“What?”
Nick gazes at him so seriously I start to wonder what’s wrong. Apparently, Luis does, too; his face takes on a waiting, even fearful, look.
“I wanted to let you know,” Nick says. “After hearing the rest of that song on the way over here . . . my life is changed.”
Luis swats him, but they’re both laughing as Luis climbs out of the car. “Hell, Cleary, I try to give your sad little life some meaning, and this is what I get.”
“Well, thanks for trying,” Nick says. Luis trudges up the driveway, shaking his head.
I get in the front, as usual. Maybe it would make sense for me to ride in the front the whole time, but we’ve always done it this way, with me switching seats halfway through the ride. I don’t mind. Luis has more of a front-seat personality than I do.
As Nick backs out of the driveway, I ask him, “Should I come over?”
“Better not. I’ve got a ton of homework to get through if I want to go out tonight.”
“Out—with Vanessa?”
“Uh-huh.”
I can’t stop thinking of them together, Nick kissing her shiny mouth.
The thing is, it’s none of my business anymore.
Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Vanessa. It’s not like Nick is hooking up with Raleigh Barringer. He deserves some happiness, right? Good for him.
I try to change my mental channel, but the same image keeps playing.
“What do you guys talk about, anyway?” I ask. “I know she’s not into hiking. Or basketball.”
“Well, last night we talked about how she wants to work in Africa.”
“Africa?”
“Yeah—that’s why she’s taking French. She wants to work for a relief organization.”
“She does? Wow. I didn’t know that.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes . . .” I try to imagine Vanessa doing relief work in Africa. I’ve never seen her with a spot on her shirt or a wrinkle in her pants. Her nails are never even chipped.
“And sometimes we talk about movies,” Nick continues.
“Oh.”
“Should I record our next conversation for you?”
“Nick!” I force a casual tone. “Yeah, do that. Might as well get a video clip, too.”
He laughs.
“When’s our next hike?” I ask.
“I haven’t thought about it. Why, when do you want to go?”
“This weekend?”
“I can’t—it’s my weekend to see my father.” He says “see my father” in the same tone of voice most people would use to say “get a tetanus shot.”
“Oh.”
“I’d rather hike with you, Maggie, believe me,” he says while I’m gathering my stuff. “Dad never knows what to do with me.”
I adopt an infomercial-announcer voice. “But you’re a multipurpose son, handy for a wide variety of household activities.”
“Ha-ha. He thinks I’m useless.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His whole life is proteins. What do I know about proteins? Once he told me I couldn’t tell an amino terminus from a carboxy terminus. I’m guessing that’s a great insult among biochemists.” He glances at his pile of homework in the back seat. “I’ll probably bring Julius Caesar with me. I have to finish reading it sometime.”
“Yeah, I can see you and your dad sitting around reading
Shakespeare. Maybe you can act out the parts.”
“Not unless I get to be Brutus.”
“Nick, I’m sensing a little hostility toward your father.” “Only a little?” Before I can answer, he says, “I should get going. I’ll call you later.” And I open the car door.
On Friday night, while Nick is with his dad and Sylvie’s with Wendy, I go to the local library to work on my history paper. I’m outlining an essay about unions and the labor movement when Darci Esposito passes my table with Raleigh Barringer at her heels.
My blood freezes in my veins. The girls don’t seem to see me, but head for the reference room at the back of the library. “Find your glasses and then let’s go,” Raleigh tells Darci. “How’d you manage to leave them here in the first place? Didn’t you notice that you couldn’t see?”
Every time I think I’ve gotten used to Raleigh being back in town, one glimpse sends me into fight-or-flight mode. I start typing again, but enough adrenaline floods my system to power the town for a week. Dad should hook me up to the grid. My fingers tremble on the keyboard as the junior high memories crowd my brain.
Messages would sweep through the neighborhood: everyone kick maggie tomorrow. maggie is the ugliest girl in seventh grade. tomorrow is trip maggie day. I knew about them because Virginia Loughlin, a pale, skinny girl who sat behind me in history, forwarded them to me. She was on the fringes herself, escaping their wrath only because I was the main target. i’m so sorry . . . she would text me when she sent on the messages. i just want you to be prepared. . . . i’m sorry i can’t talk to you at school because they would get me, too. . . .
I sit motionless as Darci and Raleigh come out of the reference room and pass me again. I might be a statue: Girl Doing Homework. They ignore me and I exhale, but my fingers still have trouble finding the right keys.
What if I had stuck out my foot when Raleigh passed my table? I could pretend it was an accident. Or I could look at her as she lay on the floor and say, “It must be Trip Raleigh Day.”
With my luck, she’d step right over my foot. Or on it, crushing my toes.
I don’t have the nerve to trip her, anyway.
My phone vibrates in the quiet library. I check it and find a message from Nick: help! i’m stuck with a mad scientist
I type back: is this mad scientist by any chance related to you?
He replies: you guessed it. where are you?
restaurant . really on the sidewalk outside—supposed to be in the men’s room. he spent the last hour telling me what an idiot i am. i’m thinking of walking home.
he’d come after you.
true. the only way i can get through this weekend is to think about next weekend. i need a hike.
so do i.
crystal?
ha-ha.
i’m serious. get right back on the horse, and all that.
I stare at my phone. I know I need to go back. The hiking trails are the one place I’ve felt like my real self, the one place I’ve belonged, and I can’t accept the defeat on Crystal. Once you give fear a toehold, it pushes for more. The thought of not going back—of letting my cringing failure stand forever— starts to creep under my skin. I don’t want to feel limited on the trails. Inadequate, the way I feel in the school halls.
But I had hoped to have a little more breathing room before trying again; I want to prepare. It’s only been a week. I type:
what , you have mountain fever now?
i need to get away from here and forget about everything
else.
Why should he want to forget about “everything?” What about Vanessa?
I don’t ask. I’m actually glad that he still wants to hike, that he won’t spend all his free time glued to her side. If only I felt more secure about tackling Crystal.
I answer: i don’t know if i can do it.
think about it, his message says. while i try to survive this weekend.
you’ll survive. feel free to text the maggie lifeline anytime. thanks, lifeline.
Back at home, I call Sylvie. “You busy?”
“Just trying to turn an old tennis racket into a banjo for my brother’s school talent show,” she says. “I was waiting for Wendy to call, but now I don’t think she’s going to.” “How is your brother going to strum a tennis racket?” “He doesn’t really have to play music. Just sing. ‘Oh! Susanna.’
Except he doesn’t sing it so much as yell it. What are you up to?” “Having a crisis. You know that mountain where I had a panic attack? Nick wants to go back.”
“Well, he can go back. You don?
??t have to.” That’s true, of course. But the thought of Nick going while I stay home staring at my idle boots and backpack is too much. Would he really go back alone? Or even with Vanessa? Maybe not with Vanessa. Nick has said that Crystal isn’t for beginners, and he’s right. “I want to go,” I tell Sylvie. “I’m just scared. But I want to prove I can do it.”
“Well, maybe you should. The first time I had to give a speech in class, when I was eight, I ran and hid behind the teacher’s desk. But after that, it got easier.”
I can’t imagine Sylvie hiding, Sylvie scared. Is she making up that story so I’ll feel better? Do you think I can do it?” I ask, fishing for a pep talk. “Sure, why not? You climbed that other mountain, right?” “But that was easier.”
“If I can make a banjo out of a tennis racket, which I’ve never done before, you can hike a trail, which you have done before.”
Her tone is light, joking, but I would swear there’s an edge of impatience to it. Or maybe she’s just tired.
I stop myself from begging for more reassurance, more guarantees. Instead, I tell her, “You’ve inspired me.” “Good.”
“Yes, I now believe I can make a fake banjo.”
She laughs, the edge dissolving from her voice.
After I hang up with her, I flip through my mushroom book, losing myself in the names. Saffron parasol, poison powder puff, velvet foot. Tawny milkcap, orange peel, gem-studded
puff ball. Honeycomb morel, mica cap, destroying angel. Maybe most people wouldn’t see this as a fun Friday night,
but I’ve never found a book as fascinating as my mushroom book. There’s so much power here: food or poison, life or death. In my guide, they’re mixed together, the edible ones and
the ones that kill. On the trail I never touch a mushroom, even if I think it’s safe.
You never know.
I reread the guide to the Crystal hike, picturing myself tackling it again. I try to mentally shepherd myself past the place where I froze last time: the ledges where the exposure, the sheer sense of height, made me dizzy. The spot where my legs locked, where every drop of confidence drained out the bottoms of my feet.
I close my eyes and picture it, trying sports psychology– style mental cheerleading. I am brave! I am strong! I can climb this mountain! All this does is make me want to giggle. I guess seeing three minutes of a sports psychologist interview on TV doesn’t make me an expert.
But nervous as I am, I don’t want to back away from this.
Over the weekend, I talk Nick off the proverbial ledge four more times, which is average for a weekend with his father. To keep his spirits up, I remind him of Crystal, even though I tell him I need more time before going back to the Cinnamon Range. But I quote the trail guide to him: “‘The sheer cliffs and steep climbs of the Crystal Mountain trail make it unsuitable for beginners, but strong hikers should have no serious trouble.’” Which I realize would not cheer up anyone else on the planet, but that’s Nick.
But during the school week, it’s as if none of that happened, as if he never called the Maggie Lifeline. I rarely see Nick alone. On Monday, he doesn’t even show up at our lunch table. I guess he’s with Vanessa, because I don’t see her, either.
I’m not sure which is harder: seeing him with Vanessa, or not seeing them at all and wondering where they’ve slipped off to. In French class, I study Vanessa’s dreamy smile for any signs that she’s been with Nick at lunch. Talking with him. Making out with him. Or—
If Nick lost his virginity, he would tell me, wouldn’t he? I can’t imagine him not telling me something that big.
On the other hand, I can’t imagine him announcing it, either.
But they’ve only been together for a couple of weeks. Surely nothing that intense is happening yet? Even if you could practically light a bonfire from the heat between them. Even if they lose all awareness of whoever else is around them when they’re together.
On Tuesday, hoping to avoid them, I go to the library instead of the cafeteria. But it’s just my luck to catch a glimpse of them in a far corner of the library: Nick’s hand stroking her shoulder, their mouths meeting with an intensity that makes me dizzy, hungry, lonely, embarrassed to see it.
When Nick drives me to and from school, Luis is in the car for most of the ride. I sit in the car behind Nick, trying not to stare at the back of his head. Trying to make myself stop wanting what I want.
nineteen
This week, I go to the piano every night. The music I choose is dark and heavy as thunder: stormy pieces with plenty of crescendo and fortissimo and left-hand keys. It’s the waves from a hurricane breaking on a beach, the huge curls you get when a storm is out at sea. I used to play these songs a lot in junior high. Lately, I’ve been hungry for the piano again, playing more than ever.
Mom hovers, trying to lift me out of my “moodiness.” She has just gone through a closet-cleaning frenzy, and I shoot down her suggestion that I sort through the boxes of elementaryschool projects, leaf collections, and seashells under my bed.
I do give her my college list. She has me go back and reorganize it geographically, cross-referencing it by how much I want to attend each school, but it’s finally finished. I’ve picked ten schools all over the Northeast. It’s still hard for me to believe that I will finish high school someday, that I won’t be stuck here forever. It’s a fantasy, a fairy tale: something I’ve dreamed of without ever expecting it to come true. I have another half of high school to get through.
And even then . . . what if I don’t belong at college, either? I’ve been assuming it will be better than high school, but what if I’m wrong? This time I’ll probably get away from Raleigh for good, but what if there are Raleigh Barringers everywhere?
Dad asks me to sand the bench he made for Grandma. The sanding burns off my nervous energy; I do it until my arms ache. When Dad checks my work and runs his fingers over the wood, he doesn’t have to tell me it’s a good job. Even before he smiles, I know. And it’s a relief to have done something right this week, to have helped make something real and solid and worthwhile.
On Wednesday, again, Nick and Vanessa don’t come to lunch. Sitting by myself, with a ring of empty seats around me that implies I might be carrying polio, I pull out my phone and text
Sylvie. where are you?
yearbook committee. you?
alone in the caf, where else? nick is never around anymore.
he ’s always busy.
tell me about it. wendy’s busy all the time too.
i don’t think this is the same kind of busy.
i hope not!!
i’m sure you have nothing to worry about. wendy has a lot
to do in college, right?
When she doesn’t answer, I send: are you there? a couple of times.
sorry . we had to take a vote here. what color cover to put on the yearbook.
well, don’t keep me in suspense!
blue. A pause, then: i should go now. they expect me to participate.
At the end of lunch, Sylvie and I cross paths in the girls’ room. I check for feet beneath the stall doors, and she asks, “Why do you always do that?”
“Checking for ambushes,” I say without thinking.
“‘Ambushes?!’” she says with an uneasy laugh, unsure if I’m joking.
I hesitate. “It’s a leftover habit from junior high.”
That’s all I say, and she doesn’t ask for more. I suppose I’ve just told her all she ever needs to know about my junior high experience.
I walk into bio lab to find Raleigh at my bench, arguing with Adriana. I creep toward Raleigh as if she’s a tarantula, but she doesn’t even see me. She’s blocking the way to my seat. I hang back, waiting.
“Ethan’s such a jerk,” Raleigh says. “I don’t know why you ever liked him.”
“But I did like him,” Adriana says.
“I told you he was trouble.”
“You have no right to tell me who to like.”
“Oh, h
onestly. You’re better off without him.”
“Will you stop saying that?”
Raleigh sighs impatiently. “I’m only trying to help you move on. Believe me, he’s not worth all this drama. He’s an idiot. He wouldn’t even have made it to high school without Matt giving him the answers.”
Adriana’s mouth tightens. “You’re one to talk about giving answers!”
Raleigh recoils. Fascinated, because I’ve never seen her caught off guard, I inch closer.
“Don’t even think about going there,” she says in a voice so venomous, so much a part of seventh and eighth grades, that for one confused minute I’m back in junior high. She snaps, “And pull yourself together. You don’t want to cry in the middle of bio lab.” With that, she marches out of the room.
I take my place as the bell rings, not knowing what to say to Adriana, who stares at the benchtop. Thornhart has barely started the lecture when Adriana claps her hand over her face and runs out of the room.
Everyone stares at her empty seat, at the door. Thornhart stands with his hand in the air, still pointing at a diagram of animal-kingdom classifications. “Maggie,” he says at last, “why don’t you check on your partner and see if she’s okay? Walk her to the nurse if that’s what she needs.”
I find Adriana in the girls’ room, sobbing over one of the sinks. I do a quick check under the stall doors before coming to stand beside her. “What do you want?” she chokes out.
“Thornhart sent me to check on you. He thinks you’re sick.”
“Well, he can go on thinking it.”
Tears and makeup drip down her puffy red face. I have never seen Adriana look less than perfect, and here she is with her face melting. I would’ve given anything to see this in junior high. I would’ve given anything to believe that the people who tormented me had bad moments, that they ever hurt. But now I’m only sorry for her.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I thought Raleigh was being pretty unfair to you.”
“She can be such a bitch sometimes,” Adriana blubbers. She runs a paper towel under the faucet and presses it to her face.