What Curiosity Kills (6 page)

Coach shouts, "Help them!"

  You'd think the girls would return to their spots along the seam and lift the parachute off of us like a manhole cover. Nope. Some decide to take hold and drag it off. Others get the same brilliant idea but take hold of the other side. They have themselves a tug-of-war. Pulled taut, the parachute is close to the floor. It slides back and forth. Girls' feet slip under the surface. The material is abrasive. My hair, full of static, clings to it. Nick and I rock and roll from the friction beneath the parachute until I am rolled completely on top of him.

  My back aligns with his chest. His muscular thighs rub the backs of mine. His breath raises me up. I am bound, but I'm floating. Oh, my God, to be this close to Nick Martin! This isn't the way I imagined it would be, but I'll take it. I pray we never get out from under this. Sure, it will be a strange compromised life, but I can live with it.

  Nick spits out a chunk of my hair.

  Coach shouts, "Boy!"

  Obviously, since Purser-Lilley doesn't let us have coed gym, there is no way our double lump under the parachute is allowed.

  Nick fidgets.

  My socks start to inch their way down. My orange fur itches to get out. If Nick sees what I'm hiding, I'll never stand a chance with him. If Ling Ling sees, I'll never hear the end of it. I can't let my socks come off.

  I throw my body into Pilates teaser pose, which is me sending legs and arms up, as straight as rigor mortis, so I look like a V. All my weight sinks into Nick's gut. He squirms. I flail and claw to escape my yellow hell. I flip to my hands and knees, bellycrawl to the light. Gasping for breath, I rise to meet the rest of the girls' slack-jawed stares. From the outside of the parachute, Nick and I must have looked like two Mexican jumping beans in a pea pod. Kinky.

  "Yum, yum, gimme some!" a voice howls in delight.

  You can guess whose sister said that. I don't even bother looking toward Octavia, who is doubled over laughing and pretending to try to get a grip on herself.

  The twins' porcelain-doll complexions burn the palest of pinks.

  Ben and the coach grapple to peel the crumpled parachute off Nick. His eyes are squeezed shut. I've knocked the wind out of him. Does he feel the weight of the girls' collective scrutiny upon him like another parachute? His breath slows. His chest rattles. His face slackens. He snorts. Or is that a snore?

  "Asleep like Mary was yesterday!" cries Ling Ling. "Mary's so contagious, she's a walking canker sore!"

  "Watch your mouth, Lebowitz," Coach says. "This is your one warning."

  Ben kicks the toe bumper of Nick's untied sneaker. That jars him. He springs to his feet.

  "Sorry, Coach," he says calmly—as if he wasn't laid out under me under a deflated parachute nor snuck in a ten-second nap afterward.

  Coach says, "There is a time and a place for heroics, but this is neither here nor then. I know you were trying to help, but the best intentions can get you in hot water."

  "Hot water?" cries Ling Ling. "If anyone should be sterilized, it's Mary! Now Nick's got whatever she's giving!"

  
Tweet!
"Lebowitz!" Coach barks. "Take a lap!"

  Disgruntled, Ling Ling sprints around the perimeter of the gym. Her short bob, bleached blond last weekend without her mother's permission, wags at her chin. Her blunt bangs bounce. At home, before the start of every school day, she applies a lipstick shade that is banned at Purser-Lilley. She gets away with it because she doesn't bring the tube onto school property. The color doesn't need to be reapplied. For twelve hours, her lips are stained Cranberry C***. When she comes full circle, her frown is more pronounced than any foul thing she might say.

  Ling Ling overdramatically swabs her dry brow with an arm of her long-sleeve T. She bends over, braces her hands on her knees, and gives the boys an eyeful of her short shorts.

  "Keep running!" shouts Coach. To Ben, she says, "You are excused."

  Ben asks, "But what about your big thing and balls?"

  He's talking about the sports equipment, but the twins' pink faces turn mauve. Their scalps radiate under their colorless hair. Octavia opens her mouth to crack wise about something—the comment, the twins, Ben, our bleach-blond arch-nemesis—but reconsiders at the sight of Ling Ling in motion. Coach let Octavia get away with
Yum, yum, gimme
some.
Unlike Ling Ling, however, my sister knows when to not push her boundaries.

  Coach glances at the parachute heap. She surveys the gym floor, littered with hundreds of tennis balls. Some quiver beneath the overhead heating ducts. If the tennis balls were land mines, none of us would make it out of here alive.

  She says to Ben, "You've helped enough. You're released. Go back to the boys' gym and dress out."

  "Yes, Coach." Ben shuffles toward the exit. He collides with Ling Ling, who gestures to his rope-burned legs and says something that we can't hear but must be brutal. He hangs his head and skulks out.

  Coach shouts, "Ling Ling Lebowitz, if you can talk, you are not running fast enough! Nick, I want a word. The rest of you, start picking up balls!"

  I ask, "What about me?"

  Octavia gives me a look that says, Girl, you be buggin'.

  Coach gives me a look that says, You are an accident that's alread
y
happened.
She doesn't mean this the way Ling Ling would if she'd said it. Coach is having mercy on me. I've embarrassed myself enough: the socks, the parachute, the outburst, the boy. I should do myself a favor, put my head down, pick up balls, and blend in.

   Coach says to Nick, "Don't be such a hero next time. If you're injured, it's my responsibility. From what I know, coaches around here get fired for hurting feelings."

  Nick catches sight of me. He looks through the coach like he looked through my parents' blinds. His eyes don't change like Octavia's did when her expression told me I was bugging or like the coach's did when she let me know I'd embarrassed myself enough. Nick's eyes are steady, perfect ovals. I get lost in their darkness.

  Sneakers stop scuffling across the court. Ling Ling pauses in my peripheral vision. Everyone's staring at Nick and me because we are staring at each other. For how long? Five seconds? Five minutes? I don't know. I don't care. Nick is trying to tell me something. I feel it physically, as if his hand is still clutching my wrist. I keep my sights on him until I read him loud and clear: if I am ever in danger, he will defy Coach's orders, ignore Ling Ling's barbs, and get by anyone in his way to save me.

  Ling Ling races toward us but is stalled by the coach. "What?" Ling Ling challenges her, panting for real. She stops a foot away from me, but her legs keep on pumping. "I'm doing my laps, Coach! I'm lapping in place!"

  Coach's eyes flash from her to Nick and then rest on me. She asks, "Ling Ling Lebowitz, what business is this of yours?"

  "My boyfriend's my business!"

  Nick doesn't deny it.

  Coach says, "I don't care if you two are Mr. and Mrs. Dr. Phil. This is my gym!"

  I don't hear what either Coach or Ling Ling says after that. Or what Nick doesn't say. The dress-out bell rings. I head toward the locker room. At the door, other girls crowd behind me. They want me to move faster, so I do. But it's really something else that compels me forward. That something is so enticing, I forget about Nick and what we just shared.

There is a smell you wouldn't expect coming from the locker room. I'm not going to describe the additional smells you would expect. If you're not home-schooled, you can list the smells for yourself.

  Girls rush past me as I stand motionless, sniffing, trying to identify what the special smell is. We have fifteen minutes to change before our next class. Marjorie grabs a clean towel from the cubbies and tosses it to me. I toss the towel to Mags because I am not stripping off these knee socks to jump in the communal shower.

  Octavia has a free period after gym. She sits on a bench to wait for the rest of our class to clear out so she can shower in private. No one at Purser-Lilley, including me, has ever seen her bare torso. Freshman year, Ling Ling got detention for saying that my sister had
Thug Life
tattooed across her stomach. Octavia didn't dignify the accusation with a response or raise her camisole to prove it wrong, but I could tell she was hurt. So, she's super self-conscious about her body—so what? That's not the worst thing in the world. I join her in front of our lockers.

I ask, "Don't you smell that?"

  "Smell what? Your pheromones? What was up with you and Nick?"

  I ignore her. I don't want to talk about him. Even if I did, I couldn't. The smell in here is too distracting. "It smells herbal, like one of Mom's poisons."

  Octavia stares at me with either impatience or worry. "I don't smell anything."

  I wave my cupped hand under my nose.

  Octavia pinches hers. She says, "Eau de B.O."

  "We're sitting on top of it."

  "It's your socks."

  "It's not my socks." I cross my ankle over my knee, bend forward, and take a whiff to make sure. My sweaty socks don't smell good, but they're not what I'm after. I sit up. "It's coming from one of the lockers."

  Steam filters through our small alleyway of narrow metal doors. Soon, the alley will be jam-packed with girls in their underwear. Deodorant, lotion, and perfume will be applied and overpower the mystery scent I am compelled to root out. I lean forward and press my nose to the nearest locker grate.

  "That's my locker, Nancy Drew."

  I scoot over and press my nose to another locker. I smell cigarettes. Which one of my classmates sneaks smokes on the side? I scoot again and smell Listerine. Who has gingivitis? I hear one of the squeaky shower knobs turn off. I scoot farther and smell "deodorized" tampons and pads. Girls' voices grow clearer as less and less water runs to drown them out. I scoot yet again and smell more sanitary stuff. The other girls will be back any second. I'm running out of options. As I press my nose to the grate of the last locker, I nearly tumble off the end of the bench.

  I've found it.

  Whatever the odor is, it is rich, earthy, and intoxicating. I want to spread it out on the floor like an emptied suitcase full of money and roll around in it so I can bask in it all day long. Purser-Lilley uses the honor code, which means no locks on our lockers. When I pull up the handle and stick my hands inside to grope for the source, Octavia gasps. So does everyone else who has come back in time to see me try to steal from Ling Ling.

  Don't worry—she's not standing right behind me. Fortysome witnesses are dramatic enough. Ling Ling's still on the defunct basketball court with the coach and what's-his-name.

  Octavia is on her feet and has her hand on my elbow. The rest of the girls huddle together as if they're watching a horror show. I guess what I'm doing is pretty horrific. Except for the elbow my sister holds, I've fit every part of my body inside Ling Ling's locker.

  With a jerk, I wriggle out of Octavia's grasp. The locker is confining but tall. I turn in circles, knocking Ling Ling's clothes off hooks. Between my feet is her gigantic purse, printed with the current must-have designer's initials. The bag is blood-red dyed lambskin and retails for five grand. Ling Ling didn't get her sweet sixteen birthday party, but she got her non-returnable, wait list–worthy present. If she'd asked for a puppy, she could fit a litter inside.

  I draw my hands into the namaste yoga salutation, then dive, twisting myself into a folded position: fingers at my toes, forehead to my knees. Thanks to Pilates, I am as limber as a contortionist in Cirque du Soleil.

  I unzip Ling Ling's bag.

  The smell explodes! It smells
so
good. As long as I keep inhaling it, I don't care what happens to me. I rifle and find a cosmetic bag, a pencil bag, a battered paperback, hair clips, straw wrappers, plastic spoons, and wadded receipts from Pinkberry, Jamba Juice, and Tasti D-Lite. I pull out the cosmetic bag, unzip it, and sniff. I do the same with the pencil bag. There's nothing in either that you wouldn't expect. I flick both small bags out of the locker, forgetting that my sister is blocking the door.

  Octavia says: "Have you lost your damn mind?" But she is finished trying to stop me. She's as curious as I am to see what I dig out. I locate a zipper along the inside of the purse. I jerk it and hear the tiny brass teeth separate. The teeth scratch my knuckles when I shove my hand into the pouch. There's one object in there. I wrap my hand around it and yank it free.

  Until this point, no one has called for the coach because:

a) they want to see crazy go crazier; or b) they want to see

Ling Ling go crazy when she finds out what I've done. No one likes Ling Ling enough to stop me from going through her things. No one calls for the coach yet because they want to see what Ling Ling is hiding. If Coach comes, she'll confiscate whatever it is. On the other hand, if the coach comes, she'll bring Ling Ling in tow. Ling Ling will have a legitimate reason to chew me out and rip me a new one. She will kick one hundred percent of my ass. Fight! Fight! Every girl wants to scream it once in her life. To guarantee they get their chance, the girls finally shout for the coach.

  Coach appears in an instant. She's not allowed to teach wrestling, but she hasn't forgotten her Vulcan nerve pinch. She clamps her thumb and all four opposing fingers to the nape of my neck. I go limp. She ducks me out of the locker, grabs the pulse point at the end of my forearm, and applies pressure. It doesn't hurt, but my fingers bloom.