Trinkets (14 page)

When I told Aunt B I had people over, she made a big show of saying how happy she was I had new friends. She looked at Marc and said, “What do you think? Did you get to meet them?” He didn’t really respond and mumbled something, which is odd, since he usually has an opinion about everything. Usually a stupid opinion, but still an opinion. Then she asked me if I know Tabitha and Elodie from class and I said yeah and she asked which class and Marc looked curious too. I lied and said Social Studies because I couldn’t tell them the real truth. They don’t know about the shoplifting because when I got caught I told the security people at the store I was an orphan and they took pity on me. Even though it’s true, I felt like a scumbag lying about that. But I know if Aunt B got called about it, she would worry, and she and Marc already worry enough about me as it is.
So the store agreed to sign me up for the class as my punishment and forget about the phone call.

Marc goes, “I thought you weren’t taking Social Studies this semester,” and I said I was and he looked at me weird. Then Aunt B suggested we all go out to eat at Zeppo, which we haven’t in weeks, so all’s well that ends well, as Ms. Hoberman likes to say.

As I leave Ms. Hoberman’s Creative Writing class, I fall in step with the mill of students drifting between classes, all chattering about the Spring Fling. It’s a week away and it already feels like the perfect spring day, sunny and crisp, and the Portland rains have made everything green. It’s one of those good high school moments, where everyone seems sort of in sync and for once, people aren’t annoying you.

As I round the corner, I catch sight of a familiar cherry-red mop of hair, and eyes adorned with black eyeliner. Moe. She’s walking in the opposite direction. We catch eyes, but the flow of traffic pushes us along, until Moe raises her hand. For a second I think she’s going to wave at me, but instead she flips me the bird and keeps right on walking.

I can’t help but laugh because I know she’s joking, and Sarah Crowder, an eager sophomore who’s standing nearby
getting a drink at the fountain, smiles at me, thinking I was laughing or smiling in her direction. I could correct her sorely mistaken assumption, but I just nod. Give the poor girl a thrill. However, she takes it as an invitation to bound up to me.

“Hey, Tabitha! How’s it going?” she chirps.

“Good. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Then she suddenly blurts, “I heard you and Brady broke up.”

I look at her and almost want to tell her she’s a dumb bitch and doesn’t know jack shit about my life, because Brady and I haven’t broken up. I want to say this loudly and angrily, but then I remember what a perfect spring day it is and decide,
Why should I ruin that for someone else?

“I haven’t talked to him in a few days,” I say, surprising myself by simply stating the truth. “Which is fine.”

“Really?” she says, looking even more surprised than I feel. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know… it kind of fizzled out.” I shrug, realizing that if everyone is gossiping about me, they might as well know the real story.

“Well,” she says, “I don’t know if it’s okay to say this, but I think you can do better.” She blushes.

I think about it for a second, then say, “Thanks, Sarah. I appreciate that.” Her friends are watching her, waiting to ask about every detail of our conversation. “See you around.” I smile at her and her friends as I walk past, because there’s nothing wrong with spreading a little joy now and then, especially if you’ve got it to spare.

In European History today, Noah leaned over during Mr. Sussman’s lecture about World War Whatever and asked me what I was doing later. I said, “It’s anonymous,” and turned back to Mr. Sussman as if learning about battles was the most important thing in my life. Noah doesn’t have any friends in this class, so I guess he felt like it was okay to tap me on the shoulder and ask me that. But only one time, and then he ignored me. There’s something about his only wanting to talk to me when nobody else is around that’s getting more and more irritating. Although it’s probably not fair to be mad at Noah, because I’m not mad at Tabitha and Elodie for not broadcasting our friendship to everybody. But I don’t make out with Tabitha or Elodie, so I guess that’s the difference.

“These fish sticks are gross,” Kayla says, frowning as she bites into one of them. We sit at our table with Samantha Bartle and a few of our other acquaintances.

“Then don’t eat them,” I say.

“I can’t even tell what kind of fish this
is
.” She pokes at it.

“You don’t want to know,” I say.

Just then, Taryn sits down and gives me a fake smile.

“Hey, T, whassup?” she coos.

If there is one question I truly hate, it’s “What’s up?” It’s a total non-question. At least “How are you?” provides a topic to which you can easily offer an answer: “I’m fine,” “I’m pissed off,” “I’m great,” “Not good,” etc. “What’s up?” requires people to do tons of work racking their brains,
trying to summon up a laundry list of all the things that are “up.” It’s too much effort for one lazy two-syllable question.

I choose to ignore the query altogether.

“Mackerel,” I say to Kayla.

“What?”

“I bet there’s mackerel in those fish sticks.”

Kayla studies them, confused. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“This is my point,” I say.

Kayla shakes her head and slumps over. “When is it going to be pizza day? They never have pizza anymore. Remember how Patrick was supposed to teach us to make pizza?”

At this moment, I see Brady walk into the cafeteria. He’s heading this way, so I quickly stand up.

“Here,” I say to Kayla. “Eat my hummus. It’s made of garbanzo beans.”

I quickly gather my tray and head out the back door, making what I hope is a dignified exit, but not really caring if it’s all that dignified or not. The only thing I hear as I go is Kayla saying, “What the fuck is a garbanzo bean?”

“What do you think, the taupe or the salmon?” my mom asks me. She’s sitting at the dining room table wearing a dress and heels and diamond hoop earrings. She flips through a catalog from Restoration Hardware as I pour myself a bowl of Special K for dinner.

“For what?” I ask.

“For the new blinds in the living room. It needs a spruce-up.”

The front door opens and my dad enters, wearing a pin-striped suit and carrying his briefcase. He gives a tight smile when he sees us.

“What do you think, Jacob? Taupe or salmon?” But my dad’s already on his way into the living room.

“Honey?” my mom calls out. “Remember we have dinner with the Underwoods? They wanted to try that new Indian place downtown?”

“I have to go back to the office,” my dad says. “I just came home to grab a change of clothes.”

My mom nods and goes back to her catalog.

We sit in silence as he pads around upstairs, and then a few minutes later the front door closes with a gentle click.

I feel like there’s nowhere I can be where there isn’t a dickhead male polluting my airspace.

“I guess I can just have a bite here,” my mom says. “I’ll call Rachel to cancel. She’ll understand.”

I stare at her. Her once-beautiful face now has crow’s-feet
and lines around her mouth. She’s still pretty, and her blond hair looks sleek and perfect as always, but she’s choking on the obvious. She refills her glass with soda and Tanqueray.

“Seriously, Mom. Really?”

She looks up at me. “What?”

“Where is he even going?”

“He’s going to work. Didn’t you hear him?”

“It’s seven thirty at night.” I can’t believe she’s managed to live in such an utterly delusional state.

“I think the front room should be more muted,” she says. “The salmon is tacky. I’m going with the taupe.”