The New Guy (3 page)

I close the notebook as quickly as I can. “What are you doing?”

“When you become editor, you’ll be happy that I captured a moment right before,” Thatcher says. Maybe he’s right, but I believe in jinxing down to my core, and hearing him say
when
makes a little shiver rock through me.

“All right, guys, let’s get started,” Mr. Wheeler says, walking to the front of the room. He’s wearing a slouchy cardigan you’d expect to see on a very old man, not someone younger than my parents. It has elbow patches like a classic professor would have, but I feel like the slouchiness and cardiganiness take away from the academic grandeur they might otherwise suggest. “It’s our first meeting of the school year, and we have a lot to accomplish.”

He begins his spiel for the freshmen, who are all turning in writing, design, or photography samples today. Only some of them will make the staff, and we’ll all have to drop whatever we have fourth period to take newspaper then instead.

I assume Mr. Wheeler’s speech will go on awhile longer, so I sneak a peek at my list again. But I know the list by now, and I know all the reasons I can do this. And even though I can’t deny Natalie deserves it probably just as much, I can’t
imagine my senior year writing for the
Crest
without being the editor.

Natalie always has a steel look of determination and grace, but I still want to survey her face for any hint that she’s feeling what I’m feeling right now. But in glancing around the room, I realize something.

Natalie’s not here.

In fact, a lot of people I expect to see aren’t here. Even with the big crowd of tiny young freshman, there are a lot of empty desks.

“We always start each year with a new editor,” Mr. Wheeler says, and I feel my pulse thudding in my neck and my wrists. My mouth tastes like pennies. Is it weird that I know what pennies taste like? “Every editor’s been a senior who’s been on board since freshman year.”

Is he leading up to saying
But this year is different
, the way reality shows that have been on for ten years suddenly put contestants on teams or make men fight against women? Oh my god, I really watch too many reality shows.

“And this year’s editor will be someone who’s worked very hard the past three years—Jules McAllister-Morgan,” he says. “Jules, would you like to say anything?”

I do have a speech, because my parents have emphasized being prepared for big life moments. But all I can say is, “What about Natalie?”

“Natalie’s decided not to be on staff this year so that she can focus on other extracurriculars,” Mr. Wheeler says.
“Lucky for me, huh, I don’t have to make a tough decision between you two. Okay, moving on to the existing staff.”

What about my speech? Mr. Wheeler couldn’t really have thought it consisted of
What about Natalie?
, could he?

“All right, guys, let’s talk about attendence.”

I guess he could.

“Congrats,” Thatcher whispers to me.

For what? I want to ask. For just not quitting? If Natalie were here, maybe I wouldn’t have earned this. Maybe I didn’t even earn this. Maybe I’m just the one who’s sitting here. Why isn’t Natalie here anyway? Why would she want to leave when this was her destiny as much as it was mine?

Mr. Wheeler discusses attendance and hands out some forms, and then I realize he’s staring at me. I dismiss it for a second because unfortunately Mr. Wheeler and I know each other pretty well. He rents the guesthouse in the backyard behind ours, and for some reason my parents have befriended him. Sometimes they give him our leftovers like he’d starve without us. Isn’t he a grown-up with a job, and can’t grown-ups with jobs feed themselves?

“Handing over the reins to you, Jules,” Mr. Wheeler says, and it hits me that even though I only got the job because Natalie’s whereabouts are unknown, I still have to do the job. So I get up and take story and photo ideas.

I thought it would feel exciting and powerful, but it just feels like writing things down on the whiteboard. I feel like myself.

After class, Thatcher and I hang back with Carlos Esquivel, the layout editor. I expect Mr. Wheeler will say something big and inspirational and then maybe I’ll stop feeling so blah about all of this. Mr. Wheeler, do you
want
me to feel uninspired?

“Good work, guys! See you tomorrow.”

I guess he does.

Mom’s already at home when I get there, but both dogs fling themselves at me like they’ve been without human interaction for decades. Since I know I’m probably too old to fling myself at Mom with the same panic-slash-relief, I sit down on the floor of the front room and focus on petting Peanut and Daisy.

Mom walks into the room with her hands behind her back, which is strange and suspicious. “Hey, how’d it go?” she asks.

“Um, it was okay.” I shrug like this year’s goals and dreams don’t all feel like a letdown. “What are you hiding?”

Mom presents a cupcake to me with a little flourish of her hands. I wonder if I missed a memo that the fate of a school newspaper decision can only be managed via cupcakes.

“Thanks,” I say because it’s not her fault Sadie’s cupcake arrived first. “I’m editor.”

“Oh my god, Jules! Congratulations!”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” I stand up quickly because
Peanut has his eyes on my cupcake. I wouldn’t share it with a dog anyway, but I can tell from the candy disc decoration that it’s from Sprinkles, and they do have the best cupcakes in all of LA. “Natalie quit the paper or something. So Mr. Wheeler basically said I got it because he didn’t have to pick.”

“Aw, I can’t believe he would say it like that,” Mom says, because, again,
my parents adore Mr. Wheeler
. “And of course it means something.”

“It doesn’t feel like anything,” I say. “I didn’t even get to make a speech.”

“You can make your speech for us.”

I choose to suggest starting on the meatballs instead of giving my slaved-over speech to my mom and two dogs.

Daisy and Peanut trail us as we walk into the kitchen, and as Mom’s getting everything out of the refrigerator, I think to grab my phone. I have a bunch of texts. Sadie wants to know how it went, Em knows how it went because of Thatcher and is congratulating me, and then Sadie—

Well, then Sadie has sent a second message containing something completely crazy, and I do not want to deal with that right now.

“I went to McCall’s for the meat,” Mom tells me as she’s taking ingredients out of the refrigerator. “So it is
very
freshly ground.”

“That’s exciting,” I say, because to Mom it is, and on a good day I guess it would be for me too. But I can’t get my mind off
something, and now, thanks to Sadie, it isn’t the sadness of the way I became editor.

Okay, I can’t just
not think
about the fact that Sadie’s texted me this bit of insanity.

“Is Darcy going to be home on time tonight?” I ask, even though I don’t know why
on time
is something I say. It’s as normal for Darcy to rush in at the tail end of the meal, calling out apologies as she throws a plate of leftovers in the microwave as it is for her to be here before I set the table. But Mom doesn’t usually plan anything too elaborate unless she’s pretty sure it’ll be one of those latter nights and not the former.

When I was little, I didn’t think there was anything strange about having two moms. And, anyway, I never really thought I had two moms. I had Mom, and I had Darcy, and they were as individual as any mom and dad were from each other. Back then we had Rochester, a beagle-shepherd mix, and we lived in our cozy house in Eagle Rock, and until I went off to kindergarten it had never really occurred to me that my family wasn’t like most. Yeah, Sadie had a mom and a dad, but back then odds were to me that she was the weird one.

“Supposedly, yes. We’ll see.” Mom stops dumping meats into the mixing bowl and steps closer to touch my face. I hope
she hasn’t touched the raw meats yet. “Jules, it still means something that you were chosen to be editor.”

I open my mouth to explain that my current look of weirdness and confusion isn’t about the
Crest
but Sadie’s insane text. In fact, it might even be to overcompensate for how just the
idea
of Alex makes me start to smile. Of course—despite what Sadie’s messaging—it means nothing! And so the very last thing I want to do right now is explain to Mom why a former boy-band member definitively is
not
into me. So I just shrug and let her believe I’m upset about the thing I was—to be fair—upset about only sixty seconds ago.

“I know, Mom.” I try with all my faking ability to look like I mean it too. I’m not sure if she believes me, but I manage to weasel out of this sentimental moment and pick up the recipe card.

The meatballs recipe is written out in the perfect script of my great-grandmother, who died before I was born. For the most part my family eats like normal LA people. We get our kale at the weekly farmers’ market, have Meatless Mondays because it’s healthy and also helps the environment, and go out for sushi at least twice a month (usually more). But Mom’s the only one in her family who wanted the recipe box when her grandmother died, and once a week we cook something from it with only a few twenty-first-century changes.

My phone dings with a new text, and once I see that it’s Sadie again, I don’t even read the message before turning the phone facedown on the counter.

“It’s a big day for you,” Mom says. “Go call your friends, and I can finish this.”

“It’s not a big day, and I don’t want to call my friends. Can’t I just make meatballs in peace?”

“Of course.”

Mom and I split up the rest of the ingredients. She measures out and adds ricotta, milk, and Parmesan, while I do the same with bread crumbs, basil, parsley, and salt. We split the eggs because it’s our dumb tradition to see who can break them fastest. Mom wins tonight. One of my favorite things about cooking is—egg-breaking contests or not—how calming it can be. Dinner will be full of conversation, but this part isn’t.

Though tonight the silence isn’t doing it for me. Not with Sadie’s text flashing constantly in my head.

“It’s just that this new guy started today, and I was his liaison, and so he was talking to me a lot because of that, and Sadie thinks it means something.”

I don’t mean to say it, but I’m not that surprised I do. I’ve never been skilled at keeping much from my parents, but normally there isn’t much to keep.

“Maybe it does mean something,” Mom says.

“Sadie’s crazy, and you know that.”

Mom laughs because she’s too nice to actually agree about Sadie’s sanity levels.

“A boy could like you,” Mom says, and I feel my face getting hot, which means my face is getting red. Stop it, face! Work with me, not against me. “Would that be awful?”

“No, Mom, the point is it wouldn’t be possible.” I feel like I’m getting too worked up, so I focus on mixing everything. You have to do it with your hands to get the best results, which is a little gross, but Mom did it last time, so it’s my turn.

“You’re pretty great,” Mom says.

“Great to your mom is not like being great to a guy,” I say. “And, anyway, I don’t have time for guys. You know that.”

“I know that? I know nothing of the sort!”

“I’m getting into Brown,” I say. “I have to.”

“You
want
to,” Mom says. “You know you can’t control your own destiny.”

Mom says things like this all the time, but I think she believes way too much in things like
destiny
. I’m pretty sure you can make anything happen if you work hard enough, and I’m positive Darcy agrees with me. Darcy aced law school, passed the bar exam on her first attempt, and takes work home with her not because she has to, but because she wants to. It isn’t that I don’t think that both of my parents work hard, but Mom might sometimes hint that it would be good to take a break and go outside or to hang out at Sadie’s, but I know that Darcy always understands that I don’t have time for breaks.

“Boys are actually pretty easy to fit in a schedule,” Mom continues. “When I was in high school—”

“Mom. I don’t want to hear about fitting in boys. I shouldn’t have brought this up at all. I really just want to make meatballs, okay?”

Mom mimes zipping her lips before getting the pan ready on the stove. Now that everything’s mixed, we roll the meatballs and put them into the oven. Then I fill a pot with tomato sauce we canned last summer with tomatoes from our garden. As I’m pulling vegetables out of the refrigerator to make a salad, the front door opens and Darcy walks in carrying a bakery box from the Alcove.

“Congratulations,” she says before presenting the box to me. I can feel it coming, but I still look inside. More cupcakes!
Four
cupcakes! Darcy barely even believes in processed sugar, but here they are, staring at me.

“We’re so proud of you,” Mom says, taking a break from meatball business and walking over from the counter to stand next to Darcy. Then they just
stare at me
in the glowing way they do sometimes, and I’m not sure what to do, so I just take the box from Darcy and stand there.

“It was a technicality,” I say to Darcy. “Did Mom explain that?”

Darcy frowns. “What do you mean?”

I repeat the information for her, and I wait for her face to reflect what’s in my heart. But before long she’s back to glowing again.

“It’s not a technicality,” she says. “Be proud of yourself.”

Be proud of yourself
sounds nice, but not necessarily when Darcy commands it.

Darcy takes over for me on salad duty, and I decide to check my phone. Sadie has messaged me twice more:
I’m serious about Alex you know!!
with a kissy-face emoji I’ve never seen before, and
WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME??? I’m coming over! I’m worried!

“Oh no,” I say aloud. “I’m afraid Sadie might be coming over.”

“That’s great,” Mom says.

“She can have the fourth cupcake,” Darcy says. “I was going to give it to Joe otherwise.”

I don’t want Sadie interrupting my evening, but it’s a much better prospect than walking a lone cupcake over to Mr. Wheeler’s and pretending like we don’t hear his gloomy indie rock mourning over the speakers.

The doorbell rings while we’re taking the broccoli off the stove, and the meatballs are nearly ready. I’m currently managing the broccoli, so Mom lets Sadie in.

“Oh my god, it smells amazing in here,” Sadie says as she walks into the kitchen. “Do you know what my family is having for dinner tonight? Turkey sandwiches. Sandwiches! A sandwich can’t be dinner!”

“Your mother makes very good sandwiches,” Darcy tells her. “You’ll find no sympathy here.”

Sadie opens the utensil drawer and starts pulling out forks, spoons, and knives to set the table. “Soooo… how did it go? Can we talk about it?”

I open my mouth to speak, but I’m still figuring out the first word when of course I don’t have to.

“She got it,” Mom says. “Not that any of us should be surprised.”

“Not at all!” Sadie flings the silverware onto the table and throws her arms around me. “Yay! You did it! I told you you’d get it over Natalie.”

“I didn’t, okay? Can we just all acknowledge that?” I explain for the billionth time. Why doesn’t anyone understand the full scope of the situation like I do?

After dinner, Sadie and I walk up to my room. Peanut and Daisy follow and take their favorite spots on my bed before we can sit down. I accept where I fall on the chain of command compared to dogs in this house.

“I seriously don’t want to talk any more about it,” I say. “It’s all been sullied.”

“Seriously, Jules, I didn’t come up here to talk about the paper. Wait, did you just say
sullied
?” She laughs and leans over to use Daisy as a pillow. “Alex Powell. Alex. Freaking. Powell.”

“No,” I say, and it sounds wimpy, so I keep going. “No no no no nooooo.”

That may have somehow sounded wimpier.

“Jules. I know some things about boys. Not everything, but enough, and that is how boys act, trust me.”

I manage to fit into the space between Daisy and Peanut. “What are you even saying? What is how boys act?”

“Jules, you’re ranked first in our class. You’ll be our valedictorian and make a lovely and wise speech we’ll all
remember throughout our whole lives. So don’t play dumb all of a sudden.”

“I’m not playing!” I run my hand over Peanut’s soft tan fur. “I don’t want to talk about this either. I know he acted nice. I also know it doesn’t mean anything. And acting like it does feels… like I’m cheating, or something. Boys like Alex Powell don’t…”

“To be fair we don’t have that much reference material on boys like Alex Powell,” Sadie says. “If I drop it, can I at least reserve the right to say
I told you so
later?”

“If it makes you stop talking? Yes.”

“I’ll take that as a victory.”