When It Happens (2 page)

"Hey, Laila?”

"year>" "Yeah?”

“But I look good, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So there you go,” I say. “And I didn’t starve myself. I ate stuff.”

“Like what?” Maggie says. “Two rice cakes and a carrot?”

“For your information I also had some lettuce.” The truth is, I imposed a personal embargo against my daily Dunkin’ Donuts fix. But Laila and Maggie don’t know how bad my addiction to icing was, and I’m embarrassed to admit it. It’s shocking what cutting out junk food can do for you.

We walk over to the next course that has this impossible windmill.

“Okay,” Maggie says. “Goals for senior year.”

“Simple,” Laila says. “I’m going to be valedictorian.”

“Oh, what, salutatorian isn’t good enough?”

“No. It’s not.”

Laila’s always had this problem with being second at anything. Her dad is this total control freak. Laila can’t do anything after school and she’s only allowed to go out on weekends and she can’t even date anyone. I don’t know how she survives.

“Actually?” I say. “You’re supposed to state your affirmations in the present tense. As in,
I am valedictorian
.” I’ve been reading this book called
Creative Visualization
. It’s all about creating the life you want by imagining that it already exists. Since my second goal this year is to achieve inner peace, I’m focusing on what I want my life to be.

Laila’s like, “Wait. Is that more of your Zen enlightenment hoo-ha?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “It is. And it works.”

“Well, good luck overcoming the legacy of Michelle,” Maggie tells Laila.

“Seriously, it’s like she has this special-order brain that comes preprogrammed with every piece of useless information you need to ace high school.” I rub my golf club on the plastic grass. “But if anyone can beat her, it’s you. You go.”

“Thank you, I think I will. Next?”

“I’ll go,” Maggie says. “I want to be smart.”

“You’re already smart!” I insist.

“No, I’m not. Not like you guys.”

I concentrate on examining the waterfall at the end of the course. Because what she’s saying is kind of true. Not that we would ever tell her. It doesn’t even matter, though. I’d trade my brain for Maggie’s body in a second. Not only is she a drop-dead gorgeous blonde, but she’s had a string of drop-dead gorgeous boyfriends since seventh grade. Maggie also has more clothes than anyone I know, including the popular crowd. She was even friends with them until junior high. As long as you meet their two requirements of being beautiful and rich, you’re considered privileged enough to hang out with the inner circle. But Maggie’s also sweet and loyal and will fiercely defend me to anyone who looks at me the way they did. They even told her to stop being friends with me because it was damaging her reputation. Good thing Maggie iced them. And I’m embarrassed to admit it, but their rejection still hurts.

“I’ll prove it,” Maggie says. “Who’d you get for history? ”

“Mr. Sumner,” I say.

“See? I got Mr. Martin. They even have smart and stupid history!”

“You’re not stupid!” we both yell together.

“Whatever.”

“So,” I say. “How—not that you aren’t already smart because you are—but how are you going to do that?”

“You’ll see,” Maggie says. “Okay, Sara. What’s your goal?”

Here’s the thing: I want to reinvent myself this year. I’ve been a nerd since forever. My life for the past three years has been the same tired routine. Same honors classes with the same set of ten kids, same endless piles of homework, same waking up the next day to do it all over again. I’m tired of waiting for my life to begin. Something has to happen. Like an amazing boy. I know he’s out there. I just have to find him. And it would be awesome if that boy was Dave.

“I’m going to find a real boyfriend,” I say. “Someone who’s the whole package.”

They both look at me.

I’m like, “What?”

“Nothing,” Laila says.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . .”

“I’m just wondering where you intend to find this perfect male specimen. Haven’t you already gone out with all the halfway acceptable guys we know?”

“She’s only had two boyfriends,” Maggie says.

“Exactly. She’s exhausted the supply.”

“Yeah, well . . . that’s why I’m thinking about getting to know guys in other classes,” I say. “How random was it that Dave sat next to me at the meeting? It just proves that I could sit next to anyone I want. Like in assemblies and pep rallies and stuff.”

“You don’t go to pep rallies,” Laila says.

“But I could! That’s the point!”

“Those guys aren’t smart enough for you,” Laila says.

“Love isn’t based on intelligence,” Maggie huffs. “It can happen with anyone.”

“Like who?” Laila demands.

“Hello!” Maggie yells. “Like Dave!”

I go, “Whose turn is it?” Because I don’t want to jinx the Dave thing.

“It’s yours,” Maggie says.

For this one, you have to time your swing so your ball goes in between the windmill slats. If you don’t, it’s all over. Suddenly it feels really important for me to get this. Like it’s a sign. If my ball gets past the windmill, it means that Dave likes me. If it doesn’t . . .

I position my golf ball.

I examine the windmill.

I think to the universe,
Please make it real. Please make it happen.

I move my golf ball to the right. And I swing.

It’s a hole in one.

CHAPTER 2

first days of falling

september 1, 9:14 p.m.

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.

I finish the first set of curls with my thirty-pound free weights. I examine my biceps for signs of bulk. I decide they’re huge. At least, compared to how they used to be. I started lifting on the last day of school in an attempt to improve the situation of my toothpick arms. I need to look good onstage when my band starts playing serious gigs this year. Everyone knows girls want a guy to be cut, with pumped arms and veins popping out, arms that will flex as he lifts himself on top of her. . . .

But I digress.

I do three more sets of fifteen reps and examine my arms again. Definite improvement. I do a hundred sit-ups and fifty pushups and saunter into the bathroom like I’m the biggest stud ever. But this facade shatters when I catch an accidental flash of my reflection in the mirror.

I usually avoid the mirror as much as possible. I somehow developed an insane hope that working out would also improve the condition of my face. I always get zits in the most conspicuous locations, and the fluorescent bulbs in here make me look burnt out like I smoke ten packs a day. Attractive.

Furious, I get into the shower. I should have called her over the summer. Yeah, right.To hear how loudly she would have laughed at the prospect of such a slacker asking her out? No, the way to go with this is to be friends with her first. Be charming and notice details and give her tons of attention. Girls love that.Then she won’t be able to resist me when we take it to the next level.

I turn off the water and grab a towel. I’ll finally see her tomorrow. Should I try talking to her right away? Or would that look desperate?

I need to mellow out.

Back in my room, I chuck the towel on the floor and pull on boxers. I wonder if she’s into boxers or briefs. Or boxer briefs. Cynthia was a fan of the boxer briefs, but the other girls I’ve hooked up with didn’t seem to have an opinion. Then again, Cynthia was the only one I had sex with. So maybe boxer briefs are a safe bet.

I peer into my dresser drawer at my ancient underwear. If I were seeing my underwear for the first time, what would I think? It all looks kind of damaged. Do I need to get new underwear? I hate having to ask my mom to buy it for me. Everyone wears underwear, but it’s humiliating to admit this fact to your mother. Even if she does do my laundry.

Suddenly I have a profound idea. I can buy my own underwear! She doesn’t have to know anything! Why haven’t I thought of this before? I haven’t had my car long enough to realize that I can go around and do this kind of stuff.

Are relationships always this complicated?

Technically, Cynthia wasn’t my girlfriend. So I don’t exactly consider what we had a relationship. It was all about sex. We didn’t have much in common except for our mutual lust for each other. Which was fine with me, until I got sick of the emotional void. My friends don’t get it. How I’m a complete anomaly when it comes to girls. I mean, I’ve hooked up with random airhead groupie types. But nothing ever lasted more than a couple months. They were too lacking.

I know what I’m looking for. Something that feels right. Something real.

I dig through the pile of Converse in my closet, old guitar equipment that I got at garage sales, and stacks of magazines until I reach the shoe box.The shoe box has all of my most personal stuff in it. I lean back against the wall and open the box. It’s a total rush. I take out my first guitar pick, remembering how it felt to finally know how to use it. There’s an E-string that broke during our first rehearsal in ninth grade. I keep all of my lyrics about girls and sex in here, in a smaller notebook separate from my main notebook. Because my mom has no problem with going through my backpack and looking through my stuff. Even though I’ve told her a million times that an admirable quality of parenthood is the ability to respect your kid’s privacy.

I turn to a page with the song I wrote for Her. It’s like she’s renting all the real estate in the girl department of my brain. I don’t even know her that well, even though we’ve always gone to school together. After they segregated us in seventh grade based on how smart they thought we all were, I didn’t see her again until we had art together last year. I didn’t have the balls to talk to her until the year was almost over. And then I heard she was going out with Scott, who is a total dweeb, but still. So I never asked her out.

There’s something about her that’s different from other girls. She’s crazy smart. I dig that. And she’s kind of shy. Not like the other girls I’ve dated who came right up to me and asked me to go home with them when I hardly even knew their name. Talking to those girls is cake. But talking to Sara is impossible. Not only is she smart, but she’s hot. Girls with the beauty-and-brains thing going on are the most intimidating girls in the world.

What if I get this song ready for Battle of the Bands? I could dedicate it to her. She’ll be so turned on.Then I’ll smile and dazzle her with my eyes. Girls always tell me I have great eyes. But Battle of the Bands isn’t until November. I can’t wait that long.

I put the notebook back in the shoe box and stash it way back in my closet. I toss some magazines on top of it and cram random shoes against it.

I get this surge of adrenaline, like I could play for hours. I call this feeling my hot zone. When I’m in the hot zone, I know I can do phenomenal stuff.

I pick up my guitar and turn the amp down. My parents are probably already asleep. I guess that’s what life is for most people. Marrying someone who seems decent enough, buying a house, having kids, and turning in at ten every night. They consider bridge games with the neighbors and the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler entertaining ways to spend a Saturday night. Why does life have to be that way? I assume my parents were madly in love at some point, but now they just look tired all the time. I don’t want to settle for that.

I jam on my guitar. The way I feel about Sara right now is the way I always want to feel.

I’m making it happen. Tomorrow.

CHAPTER 3

homeroom survivor

september 2, 7:49 a.m.

When Caitlin slams into my backpack running past me and screaming about Aruba, she doesn’t even stop to say sorry. This is the way it’s been between the princesses and the brains since forever.

I tell myself it’ll all be over in nine months. Nine months, thirteen days, and approximately eight hours. Not that I’m counting.

Those of us who got here early are penned up in the cafeteria until homeroom. Trying to sit like I could
so
not be any less concerned that I’m sitting by myself on the first day of senior year is just not working. I lean forward with my elbows on the table. Then I shift back and try to sit straight on the uncomfortable bench. I don’t know where to put my hands to make them appear unconcerned. Laila’s not here yet, and Maggie went to the bathroom. At least I have my sketchbook with me to partially calm me down.

My sketchbook is actually a combination archive of my artwork and designs, scrapbook of important events, and collection of journal entries. But its main purpose is for me to practice my architectural sketches, so I can make a portfolio of my work for college applications. I want to be an urban planner, which means double-majoring in architecture and environmental science next year. This will hopefully occur at New York University. Which is not exactly easy to get into. Which is why I’ve been working like a maniac for the past three years. My motivation for kicking academic butt is to escape this middle-of-nowhere New Jersey small town, this realm of nothingness. Living in New York City will be the ultimate existence.

Anyway, I take my sketchbook everywhere I go. I sketch whatever inspires me. You never know when it will happen.

I decide that it’s important enough to document my first-day-back thoughts. I turn to the next blank page. I sneak glances at everyone around me. They’re all running around frantically, acting like they care what everyone else did over the summer. I hate myself for caring that no one comes over to my table.

Not like I expect them to suddenly realize I’m alive. I’m used to being invisible. Why does it still bother me? Why does it even matter if Caitlin & Co. treat me like I don’t exist? I have real friends—two of them—which is more than most people get to have. I’ve been telling myself to get over it for years. And I’ll never achieve inner peace if I don’t. So I need to move on.