Never Enough (10 page)

Claire was just inside her bedroom door, her hair all mussed. I suppressed an embarrassed smile, as if it had been
me
doing whatever they had just been doing.

“Oh.” Claire looked around dazedly. “Is Mom home?”

I shook my head. Claire backed into her room.

“She’s going to catch you if you keep it up, though, you know.”

Claire crinkled her brow. “I’m not—I won’t . . . It’s not . . .” she trailed off, closing her door between us midsentence.

Sheesh.
She didn’t need to be so private. Not with me. Okay, I’d been a bitch about Josh being upstairs the other day, but only because of how she’d treated Marcus. Still, we used to tell each other stuff. She told me about her first kiss with Brett Watson in seventh grade. In fact, she’d told me way more than I’d wanted to know, back then.

Things had definitely changed between us lately, but I wasn’t sure I really wanted them to go back. Sure, it would be exciting to hear what was happening with Josh, but I kind of liked that I didn’t feel as hidden in her shadow. I was finding my own source of light. I still hadn’t discovered it completely, but I liked seeing things that other people couldn’t, like how I could envision from the moment I framed an object how a photo would look once it was developed. How I could see beauty where other people couldn’t. I thought, for the first time in my life, that maybe I was the special one.

*   *   *

I was feeling especially confident on Monday when the jocks paraded by our lockers and pushed Marcus again. Hard. One of them called Marcus his bitch.

I shot back, “Shut up! He’s straight, okay? Leave him
alone.” The second it left my lips, I wished I could’ve come up with something a little more quick-witted. Laz stood behind the other two guys. He averted his eyes, but certainty washed over me that this would get back to Jasmine, and probably Claire. The other two guys laughed and made faces at me as they all took off down the hall.

I gave Marcus an understanding pat on the shoulder. His jaw went rigid and he turned the opposite direction and walked away.

Marcus didn’t say a word backstage during drama later that day, either. Not one word, and it took me a minute to realize why. He hadn’t just been embarrassed about being teased earlier. He was mad. At me.

“Sorry about this morning,” I said lightly. He still didn’t even glance in my direction. “So where should we start today?” I had been excited about the few pictures I had developed and was ready to start talking about how they would work with the play.

Without turning toward me, he said, “We haven’t checked that upper storage platform yet. I’m going to the front office to see if there’s any budget at all for lumber.” He was already walking away, and by his tone, this didn’t seem up for discussion.

Disappointment dug at me. Did he not want to do the photo-set anymore? I definitely couldn’t do it without his
help. And, okay, what I had said to the jocks this morning was lame, I’ll admit it, but I was trying to stick up for him! How could he be mad at me about that?

I couldn’t even look through my photos, so depressed that the unique set we’d been planning might not happen. I spent the class up in the storage area, too sad to try to visualize using any of the small knickknacks up there for set pieces and instead just leafed aimlessly through smelly costumes.

I was sure I had somehow made things worse for Marcus. He could see it, and I just couldn’t. Maybe tomorrow the jocks would lock him right
inside
his locker. Or push him out of the locker room without his clothes—I’d heard about that happening to a guy last year.

Marcus didn’t show at our lockers after school, and the whole way home I couldn’t stop thinking of what I could do to make this better. What I could do that wouldn’t involve my big mouth.

My mind ricocheted to Claire. Maybe I shouldn’t have let my frustration toward her take over just because I’d found myself another friend. Maybe if I made an effort with Claire we
could
be friends again.

But the more I thought about it, the more we just seemed like not only two branches on a tree that had grown apart but two entirely different species.

*   *   *

That evening, Mom and I sat across the table from each other, slurping stew. Dad hadn’t made it home for dinner again, even though he’d told us he probably would. Claire had dropped by my locker between classes to ask me to tell Mom that she and Jasmine were going for sushi. Even though I’d sooner eat my own flesh than raw fish, I’d scrounged for an invitation from Claire. But she had just looked past me like she hadn’t heard a thing I said.

Mom barely acknowledged me at the dinner table, which made me feel even more insignificant. There was a new floor-to-ceiling shrub in the corner of our living room, and it seemed to be all she wanted to look at. It occurred to me how many new plants Mom had been collecting lately. Our house was starting to look like a greenhouse.

“Why don’t we put up some art?” I asked. And then, because I wanted to broach the subject again, and maybe even sway Mom a little into liking Marcus, I added, “I could ask Marcus. I’m sure he could tell us where to get something nice. He’s really great with stuff like that.” Even saying his name, I wondered if he’d ever talk to me again, about art or anything else. But hanging out at the Arts Club, I’d been more inspired with photography, and I could only imagine how much having something expressive at home might help.

“You need to get some nice girlfriends, Loann,” Mom said
matter-of-factly. “Look at Claire, she has Jasmine and Julia and Katie . . .”

Look at Claire
, the first three words I’d learned as a toddler.

“Whatever happened with you and Shayleen?”

I obviously wasn’t going to tell Mom the whole story of the pink tank top. But I did have a few choice memories I could share if she pushed the issue. Like when Shayleen had told us all about her first time, right after the big seventh-grade sex talk. She had explained how we should all be jealous because she had already done it, and it was the most gentle and natural thing that could happen to a
woman
.

“You want me to be friends with Shayleen again?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know, honey, but Marcus . . .” She shook her head.

The more I thought about Shayleen, the better Marcus seemed. Even though Mom didn’t know about how he’d been ignoring me, she was making me more determined than ever to patch things up with him. I tilted my bowl and slurped the last of my stew. I had to come up with a plan to solve things tomorrow.

I pushed my bowl away. “I’ve got homework. I’m going upstairs.”

“The kitchen, please, Loann.”

“Aw, Mom. It’s Claire’s turn. It’s been Claire’s turn for, like, a week now.”

She put her head in her hands on the table. “Oh, Loann, why do you fight me? Can you just be helpful for once?”

I snatched her bowl, grabbed my own, and headed through the door into the kitchen. As I loaded the dishwasher, I muttered away to myself, “Yeah, I’m the problem. I’m the one who doesn’t bother to show up for dinner, or invite her sister out, let alone do the dishes. Yeah, it’s all me.” I knew I was just jealous of Claire, who did no wrong. My sister, who never seemed to screw up with her friends. I didn’t care. Gripping the dish sponge tightly in my hand, I wanted to let my jealousy swallow me up.

Ten minutes later, I’d almost calmed down when I overheard arguing from the dining room. I left the soup pot mid-scrub to lean in to the door and listen.

“Young lady, that’s the third time this week you haven’t been home for dinner. The least you could do is call.”

“I told Loann to tell you,” Claire said. “Besides, Mom, you would
love
this new sushi pla—”

“That’s not the point, Claire. You have a family, and we
will
eat dinner together.”

Oh, just like Dad does
was my first thought. But right at that second he traipsed through the front door, making a racket with his briefcase and shoes.

“You cook so much meat and potatoes, Mom. Or bring home
take-out
.” She said the words as though they were one
step below garbage. “I can’t eat that stuff. I swear, I put on five pounds every time I eat at home.”

“Are you insulting my meals?” I could picture Mom folding her arms across her chest.

“I’m sorry, Mom, but look at me, I’ll gain from even looking at a slab of meat, and I have to stay fit for dance. You know that. I think I’m going to go vegetarian for a while.”

“Oh, Claire.” Mom let out a huge sigh.

With the sudden burst of an idea, I pushed through the door. “Actually, Mom, I’ve noticed you have been cooking a lot of beef lately. More vegetables might be a healthy choice for all of us.”

Claire and Mom both looked at me, stunned for a second, but then Claire’s mouth turned up just a little on the edges. Perfect. Why hadn’t I thought of this earlier? There was an easy way to renew my friendship with Claire: show her I’m still an ally.

Of course, Mom’s mouth turned down. Way down.

“I mean, I really love your chicken casserole,” I added, trying to intercept her rant. That was the one thing about ganging up on Mom. Sure, it got me in Claire’s good graces, but it turned Mom into one big throbbing vein of anger.

“How’s everybody today?” Dad asked, clapping his hands together like he expected a chorus of
Just dandy, Daddy!
He hadn’t been home this early since before my birthday, and
I suspected he had been looking forward to a few hours of relaxing family time.

“I better get to my homework,” Claire said.

“You
will
be home for dinner tomorrow night, young lady,” Mom said.

Claire took mouselike footsteps toward the stairs, giving Dad a kiss hello on her way. She didn’t even acknowledge Mom.

“You need to talk to her, Darren,” Mom said to Dad, shaking her head. “She won’t listen to me, and you’re always home so late, you practically never see the girls.”

Great. The blame game.
And as I could predict, Dad made for his escape route—the kitchen—before she even finished her thought. Since I didn’t want to be her target either, I bolted to my bedroom.

So much for relaxing family time.

I had a plan for fixing things with Marcus.

I cut out of English the second the bell rang the next day and raced straight for the auditorium. No sign of Marcus yet. Perfect. I climbed the rickety metal ladder.

By the time I heard him, I was ready.

At first he just marched for our box of photography supplies and flipped through my photos without even bothering to see if I was around. I was happy that he was looking through the photos again, though. At least he wasn’t giving up on that idea. And he’d shown up for class, so he couldn’t be
that
mad at me.

“Hey, Marcus, I need some help up here.” I squished myself back away from the edge of the storage platform so he wouldn’t be able to see me.

“Where are you?” he asked after a long pause. His voice didn’t sound as annoyed as yesterday. It didn’t exactly sound pleasant, either.

“Up here. I just can’t”—I added a grunt for good measure—“get this box down.”

Seconds later, I heard him on the ladder. He stepped onto the platform before he looked in my direction. The storage area was small, a few feet at most, with boxes piled up along one edge. Even in the dim light, my eyes adjusted quickly and I suspected his would too.

He stared first at my baggy blue pants. Then at my shiny gold vest. And finally at the white turban balanced carefully on my head. But I knew this wouldn’t be enough to cheer him up.

I stroked a small lamp, and then said in some sort of accent that even I couldn’t place, “Poof! Congratulations! The genie grants you three wishes for finding her, kind sir.”

I caught just the slightest twitch to his lip. He was trying to hide his amusement. Or at least, I hoped so.

“There is only one condition,” I told him. “One condition, I say. You can have three wishes, any wishes in the world.” I moved my hands in a big circle. “But first you must forgive all your friends with big mouths.”

Now he couldn’t hold back a smile.

“And not just the tall ones,” I babbled in my silly accent. “The short ones, too!”

He took a step toward me. “Hmmm. What should I wish for?”

I waggled my finger back and forth in his face. “No, no, no. There must be forgiveness first.”

He took another step toward me, so he was close enough to take the lamp from my hands. I felt strangely defenseless without it. “My friends,” he said in barely a whisper, “all one of them, are forgiven.” His low voice made me shiver.

He stroked the lamp a little and my heart galloped. I didn’t know what
he
was wishing for, but
I
was wishing he’d come a little closer.