Waiting for You (12 page)

I’m like, “Since when are you talking to guys online?”

“Since now. You have no
idea
how cute Ken is. I’ll e-mail you his pic.”

“So . . . he might ask you out?”

“Totally. He already said that he wants to meet me in person.”

“Wow.”

“He’s
so
cute.”

“That’s . . . that’s great.” I think the whole thing is a big pile of really bad idea, but she’s so happy and there’s no way I’m ruining it for her. She’s happy the way I wish I could be right now.

23

I hate that Dad found an apartment and he’s moving all his stuff into it. I hate that I don’t know how to fix this. And I especially hate that I can’t be happy about Derek, after all this time waiting for him to ask me out.

I don’t even care that Christmas is in two days. Merry freaking hoo-ha.

Even though I hate my dad right now, I’m secretly hoping that my parents will get back together. Because the thing is, I used to love him. Like, really love him, as much as you can love a dad. He was a great dad. I totally want to throw up every time I think about how he betrayed us, but under that, buried down deep in a place I don’t want to admit is real, there’s a tiny glimmer of hope.

Except for art and Derek, school is a total nightmare. If our break wasn’t starting tomorrow, I don’t think I’d be able to survive. I shuffle to global, where there’s a disturbing revelation. Darius didn’t do his homework.

That can’t be right.

Ms. Maynard agrees. She’s like, “Okay, Darius, very funny.”

But Darius is like, “No. I’m serious. I didn’t do it.”

You could hear a cricket chirp. I mean, you know, if it were nighttime. And we were outside and all.

Ms. Maynard decides to leave that one alone.

“Okay!” She claps her hands in what’s supposed to be an efficient gesture, but instead comes off as nervous. “Let’s move on.”

I watch Darius. He’s definitely changed. I mean, other than what he’s wearing. When he raises his hand to answer questions, he’s not as hyper about it. He’s severely toned down.

All day this anger builds up inside of me. And I’m seeing all of these things I never noticed before. It’s like I have this razor-sharp awareness of how people really are. What they’re really thinking when they’re supposed to be paying attention in class. The things they’re not saying but wish they were.

Or maybe I’m just projecting.

I don’t talk to anyone for the rest of the day. Sterling keeps asking what’s wrong every time she sees me, but I just say I’m PMSing. I can tell she’s worried because she knows that one little thing can send me into a depression for days. And I should be psyched that I’m finally going out with Derek.

When I see Nash in the hall, I get this overwhelming urge to talk to him. But then Rachel appears and he’s totally gone.

It’s not unbearably cold out so I walk home from school. Exercise is supposed to help keep me stable. My therapist said how exercise releases endorphins, which make you feel good. But I’m clearly grasping at straws.

The first thing I do when I get home is take my violin into the bathroom and slam the door. We had the winter concert right before I found out about Dad and there’s already stuff to practice for the spring concert. I wish I could go back to when I didn’t have to know the truth about my parents. I liked my role model version of them better.

I lock myself in with a resounding click. I tighten my bow too tightly. I grind my bow with rosin so hard there’s this huge cloud of dust. I sneeze. Some bow hairs snap off and peel away slowly, like they’re afraid of what I’ll do next. Which makes me even angrier. This is a new bow.

Why does every little thing have to be this huge challenge?

I whale on the violin. I don’t even care that the notes are coming out too sharp. I’m dangerously close to tearing off the D string just from my angry vibes.

There’s banging on the bathroom door. I ignore it.

Sandra won’t be ignored.

“Can you
please
chill?” she yells. She rattles the doorknob. “Let me in!”

I grind harder. The notes don’t even sound like notes anymore.

“Can you
shut up
?” Sandra yells.

There’s no way she’s leaving me alone, so I unlock the door. I open it a crack and say, “May I help you?”

“You can stop beasting on your violin. Some people are trying to read.”

“And would any of those people be an annoying little nugget?” Sandra just put up this PETA poster in her room of fluffy chicks that says WE ARE NOT NUGGETS! PLEASE DON’T EATUS. I’ve been teasing her about it. She hates it when I call her a nugget.

She’s all, “Well, at least I’m not a corroded snothead.”

“It’s a lot better than being a crispy little nugget.”

“Mom!”
Sandra yells. “Marisa won’t get out of the bathroom!”

“Yell all you want. She’s not home.” What am I doing? Alienating people I have to live with? Picking some stupid fight with my little sister like I’m twelve? Destroying my expensive violin? “Sandy—”

“My
name
. Is Sandra.”

“Really? I thought it was Nugget.”

“You’re a reject, you know that?” Sandra slams the door.

Yeah. I’m beginning to realize that I still am. But thanks for the confirmation.

24

I set my alarm for extra early this morning, even though I totally didn’t need to. I couldn’t sleep all night. I’m so excited that my stomach is a permanent jiggle-jaggle of nerves.

There they go again.

Jiggle.

Jaggle.

I’m a mess.

And the craziest thing? Is that I woke up super early and I’m still not ready yet. Everything I try on looks stupid and wrong. What do you wear for a day of hanging out at the Notch and seeing a movie after? I finally decide on my fave jeans and this sheer top that’s both flowy and fitted that I got for Christmas. I wonder if Derek will think it’s sexy. Or do boys even notice these things?

Christmas in two places was bogus. There was our usual Christmas with the tree and presents and everything, but no Dad. We went to his new apartment for Christmas Eve and it kind of freaked me out. Sandra was freaked out, too. After my fight with Mom, she finally told Sandra about the separation. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Dad not living with us. I could tell that he put a lot of effort into making everything look as nice as possible with boxes still unpacked and hardly any furniture, but it felt really staged. And of course I’m still mad at him, so the whole thing was seriously lame. I’m so mad I can’t even talk to him about it. He tried talking to me, but I just left the room. I don’t know why he bothered to have us over. He must feel really guilty.

But now that pathetic attempt at a holiday is in the past. And I’m determined to improve my life. Sterling and I made that reinvention pact for a reason. I can still do this.

When Derek rings my bell, the jiggle-jaggle acts up. I can’t calm down. I could not be more nervous and excited and nauseous all at the same time.

As I clomp down the stairs in my new boots, a horrible thought occurs to me. I stop clomping. What if he’s not as excited to see me as I am to see him? What if I look like a huge dork, opening the door with this expression like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me while his eyes glaze over with indifference?

Sandra beats me to the door.

“Are you Derek?” she goes.

“Yeah. You’re Sandra, right?”

She just looks at him. I know how she feels. The shock of having a potential boyfriend pick me up for an actual date blows my mind, too.

I walk over on shaky legs.

“Hey,” Derek says.

“Hi.” My face feels like it’s going to crack in two from my stretchy smile.

And guess what? Derek has the same smile.

Sandra rolls her eyes.

A few kids from school are at the Notch. This rocks. I want the whole school to see us together. So when we go back after break, everyone will already know that we’re a couple.

Derek’s like, “So . . . what do you want to do first?”

“I don’t know.”

“Feel like ice cream?”

“It’s, like, three degrees out.”

“That’s why getting ice cream would be badass.”

Derek is awesome.

Shake Shack is our best option for ice cream. There’s a section of the counter where you can get sundaes and cones and stuff, but of course we’re the only ones standing there. And the guy working the ice-cream section is on his cell phone.

We wait for him to get off.

He doesn’t get off.

“Hi,” Derek says. “Can we have—”

But ice-cream guy holds his hand up for us to wait.

I lean over to Derek and whisper, “Can’t you see he’s on a very important call?”

“And he’s never getting off!” Derek whispers back.

We wait some more.

Derek goes, “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Maybe he forgot we’re here.”

“What could he possibly be talking about that’s more important than us?”

Ice-cream guy looks over at us and goes, “Help you?” He’s still on the phone.

We tell him what we want.

“My treat,” I tell Derek. I take out my wallet and get some singles.

“Absolutely not,” he says. He stuffs the singles back in my wallet.

“But this was such a good idea.” I take the singles out again.

“But it was
my
idea.” He stuffs the singles back in.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Ice-cream guy hands us our cones. The ice cream on mine is all crooked. It’s sloping dangerously to one side.

But he’s still on the phone. So I hold up my cone to show him, tilting it to balance the slanting ice-cream tower, thinking he’ll make me another cone. And what does he do? He just pulls some napkins out of the dispenser and holds them out for me, still jabbering away, barely noticing the problem of the leaning ice cream, which will be impossible to eat without an inevitable major catastrophe.

“Helpful,” Derek decides.

“Isn’t he?”

“Let’s sit over there.”

It’s one thing to imagine how your life would be if you had the boyfriend you’ve always wanted. It’s a whole other thing to actually have him. I’m so excited and nervous that it’s hard to eat my ice cream. I can barely follow what Derek’s talking about.

Derek crunches into his cone. My ice cream is dripping.

“Here,” he says. “Let me help you with that.” Derek grabs my cone. He takes a huge bite of ice cream.

“Hey!”

“I’m sorry. Did you want that?”

“How can you bite into ice cream like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like with your teeth?”

“Should I be biting some other way? Man, I’m so out of it.”

“No!” How does he make everything so funny? “I can’t bite into anything that cold. My teeth are really sensitive. It would kill.”

“Isn’t there some special toothpaste for that?”

“I already use it. It doesn’t help that much, though.” I lick more ice cream. “Doesn’t it hurt? When you bite into ice cream like that?”

“No. I have teeth of steel.”

“I’ve heard about you. Weren’t you featured on
Humans with Amazing Capabilities
?”

“Is that a real show?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re trying to be funny.”

“Oh!
Trying
to be?”

“It’s okay. We can work on that.”

All signs point to Derek becoming my boyfriend. And Aunt Katie says that communication is the key to having a good relationship. Which I totally get. But does that mean you have to tell the person everything about yourself? Because there’s no way I’m telling Derek about my anxiety disorder. Everyone just assumed I was a freak last year. No one knows the real reason I was being so weird, and I intend to keep it that way. Anyway, it’s not important for Derek to know because I’m determined to remain stable, so why freak him out over nothing? I just want to live in the Now and not worry about the rest.

Okay. If I were being really honest with myself? Then I would admit that I don’t want him to know how messed up I am. I don’t want him to know about my emotional problems or my parents or anything that even remotely sucks. Because if he knows how complicated I am, he might not like me anymore.

Does that count as trying to be someone I’m not?

Right when I finish my ice cream, Nash comes in with Rachel.

I don’t know what to do. Should I just be myself? Or should I make an effort to go over there and say hi? And why doesn’t going over there and saying hi feel like being myself?

Nash sees me looking at him and waves. I wave back.

Derek turns around to see who I’m waving to. “You’re friends with Nash, right?” he goes.

“Yeah. We’re friends.”

“I’ve seen you guys around.”

Then Nash and Rachel come over. It’s so weird to see her like this. Rachel’s always been just this girl in my classes and now she’s suddenly Nash’s girlfriend. It’s bizarre.

Everyone says hey.

“You know Derek, right?” I ask Nash.

“Hey, man,” Derek says, putting out his fist.

Nash isn’t really the type of boy who goes around pounding fists. But he pulls it off and goes, “Didn’t we have language arts together in seventh grade?”

Derek’s like, “Did we? I can’t remember that far back.”

“I think so,” Nash says.

We’re all awkward and subtexty and I’m not even sure why. I guess the four of us hanging out together wouldn’t exactly be the best combination. And not just because Nash has a ten thirty curfew, even on weekends. So I’m relieved when Nash and Rachel get fries to go.

Derek’s looking at me.

“What?” I say.

He keeps looking at my mouth.

“What?” I pull a napkin out of the dispenser and wipe my mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”