“Hey,” I say. He looks at me, stunned into stillness.
“Wanna go to a party on Saturday?” I ask quickly before he can morph into panic. “With me?”
He’s speechless. Finally, after long seconds, he gives a little head shake, blinking slowly.
“Sorry, can’t.” He turns back to his locker, unfrozen by his words, pulling books down for his weekend of homework. “I’m having some friends over. Movies, snacks, that kind of thing,” he says as if he can’t stop the words. His brows pull together in a thinking kind of perplexity. Good excuse, I think, but then he surprises me.
“You can come if you want,” he says nonchalantly, still not looking my way. But his baffled exhalation gives him away.
No, I don’t want, absolutely not. Give me a break. Spend my only free weekend night hanging out with the Geek Bunch? However, I can’t give him a reason to doubt my intentions toward him. He turns to look at me, about to retract his invitation if his drawn brows are any indication.
“Sure, why not?” I say quickly. I can tell he’s astonished, but he won’t retract now. He’s way too well-mannered for that. Instead, he gives me his address, printing it neatly on a piece of paper, clearly doubting I’ll show up.
“See you then.” I flutter the paper, grin at him, and start to walk away.
“Uh, Jennifer?” He’s clearly uncomfortable using my name.
“Jen,” I say.
“What?”
“My name—I go by Jen.”
“Oh, okay. Jen.” He shrugs, discomfited, and clears his throat. “Did you want . . . I mean, don’t you want to know what time to come?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Um, about seven?”
“See you at seven then, Trev.”
“Trevor,” he says. “I go by Trevor.”
I smile seductively, and he flushes, turning away.
⊕⊗⊕
Beth and Ella are laughing so hard tears roll down their cheeks when I tell them.
“I want to be a fly on the wall at that party,” Beth says.
“If you can call it a party,” Ella adds, which makes them laugh even harder.
“Have fun,” they call sarcastically, wiping their eyes.
I finger my lip where they will soon be putting hardware and ignore them.
⊕⊗⊕
On Saturday I walk to Trevor’s house, a perfect little family split-level with dormers, window boxes blooming with spring flowers, and a lawn mowed into perfect little stripes. I push the doorbell beneath a cutesy little plaque that reads: Hoffman Family, Established 1980.
Gag.
Mrs. Brady/Cleaver herself answers the door, freshly rolled out of an old sitcom. She has pants on instead of a dress, true, but she is wearing an apron, her hair and makeup perfectly in place, subdued, a string of pearls at her throat completing the picture-perfect image. She can’t quite hide the flash of shock and disgust on her face when she sees the thing that’s standing on her porch, but she recovers quickly.
“Can I help you?” she asks with a hesitant smile.
“Yeah. Trev here?”
“Who?” She looks genuinely confused.
“Trevor?”
“Oh.” She’s at a loss. “Um, well. Please come in.”
She stands back and lets the wolf into the henhouse.
“Is he expecting you?” She sounds doubtful.
I shrug. “I guess so. He invited me.”
“Oh.” Pause. I try not to grin at her discomfort. “Wait here. I’ll go get him.”
She walks away, uncertain of leaving me unattended for even a few minutes. Good. A nervous mom becomes overprotective, sparking rebellion in a teen. I know this from experience and observation. This could definitely work in my favor.
I stand in the foyer, looking into the small living room next to me.
The room is neat and tidy, overpowered by the baby grand piano, which takes up most of the space. Besides the piano, there’s a curio cabinet full of antique-looking garbage, a bookcase, and a small blue-flowered sofa with a doily—a doily—draped over the back of it.
The bookcase is filled with smart-people-type books from what I can see: Hemingway, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Steinbeck. Self-help, psychology, and philosophy books as well. This could be tougher than I thought. Or maybe not. I knew Trevor was smart when I chose him, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by his home reading material—and the décor seems just right for a nerd.
Trevor comes around the corner, an oddly welcome familiar face amid all this perfection. But then, I suppose he is part of the perfection. He only hesitates a second, so small it’s almost unnoticeable, when he sees me.
“Hey,” he says, his voice reflecting the fact that he didn’t think I would really come.
“I didn’t think you’d really come,” he voices my thought.
His honesty is too much, and I almost roll my eyes.
“You invited me.” I put on a slightly hurt, chagrined look. “Should I go?”
“No . . . no, of course not. I’m glad you came.” He recovers nicely, though he’s not quite sincere in his words. “We’re downstairs. Come on down.”
“Okay.” I act uncertain though I’m not. I knew he’d cave.
He reaches out to place his hand in the small of my back to guide me, unthinkingly, ever polite, but quickly retracts it as if burned when contact is made. I pretend not to notice, smiling inside. Keeping him off balance is a good thing—helps me keep the upper hand.
We walk through the perfect, clean kitchen where Mrs. Brady/Cleaver stands, wiping imaginary spots on the counter. She’s actually spying on her baby—I know the type.
“Mom, this is Jen.”
“We’ve met,” she says with a fake smile, and I don’t point out that I didn’t ever tell her my name, nor did she tell me hers. We go down the narrow stairs tucked behind the wall with the stainless steel stove while Mrs. Brady/Cleaver watches me openly.
Downstairs are two of Trevor’s dork friends.
“You know Jim and Brian, right?” he asks me. I know their faces but never had a reason to even want to know their names. I nod anyway. They both stare at me, Brian with a tortilla chip lifted halfway to his mouth, which is now dripping salsa on his shirt, as if a three-headed alien has just come into their midst. They’re sitting on a big, overstuffed couch in front of an enormous flat-screen TV, watching some kind of robot cartoon.
I follow Trevor to the wet bar behind the couch. It’s covered with boy snacks: chips and salsa, pizza, pretzels, and little hotdogs drenched in barbecue sauce.
“Go ahead and eat whatever you want,” Trevor tells me. “There’re drinks in the fridge. Can I get you something?”
He turns away to open the full-size fridge that stands in the corner. He’s obviously has never had a girl over before, I think mockingly. Then again, that could be a good thing, helping me in my game.
“You have a diet Coke?”
“Uh, no. Not down here. But I’ll bet my mom has one upstairs. I’ll go grab one.”
Before I can stop him, he turns and jogs back up the stairs, leaving me with the two geeks, who are still staring at me, jaws gaping.
“What’s up?” I say, and they both look at each other as if I have spoken in another language and they’re checking to see if the other can translate. Finally, Jim turns back to me.
“Not much.” His answer sounds like a question.
They turn away, but I’m not going to let them go.
“Whatcha watching?” I call. In true dork fashion, they can’t be rude, so they both turn back.
“Uh, it’s called Ghost Robot of the Twenty-Third Century.” This time it’s Brian who speaks, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
“Sounds cool,” I say, and they look at each other again. Brian’s eyes come back to me, and he finally places the dripping tortilla chip in his mouth, chewing very slowly, as if doing so will keep the noise from frightening the alien (me) and causing it to attack. I nearly laugh.
r /> Two sets of footsteps come back down, and I turn to see Trevor, diet Coke in hand, trailed by yet another geek. He walks straight over to me.
He thumbs over his shoulder. “That’s Mark.”
“Thanks, Trev,” I say, taking the drink. He narrows his eyes at me, and I correct myself. “I mean, Trevor.”
Three others arrive shortly after, and we settle in for the geek-fest.
I sit among Trevor’s dorky friends, eat pizza, and watch the science fiction crap movies they’ve rented. At first, they’re uncomfortable with me there, no one talking much. But Trevor, ever the polite host, keeps talking to fill the awkward silences—making sure to look my way, so that I know I’m included in the conversation. I don’t say much, but I watch Trevor, smiling a secret smile at him whenever he looks my way, which flusters him.
Eventually though, the nerd hormones take over and they can’t temper their excitement over the movies, so they begin talking, having geek-debates over certain technical aspects of the movies and about the characters and their meanings and intentions. After a while, I forget my mission to keep Trevor off balance and begin to watch the spectacle that is this group, amused.
I also start to relax in spite of myself and actually laugh a few times at Trevor. The guy can actually be pretty funny. His mom comes down several times to replenish the snacks though they don’t need to be. I can tell by the others’ reactions that this is not normal. She glances my way each time she comes. I definitely have her on her toes.
I wait until everyone else has left before I go. Trevor walks me to the door, of course. I give his arm a squeeze again, à la the night of the dance.
“Thanks, Trev—or.” He grimaces at the obvious add-on. “I had fun.”
He glances out the door. “Did you walk?”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to have my mom give you a ride home?” he asks.
“No.” My answer is quick. “Definitely not.”
“I can’t give you a ride because my dad has my car tonight.”
“That’s okay. I survived the walk here, and I’m pretty sure I’ll survive the walk home.”
“It’s dark,” he states the obvious.
I look behind me in mock surprise.
“Wow, when did that happen? Hope it’s not a full moon.” This is in reference to the last movie we watched, which was about werewolves.
I look back at him, and he’s smiling at my (very) little joke. He has dimples, which I haven’t noticed before. Pretty cute—though they don’t cover his dorkiness.
“Can I walk you home then?”
I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”
He nods and steps outside, closing the door behind him after telling his mom where he’s going. I’m sure she’s thrilled about that.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, hands in pockets as we walk. I look at him and think that dressed as he is in jeans and a T-shirt he could almost pass as a non-dork—except that his T-shirt depicts one of the comic-aliens from the first movie. “Why did you come tonight?”
“You invited me,” I evade, surprised by his directness. I guess somewhat egotistically I expected him to be so overwhelmed by my attentions—or the attentions of any girl, really—that he would just be silently grateful.
“Yeah, I know. But you invited me to go somewhere with you first. Why did you do that?”
I shrug and fudge the truth. “I like you.”
“You don’t really know me.”
“Well, you’re kinda cute, I guess.” I glance over and can swear he’s blushing. “And I had fun dancing with you at the stomp. I thought you might be fun to hang out with.”
He thinks about this for a few silent minutes.
“I’m not exactly your type,” he finally says.
I stop and turn to face him.
“Trevor, do you think I’m looking to have you for a boyfriend?” My voice is flirty though chiding, a hint of southern belle thrown in for good measure.
He shuffles his feet, embarrassed.
“No, of course not, that’s not what I meant. I just meant . . . well, I mean—”
“Relax,” I say, cutting into his stumbling speech. “I’m teasing you.”
“Oh.” He smiles sheepishly, relieved. It does the trick, throwing him off the course of his questioning. I can see that now he’s wondering what my last comment meant. Was I teasing about not wanting him as a boyfriend, or about not-not wanting him for a boyfriend? He isn’t about to ask again.
He drops me off on my own doorstep, and just to keep him a little more off balance, I lean up and kiss him on the cheek.
“Thanks again. See you at school on Monday.”
I walk in and close the door on his stunned face. All is going well, I think.
I’m also surprised. The night was actually not horrible.
3. The Wrinkled Prunes
Do you maybe wanna hang out tonight?” he asks me tentatively on Friday after another week of my blatant flirting, surprising me. I thought I would have to be the all-out pursuer. This might not take as long as I had originally thought.
“Can’t. Family night and all that,” I tell him.
It’s the truth. This foster family insists on Friday nights together, stupid family games or going to a brainless G-rated movie or some other equally lame waste of my time. But I have to go along because I’m not ready to be shuffled off just yet. I would really miss Ella and Beth. Plus, I now have this new project to keep me busy.
“Wanna go party on Saturday?” I ask.
“Can’t, it’s the third Saturday of the month.” Like that should mean something to me. At my confused look, he clarifies. “I have to be at the senior center that night. You could come if you want.”
“Okaaay.” I’m fighting making the gagging motion—seriously, the senior center? But I guess there are sacrifices to be made if I’m to succeed. So I say, “Sure, why not?”
His eyebrows rise in astonishment, but he doesn’t comment on my obviously unexpected answer.
“I’ll come pick you up.” At my look, he says, “It’s too far to walk.”
He has that look on his face, the one people get when they want to say something but also don’t want to say it. My instinctive defenses come up.
“What?” I ask, a little defiantly.
“Nothing, it’s just . . .”
“Just what?” I demand again, after a few moments of silence in which he appraises me, apparently trying to guess my reaction.
“Well, I used to be over in your neighborhood quite a bit, mowing lawns.” Well, of course, I think. What a perfect geek summer job. He probably did it for free as some kind of charity work. “And I don’t remember ever seeing you.”
“Maybe because I’ve been there less than a year.”
“Oh,” he says, face clearing, mystery solved. “Did your family just move here?”
“No, as far as I know they’ve lived there for years.”
“But . . .” Now Trevor looks really confused, brows pulled together, and I realize he doesn’t know. I’ve just always assumed everyone knew I was a foster kid, as if it were tattooed on my forehead in bright, glowing neon.
“I live with a foster family, Trevor. Didn’t you know that?”
“No, I guess I didn’t.” His forehead is still puckered.
“You can back out if you want.” I try to sound flippant, uncaring, but truthfully it always hurts to be rejected because of this thing that is beyond my control, even if it is just a geek rejecting me. Reject me because of my looks or my attitude, my behavior or even my laugh—that’s fine. But this I have no way to change.
His brows crash together more tightly.
“Why would I want to back out?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“Because I’m, you know, a . . . foster kid.” I try, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep the hurt out of my voice.
“Is that contagious or something?” he asks, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s teasing me.
“Could be,??
? I finally say nonchalantly.
He shrugs and his face clears. “I’ll take my chances.”
⊕⊗⊕
“The senior center?” my friends choke out between laughs. “You are going above and beyond!”
“Never let it be said I don’t commit,” I tell them.
⊕⊗⊕
Saturday comes, and Trevor picks me up at six o’clock sharp. He comes to the door to get me. My foster mother is so overjoyed to see such a polite, clean-cut person here to pick me up—instead of the usual riffraff, as I’ve heard her call them when she thinks I’m not listening—that she is positively beaming. She doesn’t even ask where I am going or give me a time to be home. I’m sure she knows she doesn’t need to. Everything about Trevor cries out “rule-follower,” so there isn’t any doubt he will have me home long before curfew.
We walk outside and there in the driveway sits the coolest car ever.
“This is yours?” I ask, awed.
“Yeah. It’s old, I know.” He shrugs. “I’m restoring it, though it will probably be about as worthless restored as it is now.”
“Are you kidding? A 1973 Chevy Nova four door, right?” I don’t wait for his answer. “No doubt it would be worth more if it were an SS Coupe, but seriously cool as is. V-8?” I ask.
“Yeahhh,” he draws the word out slowly, looking from the faded orange car covered with spots of gray putty that look like oversized chicken pox, to me.
“You surprise me, Jennif—I mean, Jen.” He smiles.
I just shrug, excited to ride in his car. I know cars from one of the foster families I lived with where both the father and the son were car fanatics. As usual, I feel a shard of regret when I think of them. They were my third foster family—and I had hoped they’d be my last.
The first two foster families came before I knew the game like I do now. I was still struggling with the circumstances that had put me in foster care to begin with, and neither family turned out to be fond of a paranoid, insecure girl who hoarded food and shoved a chair under her doorknob at night for security. Both had turned me back in, like a used car, or a broken toy, or unwanted wedding gift. I pretended it didn’t matter, though it was heart-wrenching rejection.