Andrea sees me. “Hi, Evelyn,” she says, but she doesn’t turn away from her reflection.
“Hi,” I say.
“Is Ajax here?”
“Yeah.” My tongue feels like sandpaper.
“In the gym?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good.” Andrea smoothes on some lip gloss and smacks her lips together. She hands her purse to a girl in a pink tennis dress and spins around. “Ladies?”
She says this and everyone snaps to attention. She walks out the door and everyone follows.
By the time we get to the gym, music is blaring. But still no one is dancing.
The boys have migrated from the snack table to the “arcade” at the far end of the gym. It is a sad sight—only three games, and one of them is pinball.
On the bleachers, most of the boys are playing handhelds by themselves, which they could be doing in their own living rooms. I notice that Ajax isn’t playing anything. He’s standing in center court with a bunch of other eighth-grade boys, doing what they do best: stealing one another’s hats, punching one another’s shoulders, burping. I watch them for a while, sickly fascinated. They can’t stop moving for a second. They have to be hitting one another, or dodging out of the way, or grabbing their crotches at all times.
One of them has his hands down his pants at this very moment, making adjustments.
Eighth-grade boys are gross. It’s a wonder girls want anything to do with them.
Was Linus like this when he was their age? I can’t imagine it. He’s so much cooler than they are. Not to mention more civilized and a better dresser. He’s someone who understands not to use an entire bottle of cologne in one sitting.
Next to Linus, these guys are babies. I can’t believe I wasted my makeover on them.
Over by the DJ booth, Andrea and her friends are crowded around, and I know exactly what they’re requesting.
Can you, like, play something slow?
And the DJ nods and fiddles with his headphones and presses a few buttons, and something slow and cheesy comes on and every air molecule in the gym shifts.
You don’t just feel the energy mutation; you can see it.
Slow song…
One by one, the boys put down their video games.
Slow song…
They remove their fingers from their noses and wipe them on their jeans and begin the painful shuffle across the gym floor to where the girls are waiting.
I don’t know if anyone’s planning to ask me to dance, and I don’t care. Right now I have bigger things to worry about. Like which girl Cleanser Boy is walking toward.
I can’t look.
I make a beeline for the pinball machine, which has been deserted.
I yank the spring loader and watch as my little silver ball flies up the chute.
Whizzzz!
I don’t see Ajax walk over to a clump of girls.
Ping!
A clump of girls who are definitely not wearing tennis dresses.
Ping! Ping!
Or braids.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I don’t see him stop in front of Maya Glassman, who is on the soccer team and pretty—in a freckly, girl-next-door sort of way—but definitely not in Andrea’s league.
Ping! Ping! Pingpingping!
My ball bounces around like crazy, and I am flipping the little flippers, trying desperately to keep it from falling into the ditch. So I don’t see Ajax lead Maya out onto the dance floor and put his hands on her shoulders and steer her around in the slow box that seems to be the signature dance move of all eighth-grade boys.
Pingpingpingpingping!…Pingpingpingpingping!
Ten thousand points! Bonus round!
For the first time ever, I understand why Mackey is addicted to video games. Even though pinball isn’t exactly a video game, and there aren’t any dragons involved, I get it.
As long as you’re playing, you can pretend that whatever’s going on in the world around you…isn’t.
I’m in the hall, getting a drink at the water fountain, when I find out what happened on the dance floor.
“Maya Glassman? What the hell? She’s not even hot.” The voice is Andrea’s. There’s no mistaking it.
I am frozen in place, water dripping down my chin, while the It Girls around the corner get louder.
“You’re way hotter than Maya Glassman, Drey.”
“Way hotter.”
“Way.”
“I can’t believe he slipped her the tongue.”
“Right there in front of, like, the entire universe.”
“That lying little wench.”
Andrea again. And this time I know she’s not talking about Maya Glassman.
Let the slaughter begin.
On a bench outside the Thorne School, I call Jules.
One thing I can be thankful for tonight: Thalia gave us a cell phone, for emergencies.
Well, this is an emergency.
“Mrs. Anthony?” I say. “It’s Evyn.”
“Evyn Linney. What a nice surprise. We miss you, sweetheart. How’s everything? How’s Boston?”
Normally, I would take the time to chitchat. But tonight is not normal. Tonight, I need my best friend.
“It’s okay. Can I talk to Jules?”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. She’s not home. She’s at a party.”
“A party?”
“Mmmhmm. At Jordan Meyerhoff’s house. You remember Jordan. From the football team?”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
Mrs. Anthony makes a cooing noise. “Such a handsome young man. And so polite. He seems to have taken quite a shine to Julia…”
I think about telling her the truth about Jordan Meyerhoff—that he’s the biggest tool in the toolshed, and she’d better go pick up her daughter right now, before something bad happens.
But somehow I don’t have the energy. Somehow, all I want to do is collapse on this bench and cry.
Stella? It’s me, Evyn.
Did you hear what they were saying about me? Do you know what they’re going to do to me?
Now the tears are flowing.
Oh, honey, Stella says. Don’t cry.
For the first time ever, I get mad at her. That’s all you can come up with? “Don’t cry”? That’s the best you can do? You can’t do any better than that? Thanks, Stella. Thanks a whole lot.
Stella shakes her head. You can’t let those girls get to you.
Right, I say.
She ignores my sarcasm and keeps going. Whatever they call you, just tell yourself, “I’m rubber, you’re glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”
I stare at her. What is this, first grade?
Stella smiles. Hey, it works.
Right.
Let’s try one, she says. Call me something.
What?
Call me something. Something mean.
I roll my eyes.
Humor me, honey.
Fine, I say. You’re a horrible mother.
Again, she smiles. Bounce!
Your advice is for crap.
She smiles wider. Bounce!
And I’m glad you’re up there instead of down here because if you were here I would hate you…I DO hate you.
Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!…See? Stella says. Not a dent.
She looks down at me, and her eyes are warm and soft, even though the things I said to her were beyond harsh.
I know I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, which is what a good daughter would say to her dead mother right now. I’m sorry, Mom, and thank you for giving me the tools to cope in this cold, cruel world.
But I don’t feel sorry—I feel mad. At everyone.
Mad at the sweater twins for dressing me like this. Mad at Ajax for dancing with Maya Glassman instead of Andrea. Mad at the It Girls for being so brutal. And at Jules for not being home when I need her, and at Mackey for never listening to a word I say, and at Birdie for falling in love and moving us here without asking and for morphing int
o someone I don’t even know anymore. Mad at Eleni most of all.
It’s not you, I tell Stella.
She smiles. I know it’s not, honey.
I don’t really hate you.
I know.
You must hate her as much as I do. Probably more. You hate her guts, don’t you?
And Stella says, Hate is a strong word, Evyn. She gives me a little lecture on the Golden Rule and deliberate word choice. Then she sighs. Yeah. I hate her, too.
Just like I knew she would.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I am in bed feeling sorry for myself when I smell something. French toast, I think. Also bacon. Part of me wants to eat, but the part that remembers last night doesn’t want to move. Ever. Staying in bed for the rest of my life sounds like a good plan. I can finish eighth grade through one of those Internet correspondence courses and never go to school again. I can forget everything that happened.
“Oh my God. How was the social?”
Unfortunately, the sweater twins aren’t going to let me.
“Did you get, like, a million compliments on your hair? Who did you dance with?”
“Did you hook up with anyone? Was there alcohol?”
From their loft beds, the two of them are staring down at me. They have matching mascara rings around their eyes, like raccoons. And matching bed-heads.
For a second I think about telling them what really happened, how in one evening I managed to 1) wear the completely wrong thing, yet again, 2) get asked to dance exactly zero times, and 3) incur the wrath of the most popular girl in school. For a second I wonder if maybe they’d have some advice for me—a smackeral of “sibling support” in my time of need.
But then I remember who I’m dealing with—the people who dressed me.
“Remember in eighth grade when Vinny Petrizzo spiked the punch with vodka and Jocelyn Weintraub puked all over Mr. B’s shoes?”
I wouldn’t tell them the truth in a million years.
“It was awesome,” I say. “I got totally wasted and kissed the soccer team.”
In stereo: “The whole team?”
“Well,” I say, “not Ajax. Obviously. That would be disgusting. But everyone else.”
Oh, I wish I had a camera right now. The looks on their faces must be captured.
Our stepsister is out of control.
It’s hard to tell if they’re horrified or proud. Either way, they have been rendered speechless, which is reason enough to celebrate.
I think I will eat after all.
I walk into the kitchen in my pajamas—flannel, with tiny horses and hay bales on them, circa sixth grade.
I walk into the kitchen with gel spikes on my head and pillow creases on my face and morning breath from the tenth circle of hell.
I walk into the kitchen and
there
he
is.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I can’t believe I’m wearing horse pajamas.
“I made the mother lode of French toast.”
I can’t. Believe. I’m wearing. Horse pajamas.
“You want o.j.?”
What I want is a toothbrush.
And a comb.
And the power to turn back time so I can run upstairs and start the morning over again, wearing a tube top and darkwash jeans.
I don’t say anything. I’m afraid to open my mouth.
But then Linus pulls out a chair and pats it, and I sit down at the table next to him. Suddenly, I can imagine a million mornings like this one, where we will wake up and eat breakfast together, and it won’t matter what I’m wearing because what we have goes beyond the superficial. What we have is the real deal.
So what if the sweater twins are here right now, running their motormouths? So what if Cleanser Boy—who very likely ruined my entire school year by asking Maya Glassman to dance—is stuffing his face with bacon? All I am thinking about is Linus. Linus Gartos, whose fingers are long and beautiful as he spatulas another slice of French toast onto my plate.
I could stay in the kitchen like this forever. The air is warm and smells like syrup. On the radio: soft rock. There is no On-drey-a. No honeymooners. There’s just Linus and me, and right now that’s all that matters.
Later on, we play cards—baby games like Crazy Eights and Old Maid because of Phoebe.
When it’s my turn, Linus hands me the deck and our fingers touch.
“Your deal, tough guy,” he says, winking.
Tough guy. Our private joke. Only someone whose nose has been bashed could understand.
Somehow I manage to shuffle without dropping any cards. I even try the waterfall.
“Sweet moves,” he says.
And I say, “Plenty more where that came from.”
He smiles, and I smile, and I ask him to cut the deck, and he does, and now our fingers are touching again.
I could definitely get used to this.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunday morning. The honeymooners are back. Eleni bursts through the door calling, “Kiiiids! We’re hoooome!” It’s obvious she thinks we’re the Brady Bunch and should all be lined up on the stairs in exact height order, big TV smiles plastered on our faces.
I stay where I am on the couch, stuffing myself with Oreos, my dirty sneakers propped up on the coffee table.
I listen to Birdie say, “Well, the place is still standing. That’s a good sign. I don’t smell any smoke…” and Eleni laughs like a hyena, and then Phoebe comes charging down the stairs. “Mommyyyyyy!”
By the time they make it to the den, everyone is crowded around, asking questions about their trip. Stupid ones.
How was the drive? Was the foliage beautiful?
Did you mountain bike?
Did you have room service for, like, every meal?
(It wasn’t a hotel, Clio—duh—it was a B and B.)
(Shut up, Cassi. B and B’s have room service, too.)
So, was it, like, the most romantic week EVER?
Did you white-water raft? Did you bungeejump?
Did you miss me? I missed you, Mommy. I missed you, Al. Did you miss me?
Linus isn’t with them (weep, weep). He had an exam to study for. But Mackey is, and although he hasn’t opened his mouth yet, there he stands, right smack in the middle of it all.
“Hey, Mack.” Birdie throws an arm around him. “Congrats.”
“Or should we be calling you Joseph now?” Eleni smiles with every tooth. “To help you—what is it they say in the theater? Get into character?”
Mackey turns red and mumbles something I can’t understand.
Then Thalia pipes in. “Miss Mundt—she’s the stage manager? She says that the musical director, Mr. Soderberg, says that Mackey is the most talented high-school tenor he’s ever worked with. At the first rehearsal, everyone was completely blown away.”
Now comes a run-through of everyone else’s triumph-o’-the-week.
Phoebe: Outstanding-plus in capital letters.
Cleanser Boy: Two goals, four assists.
Sweater Twin #1: Asked out by Kevin O’Reilly. Yes, THE Kevin O’Reilly.
Sweater Twin #2: Remember that skirt she wanted? The purple suede one with the fringe? It finally went on sale—-forty-five percent off. So she bought it!
Thalia: Finished her application essay for Williams, and it’s good. Really, really good.
Betty Boop claps every time. “Way to go!” she says. “Good for you!”
Meanwhile, Birdie has worked his way over to where I’m sitting and is trying to butter me up. “Hey, Ev. Make some room for your old man, huh?” He goes in for the hug-’n’-head-scrub routine, like nothing has changed between us. “Missed you, kiddo.”
“Uh-huh.” I grab another Oreo, twist it open, scrape out the creamy middle with my teeth.
“Evyn!” Eleni notices me for the first time. “How was your week? How was school? How was the social? How was—” She stops and claps one hand over her mouth. “Errrm.”
Birdie leaps up. “Honey?”
“Errrrrm.”
“Again?”
Eleni nods wildly. Then she claps the other hand over her mouth and hightails it out of the room.
Of course, Birdie is two steps behind her.
Phoebe whimpers. “What’s wrong with Mommy?”
We can all hear the lovely sound of puke hitting hardwood.
“Stomach bug!” Birdie calls out. “Nothing to worry about! Probably a twenty-four-hour thing!”
I twist open another Oreo and try not to smile.
I know I am a terrible person for feeling the way I do, because Eleni has never done anything bad to me, but I’m glad she’s sick anyway. I don’t know why it makes me feel good that she feels rotten, but it does.
Stella understands. She gets it, and she doesn’t judge. Later, when I’m by myself, we will talk about it. Correction: I will talk, and she will nod along like she agrees with everything I say.
I know. I’m not delusional. I know that Stella is me, and I am Stella. I know that when I talk to her I am really just talking to myself. And I hate that I know that. Because knowing that reminds me that I am completely alone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Monday morning begins with a deep freeze. In homeroom, Chelsea and Jaime talk over me like I’m not here. It’s just like the first week of school, only this time I’m not invisible. This time I’m prey.
I busy myself with my assignment book and try to ignore their conversation, which is about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“Can you believe some people had the nerve to come to school today?” Chelsea says.
Like I had a choice.
And Jaime says, “Some people should think about transferring…”
Believe me, I have.
“…‘Cause this is, like, an all girls’ school, and some people obviously, like, aren’t.”
Ouch.
Even though I know it’s pointless, I touch Stella’s necklace and say the word softly to myself. Bounce.
“I hear the Thorne School is looking for a new bulldog mascot…”
Bounce.
“Ableson, Chelsea.” Mrs. Kilgallon bangs her ruler on the desk. “Ableson. Chelsea.”
“Present,” Chelsea says.
There is now a strict no-talking-while-attendance-is-being-taken rule, so you would think it would stop there, but it doesn’t. They just move on to other, more sophisticated forms of torture.