight. He didn’t go to elementary school with me but my guess is that he wore braces in grade school. “You know,” he says. “You’re in the pictures too. Maybe he’s stalking
you
.”

Laughter spills out from my lips and surprises me. It’s a relief to find out he has a sense of humor. I like it better than confrontation.

“Yeah. Because I’m so stalkable.”

He pushes his glasses up on his nose again and studies me. “Not really. You’re not online very much. Do you even have an email address?”

“Of course I do.” My cheeks warm and my insides flutter like hummingbird wings. I want to ask how he knows I’m not online. I contemplate supplying him with reasons. That social networking is stupid and for people with less stimulating things to do with their free time. But apparently he uses it. And maybe, just maybe, deep, deep down inside, I’m a little afraid that if I joined a bunch of these sites, no one would friend me and I’d be a social outcast online as well as off. People don’t run up to me with their cameras and ask to take my picture with them. They run past me without seeing me and grab my sister and pose with her.

Or they did.

“You kids have a question?” Mr. Meekers asks from the front of the room.

Everyone else has cleared out of the class.

“No, sir.” I start to walk and Clark falls in step beside me. He’s taller than me and somehow walking beside him isn’t so scary. It makes me feel almost…feminine. I imagine for a moment leaning up to kiss him and then hope like heck he can’t read my mind.

“Have a good day, Mr. Meekers,” he calls behind us, oblivious to my lechery. “So, is your sister sick or something?” he asks as we leave the classroom.

My legs suddenly are harder to move. When I missed a full week of class in middle school, no one even blinked an eye. Kristina is gone for a few hours and I’m already on inquiry number three. On top of the invasion of my privacy, I know it’s messing with time and energy I should be devoting to being in the Honor Society. This is the crucial first semester when the selection is made. If I don’t make Honor Society my freshman year, Melissa’s dream of our becoming chapter leaders and attending the national conference will fade. I feel sorry for myself and a flash of resentment erupts toward Kristina.

It’s quickly followed by a rush of shame. I’m worrying about losing my spot in a club for smart people. Kristina is fighting bone-eating cancer. She wins.

“It’s no big deal.” The words taste queasy as they leave my mouth. It is a big deal. A big freaking hairy deal.

No matter what my family wants, no matter how long they try to put it off, people are going to find out that Kristina has cancer. And maybe then they’ll leave me alone. I hurry away from Clark, heading deep into the crowded hallway, and immediately get sucked up by a swarming locust cloud of kids all going in different directions. Noise and chatter fill my head. I imagine eyes staring at me from everywhere, curious, wanting answers, wondering where my sister is.

Instead of going to my locker I keep walking, moving against the crowd. I keep my head down and march on, until I’m going out the front doors of the school. I bolt down the steps and run to my bike. I’m even clumsier with the English books I’m still carrying, but manage to fumble with the lock, yank if off, and get on the bike, steering with one arm. I pedal as fast as my feeble legs will take me.

Tears blur my vision but I keep pedaling, zooming around a corner, almost home, when I cycle over a rock or something and, as if in slow-motion, flip over the top of the handlebars.

I do a graceless body plant on the pavement and my books go flying. My elbow instantly feels the burn from scraping concrete. Papers scatter into the air.

Car wheels screech behind me and I close my eyes and wait to be plowed over.

“You okay?” a voice calls out.

I open my eyes, relieved to find I haven’t been flattened on the road, but humiliated nonetheless. I realize it’s the same stupid car I saw at school earlier. The one that cut me off. The guy from the party is staring at me through the windshield, his eyes wide and gawky.

“I’m fine.” I’m horrified. My eyes are filled with tears and I wince as I stand up. My leg is killing me but I don’t need him to know that as I begin to fetch my books and papers.

The car engine shuts off and a car door slams. I turn and see he’s pulled the car to the side of the road and jumped out. He walks over, picks up my bike, and rolls it off the road to the sidewalk.

“Better move out of the way or you’ll be roadkill.”

He smiles and his eyes twinkle with amusement, probably at my overwhelming clumsiness. He watches me as he puts my bike down on the sidewalk and walks back to me. “Hey, you’re okay, aren’t you?”

No, I want to scream. No, I’m not okay. And then, as if I’m a balloon filled with water, his kindness pokes a hole in my psyche and it starts to leak. Just like that, my nose gushes out gross liquids and tears stream down my face. I’m aware on some level that I should be embarrassed, but I collapse and sit in the middle of the road, crying like a little kid, while Drunk Pimple Guy stands there watching me crack up.

So much for the sturdy intellectual reputation I’ve been striving for.

He looks down at me and around at the empty road and then puts out his hand, grabs mine, and pulls me up. I let him help me to my feet, but drop his hand as if it burns as soon as I’m standing. He motions with his head for me to follow him and I walk slowly to the safety of the sidewalk.

“I guess you’re not okay?” he says, but his voice isn’t judgmental.

I plunk down on the edge of the curb and put my head in my hands, but sense him sitting down beside me. Instead of saying anything, he sits quietly. My meltdown settles and with it my sense of normality returns. I realize what a complete and utter ass I’m making of myself. I snuffle, wipe my snotty nose on the back of my hand, and take a deep breath. A sigh escapes and drains the rest of my energy.

“I’m guessing this is about more than falling off your bike.” He hugs his knees close and kind of rocks on his butt and doesn’t look at me.

I start to giggle but it’s kind of hysterical and completely inappropriate and reminds me of Kristina. I’m aware he must think I’m a freak maybe, or bipolar and in serious need of my meds. I don’t want my sister to die. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want her body eaten up by cancer.

“My name’s Nick,” he says. “And you’re Kristina’s little sister. I remember meeting you at the party but I was pretty wasted.” He chuckles but it sounds self-conscious. “Sorry if I was a jerk or anything.”

“You weren’t a jerk. Just slobbering over my sister.” I want to take my words back. I don’t want to open up a conversation about her.

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug, but doesn’t deny it or say anything more about Kristina.

“Your parents give you a first name?” he asks.

“Surprisingly, yes,” I tell him. “Tess.”

“Looks like Tess is having a pretty crappy day.” The way he refers to me in third person makes me smile. “Does she want to talk about it?”

“She doesn’t,” I tell him.

“Well, maybe she should,” he says. “Tell her it helps if you get things off your chest. That’s what my therapist tells me.”

I look at him and he’s grinning. I wonder if he really does have a therapist.

“Nah,” he says, as if I spoke the question out loud. “I don’t have a therapist. Too rich for my blood.”

Not mine but I don’t tell him that. Part of me wants to tell him to go away, but in a strange way, I’m actually grateful for his company. He’s not all in my face or flipping out, and honestly it seems to me having a breakdown with company is somehow slightly less terrifying than doing it alone.

So we sit on the curb. He rocks back and forth, kind of humming a song under his breath. I don’t say anything, and for a moment I let myself feel what I’m feeling without trying to hide from it. Nick doesn’t scream or run away from me, and it’s the most emotionally exposed I’ve ever felt in front of a boy. But the thing is, I don’t get struck by lightning. I don’t turn to ashes. And he doesn’t laugh at me.

I watch little ants crawl all over my sneakers, and sniffle, and wipe under my eyes. “Did you know ants can lift up to fifty times their own weight? That’s like an eighty-pound kid lifting four thousand pounds.”

Nick blinks, his features void of emotion. “And you’re telling me this, because…?”

I shrug. “My head is full of useless facts.” I glance sideways at him. “You really want to go to a therapist?” I ask him. “I could spot you a loan.” I don’t know what prompts me to say that. I sense he really does want to and it makes me like him a little better.

He laughs out loud and the sound gives me a tiny jolt of pleasure. “I don’t take handouts.” His voice is light but I sense some acidity under it. “Not even to improve my emotional health.”

I nod. “You just get drunk instead?”

His lips straighten in a thin line and he looks away from me. My glow vanishes and I blush, wondering who I think I am, trying to act all mature and capable of witty repertoire. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean that.”