Take Me There (14 page)

“Are you making this up?”

“No!”

“So he just . . . let you touch it?”

“Yeah. He was like, ‘If it pleases you.’ So I put my finger through it.”

“Whoa.”

“Totally.”

“Where?”

“I told you. On his shoulder.”

“No, where was this?”

“Oh. Near my school, up on West Tenth.”

“You go to Eames Academy?”

“Yeah. You know it?”

“My brother goes there.”

“Who’s your brother?”

“Brad Tropper.”

“No
way
!” That’s so weird! This whole time I’ve been in class with this guy and I didn’t even know he was Brad’s brother.

“You know him?”

“Totally! I mean, I’m not exactly friends with him, but I’m good friends with Sheila.”

And right after I say that, Max shuts down with the barricaded attitude again. It’s like he’s all storm clouds and despair.

He’s like, “You should tell her not to go home with Brad anymore.”

So I ask why, but Max doesn’t say anything. He just starts crumpling up our paper plates and cups.

I touch his arm and he stops crumpling and gives me this strong look. And I go, “Please tell me why you said that.”

And Max says, “I think you know.”

Obviously, he knows that I know what’s happening to Sheila because anyone can see it. But he means something else. Because that look on his face looks like fear.

Max leans closer to me and says, “Look. There’s more to this than you probably know. Just . . . warn Sheila, okay? She could get hurt worse if she keeps going over there. But don’t tell her you talked to me.”

And then he gets up to go, so I grab him and I’m like, “Wait!” But he walks right out the door. I could run after him and find out what he means, but if he wanted to tell me more he would have.

Anyway, there’s something about that scared look he had that’s familiar. It’s probably the same look I get when people try and force me to talk about things I wish I could just forget.

I get my iPod and turn the light off. This is my favorite part of the day, either just before I fall asleep or just lying here like this, listening to songs that remind me the most of him and replaying my favorite fantasies a zillion times. Like the one where we’re at school together and everyone knows and it’s okay. Instead of it being against the rules that someone who had obviously never been in love made up.

HIS APARTMENT IS
dark except for a lamp in the corner.

I tug nervously on my skirt.

I say, “I’m not that young.”

He looks up from the papers he’s grading at his desk. He drops his pen. He stands up. He stands there for a while, considering.

But then he walks over. Slowly. Making me wait.

My breath is raspy. I’m breathing like I’m running, instead of just hanging here in his living room. Could this mean he wants me, too?

And then he’s right in front of me. I want this so badly I’m shaking.

He reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my head. He slides his fingers through my hair. He couldn’t be any closer to me.

I see what’s going to happen before it happens. His eyes give everything away.

I stare at his lips. And then he’s kissing me.

And that’s when my alarm clock goes off, shattering the dream.

Half an hour later, I’m out of the shower and exhausted but also wired like I’ve been chugging the Jolt. I’m excited and nervous and I don’t want to lose that intense dream feeling. But I don’t really have much of a choice, because it’s called Welcome to Reality.

I picked up the phone like ten times last night to call Ree, but I couldn’t do it. It’s just not the kind of thing you do over the phone. Or in public or . . . yeah, I know, I’m making excuses, but I
so
don’t want to do this.

But I have to do it. So if Ree gets to school before first period, I’ll take her into the bathroom or somewhere away from everyone, and I’ll tell her. Only, she usually sleeps late, so that’s probably not happening. But sometimes she’s online in the morning, so I could try IMing her and tell her to meet me before first. So I turn on my laptop and get into my e-mail, and there’s a new message from Ree.

Okay. Don’t panic. She doesn’t even know what she wants to do yet. And if she comes up with something and it sucks and you know it won’t work, just tell her that it’s not a good idea and then tell about Gloria so she doesn’t do it anyway. But if it sounds like it might work . . . then don’t tell her about Gloria—and hope she doesn’t find out by the time she does whatever it is—and let her try it? Because if it’s good, it might work?

I forget what I decided before. Everything’s all confused. The last thing I want to be is the person who stands in the way of them getting back together, if that’s even possible. But I also don’t want to be the best friend who knew this whole time and didn’t tell her.

Anyway, she’s not online, so I’m about to shut down my computer when a new e-mail from Danny pops up.

When I see Sheila come in gangsta late to math, I know she’s on the road of no return.

Here’s the thing. Sheila was my good friend up until a couple months ago. Not that she’s not my friend anymore, but now it’s all about Brad. So our friendship isn’t what it used to be.

I get that he’s hot and all, but what I don’t get is why she’s doing this to herself. Like, how can they have anything in common? I mean, I know love makes you do crazy things, but this is ridiculous. Sheila is the one person who’s totally put-together every day and super cheerful even early in the morning and always has her projects done like two days before they’re due, and now she just walked in looking like a truck ran her over.

Mr. Farrell is going in for the kill. He’s all types of heated when you’re late like that. It’s pretty much the only thing I don’t like about him.

He’s all, “Ah, if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Punctuality.”

Sheila totally looks like she’s about to burst into tears, and I know it’s because she’s never been late in her life and she’s mortified and she knows that Mr. Farrell isn’t going to leave it alone until he’s sure they’re both embarrassed to the max.

Sometimes I don’t get him. It’s like he’s two different people. Like right now he’s talking about Sheila as if she’s not even here, saying things about her to Brad like how she’s his questionable companion of impeccable taste, which is just a nasty way of completely dissing both of them simultaneously. And the whole time Sheila is just sitting there, dying. But what else can she do?

So after class I grab Sheila and drag her into the bathroom and I’m like, “What’s going on with you?”

And she just starts crying and saying how she never thought it would get this bad and she had no idea and how did her life get this messed up? And even though mascara’s running down her face and she’s obviously been sleeping over at Brad’s because she’s wearing one of his ratty old Cult T-shirts that’s all wrinkled, she still looks pretty.

So I say, “Why are you letting him ruin your life like this?”

And she says, “He’s not.”

And I’m like, “Um, not to be rude? But I think he sort of is.”

So Sheila goes, “No, I mean . . . it’s all my fault.”

I go, “Are you serious?” Because Brad is a pothead and a burnout and he’s totally failing everything and he’ll probably be a super senior, one of those lowlife kids who never gets it and is still sitting in a desk that’s way too small for him when he’s like twenty-five, and why is she wasting her time with such a loser?

Sheila looks at herself in the mirror and rinses her face off and there aren’t any paper towels. So she stands there with her face dripping all over the ratty Cult T-shirt and tells me how Brad is totally not her type but she loves him anyway.

She says, “But a few weeks ago he started smoking more pot. I don’t even know why. It’s like . . . I knew he smoked, but before it was just to spark up at a party or whatever, nothing heavy. And now he’s wasted all the time. Like he can’t even get through a day without smoking.” She wipes her cheek. “And plus he’s drinking hard-core and . . . his temper keeps getting worse. One minute he’s fine, and the next he’s furious over the most minor thing. I don’t even know who he is anymore.”

So I’m about to ask if there’s anything I can do, but Sheila keeps talking and she says how her mother doesn’t approve of Brad and how she’s neglecting her family and that they never see her anymore. And they got into a horrible fight two days ago and Sheila just packed her stuff and left, and she’s been staying with Brad ever since. Which is a disaster, because he never lets her have time to do homework, and she’s so depressed it’s like she doesn’t even care anymore. She’s too tired to fight it. And he stays up way late, so just getting to first period is like this major challenge.

“And then there’s this thing with my pills,” she says.

So now I’m thinking she’s about to tell me that she’s on Zoloft or something, but she goes, “I’m on the pill now.” Which is news to me. I wonder how else she’s changed since we were close.

Sheila’s like, “I forgot to pack them when I left home, and I just remembered about them today. So I snuck home to get them, but by the time I took one I’d already missed taking the one for yesterday. And even with the one today . . . it wasn’t at seven o’clock when I usually take them.”

I go, “I’m sure you’re fine,” even though I really have no idea about being on the pill. She’s just so upset.

Sheila goes, “But when I started taking them, the doctor at Planned Parenthood told me I have to take them at the same time every day or they won’t work. And there’s no way you can skip any or they
definitely
won’t work.” So now on top of everything else, she has to worry about being pregnant.

And I’m watching Sheila tell me all of this, and I can barely remember the girl who used to have it all together. Not that it was that long ago. And I remember what Max said about warning Sheila to not go home with Brad anymore or she could get hurt. But I’m also not supposed to tell her I talked to him, so I say, “Maybe you shouldn’t go over to Brad’s anymore.”