Pretenders Page 5

  I put out my hands to lessen the impact. Then I ducked and rolled. I made my legs go all wild so everyone thought my body was out of control. Then I screamed: Whoa!!!!!! It’s hard to describe the actual falling part because it happened so fast and I was spinning. But my landing was great. I bashed right into the back of Logo’s legs and knocked him and his energy drink to the ground. Hud and Coops were losing it. I had to curl up in fetal and hide my face inside my hoodie so he wouldn’t catch me laughing.

  LOGO: What the hell, dude?

  ME: Sorry, man, you okay? I totally tripped.

  His buddies stood there while he looked down at his giant wet Polo pony. Pink drops dripped off his chin. It was so epic. Until he made a fist and pulled back his arm.

  RANDOM GIRL: Stop!

  Everyone turned around. It was my neighbor. The one that’s always skateboarding by my house with her boyfriend.

  SKATER GIRL: You okay?

  I wanted to tell her it was all a joke and I wasn’t hurt but then Logo would have punched me so I didn’t.

  ME: My ankle is a little sore but—

  LOGO: What about me?

  SKATER GIRL: You’re fine.

  LOGO: I’m not. There’s a crack in my butt. Wanna see?

  His friends high-fived. She kicked his backpack down the steps.

  SKATER GIRL: Can you stand?

  ME: I’ll try.

  Hud and Coops would have been all over helping her help me if she looked like Mandy, Megan, or Morgan (the 3Ms). But she’s normal looking. Brown hair, brown eyes, saggy jeans, and yellow highlighter on her nails. Not bad. Just not slick. So they stood there.

  LOGO: Hey, Freshman, I ever see you using these stairs again I’ll hog-tie you to the back of my car and—

  ME: Your lip is bleeding.

  LOGO: Yeah? Well, next time it’ll be your internal organs.

  He drew back his fist again. I flinched and that made him happy. So he bolted.

  I wanted to be alone with Hud and Coops so we could laugh about everything but Skater Girl was there and she was still trying to help me. So I kept wobbling and saying ouch and stuff like that. Hud and Coops couldn’t stop laughing.

  SKATER GIRL: What’s so funny? He’s hurt! What if he can’t play basketball this season?

  ME: How do you know I play basketball?

  SKATER GIRL: You do? I had no idea.

  ME: You just said—

  SKATER GIRL: You’re wearing high-tops. I guessed.

  ME: Cool.

  I stood and thanked her but she didn’t leave. She just stared at me, like those hotel bellmen in the movies who want a tip. So I pulled a dollar out of my pocket and gave it to her. She didn’t laugh, though. She squeaked like a happy mouse and put it in her pocket.

  Feeling = Maybe she’s poor.

  Tuesday, September 11, 2012

  I touched Andrew Duffy! Andrew Duffy touched me!

  I’m so excited I can’t even write! Andrew Duffy fell down the stairs!!!! It was incredible.

  I—Lily Bader-Huffman—literally slid my hands under his arms and lifted him to safety.

  If it had been just the two of us, I think he would have let himself cry. But his loser friends were laughing at him so he had to keep it all inside. Desperate to show gratitude without betraying his machismo, he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a dollar bill. His greens were fixed on my browns as he extended his hand toward me. I offered mine in return. Our movements were smooth and exacting, as if we were performing ballet underwater. He placed the crumpled single in my open palm. A tip!

  This must be a Pub thing. I was expecting something more traditional—more Homie—like verbal gratitude or a lingering handshake. But the dollar was way better. It gave us an excuse to touch. And now I can hold it. Treasure it. Ask it how it feels to spend an entire day pressed against his right leg.

  I skated home so fast Blake thought I had to pee. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to hear about his day. I wanted to relive mine. Which I have, thousands of times. I even memorized the serial number on the bill.

  L 89751377 D.

  Can you believe those letters?? LD!!! L(ily) 89751377 D(uffy).

  I love Pub!!!!

  INT. BEDROOM—NIGHT.

  SHERIDAN is seriously depressed.

  I waited until H&M were asleep and went looking for Mom. Not that she’s an expert on O.L.S. (Overnight Loser Syndrome), but she’s my mom. She has to love me no matter what. And I needed to feel loved.

  I found her in the garage treadmilling on a full incline. I should have turned around then.

  Any higher and you’ll step on your ponytail. (Me.)

  Gotta lose the baby (pant) weight (pant).

  Mom, you had the twins seven years ago. Anyway, you’re like a size zero.

  Am (pant) not. In certain jeans. I’m a (pant) two.

  Clearly she was the one suffering, you know, being an occasional size two and all. So I decided not to burden her with my O.L.S.—which, thanks to her, is now L.A.P.S. (Loser and Pear Syndrome). So I got snippy instead.

  I just wanted to thank you for taking the little butt and giving me the big one. Your generosity has provided me with oodles of confidence.

  Note: I have never used the word “oodles” before. Audri would have laughed.

  Mom lowered the machine and slowed to a jog.

  Sheridan, what’s going on? Are you being teased about your weight? I think you look wonderful. But if you don’t, we can put you on a program where—

  Forget it! It’s not about my weight, okay?

  I stomped back to my room.

  Even if I could have called CUT and SHERIDAN TALKS TO MOM ABOUT O.L.S.—TAKE TWO, I wouldn’t have. I should have known better than to expect sympathy from a celery. Pears may have sturdy bases, but we are soft on the inside and should be handled with care. Walk the produce aisle and see for yourself. We’re always bruised. But celeries? Ha! You need two hands to snap them.

  PAUSE.

  I just lit some sage. We used to burn it in the theater after plays to banish old characters and make way for new ones. I’m trying to banish Loser Sheridan so the popular one can return.

  Loser Sheridan begone! (Me waving the plant over my bed.) Popular Sheridan, beback! Loser Sheridan begone! Popular Sheridan beback! Loser She—

  Dad just came in and made me blow it out.

  Our house smells like the Occupy movement.

  Would you prefer the stench of loneliness?

  Please, Sheridan. Stop being so dramatic.

  Sure, Dad. And you stop being such a BMW dealer.

  S’cuse me?

  Nothing.

  I hate everyone.

  To Be Continued…

  END SCENE.

  September 12th

  Forgive me, Journal, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last entry.

  Why, you ask? There is a shedload more homework in high school than in middle. And it’s a little tiny bit hard.

  Not that I can’t handle it. I can. I totally can. I will! Last night, while savoring arrowroot biscuits and vanilla decaf, I reconsidered my social goals for the semester and concluded the following: Friends can wait. There’s no one of any real interest anyway. I was pursued by Sheridan Spencer in Monday’s lab. But she was shallow and extremely flammable so I shut it down.

  Ver? There is one girl I’ve been tracking. Not as a friend, though. Strictly foe. Her name is Lily Bader-Huffman. We have English, AP World History, Algebra, and Global Media together. The girl ranks high on intel. She answers every question and knows things we haven’t even been taught yet. I never even see her taking notes.19 The point is, I suspect Lily Bader-Huffman may have the 60 Minutes skill–and a few others, based on our lunchtime encounter.

  Knowing that the list of awards, honors, and extracurriculars will be posted tonight,20 I was determined to spend the first half of the week taking SWAP orders.21 Because once that l
ist goes up I’m going into O.M.22 and my charity work will suffer as a result.

  So, I was going table to table in the cafeteria, selling my last pieces of inventory. When a viselike force gripped the sides of my head and turned me toward a molten-hot guy. He waved me over. The moisture drained from my mouth.

  He was sitting alone but didn’t seem self-conscious about it. Why? Because tanned guys with careless dark hair and fudge-brown eyes only sit alone for one reason.23

  “What are you selling?” he asked.

  “SWAP bracelets,” I answered.

  I placed the prototype beside his orange tray and explained the concept. Which was not easy with him looking right at me. Usually boys get nervous around me. But this one crackled confidence.24

  He nodded as if impressed and then offered me a warm hand in exchange for my name.

  “Vanessa.”

  He snickered.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I wanted to try on the SWAP but it is really nice to meet you, Vanessa. I’m Blake.”

  My face turned the color of his pomegranate juice.

  He took the bracelet from the table and fastened it around his wrist.

  I never imagined it on a boy but I never imagined a boy who looked like Blake.

  “That looks really good on you,” I said, meaning it. The brown leather and gold envelope popped against his butterscotch-colored skin.

  “Can I order two?”

  My heart didn’t skip a beat. It added one hundred more per second.

  “Sure!”

  He went on about how much he admired my passion and believed in my cause. He said it was refreshing to meet a pretty girl who cared about more than her looks. I turned pomegranate again.

  He said it was cute when I blushed.

  “What else are you into?” he asked. “Besides saving orphans?”

  I wanted him to stop looking at me like that. I never wanted him to stop.

  I had to sit. I would never ever eat in front of him, but my knees felt like they were being erased and I didn’t want to fall.

  I leaned on a chair for balance. I was about to sit when guess who arrived with tofu salad and two forks? That’s right, Lily Bader-Huffman.

  Foe no you dizn’t!

  She was wearing pajama bottoms, and her gnawed fingernails had been jaundiced by a yellow highlighter. I needed to scratch. I balled my fists instead.

  Was she pretty? Hmmm. Maybe in a “Before” picture kind of way. Bland, frizzy, unkempt, but symmetrical.

  Still, no amount of symmetry could explain what Blake saw in her. Maybe they were cousins.

  I had to get out of there before I whipped a piece of tofu at that talk-blocker’s throat. Blake obviously got the second SWAP for her and I did not want to be around when he fastened it to her bony “Before” wrist.

  I can hear it now:

  BLAKE: Lily, just because you sold your soul to the devil in exchange for a 60 Minutes brain and an out-of-your-league boyfriend like me doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of a SWAP. So I bought you one. Correction: I bought us one. Poor Vanessa thought I bought two because I was flirting. Tragic, isn’t it?

  LILY: So what if the world sees me as a “Before” picture? You make me feel like an “After.” A happily ever after…

  GROSS!

  Now I’m in the study lounge, journaling about my first loss.

  An overachiever could get used to this room. It’s peaceful, grounding, and the couches are velvety soft. The vast collection of first edition novels invigorates my soul, the dim lights soothe it.

  Jagger, the orphan, is seated across from me. He’s writing and laughing to himself. Might he be a tad insane?

  Ew. His dirty sneakers are on the cushions. Poor guy doesn’t have anyone to teach him that shoes belong on the floor and not the furniture.

  He’s so thin.

  He’s closing his eyes. He must be exhausted from wandering the streets. Why doesn’t the government do something for him? If I wasn’t already committed to the Haitian orphans, I’d mentor him. But… Ver? It would do nothing for my GPA.

  To acquire true self power you have to feel beneath no one, be immune to criticism and be fearless.

  —Deepak Chopra

  I was hoping to see Audri at lunch but she wasn’t there. Second day in a row.

  Did I freak her out when we doubled home?

  Something about her face (Blue glasses? Uneven smile? Freckle below her right eye?) said, “Go on, Jagger, tell me everything. Trust me with the extended-play version of your story. Life hasn’t always been fair to me, either. I won’t run. I won’t ever run.”

  Still. I should have known better.

  I should have left out the part about being followed by Pat, the ex–navy SEAL with a history of violence and a score to settle.

  At least until she got to know me better.

  But she seemed so interested and it felt good to talk.

  Too many people know my deal.

  Bags of clothes appear by my locker. I never eat lunch alone. Even the 3Ms say hi to me in the halls. But Pat knows too. I can feel it.

  Bushes shake when I walk by. Camouflage blurs whip through my line of vision when I’m in crowded places. Randy’s pets bang on their cages the moment I fall asleep.

  Last time I visited Carla and Ed in prison they begged me to keep to myself. They made me promise.

  Pat wants revenge. Payback for teaching Pat Jr. that lesson about bullying. And the best way to hurt my parents is to hurt me.

  I should have kept my promise.

  I really really should have kept my promise.

  I should have kissed Audri instead of blabbing.

  That kiss-butt Vanessa just sat on the couch across from me. She’s journaling too. She keeps looking at me. She’s scratching her arm like crazy, which makes me think she has some sort of communicable skin disease.

  Contracting a communicable skin disease is no way to win Audri back.

  Man, she’s itchy.

  Imagine if she lifted up her leg and started scratching behind her ear like Noodle did when he had fleas.

  I just laughed out loud a little.

  Uh-oh. She just smiled at me.

  What if she wants to come over and talk? What if she asks me to join her on her infested communicable couch?

  I can’t let her think I am open to that.

  Better fake sleep.

  Feeling = Someone does not want me to make Varsity.

  Ever since Rosie the cleaning woman left, my lucky things have been missing. First my Nike Air Max shoes, then my basketball, now my red-and-white-striped sweatbands.

  I searched the entire house and I still couldn’t find anything. Probably because it’s a mess in there. Mom keeps saying she’s going to “tidy up” but she hasn’t had time. Which is why I don’t understand why they got rid of Rosie. Unless they caught her stealing my stuff. But why would Rosie take my sweatbands? She pinched her nose when I wore them.

  Found them! They were in the laundry room about to get washed. Rosie never would have done that. She knew they held two years of victory sweat. Soap would destroy their powers. Without my Air Maxes and ball they are all the luck I have. I was so happy to have them back I actually hugged them. They smelled like Funyuns and winning.

  Feeling = Back in the game.

  I called Mom and made her swear she’d never ever, ever wash them. I was expecting her usual speech about making my own luck and how superstitions are for people who don’t believe in themselves.

  All she said was: Sounds good, Andrew.

  Then she hung up.

  Now I am in the rain, hiding behind the porch swing waiting for Coops to pick me up. Coops is always late. I’d rather be inside, but Bubbie Libby was cursing the coach for making basketball tryouts at 6 PM on a Friday because I will be gone for Sabbath dinner. I tried telling her it was the only time the gym was free but she wanted to write him a letter anyw
ay. When she asked for the coach’s name I said my ride was here and bolted.

  It’s kind of hard to journal in a crouched position but Ms. Silver said writing calms the nerves so I’m trying it. Not that I don’t think I’ll make the team. I’ll make Freshman for sure. But I really want Varsity. Then I can travel and

  I’m back. Ran drills. Did shooting lines. Suicides. Apes. Coach Bammer liked me because I didn’t block out. I didn’t ball hog, either. Coops said I had game face without looking too intense. This is good. Now I wait. I hate waiting.

  Feeling = LeBron never has to wait.

  Saturday, September 15, 2012

  The Homies (Blake, Hamilton, Legend, Wendi, Maple, Sylvie, and me) had plans to see My Afternoons with Margueritte at the Independent. I had to cancel because my Brit Lit essay is due on Monday and I’m only two paragraphs in. Not because it’s hard. Nothing about Noble is hard. Mom used the ninth-grade curriculum guide when I was in seventh, so I’ve been coasting. It’s my Mac that can’t keep up.

  I hit “save” after every sentence because my hard drive is old and forgetful. But every time I hit “save” I get the spinning wheel. Then it freezes. That’s how I’m able to journal and write a paper on Great Expectations at the same time. I write during reboots.

  Reboot successful.

  Back to the essay.

  Rebooting again.

  I have been saving for a new laptop since 2008. I got $1,018.00 for my bat mitzvah. My parents made me donate half of that to charity ($509) and put another $250 into Israel Bonds. This left me with $259. If you take inflation into account it’s more like $237.62. Recycling cans at the grocery store would have been more lucrative.

  I earn $25 for every A+ (again, cans would be easier) and only have to donate $5 of that to charity, which helps. Now, two years later, I am $150 away from a new computer.

  My parents can afford to buy me one but they think saving will teach me the value of a dollar. This makes no sense. International markets, inflation, fiscal and monetary policy, fixed rates, floating rates, political instability, fluctuating demand, surpluses, and deficits determine the value of the dollar. Not my ability to save for a MacBook Pro.

  Back to the essay.

  Rebooting again.

  I met the Homies through a national organization that introduces homeschooled kids so we can have friends too. Ironically, I had more of a social life when I was stuck at home. Must research ways to fit in. Noble has been kind of tough in that area. I’ll do that after I finish my essay.