The Princesses of Iowa (10 page)

Ripping myself from my pitiful two hours’ sleep the next morning was agony, and I was slower than usual to get out the door. I could have hustled and made it to our usual morning meetup, but for the first time ever I just didn’t feel like it. The feeling was strange but not exactly painful, and I probed it like a potential cavity. Instead of speeding to claim my secret spot at the back of the student lot, I turned toward downtown and stopped at the gas station for a large cup of terrible black coffee. Normally we drank faux cappuccinos out of the fountain machines, but black coffee appealed to me and I decided to learn to like it. I wanted to be the kind of girl who drank black coffee and didn’t take shit from anyone.

Clutching the coffee to my chest like a security blanket, I wove and dodged my way through the noisy morning hallways to Contemptible American History. Lacey didn’t show up until a few minutes after the bell rang, and I used the time to rehearse what I’d say to her.
Where were you last night? I called you three times. Were you with my boyfriend? Do you feel any guilt at all about using Jake?
But when she finally appeared, first peeking timidly through the door and then shuffling into the room, her limp more pronounced than usual, my anger morphed back into pity. My best friend was handicapped and her parents were divorcing, and all I could worry about was my boyfriend? Feeling contrite, I leaned forward to whisper to her. “Lace . . .”

She shot me a death glare. “I’m trying to pay attention, Paige.”

“I know, I just —”

Lacey raised her hand. “Mr. Silva?” Her voice went syrupy and meek. “Would it be possible for me to move? I’m having trouble seeing the board.”

“Of course, Miss Lane.”

“Thank you, Mr. Silva,” she said, and grabbed her cane, pulling herself out of her desk. She gestured to her books. “Could someone . . . ?”

“Mr. Jensen, could you please assist Miss Lane?” Chris jumped to attention, practically leaping from his chair to carry Lacey’s books to the front of the room. A moment later, everyone was settled and Mr. Silva was droning on about the Gulf of Tonkin and Lacey was across the room and I was alone.

Lacey wasn’t at lunch that day, something that seemed to be becoming a trend. Jake was saving a chair and I slipped into it, dropping my bag on the table.

“Hi babe,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me.

I leaned back. “Hey.”

Across from us, the juniors were rapid-fire gossiping, punctuating their exclamations with shrieks and giggles. Jake gave me an appraising look. “What’s up? Are you mad?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Should I be?”

He paused. “Am I supposed to know the answer to this one?”

“Where were you last night? I called you like five times.” The chatter around us quieted, and I realized I’d spoken much louder than I’d meant to. I was surrounded by the little chipmunk faces of the stupid junior girls, and they were all staring at me.

Jake stood, offering me a hand. “Wanna walk?”

I allowed him to pull me up and followed him out of the crowded commons and down the little-used hallway toward the art rooms. He stopped and turned, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Jake,” I said. “Don’t distract me.”

“But it’s so fun.” He kissed me on the side of the neck, and I was tempted not to stop him. “Am I in trouble?”

I got ahold of myself. “Yes. I know about the Lanes’ divorce.”

He stopped nibbling at my skin. “How —? Nikki?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jake pulled away and leaned against the wall. “It’s not my story to tell, babe.”

“You could at least have answered your phone last night,” I said.

He sighed. “Lacey needs . . . I’m just trying to be a good friend to her. We’ve known each other since we were babies, and she doesn’t have anyone —”

“She has me!” I protested. “Or she would, if she would let me know what’s going on with her.”

“She will,” Jake said. “Just give her time, babe.” He kissed me until I forgot what else I’d wanted to say to him. For now, he was with me, alone in this hallway, his hand on my back, his mouth on my mouth. For now, this moment was enough.

In creative writing that afternoon, Mr. Tremont had us read this poem about New Mexico that was full of descriptions of foods and plants and landscapes. The poet was homesick, he said, and was writing in the middle of a Minnesota winter. “Green-chile pizza!” he said. “You can’t get that in Iowa! Which is too bad, because it’s amazing. Look at these other foods:
posole, chile rellenos
— it’s these very specific details that make this poem so vivid. Piñon trees! Yucca! Sage! Pigweed! We’re not in Iowa here, folks. Or Minnesota.”

A girl in front of me raised her hand. “I went to New Mexico once! It was super pretty! We went in this gondola thing and my mom fainted. . . .”

“Did you eat green chile?” Mr. Tremont asked. “Or
sopaipillas
?”

The girl shrugged. “I think so? I don’t remember.”

“Oh, you’d remember,” Mr. Tremont said. “Okay guys, now it’s your turn. I want you to keep this level of specific detail in mind as you describe a setting somewhat closer to home. It could be as specific as your bedroom or as broad as the state of Iowa, but it should be somewhere you know well. Use specific details. Not just
a car
but
a beat-up Subaru Legacy with only one side mirror.
Got it?”

We nodded, shuffling notebooks and pens.

“Cool,” he said. “Specific details, somewhere you know well. Beyond that, don’t think too hard. Just write.”

A place I know well
. . . I wrote, then paused. Should I write about my bedroom, or was that too easy? I could write about my secret place in the woods. But what if he made us read them out loud?

“Don’t think, Paige,” Mr. Tremont said. “Just write.”

I looked up guiltily and he smiled, making a writing gesture with his pen. I started again.

The bell rang. I jumped in my seat, practically flinging my pen across the room. Thankfully no one seemed to notice, as they were all shoving their notebooks into bags, standing up, chatting about the weekend. Over the din, Mr. Tremont called, “Don’t forget Mrs. Mueller’s homework this weekend! Literary readings in the city!” Without meaning to, I looked over at Ethan, though I’d been actively avoiding his eyes all through class, irrationally worrying that someone would see and somehow know that we’d been semi–hanging out the day before. But he was engrossed in conversation with Shanti and Jeremy, and a moment later the three of them were through the door, laughing.

I headed toward the parking lot in a fog. The writing thing was so intense, it was kind of freaking me out. When I’d managed to do as Mr. Tremont suggested and stop thinking too hard, it was like my hand took over, and once again I’d been surprised by what my hand had written, as if it had all kinds of things to say that my brain knew nothing about.

As I cleared the lawn and stepped onto the cracked pavement of the student parking lot, I heard a voice behind me. “Paige! Paige, wait up!”

Unmistakably Nikki. I had a sudden strange urge to run away, running like little kids do before they learn to worry about who’s watching. But I wasn’t a little kid anymore, and I was all too aware of being watched. So I took a deep breath and forced myself to smile even before I turned around. “Hey, Nikki.”

She was breathing heavily. “Gotta quit . . . soon . . .” she panted.

“No shit,” I agreed.

After another moment or two she managed to collect herself. “What are you doing tonight?”

Friday night. It took me an embarrassingly long time to remember. “Uh . . .” I squinted up at the vivid blue sky, so bright my sunglasses made little difference. “I guess there’s a game tonight.”

She tugged at the hem of her little sundress. “Are you going to Lacey’s party afterward?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know about it.”

“Of course you did.”

I lowered my sunglasses. “Actually, I didn’t. Lacey’s totally been avoiding me.”

“No she hasn’t!” Nikki scanned the parking lot. “I’m sure she hasn’t. It’s just — she’s going through a hard time. . . .”

“Right,” I said.

“Anyway,” Nikki said, “you totally have to come tonight!”

“Why?”

She looked surprised. “Um, because we’re finally seniors? And we’re going to be princesses? And it wouldn’t exactly look good to miss a huge party this early in the year?”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I’ll have to talk to Jake.”

“Oh, he’s totally coming! He told me in fourth.” Her nose and cheeks were flecked with tiny brown freckles. “So that means you’re coming, right?”

He told her in fourth, but he hadn’t said a word to me at lunch? Why? Because he just assumed I’d be there, Perfect Paige making a Perfect Party Appearance? Or because he and Lacey didn’t want me there? I bit my lip. “Maybe.”

Nikki clapped. “Yay!”

I lowered my sunglasses and raised an eyebrow warningly, a trick I’d learned from my grandmother. “Maybe.”

“Okay, right,” she said, and held a hand to her mouth, as if to hide a secret. “See you then!”