I know I have the frozen panic look on my face, but I try to shake it off and act casual. “Sorry, I have plans,” I lie.
“Maybe another time. We always have room for another player.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. I pretend to read from my history textbook, but for some reason I’m totally freaked. Talking with Dottie in study hall isn’t bad, or saying hi to her in the halls, but hanging out with her on the weekend? That’s crossing over into a territory I am not prepared to go. I can’t imagine what Bizza would say if she asked what I was doing this weekend (no doubt so she could use me and my brotherly connections for some guaranteed Van time) and I was all, “Oh, you know, fighting some dwarves with Dottie Bell.” Nope. Definitely not ready for that.
On my way back from tenth period I catch Barrett and Van talking near my locker. Van looks particularly amazing today, which makes no sense since he’s still wearing the same outfit. I think it’s the way his hair covers his face just enough to make him look sensitive, but his crooked nose still gives him a little danger. That, and as I watch his lips move while he talks to Barrett I keep fantasizing about him throwing me up against a locker and kissing me (as long as I can keep the image of he and Bizza out of the way). Of all the days for me to wear my Pikachu skirt, which I thought was funny at the time I made it but now think it just looks goofy and babyish.
“Hey, Jess.” Barrett catches my arm. He hasn’t been keeping up with his Mohawk, and the sides are getting fuzzy, the orange streaky and pale. “Do you mind hitching a ride with Van today? I kind of have an elsewhere to be.”
After our previous Van driving conversations, I’m surprised that Barrett will allow me near Van and his car. “Where?” I ask.
“I’m thinking of getting a job at the movie theater. You know, extra money toward college? Chloe Romano said she could probably get me a job.” He mumbles the name, but I hear it clearly.
“Chloe Romano the prom princess?” I laugh.
“That’s her,” he says, trying to sound dismissive, but definitely trying too hard. I had no idea my brother even knew the prom princess. Maybe they have some classes together or something.
“Okay. Sure. I can go with Van. Good luck with the job thing.” Barrett squeezes my arm and does some dorky hand thing with Van that the Crudhoppers made up.
Van watches Barrett walk off, and I watch Van. I fight hard and lose against his bad-boy syndrome.
Van saunters over to me and pinches the hem of my skirt. “Cute,” he says, and looks up at my face. Does he have to be such a flirt? If this were any other guy, touching my skirt, smiling his sexy smile at me, it would be so obvious what he wants. But Van—I don’t get him. I am so flustered by his attention that I just bust out, “So what’s up with you and Bizza?” He lets go of my skirt.
“Nothing really. She’s okay. A little young.” Strike one for me. “She sure likes me, huh?” And he smacks my shoulder like all of a sudden we’re buddies who get stoned every day together outside shop class. He seriously wants me to answer that?
“Yeah, I guess,” I try to say with disinterest. Even though I started this convo in the first place.
He leans forward again to finger the hem of my skirt, his thumb rubbing a tiny Pikachu face. “Careful. They bite,” I snap, totally disturbed by his simultaneous acts of flirting, bragging, and buddy smacking.
“Oh,” he drawls, and my skirt slowly drops from his fingers. Is he stoned? Is that it? Is he so totally high that he thinks it’s okay to blow off my too-young friend—even though, technically, she shouldn’t like him anyway because he was my crush first—and then touch my Pokèmon skirt? Twice?
“Can you take me home now?” My demanding impatience might make me seem like the Uptight Math Lover (which I kind of am), but the sleaze has hit the fan and I want out.
Van grabs for my hand (what?), and for a second I let him hold it. Haven’t I dreamt about moments exactly like this (and beyond) for years? But I’m just way too confused, and I let go with a juvenile giggle. Was he just holding my hand because I’m young and he wants to protect me? Or was he holding my hand to lead me into his den of backseat infestation?
My head spins with questions, and I’m grateful for the lack of AC in his car. Windows down, music blasting, I lean my head out of the window. Curiously, I still see the girl with the straight brown hair in the side-view mirror. How can I look so much the same when everything is happening around me?
When we get to my house, I jam the Gremlin’s sticky door open and quickly jump out. As I speed-walk to my front door, Van calls out the passenger window, “Tell Barrett the party’s on at my house Sunday. Nine o’clock. You should come, too.” I turn around to catch him wink at me before his car sluggishly pulls away. I have no response because I have no clue what to think or say anymore when it comes to Van.
Inside our house, my dad is in the kitchen washing dishes. “Hi, Jess. How was your official first week back?” he asks.
“Same ol’,” I say, just making conversation.
“Bizza called. She told me to tell you she just left you some messages on your cell phone.”
I pull my phone out of my backpack. Six missed calls and three messages. I must not have heard it ring over the din in Van’s car. Reluctantly, I hit the PLAY MESSAGES button. The first message is from Bizza.
“Hey, Jess, I was thinking we should totally have a good old-fashioned sleepover with Char tomorrow night. Wouldn’t that be fun? Kiddie cocktails and sappy movies and shit? We can do each other’s hair—just kidding. But yeah, let me know when we should come over to your house. It’ll be fun. Later.” It’s nothing new for Bizza to invite herself to my house on a weekend (she hates when her parents are around), but it’s been forever since we had a sleepover. I love the idea, though, and hope it can be like old times. As long as the conversation doesn’t turn to Van. Or hair. Or Van’s hair.
Char’s message is a semi-repeat of Bizza’s, but with the added politeness of what snacks should she bring.
The third message is Bizza again. “Heeyyy—there’s this party at Van’s that we should totally go to on Sunday. I think he’d be cool if you came. Maybe you could ask Barrett to drive us? Cool. Later.” Bizza would think this was her invite and I’m just tagging along. Um, he asked me, thank you very much. With a wink, no less. But of course my brother will drive us. How frigging annoying, yet so Bizza. Then I remember how Van said she liked him and not the other way around, and I feel a little better. But also a little bitchy.
I return to the kitchen for a snack, and Barrett walks in with a big grin. “You are looking at the newest member of the Greenville Cinema concession stand butter pumpers. I start next week.”
“Congrats,” I say as I yank on a stalk of celery with my teeth. “Free popcorn for family, right?” I hint.
“I think I can manage to sneak you some day old, if you’re good,” Barrett teases, grabbing a can of cream soda from the fridge.
“Oh, then I’ll be sure to be on my best behavior,” I say dryly. “By the way, Van told me to tell you that the party is on Sunday at nine at his house.”
“A party? On a Sunday?” Dad cracks eggs into a bowl to make omelets for dinner.
“It’s Labor Day, Dad,” I tell him.
“How could I forget? America’s reward for the poor teachers who had to go back to work.” Dad looks out the kitchen window dreamily.
“Can I go?” I ask.
“I don’t see why not, as long as you don’t stay out too late,” Dad answers.
“I was kind of talking to Barrett.”
“Ouch.” Dad staggers, pretending I stabbed him in the heart. “My little girl doesn’t need me anymore.”
“Daaaad.” I love it when he calls me his little girl. I know it’s the type of thing that annoys most people, but for me it means that it’s okay if I don’t change too much. Definitely dorky.
“Sure you can come. And you’ll be bringing the poseurettes, I assume?”
“You assume c
orrectly. In fact, according to Bizza, she’s bringing us. With you as chauffeur, of course.”
“Good old Buzza,” Barrett muses as he helps Dad chop vegetables.
After avoiding Van and Bizza and all of their whatever all week, I get to spend a three-day weekend completely consumed in their whatever. Can’t wait.
chapter 11
I’M UP EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, working on a new skirt. After every holiday the fabric store has a mega sale on the appropriate fabrics, so I stock up. I’m working on a series of valentine skirts, and I have enough different sale fabrics from last year to last almost the entire month of February (a nice short month). This particular skirt is filled with goofy Dalmatians and hearts on a red background. So random.
I called Bizza and Char last night and okayed the sleepover. My parents are always happy to host, and since they are both teachers all day, they’ve seen enough children during the week and usually stay out of our way.
As I sew, I listen to an audiobook. This one is called Life as We Knew It, about a teenage girl trying to survive with her family after a meteor hits the moon, pushing it closer to Earth. Because the moon affects the tides, there are tsunamis and earthquakes everywhere. The possibility of this actually happening is scaring the crap out of me. Way more than the Stephen King.
I’m almost finished with the skirt when Barrett groggily walks by my open bedroom door. “Morning, Sunshine.” He yawns.
I hold up my skirt, and he gives it a logy thumbs-up as he makes his way to the bathroom. I go on sewing, freaking as I listen to the world possibly coming to an end. The shortage of food is making me really hungry.
Barrett, Mom, and I eat a breakfast of Dunkin’ Donuts, our Saturday morning ritual. Dad stopped participating a couple of years ago after the doctor told him his cholesterol was high. He can’t even be in the kitchen with the donuts because, as he put it, “That smell haunts me.” Right now he’s in the garden as we gluttonize.
I pick up one of my two donuts, a strawberry frosted. It is so perfect and smooth, I almost hate to eat it. That feeling lasts for only a second as I bite into the flaky goodness.
“Did you know”—Mom says between bites of a (gross) jelly-filled—“that Dunkin’ Donuts used to package their dozens in a different box than this? It was more like a shoe box, six donuts per side. They always stuck together, so even if you just wanted a strawberry glaze you’d end up with a little chocolate on the back or some powered sugar.”
“Please tell me not jelly?” I fake panic.
“I’m afraid so, dear. I think that they started laying donuts flat after Krispy Kreme became popular.”
We all boo. Our family hates Krispy Kreme. Krispy Kreme stores were only recently introduced to the Midwest and were a huge deal when they popped up in random cities. We had already been celebrating Dunkin’ Donuts since forever, so we were hesitant to give another franchise our business. We drove over forty-five minutes for the grand opening of the nearest Krispy Kreme store, and when we got there it was packed. Line out the door. So we waited. And waited. When we finally got inside, we watched the donuts ride through their shower of whiteness. By the time we got to the counter, we were starving. Like the donut-loving fools we are, we ordered three dozen original glazed because we were just so excited that the warm donut light was on. Plus, whatever we couldn’t finish we would share with the neighbors. In the car, I wolfed down two hot, melty donuts. My dad, precholesterol check (perhaps this is what upped his cholesterol to deadly proportions) ate five or six (he ate them so fast, he lost count). My mom had a couple, but sipped her coffee to slow her down. Barrett was the only one who contained himself, and not because he was on a diet. As I gorged, he watched with a disgusted look. “What?” I demanded, my mouth full of creamy donut goo.
“How can you eat them after seeing that stuff dribble down on them on the conveyer belt?”
“You mean that white stuff? The glaze?” I couldn’t see a problem.
“It looked like”—he paused for grody, dramatic effect— “jizz.”
“Barrett!” my mom yelled from the front seat. My dad stopped eating.
“What’s jizz?” I asked, hating to be naive.
“Yes, Barrett, why don’t you tell your little sister what jizz is, since you brought it up?”
Barrett looked incredulously at Mom. “You’re the parent. You should educate her on such matters.”
“If you’re going to use a word like jizz in my car, young man, and ruin my magical donut experience, then you can give the sex-ed lecture,” my dad said. He wasn’t so much mad as he was annoyed that he had to stop stuffing in the donuts in order to have a conversation.
“Whatever.” Barrett turned to me all big brotherly. “You see, Jessie, when a man and a woman love each other—”
“Shut up!” I yelled, embarrassed. “I had sex ed last year, thank you very much, and they didn’t say anything about Krispy Kremes. Just get to the point.”
“You know that stuff showering down from Krispy Kreme heaven?” Barrett asked me seriously.
“Yeah.”
“You know that stuff that shoots out of a guy’s . . .” He didn’t have to finish, thanks to a graphic diagram that popped into my head from the boy portion of our sex-ed film.
“Ohmigod.” I was mortified, not to mention disgusted. Just as Barrett, I’m sure, would never want to know what my period looks like, I had no interest in visualizing his bodily functions.
“Well, now that that’s over . . .” Dad closed up the first box of our three dozen. On our way home we stopped at a gas station and left the three flat Krispy Kreme boxes on top of a garbage can. Thus, every Saturday we eat Dunkin’ Donuts.
I work on my second donut, always a colored sprinkler. I especially enjoy a holiday-themed colored sprinkler. Today’s is just a common multicolored.
“What time are your friends coming over tonight?” Mom asks me.
“Who’s coming over?” Barrett asks suspiciously.
“Bizza and Char. Around seven.”
“But we have band practice tonight,” Barrett practically whines. “I don’t want your friends invading the basement to swoon and interrupt with nauseating stories of sophomore rebellion.”
“I don’t want that either,” I say, annoyed, as if it’s my fault that my friends chose this new, punkified way of life. “It’s not like I want to sit around watching the Crudhoppers suck.” I was hitting below the belt, but this adds a whole new cruddy dimension to the evening. Am I going to have to spend the whole night finding new and exciting ways to keep my friends out of the basement?
“Why don’t you just put a sign on the door?” my mom suggests. “Like, ‘Keep out. Genius at work.’ ” I laugh at my mom’s attempt at intervention.
“Mom, you know Bizza. Even if the sign spelled out in giant, hot pink letters, ‘Keep out, Bizza,’ she would just turn it around in some way. Like, ‘It says my name, so they must actually want me down there.’ She doesn’t take no, and she doesn’t think it’s possible for someone to not want her around.” I slump.
“Jessie, there’s a lot going on with the ’Hoppers right now. Can you please try to keep the punk-lites out of the basement?” Barrett uses his puppy-dog eyes on me, and he did say please.
“I’ll try,” I say. Now I just have to think of 10,000 things for us to do in order to keep Bizza and Char from descending into forbidden territory.
I’m so edgy about tonight that I frantically make three more skirts. This audiobook doesn’t help. The family is almost out of food, and the air is dark and freezing and there’s no one around to help. I must remember to ask my mom about what canned goods we have stored in our pantry.
When the book is finally over (with a slightly relieving ending, although not enough to take the edge off), I lay down on my bed to work on my precalc homework. Nothing like math to make me forget about everything for a while. I make it through about three problems before I decide to straighten up my room for my impending guests. The doorbell
rings as I finish clearing off my bedroom floor to make room for Bizza’s and Char’s sleeping bags. I hear my mom open the door, and soon Bizza and Char are clomping up the stairs in their giant boots.
“Hey girl.” Bizza throws her stuff into a corner of my room. Her outfit is new to me: weird, kiltlike skirt, “vintage” Sex Pistols T-shirt, and these boot-shoe combination things with metal buckles. Char’s long hair is divided into dozens of multicolored braids. She’s wearing what I guess is a dress, but it looks more like a Victoria’s Secret nightie, finished off with her jumbo combat boots.
“Take off your shoes and make yourself comfortable,” I say, dreading the thought of listening to the clomping all night.
“Maybe later,” Bizza says, and she sits on the rug, legs crossed. I don’t see how that can be comfortable with those hard boots under her legs.
I walk over to Char and feel her braids. “You like? I did it while I was babysitting last night. Actually, the twins helped. I taught them how to braid and then made it into a contest to see who could make the most braids the fastest. I thought they would pull off my head, but they did a pretty good job. Now I have to bake them chocolate chip cookies, but I would do that anyway. Speaking of . . .” Char pulled a Tupperware container out of her bag.
“Pecan tassies!” Bizza and I shout at the same time. Char’s a fantastic baker, probably because she’s forced to spend so many hours at home. Pecan tassies are beautiful, my favorite, like tiny little pecan pies. She bakes them for us only on special occasions.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I hug Char and grab the container from her hands. Opening the lid, I inhale the pecan-y goodness. “May I?” I ask, tassie already so close to my mouth that no one else would want to eat it, anyway.