I scroll down.
Relationship Status Single
Looking for Women
How is Cody Grainger still single in fifteen years?
Okay, let’s say I divorce Kevin in London, bring the kids back to the States, and marry Cody. It’s a long shot, but nothing’s impossible. With that thought in mind, I log off Facebook, disconnect from AOL, and lay down on my bed.
A few minutes later, the phone rings. I’m not answering. Whoever it is can just leave a message.
“Emma!” Martin calls.
How long has he been home? I hope he didn’t hear my argument with Josh.
“Are you upstairs?” he asks. “Your dad’s on the phone.”
I unplug the cord from my computer and snap it into my phone. As I do this, I step on the damp stain on my carpet. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone right now, especially my dad. I feel guilty that I haven’t called to thank him yet. Plus, he gets all lovey on the phone, which will only make me feel worse.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“Is there a problem?” he asks. He sounds stern. “I left you a message over the weekend, and again on Monday, and I still haven’t heard back. It’s Wednesday, Em. Mom said the computer arrived on Saturday.”
I can’t do this now. “I know. I started an email to you, but I’ve been—”
“Too busy to thank me? I’m pretty sure I raised you to be—”
“Oh! So you’re raising me now.”
He pauses. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” My voice rises. “You have a new family and you’re trying to get rid of me by giving me gifts. Is that fair?”
“I don’t know where this attitude—”
I slam down the receiver.
thursday
43://Josh
I TURN THE DIAL to Hot and water sprays into the washing machine, sending up waves of steam. After pouring a circle of blue detergent over the dirty clothes, I shut the lid. It’s been a while since I’ve been inspired to clean my room, but last night I scooped all my clothes into a big heap and shoved two years’ worth of Thrasher magazine into the closet. There’s no way to predict when Sydney will first come up to my room, so I want to be ready.
I pass the table where my parents are eating breakfast. Dad is crunching on buttered toast while Mom sips her coffee.
I grab the Lucky Charms in the pantry and linger there for a moment, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to them. My parents got home late last night, and everyone was too tired to discuss what had happened in Dad’s office.
“You’re doing laundry before school?” Mom says. “That’s unusual.”
“I cleaned my room,” I say from the pantry.
“Even more unusual,” Dad says.
They used to bug me about straightening my room, but eventually they gave up. If they want to view this as my way of apologizing for yesterday, that’s fine.
“I’ll be vacuuming this weekend,” Dad says. “I’ll run it over your carpet now that there’s a floor again.”
I head to the table. “I’ll take care of it,” I say, shaking the cereal into a bowl. “It’ll be a nice break from homework. They’re piling it on before finals.”
“We noticed you were in your room all evening,” Mom says. “It’s good to see that your studies haven’t been forgotten.”
I’m late for school one time, by just a few minutes, and now they’re concerned about my homework. If they knew I become a successful graphic designer with a huge house on the lake, they’d stop stressing over one little tardy.
“I haven’t fallen behind all year,” I say, pouring milk over my cereal.
Mom leans across the table and touches my hand. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had.”
“We know we’re lucky,” Dad adds. “We don’t take it for granted that, other than this one time, you’ve been very responsible about getting yourself to school.”
“After you left, we polled a few of our colleagues,” Mom says, “and some of their children are late to school way more often than they’re on time.”
One reason my parents feel overbearing is their need to discuss everything. That was probably why David moved across the country. He wasn’t comfortable with them knowing every part of his life.
I definitely can’t tell Mom and Dad that Emma kissed me. She lives right next door! They’d be nervous wrecks every time I’m home alone. Tyson would listen, but it’s not fair to drag him into this when he sees Emma every day.
Mom drops another sugar cube into her coffee. “We want you to know that we don’t have a problem if you get rides to school with Emma.”
I bring a heaping spoonful of Lucky Charms to my mouth.
“We love Emma,” Dad says. “But getting yourself to school on time is nonnegotiable.”
“Okay,” I say, a line of milk dribbling from my lips. I wipe my chin with a napkin.
Outside, Emma’s car door slams shut. I glance up at the clock. If she’s leaving this early, that means she’s intentionally avoiding me.
We are now officially not speaking to each other.
44://Emma
I ADJUST MY REARVIEW MIRROR when I reach the end of the block. If Josh expects me to apologize for kissing him, he can keep waiting. Maybe I screwed up, but the way he went off on me was hurtful. I stayed in my room for the rest of the evening, coming downstairs only for dinner. I tried practicing my sax, which usually relaxes me, but I couldn’t hold any notes.
I turn left at the intersection. I need to call my dad tonight to tell him I’m sorry. It was generous of him to buy me a computer. I just don’t understand why he didn’t pick up the phone when I called him back last night. I tried his number twice, and both times it went to the answering machine.
“This is the Nelson household,” Cynthia’s voice said. “Sorry we missed your call. Please leave a message after the beep.”
We used to be the Nelson household.
I couldn’t bring myself to leave a message.
I STEER INTO the drive-thru at Sunshine Donuts.
“What’ll it be?” comes a woman’s voice through the speaker-box.
I lean out my window. “One cinnamon donut. That’s all.”
There are three cars in front of me at the pickup window. To pass the time, I study the poster for Sunshine Donuts. The O is bright yellow with long rainbow-colored sun-rays. A beaming woman holding a tray of glazed donuts exclaims, “Have a Sunshine day!”
My day felt awful the moment I woke up, and it’s all because of what Josh said. I was not jerking him around. Josh is my best friend. I wouldn’t manipulate him like that.
By the time I get to the pickup window, my donut craving is gone.
The woman has puffy golden hair bridled beneath a net. She holds out a white paper bag. “Cinnamon?”
“I think I changed my mind. I’m not hungry anymore.”
“You don’t want it?” she asks, jostling the bag.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I leave the parking lot and merge back onto the road.
THERE ARE TWO WEEKS until finals, and teachers are starting to put on the pressure. During the history final, we’ll have to compose three long essays. For the English final, we have to be prepared to analyze any of the books we read this year. In band, our overall grade will be heavily affected by our performance in this weekend’s Memorial Day parade.
I’m not in the mood for studying, but I also can’t screw anything up. I need a good grade point average to take that college biology class, which leads me into marine biology someday. If my future is bad, I can’t blame it all on Kevin Storm. It’s my responsibility, too.
Even so, everything is getting under my skin. The ticking clocks in every classroom, the halls that reek of fruity perfume, Anna Bloom’s giggle in the library. I’d never paid much attention to Anna before, but after I saw her flirting with Josh yesterday, I’ve been seeing her everywhere. And everyone I pass is buzzing about tomorrow’s Senior Skip Day and Rick’s b
onfire.
Between third and fourth periods, I spot Josh ahead of me. I dart into the bathroom and stay there until the bell rings.
“I LOVE FRIES,” Kellan says as we push our trays through the lunch line. “They energize me.”
I eye the wilted salad-bar lettuce and the puddles of grease on the pizza. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave home before Josh, I wouldn’t have forgotten my lunch on the kitchen counter.
“When we register for the college class,” Kellan says, “remind me to take you to the student café. They make the best curly fries.”
As I reach for a peach yogurt, I think about what I’ve seen of Kellan’s future. I couldn’t tell much about her career, just that she lives in Philadelphia and works for a sign language school. She doesn’t become the doctor or scientist she always talks about, but unlike me, she sounds happy.
After paying for our food, we head to the ketchup pump.
“Will you grab me some napkins?” Kellan asks. “Get some for Tyson, too. That boy never wipes his hands, which is just plain nasty.”
Something’s definitely up with her and Tyson. Back when they were a couple, Tyson occupied all her thoughts. She doted on him, bringing him cookies and cough drops and packs of spearmint gum.
Kellan nods toward the door. “Ready?”
I don’t move. “Can we eat inside today?”
She looks at the door, then back at me. “What about Tyson and Josh?”
I don’t know how to answer.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“I could use a little space from Josh right now.”
Kellan walks to the nearest open table. “Does this have anything to do with Skanky Mills getting him out of class today?”
My stomach tightens. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure exactly,” Kellan says, “but when I was dropping off an attendance sheet in the front office, Her Royal Highness was there. I overheard her asking the Student Council advisor for permission to excuse Josh for the rest of the afternoon. She said it was for Student Council business.”
I stare at my pale orange yogurt. Whatever “business” Sydney has in mind, Josh is well-prepared with his studly new boxers.
Kellan grins mischievously, leans in close, and whispers, “I’m sure she’ll be so impressed when he whips out his wallet and produces that antique condom.”
45://Josh
“BOMBS AWAY!”
A sandwich drops from the sky and lands at my feet. Tyson charges toward me. I pick up the sandwich and underhand-toss it back to him. He catches it like a football, spins a full circle, and then plops down next to the lunch tree.
“You’ve been holding out,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were driving around with Sydney Mills yesterday.”
How did he find out? I can’t imagine Emma said anything.
“Sydney-frickin’-Mills!” he adds.
“I would’ve called to tell you,” I say, “but things got crazy last night.”
Tyson’s jaw drops. For effect, he pushes his chin back in place, and then he holds up his hand for a high five. “Crazy with Sydney?”
“Not exactly,” I say.
Tyson lowers his hand and begins to unwrap his sandwich.
If Sydney had kissed me, I would’ve high-fived him back. Instead, Emma kissed me. The moment our lips touched, I was back to where I was six months ago. It was the kiss I wanted last November. It felt like everything that happened this week had finally brought us together again. We could start over.
Then I realized the truth. She wasn’t kissing me because of who I am. She had that chance last fall. Emma just needed something that would create a huge ripple, and she didn’t care if it hurt my future. But more than that, she didn’t care if it hurt me.
“All morning, people have been asking about you and Sydney,” Tyson says. “Dude, how could you leave me hanging like that?” He takes a large bite of his sandwich.
“How did everyone find out?”
“Her convertible is hard to miss,” he says. “No offense, but what were you doing in her passenger seat?”
This must be what it’s like to live in Sydney’s orbit. People notice everything you do and then gossip about what they saw. Even though it’s happening to me now, it’s not about me. I’m just a tiny satellite getting pulled in by Sydney’s gravity.
I look across the length of the empty football field. If Emma was coming, she would’ve been here by now.
AFTER LUNCH, I have Word Processing I with Mr. Elliott. The class has three long tables, all lined with desktop computers. I press the green power button on my computer and then lean back in my chair while it boots up.
Two scenarios play out in my mind. One is that Emma didn’t come to the tree for lunch because she’s still too mad or embarrassed. The other scenario is that Emma left school and went home to investigate Facebook alone. But since Kellan wasn’t at lunch either, they’re probably together. As angry as Emma may be, I can’t imagine her pulling Kellan into this.
Mr. Elliott walks up to my computer and drops a blue slip onto my keyboard. “You need to head to the front office.”
Again? But why this time? The slip has my name written just above the secretary’s signature. The last few class periods of the day are all circled in dark black ink.
Paranoia hits me. What if Mr. Elliott has been monitoring Emma’s computer and he knows what we’ve been doing? A computer geek might know how to do that. Maybe that’s why Emma never made it to lunch. Maybe they nabbed her, but she wouldn’t give up my location!
As calmly as possible, I ask, “Do you know what this is about?”
“All I know,” Mr. Elliott says, scratching a flaky patch on the side of his head, “is you can take your stuff with you because you won’t be coming back.”
I CAN ALREADY VISUALIZE my parents—brows furrowed and arms crossed—waiting for me in the principal’s office. The school psychologist will be there, and maybe a physics or history teacher to share their perspectives. Emma and her mom will be sitting in chairs, and Martin too, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Playing with your futures,” the principal will say, shaking his head with disapproval. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
The teachers will lecture us about the potential repercussions, not only to us, but to the entire future of mankind.
“There you are!”
Sydney is standing outside the front office, grinning excitedly. She’s wearing a light pink button-down shirt, jeans, and sandals. She rises onto her toes and offers a flippy little wave.
I can’t help smiling back. “What are you doing here?”
Sydney points to the blue slip in my hand. “How do you like your get-out-of-jail-free card?”
“This was you?”
She winks at me. “You’re welcome,” she says, then takes the paper from my hand and opens the office door.
Mrs. Bender, the secretary, greets us from behind the counter. “All I need are your blue slips and you’re good to go.”
Sydney reaches across the counter, and her jeans pull tight around her perfectly shaped body. “Here they are, Mrs. B.” Then she turns toward me, loops her arm into mine, and leads us out into the hallway.
“Got everything you need?” she asks. “We’ll be gone until the end of school.”
I’m having a hard time focusing with her body so close to mine. Also, the top two buttons on her shirt are undone.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Errands!”
My textbooks for tonight’s homework are in my backpack. I’m not sure about reading assignments for my afternoon classes, but I can call people for those. I still don’t know why we’re being allowed to go, so I want to get out of here before anyone realizes there’s been a mistake.
While leaving the main building, Sydney explains our mission. As president of Student Council, she has to pick up items for several year-end events. The vice-president was
set to run the errands with her, but he sprained his ankle in gym and had to back out. To fill his spot, Sydney chose . . . me!
“I didn’t know Student Council had this much power,” I say. “Can you get out of class whenever you want?”
“You have to be careful. But if the school views it as a learning experience, they’ll approve it,” she says. “We have a lot of errands to run today, so I drove this bad boy.” She taps the rear bumper of a black Jeep Cherokee SUV.
“Is this yours?” I ask. Yesterday’s convertible seemed more her style.
“It’s my sister’s,” she says. “But she and her fiancé swapped with me for the day. They live down the street from us, so it’s no big deal. We do it all the time.”
I walk to the passenger side and climb in. On the seat between us is a clipboard with a to-do list.
“Buckle up,” she says, starting the engine. “For the next few hours, your muscles are mine.”
I PICK UP a silver and black business card tucked into the drink holder. “Electra Design?”
“That’s one of my dad’s companies,” Sydney says. “They do graphic design work.”
Electra Design.
“He’s always starting new businesses,” Sydney adds. “My mom tells him he’s a workaholic and that he needs to hire more people to help him.”
He’s going to hire me. Someday, I’m going to work at Electra Design . . . for her dad.
We pull into the same shopping center as GoodTimez Pizza, but drive across to the opposite end. Sydney backs into a parking spot in front of Trophy Town and then cuts the engine. We hop out and I help her raise the rear window and lower the tailgate. She leans in to smooth out a blue tarp in back, and I can’t help catching a glimpse down her shirt. She’s wearing a pale pink bra, almost the same color as her shirt. And Tyson would be happy to know that her breasts look mind-bogglingly real.