Vegan Virgin Valentine (6 page)

“I guess you’re right,” she said.

But the weird thing is that it
was
starting to feel like it was about me. While Claudia was finding every opportunity to chat with James, he was paying more and more attention to me. Last Saturday he told me he liked how I did my hair. I informed him that this is how I’ve always done it, blow-dried and tucked behind my ears. But he said, “No, no, it looks different.”

On Thursday, when the baked goods were delivered, I discovered that James had added something to the inventory. Apple-nut cookies.
Vegan
apple-nut cookies.

“So there’s finally food for Mara to eat,” he said.

Several times throughout that shift, James and I made eye contact. We’d smile at each other and then I’d get that thump in my stomach so I’d look away quickly. But even so, I found myself highly aware of his physical presence when he was reaching over me for stirring sticks or lids or sugar packets.

Stop it!
I’d tell myself.
Stop it and work harder at helping Claudia with her game plan.

On Saturday, the solution finally presented itself. Claudia had turned twenty-one earlier in the month and, while we’d stuck a candle in a cranberry muffin and sung “Happy Birthday,” she still hadn’t ordered a drink from a bar. She’d complained about it so frequently that on a Saturday night in late January, James said, “Maybe we should grab a beer after work? You can order.”

Claudia played it cool and was like, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

But as soon as James went out to his car to get something, she squealed, “I’m going to do it! Tonight’s the night! I’m going to do it!”

As she scavenged through her bag for lipstick, I asked if she knew how she was going to tell him.

“I’m just going to say it. Point-blank. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Good idea,” I said.

Claudia was a wreck for the rest of the evening. She spilled coffee all over the counter. She dropped three slices of crumb cake. She gave a customer a ten-dollar bill instead of a one.

I tried to distract her by pointing out our favorite Internet mismatch. The beanpole mama’s boy and the butternut-squash-shaped mama. It was their third date here, at least when we’ve been working. They were sitting with their faces close, licking blueberry cheesecake off each other’s forks. Any other night, Claudia would have come up with all these funny comments about them. But she was busy obsessing about the fact that she wasn’t dressed for a night out with James and maybe she should borrow my car and dash over to her dorm room to change into something sexier.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” I said. “James knows what you look like.”

Claudia clutched my arm. “Oh my God. It’s really going to happen! What do you think he’ll say? Do you think he likes me back?”

“You’ll find out very soon,” I said.

But Claudia didn’t find out. Toward the end of the shift, James walked over to her and said, “Do you mind if we do the beer another time? I’m exhausted. I think I’ll just go home and crash.”

Claudia shook her head and said, “No, that’s fine.”

But a few minutes later, when James was in the bathroom, Claudia sank onto a stool. “It’s over,” she moaned. “It’s all over.”

“What are you talking about? You can always do it another time.”

“I’ve lost my nerve. I told myself that tonight was now or never.”

I felt like such a hypocrite, but as I stood there patting her freshly brushed hair, I was relieved that the beer and confessional didn’t happen tonight.

Don’t ask me why.

I was refusing to even
go there
in my head.

On the last Tuesday in January, the graffiti started showing up. As I was walking up the stairs between second and third period, I ran into Ash on the landing.

“Did you see it?” she asked.

“See what?”

“The second-floor girls’ bathroom. Third stall.”

“What?”

“I’ve questioned everyone and nobody knows who did it. It probably happened sometime between the end of the day yesterday and this morning. It’s in permanent marker, so the janitors won’t even be able to wash it off.”

“What is it?”

“Go see for yourself!” Ash shouted as she disappeared down the stairs.

Third period was physics, a sink-or-swim subject, so I made myself pay attention as the teacher lectured about Newton’s second law. But fourth period was my no-brainer psychology class. You could have a lobotomy and still get an
A
, so I asked for a bathroom pass and headed up to the second floor.

And there, in the third stall, written in black marker on the toothpaste-green wall, it said:

Unbelievable.
V has been here two weeks and she’s already made the wall of shame. I considered scribbling it out with my pen. But it would be hard to conceal the marker with my measly ballpoint. And, besides, V has made this bed for herself—let her toss and turn in it.

The next day, after second period, I was in the basement bathroom checking my complexion. I’d broken out all over my forehead, so I’d carefully concealed everything with foundation that morning. I dusted some powder on my face and washed my hands. As I reached for a paper towel, I saw writing on the wall above the dispenser.

It was in the same black marker, the same block letters. Who was the mysterious marker wielder? Besides me, who had it out for V already? Had she been hooking up with other girls’ ex-boyfriends?

Knowing V, I wouldn’t be surprised.

*   *   *

At improv dance that afternoon, Dr. Hendrick told me that my stretches lacked effort. My jumping jacks could use more enthusiasm.

“And Ms. Valentine,” he shouted over the drumbeat as we were supposed to be swinging our arms like elephants’ trunks. “A smile couldn’t hurt now and then!”

I was about to lose it. I really was. If we weren’t a month into the semester, I’d totally drop this class and register for something else. I’d already decided to take it pass/fail, so the grade won’t reflect on my final transcripts.

Twenty minutes into class, Dr. Hendrick instructed us to divide into groups of four and create a nature scene—one person as earth, one as wind, one as water, and one as fire. I was so paralyzed by the extreme cheesiness of the exercise that I didn’t look around for three other people. And then, before I knew it, the class was all quadrupled up.

Dr. Hendrick sashayed behind me, rested his sweaty paws on my shoulders, and steered me toward the nearest group of four. “I hope you don’t mind adopting Ms. Valentine,” he said to them.

“But all the elements are taken,” a college girl whined. I think her name is Rhonda. Her tags are always sticking out of her T-shirts. I’ve had a bad feeling about her from the first day.

“Why don’t you just let Ms. Valentine be a rock,” Dr. Hendrick said.

Anyone who has ever taken a dance class knows that being designated “the rock” is the equivalent of being “the tree” in a school play. It’s totally like,
You are untalented deadweight so just shut up and petrify yourself.

I curled into the fetal position on the stinky blue mat, wondering if I’m wound so tight, I can’t even dance.

On Thursday morning, as I was heading to homeroom, Ash caught up with me.

“I saw the new graffiti yesterday,” I said before she could open her mouth.

“Which one?” she asked. “The one that says
stonah babe
? Because as of yesterday afternoon, there are four of those around school and two more
skanky ho
s.”

“I saw the
stonah babe
in the basement. Who do you think is doing it?”

“Total mystery,” Ash said, carefully enunciating her
t
’s.

“Has V pissed anyone off?”

“I haven’t heard about any more locker-room encounters, but she’s definitely generating gossip. She was all over Jordan Breslawski during an assembly on Monday afternoon.”

“Lindsey’s little brother? Isn’t he a freshman?”

Ash nodded. “
Barely
fourteen. According to reliable sources who were sitting behind them, when the lights dimmed she put her hand, like, on his crotch.”

I shuddered. The last time I’d talked to Jordan Breslawski was when Bethany and I slept over at Lindsey’s house in ninth grade. Jordan had been wearing pajamas with old-fashioned planes on them and building an airport out of Legos.

Ash cracked her teeth on her Dentyne Ice. “But that’s not what I was going to discuss with you this morning. I wanted to see if you knew about yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“You didn’t hear?”

I shook my head.

Ash smiled. “V ditched sixth period with Brandon Parker. They walked out the side door and went to his car. Three people saw them.”

“Do you think they were…” I pinched my pointer finger and thumb in front of my lips and sucked in.

Ash shrugged. “Does Brandon do anything else? His mouth is, like, surgically attached to a joint.”

We rounded the corner and paused in front of my homeroom.

“Have you seen any signs around the house?” Ash asked. “Pipes? Baggies of weed? Other drug paraphernalia? Have V’s eyes been blurry or dilated?”

I knew I would make Ash’s day, week, and month by reporting the oh-so-illegal scents wafting from upstairs, but I just shook my head and hurried into homeroom.

I decided to talk with my mom. After all, if V crashed and burned, I didn’t want the lighter fluid on my hands. I wasn’t going to give her specifics. I would croak before saying the words
skanky ho
to my mom because that would inevitably lead to highly uncomfortable questions such as:

Thursday evening turned out to be the perfect night to talk. V had her first SAT prep class, so my dad drove her into Rochester. They left early because my dad wanted to stop by Digital Dynasty to get V a cell phone and add her to our Family Talk plan. When I heard that, I pulled V aside and whispered, “Who’s got the umbilical cord now?”

She scowled at me. “Fuck off.”

“Actually, that’s your job,” I said.

My mom made baked potatoes for dinner. She sprinkled cheddar and bacon bits on her potato. On mine, I loaded steamed broccoli and soy cheese, which is a sad substitute for cheddar, but I was trying not to think about it.

We were almost done with dinner when I asked, “How do you think V is doing so far?”

“How do
you
think V is doing?”

I picked at my potato skin with my fork. “I don’t know,” I said. “Some kids at school are saying things…”

“Saying things?” My mom frowned, the creases heading south on her cheeks. “About V?”

I nodded slowly.

“What could they say about V? She’s only been here two weeks.”

My thoughts exactly.
“I’m not in the high school much … but I don’t think she’s making an effort to fit in. Why can’t she try harder? Why does she have to have that attitude all the time?”

My mom sighed. “You’ve got to go easier on her, Mara.”

“What do you mean ‘go easier’? I’ve been fine.
She’s
the one who’s been hard on
me
.”

I felt like crying. Did my mom have any idea how horrible V has been? What would she say if I told her V had fooled around with Travis Hart? It wouldn’t just be palpitations. It would be a major heart attack.

My mom sipped her water. “All I’m saying is that V hasn’t exactly had a smooth road. Did you know that Aimee hasn’t called her yet?”

“What do you mean? Not since she’s gotten to Costa Rica? Is she okay?”

My mom nodded. “Oh, she’s fine. Dad sent her an e-mail last week to make sure she made it. She wrote him back from an Internet café and said there’s no telephone where she’s staying and she hasn’t gotten around to buying a calling card.”

“Typical Aimee.”

“Right,” my mom said. “Typical Aimee. But can you imagine if that were
your
mom? Can you imagine if Dad and I left you with relatives, moved out of the country, and didn’t call for two weeks? Wouldn’t you feel lousy?”

I stabbed a broccoli crown with my fork and dragged it across my plate to mop up stray shreds of soy cheese.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Point taken.”

Now that I’d semi-agreed to go easier on V, I absolutely
had
to steer clear of the house. So the next afternoon, rather than hanging around and risking an encounter, I put on my headphones and went walking. I hiked up the hill to Wegmans, back down the hill to the Erie Canal, over the bridge to the hospital, and back again to Main Street.

Around five, it was starting to get dark. I turned off my music and wandered into Lift Bridge Book Shop. I frequently tempt myself by flipping through all the new novels I’m dying to read but won’t have time until, basically, I’m done with college.

I was only browsing for a few minutes when my cell phone rang.

“Mara?” my dad asked. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying you for over an hour. I’ve left three messages.”

“I was just walking,” I whispered. “I must not have heard the ringer.”

“You should be more vigilant when you’re out walking, Mara. You never know who—”

“I’m fine,” I said, glancing around the store. There weren’t many customers, but a woman was up at the cash register.

“I just wanted to tell you we’re having a Family Meeting tonight. Right after dinner. You’re not working, are you?”

“No,” I said. “Why are we meeting?”