I push away from the table and my still half full plate of food, and make a run for my room, where I close the door, grab the laptop I share with Autumn, and pull my cool new privacy curtain until it’s secured all around me. And then, just to torture myself even more, I check my e-mail, which just makes me feel worse when I realize that my twelve new messages are what most people call spam. And since I’m not currently interested in stock market investing, penile enhancement, or Viagra, I delete every last one, until my screen is finally clear and my in-box shows 0.
Then I sit there, just staring at that sad empty number, thinking how nice it would be to have a constantly ringing phone and a legitimately full in-box, yet painfully aware of how I haven’t the slightest idea how to actually go about getting any of that. I mean, I’m actually pretty shy, which is like a major handicap when it comes to making new friends.
But what if I were to start a blog, or live journal, or whatever they call those things?
What if I created my own Web space where I could write about something interesting, yet in a totally anonymous way? I wouldn’t even have to use my real name. Heck, I wouldn’t even have to say where I live. I could just simply create this whole new persona, one that’s smart, cool, and engaging. One that people would actually want to read about, talk about, and maybe even contact. I mean, just because I lack an interesting life, doesn’t mean I lack an interesting opinion.
And then before I can really stop and think it over, before I can make one of my usual pro/con lists, I’m all signed up and signed in with my very own blog. I’ve even managed to come up with a really good, really secure screen name that will totally shield my identity, yet still has a unique and personal meaning to me. I’m calling myself Eleanor Rigby. After an old Beatles song about all these lonely people that my mom always played when I was a kid.
So, feeling all excited about my new identity, I stare for a moment at that intimidating, blank screen, then I type:
THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY
Sunday, September ??, 2006
7:45 P.M.
Current Mood—been better
Current Music-”Town Called Malice” by the Jam
(well, it’s playing in my head anyway)
Quote of the Day—Um, coming soon
***Under Construction—Check Back Soon***
Okay, so as far as blogging goes, I guess I’m off to a pretty dismal start. I mean, just because I found a name for my new persona, doesn’t mean I have the backstory to go with it. But it will come. I know it will. I just have to be patient.
They weren’t kidding about the ton of homework. So by lunch when I find myself so loaded down with make-up assignments and chapters to read that I have no idea how I’ll ever catch up, I decide to just go to the library and get a head start. Not to mention how this will also keep me from having to eat lunch at the lonely, desolate Table C, as well as lower my risk of running into Sloane again. I mean, I’m just four periods and one ten- minute break into the day and I’ve already seen her three times. And even though I know I’ve got three full years of Sloane sightings ahead of me, at the moment, I’m determined to take it just one period at a time.
But do you think she said hi? Or did anything remotely polite in honor of our eight years of friendship? Nope. She just averted her eyes and carried on with her new friends, acting like she didn’t even see me.
Like I wasn’t even there.
Like I was invisible to her too now.
So I try to make myself feel better by remembering how just a few nights ago I was making out in a loft, in Manhattan, with a totally hot actor guy (while somehow omitting the other less attractive parts of that story). And I smile when I realize how Sloane, cool as she may be these days, has yet to do anything remotely as cool as that.
And then, just as I turn the corner, I’m suddenly confronted with a sight so horrible, and so freaking unbelievable, that I’m unable to do anything other than stop and stare.
Because standing right there, no more than twenty feet away, are Sloane and Ginny. And standing right alongside them? Well, that would be none other than Andy Spence and Cash Davis.
And not only is Cash standing next to Sloane, but he’s also smiling.
And not only is he smiling, but he’s also talking.
And I stand there watching as everyone laughs at whatever incredibly clever thing he just said, noticing how Sloane puts some major extra effort into her laugh. Throwing her head back, so that her long, blond hair swings brilliantly from side to side, while clutching herself in a way that emphasizes her maximum waist-to-hip ratio. And while she’s busy engaging in this bit of well-rehearsed, painstakingly choreographed, primitive flirtation ritual, I watch as Cash moves in even closer, as though he wants nothing more in this world than to hold her hand, brush her hair, or make out with her, or something.
And the sight of all this, the realization that she’s actually well on her way to getting everything we both always wanted, that her application has been approved and she is now free to partake in all the perks of membership (while I’m left standing on the sidelines, like last year’s It bag), makes me feel so unbelievably sick, nauseous, and grief-stricken, that I spin around and run blindly toward the library, where I smack right into some weirdo with a guitar.
“Hey, there!” he says, regaining his balance, as I look at him with eyes so wild and teary he actually appears blurry to me.
“Hey, are you okay?” His voice softer now, as he leans in for a closer look.
“I’m fine,” I say, glancing at him only briefly, but still long enough to take in his straight dark choppy hair; brown heavily lashed eyes; kinda pale skin; long, lean, lanky build; shiny black dress shoes; slim-fitting black dress pants; crisp white dress shirt; black skinny tie; ultra-tailored black blazer; and of course, that ridiculous guitar. The only things missing are a British accent, a Vespa, and the Who’s Quadrophenia soundtrack. I mean where does he think he is? 1980?
“Yeah, well, you don’t look all that fine,” he says, still peering at me with concern.
“Excuse me?” I stare at him. I mean, did he really just say that?
But then his face turns all red and he looks all embarrassed when he goes, “No! What I meant was you look good. Really good. But you also look kind of upset, that’s all.”
But I’m in no mood for this. I mean, my stomach hurts, my eyes are stinging, my throat aches, and all I want is to get far away from him, far away from everybody, so that I can find a nice corner, hunker down, and try to figure out how on earth I became such a big, embarrassing loser. So I just look at him and go, “Okay, are we done here? ‘Cause I really need to get to the library.”
And I watch as he bows down before me, swinging his arm and sending me on my way, like he’s about to say “As you wish, milady,” like we’re on the set of Pride and Prejudice or something.
But I just shake my head, roll my eyes, and walk away. Thinking how typical it is that the only person who’s talked to me this entire day is an even bigger freak than me.
By the time I make it to my seventh-period chemistry class, guess who I find occupying the stool directly across from mine? That’s right, Mr. Guitar Geek himself.
“Greetings,” he says, as I slide onto my stool, dropping my backpack hard on the table. “Are you new here?”
But I just grab my notebook, flip it open, and go searching for my favorite pen. “Trust me, you’re the one who’s new here,” I say, setting it next to my notebook and barely glancing at him.
”Well, since I was here last week, and this is the first I’ve seen of you, I beg to differ.” He gives me an amused look.
“Beg all you want, but I was out of town.” I shrug, looking away again so I won’t have to look at him.
“Oh, really? Now was this for business or pleasure?” he asks, cupping his chin in his hand and leaning toward me like he really is interested.
But I’m not divulging any details. And to be honest, even though he seems nice enough
(well, despite all the weirdness), I’m really not feeling all that up for this. So I just shake my head and gaze at the chalkboard, watching as my teacher covers it with formulas, which after missing just a few days of school, I can no longer understand.
Eleven
The next day I’m standing at the counter in Dietrich’s, ordering a coffee and a cookie and just basically minding my own business, when someone sneaks up from behind, leans toward my ear, and starts singing, “Glance around, sky is brown, and the ground, is a crazy shade of winter.”
And when I turn, I come face-to-face with weirdo guitar guy who’s standing there with a big smile spread all across his face. “It’s hazy shade of winter.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “And by the way, you flubbed all the other lyrics, too,” I inform him, even though I’m actually pretty surprised by his nice, clear, melodic voice.
“I know.” He smiles. “But how did you know?”
“My mom raised me on the Simon and Garfunkel version, even though it took the Bangles to really rock it on the Less Than Zero soundtrack back in the eighties. But since my mom won’t listen to anything recorded after summer 1979, it’s not like she even knows about that version,” I say, wondering why I just divulged all that useless, nonsense information, like the second after it’s out and way too late to take it back.
“Hated the movie. Liked the book.” He smiles.
“So, how’d you know my name?” I ask, grabbing my coffee and moving away from the counter.
“Your mom told me.”
I squint at him, wondering if he could possibly be serious. I mean, hello? How creepy is this?
“I’m Rey,” he says, extending his hand.
“Oh, but of course, my mom’s favorite new adopted son,” I say, heading for a seat at my usual table. “Believe me, I know all about you, you love classic rock, organic foods, and care deeply about the environment. And now, apparently, you’re stalking me.” I watch as he grabs the seat across from mine. “Or is following me around and spying on me part of your job description? ‘Cause I gotta warn ya, it’s gonna get pretty boring.” I take a sip of my coffee, and wait for him to respond.
But he just smiles.
“So tell me, how’d you know it was me? Did she show you all of my baby pictures, make you watch old home movies with your eyelids clipped open Clockwork Orange—style, so you wouldn’t doze off?” I ask, thinking how I wouldn’t put it past her.
But he just laughs. “Nope, though I’d love to see some of those old photos when you get a chance. Actually, I’m the one who helped her distribute all the missing person posters and organize that press conference when you disappeared. Of course, all that took place well before we realized you were hiding out in New York. How’d that go by the way? You seem pretty mum on the whole subject.”
I just roll my eyes and take a bite of my white chocolate chunk macadamia nut cookie. “Are you planning to tell her about this?” I ask, pointing at the cookie, evidence of my most egregious crime so far today. “That I make it a point to regularly consume products crammed with empty calories and saturated fat when she’s not around?”
But he just smiles and reaches over to break off a piece for himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.
So, apparently, not only do I have a new morning coffee partner, a new ten-minute-break partner, a new lab partner, but I also seem to have a new lunch partner. Not that I asked for it, and not that I even want it, not to mention how I wish he’d just dump that lame guitar already, since I’ve heard like a ton of people make fun of it. But it’s not like he cares.
“I can’t worry about shit like that,” he says, when I mention how he might want to consider leaving it at home, preferably in the back of his closet, behind the black trench coat I’m sure that he owns. “I’ve been to more schools than I can count, and it’s all the same. Not one of them stands out as special or different. Though try telling them that.” He shakes his head, which causes a chunk of long, dark brown bang to fall over his right eye. “Like those girls over there,” he says, pointing at Jaci, Holly, Claire, and Sloane. “I bet I can tell you everything about them, even though I’ve never even seen them before today.”
I just roll my eyes, and take another bite of my sandwich.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Fine, here goes. The blonde in the center?” He points at Jaci, and looks briefly at me. “She’s in charge. And the one standing right there to her left, she’s second in line. She’s the one who’ll take over in the event that the queen can no longer fulfill her royal duties. And, by the way, they all like the same guy, which, from what I can see is probably that one standing right over there.” He points at Cash. “Because everything they’re doing, all the laughing, and hair tossing? It’s just the same old tired attempt to get his attention. And as long as it stays theoretical it’ll all be fine. But the second one of them actually hooks up with him, stand back, because the claws will come out and it’ll be all-out war.” He sneaks a peek at me and continues. ”Let’s see, they all like the same stupid, vacuous movies, only read books if they have to, secretly wish they were Hilary Duff, and consult with one another every morning before school for outfit approval. Have you heard enough, or should I move on to the jocks and really dazzle you with my insight?” He smiles.
But I just drop my sandwich and shake my head. “The one on the right? The one who you said was poised to take over?” I look at him. “Up until two weeks ago she was my best and only friend in the whole wide world,” I say, feeling my throat go all tight, and my eyes sting with tears, as I wonder why on earth I just divulged all that.
But Rey just looks at me and smiles. “Looks like you got out just in time,” he says.
After school, I go to my room, get on the computer, and check out Rey’s Web site that he told me about. And I’m not talking about some typical MySpace page where he talks about his lame hobbies, lists brand names under “major interests,” and forces you to listen to some song you don’t even like. I mean he has a real Web site, with a real Web address, and photos, artwork, song lyrics (all original, all his), multiple pages to browse through, interesting things to read, and all kinds of links to all kinds of other cool stuff.
And the thing is, the more I read about him, the worse I feel. I mean, Rey’s actually a pretty interesting guy, and he really has lived all over the place, including long stints in both London and Madrid. But the reason I feel so bad is because reading all this stuff is making it clear how I’ve been so busy talking about myself and Sloane and Table A, that I haven’t really shown much interest in him. I mean, hello? No wonder I don’t have any friends.
But from what I’ve read so far, I now know that he was in a band when he lived in New York. Which from what I can see was actually his last address, and apparently they used to play in all these clubs and stuff even though he’s only like sixteen and technically not even old enough to go in a club. So then, of course, I start wondering if maybe he knows Easton, even though I know how that probably seems kind of lame since there’s like millions of other people who live in Manhattan and go to clubs, too. But still, you just never know. So while part of me is thinking about asking him, the other part is already pretty sure that I won’t. I mean, I’d kind of like to keep all of that private, and only for me. So that I can always remember it my way, and not run the risk of compromising my memory by having Rey give me the whole analytical rundown on Easton, too.
And while I’m tooling around his Web site, learning all the little details of his life, reading his song lyrics, and checking out his artwork, I notice that he also has a blog link. So I click on that, and start skim-reading some entries, feeling pretty impressed not only by how good it is, but how he actually seemed to utilize spell check. I mean, let’s face it, it’s an impatient world, and most people don’t even bother.
But since his stuff reads more like a review than a journal, giving his opinions on stuff like politics, music, art, and books, it doesn’t exactly help
me with mine. I mean, even though I still have no idea what to write, I know I’m not really informed enough to write like that.
The next day at school, all I can think about is my blog. Which I know probably sounds a little strange since I haven’t actually posted anything on it yet, but after waking at 4:15 with the sudden inspiration of a great new idea, I haven’t been able to think about anything else. I mean, I was so excited that I actually considered grabbing the computer and signing on right then, but since I couldn’t risk waking Autumn, I forced my way back to sleep, assuring myself that I’d get to it later
But now that I have a subject, now that I have a pretty clear idea what I’m going to write, I also have this whole new perspective on school. And suddenly, strolling through campus and seeing Sloane practically everywhere I go is no longer the nightmare it used to be. Because now, every time I see Sloane talking with Ginny, fake-hugging Jaci, or tossing her hair and flirting with Cash, it no longer eats me in the way that it used to. Now, I just stop and take it all in, making notes in my head, and saving it for later, because it’s all just juice for the blog.
And I feel so empowered just knowing that every time she snubs me she’s actually given me something to write about, that I can finally wander the campus in peace, drifting in and out of classrooms, while filling the page in my head, adding to it, editing it down, and rearranging paragraphs, until I can hardly wait to get home and do it for real.
“So what do you say?” Rey asks, leaning on the lunch table and looking at me.