I’m tired of being taken for granted. Does she even appreciate me at all?
I don’t want to fight with her. I really don’t. But if I stay here and watch this, I’m going to blow.
“I gotta go,” I say.
And I’m out.
I can see Mrs. Schaffer on our stoop from half a block away. She’s just standing there, holding on to the railing. I run up to our building.
“Hey, Mrs. Schaffer!” I climb the stairs up to her.
“Oh good. Would you . . . ?”
“Of course.”
I help Mrs. Schaffer inside and up the rest of the stairs. It’s so weird how a lot of older people live in walk-up buildings without an elevator. How do they get around when they live alone and there’s no one to help them? Living in a third-floor walk-up is nothing for me, but it’s a serious deal for her. It takes her like ten minutes just to get up to her place. And lately it seems like she’s struggling more.
We stop on the second-floor landing for a breather. The hallway smells like mothballs. Mothballs and cabbage. I hate it when people cook stuff that takes over the entire building.
“And so?” Mrs. Schaffer prods. “What’s new with the girl?”
Man. This is the last thing I want to talk about. I just want to go to my room, get my homework done, and work on programming for Danny’s speech. Keep busy until it’s time for 24. Then go to bed. And forget how warped Rhiannon’s being.
“Nothing to report yet.”
“Oh? And why is this?”
What am I supposed to say here? I hate stringing her along like this, but she always gets so excited about the prospect of me having a serious girlfriend. Someone I can take over to her place for visits. And so she can feed us cookies. I just can’t let her down. Especially since she has such high expectations of me.
“I’m waiting for the right opportunity to arise,” I explain.
“In my day, a boy liked a girl, she was the first to know. None of this scheming.”
Mrs. Schaffer is like a grandma to me. My grandparents on Ma’s side live in Germany, where she’s from. But I haven’t seen them since I was small. I hardly remember them. Just fragments. Pieces of another life. And on Dad’s side, my grampa died and my grandma lives in a nursing home.
So I’m really protective of Mrs. Schaffer. Over the years, I’ve felt like it’s my responsibility to take care of her more and more. She’s family now.
When I get to Danny’s, I can’t believe how tricked-out his roof is. There’s a huge cooler with subs and a bucket packed with ice and soda. Four chairs are set up around a TV. Which is plugged into what has to be the longest extension cord in the world.
“James, my man!” he yells. “Come on up!”
Tonight’s the season finale of 24, so Danny’s having a farewell screening on his roof. Evan and Carl are also coming. We’re all hard-core 24fanatics. Danny and I have been watching since it came on when we were in seventh grade. I remember being scared because it premiered right after September 11 and it’s all about terrorism, but I was riveted at the same time. I haven’t missed an episode yet. It’s the one show I have viewing rights for at home, but I usually try to watch it at Rhiannon’s. It’s so much cooler on the big screen.
We eat and drink and bullshit about nothing in particular. I watch the sun set over the Manhattan skyline. Which is so cool since these two final episodes tonight take place between five and seven in the morning, so we’ll be watching the sun rise right after the sun sets. Metaphysical, yo.
And then suddenly there’s yelling from the stairs. We turn to watch.
“Secure the perimeter!”
“Copy that!”
“Send the coordinates to my PDA!”
“Call for backup! We need a chopper!”
Carl kicks open the door. Evan runs onto the roof, pointing his imaginary gun toward us.
“CTU! Do not move!”
Carl comes running over. He’s all, “Drop your weapons!”
“I already used them on your mom,” Danny says. He takes another swig of soda.
“Yeah,” I go. “But just the handcuffs.”
Evan goes, “Tick boom! Tick boom!”
By the third commercial break, we’re all running around acting like Jack Bauer and reenacting the scenes with cell phones pressed to our ears. And the endless lit-up windows and the street noise and planes flying overhead all blend into the background.
CHAPTER 12
Tuesday
SHEILA AND BRAD are fighting again. Mr. Inappropriate Alert Guy should really let them know how tacky public fighting is.
And they don’t even care that people can hear. They’re right in the middle of the hall, yelling at each other.
Not that I’m watching or anything. I’m digging a book out of the back of my locker.
Here’s the fight:
Sheila: Just forget it.
Brad: Why are you freaking out about this?
Sheila: I’m not!
Brad: Then why aren’t you coming later?
Sheila: I have to go home.
Brad: But you left!
Sheila: Yeah, but now I’m going back!
Brad: Why?
Sheila: Because I have to!
Brad: What for?
But Sheila doesn’t answer. So Brad grabs her arm and pulls her over to the lockers. Sheila yelps like she just got burned.
Brad says, “Let me see?” Now he’s all quiet.
Sheila pulls up her sleeve. She’s facing away from me, so I can’t see anything.
“I said I was sorry.”
“That’s not good enough, Brad.”
“I told you I didn’t mean to.”
“Too late.”
Brad looks around. I already found my book. But I pretend that I’m still digging for it.
“Did you tell Nicole?” Brad asks.
“No.”
“But you told her something.”
“We were just talking.”
“About what?”
“None of your business!”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Can you just leave me alone?” Sheila says. She walks away from him.
“Sheila!” Brad yells after her.
But she doesn’t come back.
I couldn’t do the whole sitting with Rhiannon while she drools over the dumbass during lunch thing again. So I camped out in the computer lab instead. I wanted to get this English paper out of the way so I could focus on the program for Danny tonight.
But I didn’t really make much progress, due to a persistent combination of exhaustion and distraction. Which is why I’m back here in the lab after school.
Mr. Clements wants us to learn how to do Internet research without plagiarizing everything we find. Which is what everyone always does. Because everyone knows there’s no way teachers read everything we hand in. Especially long reports. Carl once wrote “I sucked your mom’s ass last night” in the middle of his Kierkegaard report just to prove that the teacher never reads anything. He got an A.
So for Mr. Clements’s philosophy class, we’re supposed to Google a few practice concepts and record any sites that look suspicious. This is to prove that not all information on the Web is valid. Just in case we didn’t already know this.
I Google the first entry. It’s Alain de Botton. He’s this contemporary philosopher dude who talks about how relationships are never what we think they are.
Everything looks legit. Even this site called Bookslut belongs to a book reviewer who’s legit.
What’s up with all these sites? Okay, I’m a computer geek. It’s not exactly a secret. But there’s no way I’d spend all my free time creating these unnecessary sites. I’d rather put my energy into something that can change the world.
Suddenly this surge of exhaustion hits me. Almost knocks me off my chair. I stayed up way too late again.
It’s hard to focus on this.
A couple teachers are in the corner of the lab, using the fac
ulty computers. Of course I figured out the faculty password, but I haven’t had the need to use it yet. There’s a bulletin board on the wall above them with all the teachers’ names and their classroom numbers. Teachers’ first names are always so weird. It’s like, someone calls Mr. Clements “Richard” in real life? Far out.
I type Richard Clements in the Google box. I find out that he’s a master glassblower, an oncologist, an Australian journalist, and likes to fly planes with wild paint jobs. And the list goes on. It’s draining to even think about searching ahead enough to find the one who teaches here.
After I’m done, I’m passing by Mr. Farrell’s room when I hear someone talking. For some reason, I stop. And listen.
“. . . especially around here.”
Today’s Rhiannon’s tutoring day. Is he talking to her?
“Yeah, same here. Rhiannon lives down the street, so I hang out here a lot.”
That’s Nicole. Except it doesn’t sound like her exactly. Something about her voice sounds different.
“I’m surprised I’ve never seen you around, then. I’m here a lot, too. New York is, like, the smallest town on the planet with—”
“—running into people! I know!”
Now I’ve got it. What’s wrong with her voice. It’s got that high-pitched, bordering on hysterical tone girls get when they’re in hyper mode.
Because they like some guy.
This can’t be real. She can’t seriously like Mr. Farrell.
I lean against the wall, stuck. Do I listen more? Or do I go in and get her out of there? And where’s everyone else? I don’t hear anyone else talking. Maybe the rest of them left early. But then why would Nicole . . . right.
Nicole goes, “Where do you hang out around here?” And he actually tells her.
This can’t be real. Teachers don’t have these kinds of conversations with their students, about their personal lives and where they hang out. Right? That’s just way too much information.
Now he’s actually telling her that he lives in her neighborhood. Which I’m sure breaks one of the top ten rules listed under What Not to Do If You’re a Teacher. And she’s talking to him like . . . like they’re going out or something.
I’m so skeeved with the whole thing that I don’t notice Evan walking toward me until he’s halfway down the hall. I put my hand up like, Don’t say anything!but it’s too late.
He goes, “’Sup, James.”
I nod to him. He walks by the room. So now I have to go in.
I stick my head in the doorway. “Hey.” I make up a quick excuse to be there. “Did Rhiannon leave?”
And Mr. Farrell’s like, “Oh. Tutoring was canceled.” Like I need math tutoring.
Slick. The guy is slick. He’s playing it off like he wasn’t just flirting with some underage girl with a crush so huge you can hear it from the hall. And it’s obvious when you see her. Nicole’s all flushed. Her eyes are big and glassy. I’ve never seen her look like this. Even with Danny.
“So, uh . . .” I look at Nicole. “You ready?”
“Huh? Oh! No, yeah, I’m . . . yeah.” Her math book falls on the floor with a loud splat.
“Here.” I walk over and pick it up.
“Thanks,” Nicole says. She takes her book back. She avoids eye contact.
I stand there. Waiting. Trying not to look at Mr. Farrell.
I rub my left temple. I tap my pen against my notebook. It’s infuriating. There’s this whole jumbled mess of stuff I’m feeling, and I don’t know why.
“Whatcha doing?” Brian wants to know.
“Working on a computer program for someone.”
“For who?”
I tap my pen.
Brian hangs over my shoulder. “For who?”
“Danny.”
“Is Rhiannon coming over?” Brian loves it when she comes over. Especially when she sits with him on the beanbag chair and reads to him.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She’s busy.”
“With what?”
“Okay, Brian? I’m busy right now. I can’t really talk.”
“Everybody’s busy! No one wants to talk to me!”
One of his temper tantrums is definitely brewing. If I don’t intercept this now, it’s going to get ugly. Fast.
“Weren’t you guys reading Lafcadio last time?”
His lips are all pouty. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to finish it?”
“I thought you were busy.”
I put my pen down. “Not anymore, little man. Let’s move.”
We squish together in the beanbag chair in the corner. I’m too tall for this, but I kind of dig it when Brian presses his cheek against my shoulder, looking at the pictures while I read.
Right when Lafcadio is getting a marshmallow coat, Ma yells, “James! Phone!”
It’s Danny. He wants to meet at Cozy Soup ’n’ Burger, and he’s buying.
When I have so much money I don’t even know what to do with myself, I’m getting a personal chef. And every day she’s going to cook these exotic, elaborate dinners, exactly how I describe them. And I’ll invite over whoever I want. Friends who won’t ask annoying questions. Or a girlfriend who just wants to relax and watch a movie while we eat.
Or maybe I’ll just order in every night. And eat alone.
“So, how’s the speech?”
Danny takes a swig of his egg cream. “Almost done.”
“Nice.”
“How’s the program coming?”
“Almost done,” I tell him. Even though I have a ton more work to do on it. But it shouldn’t take that long.
“Thanks again, man.”
“No sweat.”
“Yeah, so.” Danny picks up his veggie burger. “I’m thinking of asking Nicole to the dance.”
I never know what to say when he brings up Nicole. Neutral is the best approach.
“Yeah?” I go.
He nods and chews. “What do you think?”
“Well, yeah. I mean . . . if you think she’ll go.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
Now’s probably not the best time to remind Danny that she was the one who dumped him. Since he’s apparently developed a severe case of selective amnesia. And me trying to cure him will only piss him off.
“No . . . you should. Go for it.”
“You gotta put it out there to get it back. It’s all about the karma.”
“Exactly.”
“So. What about you?”
“Meaning?”
“Who are you asking?”
“Oh.” The thing is, I don’t really want to ask Rhiannon anymore. “I don’t know.”
“Now that Jessica’s out of the picture, you’re free, bro.”
“And?”
“And . . . what are you waiting for?” Danny’s looking at something behind me. It’s the third time he’s looked.
“What’s up?”
He leans over the table. “Those girls over there? Have been checking us out since they got here.”
“Word?”
“Dead ass.”
I turn halfway around. He’s right. They do that thing where they snap their heads back so fast you know they were just looking at you.
“Nice,” I say. I take an onion ring from the pile between us.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“About what?”
“Man.” Danny chews his veggie burger. “You’re hopeless.”
“If you’re talking about those girls, they’re not my type.”
“Not your type?”
“No.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What does it sound like it means?”
“It sounds like an excuse to be miserable. What happened with Jessica anyway?”
“I told you.”
“Well, I wasn’t convinced.”
“She was . . .” I pick up a
nother onion ring. “She was jealous of Rhiannon.”
Danny watches me.
I give him an exasperated look. “She didn’t get how we’re just friends.”
“So why didn’t you explain it?”
“I tried.”
“Right.”
“Whatever. I wasn’t that into her anyway.”
Danny glances over at the girls. There’s a burst of giggling from their booth. “Let’s see. Jessica is gorgeous. And smart. And funny. And interesting.”
“And your point is?”
“She’s all those things, but you weren’t that into her.”
“Exactly.”
“Unbelievable, man.”
Danny is the smartest person I know. So I really don’t get why he consistently evades grasping this simple concept. Just because some girl is girlfriend material to him shouldn’t imply that I have to agree. I mean, the guy derives equations to predict future climate change due to global warming for fun, and he can’t get this?
“I’m setting you up with someone for the dance,” Danny mentions.
“Who?”
“Just someone from Millennium.”
I really don’t want to start something up with another girl right now. And I’m sure this fix-up will be a disaster.
The girls from the other table get up to leave. They stare at us as they walk by our table. Slowly. Staring.
Danny and I attack the pile of onion rings.
PART TWO
May 24-26
Have the courage to follow
your heart and intuition.
They somehow already know
what you truly want to become.
—Steve Jobs
RHIANNON CHAPTER 13
Wednesday
THE WHOLE THING looks awesome the next morning. Huge and exciting and scary. Like something that would only happen in a movie.
Kids crowd around it, trying to figure out what it means.
Someone says it’s a bomb threat.
Someone says school was canceled.
Someone else says the police were already here and it’s not.
This other girl says how it’s the terrorists.
So now I’m nervous about getting in some serious trouble. I’ve never been in any kind of trouble, so possibly getting suspended is really scaring me. But I don’t think I’ll get caught. There’s another Steve in this school who’s a sophomore, so there’s the possibility that people will think it’s for him instead. And as far as the school is concerned, Steve and I are ancient history that people can hardly remember. So much drama has happened with other people since we broke up that our relationship is like something from way back in the Cretaceous Period. Plus, it’s not like I signed it or anything.