Life by Committee (10 page)

“Cute dress, by the way,” she says when she gets up to grab the scones. She smiles, and it's weird to hear a real live compliment and not some passive-aggressive backstabby comment.

“I don't look like a slut?” I say.

“Uh, no?” Cate says, stopping midwalk to look at me again. “A slut? It's from the Gap. It's beige. You're in flats. And the thickest tights I've ever seen. Am I missing something? Is it backless?” She pretends to try to get a glimpse of my back, but I just shrug. It's short and I feel good in it, which I've decided must be wrong.

“Never mind,” I say. I don't want Cate getting all riled up on a feminist tirade, but I also can't stop turning Jemma's comments over and over in my head.

“Hey,” Cate says, emerging from the kitchen with
scones and a fretting face. “You know, in my day the pretty girls with perky breasts were the popular ones, so I'm just trying to—” I cover my chest with my arms. The relative jauntiness of my breasts is not up for discussion.

I send an emergency text to Elise telling her to get her ass over here and that I'm saving her a scone and a cup of tea. She lives literally next door to Tea Cozy, and she is basically the best friend ever, so she's walking in the door minutes later. Cate's no dummy—she knows I've called in backup.

“Oh, Elise, good,” she says. “Right on time.” She winks at me and I sigh, but deep down I know she knows she's as close to a perfect mom as anyone's going to get.

“Thank God,” I say to Elise when Cate's in the back getting ready to open. “She was talking about my boobs. Like, she's probably eager for customers to come in so she can ask them their opinions about them.”

“No prob,” Elise says, pulling at her pixie cut so that more little strands of auburn hair poke up. “I was actually gonna come by anyway.” She doesn't laugh about Cate's ridiculousness, and I hate the air that follows. The last thing I want is something awkward and empty between us.

“You knew we had the chocolate chip scones today?”
I ask, grinning. Dishes clink and clatter from behind the counter, and Cate's singing along with her rockabilly playlist, so we're safe to talk. Paul doesn't appear to be showing up anytime soon; maybe he didn't see our note yet.

“Well, sure, that,” she says, before taking a big breath. “Also. Okay. Did you ever actually . . . follow through . . . on your feelings for Joe?” Elise is blushing, which I've never seen before, and I choke on my tea and feel the back of my neck go instantly damp and hot. I pull my hair into a ponytail. It's gotten really long and even blonder—probably another sign of my sluttiness.

“Act on my feelings?” I say, trying to buy a little time before having to answer. I'm not the best liar, and more importantly, I
hate
lying.

“Some people are saying—”

“Which people?”

“Sasha's friends mostly. People who like her. I dunno.” I can't figure out the look on Elise's face. Maybe it's the unfamiliar flush washing over her that's making her suddenly unreadable, but for someone I know so well, she's definitely not knowable right now. I take a sip of tea and try to unblock my mind. It's all swimming and out of focus in there—I can't make it work for me.

“Jemma, I assume? I mean, let's not sugarcoat.”

“I mean, I guess Jemma, yeah.”

“I don't know why she's all worried about what me and my slutty non-A-cups are up to.” I know I didn't answer Elise's question. But I'm thinking about my Assignment and the fact that she should be worried. It's a terrible thing to feel good about.

“So the answer is no? To you and Joe hooking up?” she says. They are careful words.

“Right,” I say. I will myself not to blush. But it feels lonely, to lie to her.

“Okay,” she says. “Just thought I'd check.”

“Okay,” I say, and we don't make eye contact for a while.

“Hey, if you did do anything . . . You know I'd still effing love you, right?” she says when the scone is mostly a pile of crumbs.

I didn't really know that, and it's so like Elise to tell me what I need to hear, the second I need to hear it, and surprise the hell out of me.

“I effing love you too,” I say. But I still can't tell her the truth.

I excuse myself to go get one more scone, and check LBC while I'm alone in the back kitchen area. I am not all alone with my secrets. There are people in towns with cactuses and lighthouses and palm trees and wheat fields who know something important about me. And are watching me, from afar.

It sounds weird, but I think this is how people feel about God. Like he's watching and is in everything and is everywhere, giving purpose to the parts of your life that have started to feel stale or strange or too sad.

There's an encouraging comment from Agnes and another from @sshole, reminding me that sometimes doing the wrong thing is actually the right thing.

I picture a video game where your bikini-wearing avatar moves from a dungeon scene to a poisonous flower scene, where the move to the next level brings a new soundtrack, new dangers, bigger prizes, surprising terrains.

I guess I am a little tired of my current scenery. I guess I am ready to take a flying leap to the next level.

Right before eight Elise drives us to school from Tea Cozy, and I try to remember to breathe and talk like a normal person. Of course we run into Sasha and Joe right after assembly. Sasha's sitting in Joe's lap on the bench outside the auditorium, and she's whispering into
his ear and he's blushing. No teachers are around, or the cuddling would have to stop. The teachers manage to ignore the sexual harassment, but not the cuddling. Vermont values, at their best.

I try not to look. The combination of jealousy and white-hot pain is basically unbearable.

Joe isn't looking either. He never responded to my email, and he's looking everywhere but my direction.

Instead of obsessively watching them, I check LBC once again. There's that little red exclamation point that means something is
happening
. There's a countdown on my page. A countdown from Zed.

Twenty-four hours from the time the Assignment is given,
the message reads.
You're on hour seven.

My heart's going batshit crazy in my chest. I think of Joe's lips and the conversation I just had with Elise and wonder how both things can exist in one world.

“What if you dated, like, Greg Granger?” Elise says while she hangs her coat up in her locker. “I've seen him check you out. And he's smart. He's in my English class.”

“His name is Greg Granger,” I say. I'd laugh, but there's too much tightness in my chest to get out even a grunt. “Are you matchmaking now?”

“Oh! Adam Furlan!” Elise says. I glance up from my phone and raise my eyebrows.

“I'm not, like, desperate for a boyfriend,” I say. Elise
looks disappointed and tries to sneak a glance at my phone. I'm sure she thinks it's Joe. I'm sure she doesn't believe me.

“I guess I'm trying to say there are seriously a million guys you could go for, you know? And I want school to suck less for you. And I want everyone to lay off your shit. . . .”

Jemma walks by with Alison, and Elise cringes. Jumps in front of me, like she needs to shield them from my sluttiness. Alison's got on some outfit her mother picked out for her, and Jemma's in her purple hoodie today and jeans that go all the way up to her waist instead of hanging on her hips. It's not the height of fashion or anything, but she looks good to me. Safe. Familiar. Expected. But they look at my beige dress and hot-pink scarf with masterful, practiced hatred. I guess there's no hiding my C cups anymore. But
come on
, I want to say.

“How bad is this rumor, seriously?” I whisper in Elise's ear. She's acting like I'm about to get scarlet-lettered or something.

“I mean, people trust Jemma. She's not exactly a rampant rumor spreader. So. When she says something's shady . . .” Elise looks at her feet.

“Has Sasha heard anything?” I don't know what I want the answer to be. Both answers suck. And are great.

“No. It's Sasha. She's, you know, too busy being
Sasha Cotton.” We never clarify what this means, but obviously we all agree that Sasha Cotton exists in some realm above the rest of us, where she doesn't bother herself with normal human facts like how long it takes for water to boil, or who the vice president is, or which reality show star we are all in love with, or what people at school are saying about her.

Elise pats my back before heading down the hallway, but I think I can see a flicker of not-believing in the way she looks at me. The particular stiffness of her hand tapping my shoulder. She's not going to stick by me no matter what. I can tell. She'll judge me. At the end of the day, she thinks Sasha Cotton is sweeter and purer than me, too.

I watch the school counselor, Mrs. Drake, walk down the hallway.

Mrs. Drake is my parents' age, and I've seen her high before. She hates this about me. When you have young parents who like to “socialize,” you see a lot of things you probably shouldn't. Our town is tiny, after all, and there are only so many people my parents' age. So there's a postal worker and a yoga teacher and the gallery owner and, one time, Mrs. Drake, who all come to the house for wine and cheese, but that has on occasion turned into weed in the backyard.

“Let's chat at the end of the day,” Mrs. Drake says
when she reaches me. I know from the way she looks at the shortness of my dress exactly what our chat will be about.

“About what?” I ask anyway.

“Nothing scary, I promise,” Mrs. Drake says with a firm hand on my shoulder. I shrug, which I guess is a tacit agreement, because Mrs. Drake walks away. Jemma and Alison kept their distance during the conversation, but they're not exactly hidden from view. I meet Jemma's gaze.

We hold eye contact, but her face is softer than I would have thought. It's not a challenge, the weird extended staring. It's something else. Like wistfulness. I take a step toward them. I have no intention of saying anything at all, but the words come out anyway.

“What's the endgame here? What are you hoping to accomplish?” I ask. Jemma is still a few yards away, and I say it quietly, so I'm not sure if she even hears. Alison busies herself with textbooks and her laptop and her shoelaces to avoid eye contact.

“I don't— I'm not—” Jemma is not usually one to stutter or stumble over her words.

“I already feel like I suck, so, you know, mission accomplished. Is there anything else you'd like to do to me?” I regret admitting to that self-hatred. My friend Jemma would have comforted me, but my nemesis
Jemma will totally use it against me.

“That's not— I'm not even sure— You're turning it all around.” Jemma keeps shaking her head as she turns a corner into a classroom.

It's been so long since I've seen the part of Jemma that is unsure and vulnerable that I'd forgotten what it looks like on her. The moment she's out of view, I miss her. We used to stay up really late and talk about what in the world made us saddest, what embarrassed us most, what we hated about ourselves. For me it was the way I couldn't help being jealous when other people were happy. For Jemma it was the fact that she sometimes cared what other people thought, even though she knew she was too smart to care.

I wonder if she remembers all that.

After math and before bio, I log back on to LBC. I have another countdown announcement from Zed, who informs me of every passing hour.

There is a sloppy mixture of fear and thrill inside me. I am going to kiss Joe again. I am going to feel his hands in my hair. I am going to change the course of my life and go for what I really want.

My toes scrunch with anticipation, so I distract myself by reading Star's latest post from the road.

Attached to the post is a picture of Star's feet, sans red heels, tucked under some guy's thighs. There's something beautiful about trying to capture a moment without a face, and Star is an expert. Again, her knees are in the shot, and I know from the way they lean against each other, askew, that she is sleepy-eyed and blissful. When Joe and I kissed, our knees touched, and the shock went from that joint to my head, where it made me dizzy and exhausted. I know what knees can do.

And now, I guess, I know the best of what Life by Committee can do. What Zed can do. I pray again that somehow Star is the one who wrote in
The Secret Garden
, and that her words are the ones that brought me to Life by Committee. That would shrink my loneliness even further. It could become almost manageable if that were the case.

So I'm in. I have to be in. What else do I have?

Joe and I have a free period together in the afternoon. We could do homework, but Circle Community doesn't enforce any activity on a free period, as long as you are on school grounds. You get them because you've earned them, and sometimes I'll read or catch up on math homework. But usually I play hearts. Hearts has taken over the junior and senior classes, and I'm addicted. So is Joe. I guess it's maybe when I started falling for him. That competitive sort of sparring that turns into flirtation and then morphs into desperation when you realize how badly you want him and how taken he is.

Yep. That pretty much sums it up. Hearts. The card game that changed it all.

It's two p.m. and the last period of the day, so I've got eleven hours left to make something happen, and Joe is dealing cards out. Four people are already gathered around a little table, so I pull up a chair and sidle up next to him.