License to Spill Page 5

  I say sugar glider.

  She says good.

  Lie #28: I’ll ask Randy to save the cutest one for you.

  Audri gives me a vanilla-scented hug.

  Next thing I know we’re baking trout.

  Everything is a blurry mix of sensations so I can’t even say who made the first move.

  It’s like my brain turned off and something else turned on. Only that something doesn’t speak English. It doesn’t register normal objects or sounds. It’s a foreign language and I don’t understand it. But my body does.

  And it likes it.

  A lot.

  Sunday, October 21, 2012

  Why, yes, Ms. Silver, the brown smear on this page is almond-butter. How very astute of you. Please know that my decision to use this journal as a napkin was not meant to disrespect this assignment. I seriously never thought I’d be writing in it again. For I, Lily Bader-Huffman, had gone back to being a Homie.

  For the past week, I’ve allowed my hair to embrace its natural frizz and have encouraged my T-zone to shine. I still watch Duffy from my window, but have redirected the time I spent trying to impress him toward bonding with the old crew. I feel like me again. The only downsides have been Maple’s trick eye, which has gone from lazy to utterly listless, and Blake.

  I’ve left him several messages—six to be exact—and he hasn’t called back. Knowing Blake, he’s mad that I left him at Pub, which is so selfish because I’m the one who got yanked. Hence another reason I have embraced being a Homie. No more drama.

  Unless you count the tiff I got into with Wendi over my new CNN anchor crush.

  “You can’t switch from Wolf Blitzer to Anderson Cooper,” she said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Anderson Cooper is gay!”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t like him.”

  “What’s the point, Sisyphus?” she asked. “He’ll never like you back.”

  I wanted to say, “I can’t control who I like. If I could I wouldn’t be spending my love dollars on Duffy, and Vanessa wouldn’t be spending hers on Blake.” But I didn’t want to think about the things I’ve been trying to forget, so I said, “You’re right. Maybe I am wasting my time on Anderson Cooper. So, how are things going with you and Sanjay Gupta? Has he responded to your nine-page letter?”

  Wendi laughed and said it was good to have me back. I agreed. It was good to have me back.

  That was my mindset as I listened to HAIM and prepped my study calendar for week two as a Homie v 2.0. I, Lily Bader-Huffman, was 95 percent happy. The missing 5 percent rested on Blake’s cold shoulder but I knew he’d warm eventually. Pub or not, I was still his best friend.

  Then I heard the knock.

  “Lily,” Dad said, “can we come in?”

  We? I turned off the music.

  For once, Dad led the way and Mom lingered in the doorway.

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he sighed.

  “Better you than me.”

  He sat on the edge of my desk. “I shouldn’t have pulled you out of Noble.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “It was wrong and I’m sorry. We’ve arranged to send you back.”

  I looked at Mom. She looked at the carpet.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You were right to pull me out. I’m doing better now.”

  “That’s the problem,” Dad said.

  “Huh?”

  “Lily!” Mom snapped.

  “Sorry. I mean, excuse me, Dad? I don’t understand.”

  Mom sighed and said, “I think we’re doing you a disservice by continuing to homeschool you. He thinks you should learn from your mistakes, mistakes we’re not giving you a chance to make.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means if you want to get bad grades you can,” Dad said.

  I looked at Mom. “Is he serious?”

  She nodded yes.

  “Your mother has given you a fantastic education. Her job is done. What you do with that knowledge should be up to you now. Do you want to skip a few grades? Stay where you are and get straight A’s? Fail? You’re old enough and certainly smart enough to decide.”

  My bottom lip started to twitch.

  “What your father’s trying to say, Lil, is that we can’t keep protecting you.”

  “Protecting me from what?”

  “From yourself,” she said. “It’s your future. You have to be responsible for it.”

  “What about what I want?”

  “This is what you wanted,” Dad said. “You wrote an entire essay about the benefits of going to Noble.”

  “That was before!”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I went to Noble.”

  Mom slid a finger under her glasses and wiped a tear from her eye. I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for her. I despised her for agreeing to something she clearly didn’t support.

  “The plan was to homeschool you for six years,” she said, “after which, I’d return to my psychology practice. Then six turned into eight because I didn’t want to let you go. But your father’s right, Lily. It’s time.”

  Self-pity pooled in my eyes. I blinked, forcing my tears into the world to make their own mistakes; a world that will wipe them away because they don’t belong.

  “So you’re breaking up with me?” I asked.

  “Please,” Mom said. “We’ll be here for me every step of the way.”

  “Oh,” I snapped. “So you’re breaking up with me but you want to stay friends.”

  Mom turned to Dad. “See, Alan! I told you this was wrong.”

  “Lily!” Dad said. “We are not breaking up with you.” Then to Mom, “It’s not easy, Nora, but it’s not wrong!”

  Mom turned and walked out. Dad went after her. And I, Lily Bader-Huffman, was left alone.

  Monday, October 22, 2012

  I couldn’t do it. Blake is still sending me to voice mail and I didn’t want to walk in alone. Everyone asking why I’m back. Or why I left in the first place. Or worse—what if they didn’t even notice I was gone?

  I didn’t know how to deal with any of those scenarios. So even though I wasn’t talking to Mom, I told her I had Coxsackie. I didn’t care what she thought. I didn’t care about anything but not going to Noble.

  “I guess you’d better stay home,” Mom said.

  “You believe me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Do you even know what Coxsackie is?”

  “A virus. Symptoms include a sore throat, rash, and blisters in the mouth.”

  Of course she knew.

  “And you believe I have those symptoms?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you letting me stay home?”

  “It’s your life,” she said. “Your grades, your future.” She kissed me on the forehead, hooked her purse over her shoulder, and headed down the hall.

  I followed her.

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “That’s it.” She opened the front door. It was raining again.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To buy a pack of gum.”

  “You’re going out in the rain for gum?”

  Mom shrugged. “It’s a start.” She smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, but I also detected a hint of pride in her expression. Whether she was leaving for gum or a job interview was beside the point. The point was she was leaving, whether she was ready to or not.

  I wanted to smile too, but I refused to give her the satisfaction.

  So now I’m back in bed. Journaling.

  It’s a start.

  Monday

  I’m waiting for Sheridan outside the theater. They’re practicing a song. It’s about being popular. I should probably take notes.

  Trying to fill these pages. Trying. Trying. Try. Ing. Tryi. Ng.

  Ng. Ng. Ng. Ng.

  There was a guy who used to work for Dad before he was in the red and had to close the r
eal estate office. His name was Edwin Nguyen. I thought it was Edwin N-gooyin. But he said Ng is pronounced like a W. I asked what it was like having a name like Edwin Win cuz I was pretty sure it had to suck. He thought about it for a second then said: It’s a win-win.

  I kind of laughed but I also felt like bawling my eyes out. The guy had no clue how tragic he was. Wait, let me rewrite that. The guy had no clue how tragic he Ngas.

  I wish Ms. Silver let us journal on computers. Copy. Paste. Copy. Paste. Copy. Paste. Copy. Paste. Command C. Command V. Command C. Command V. DONE!

  I guess I could write about how my entire life has changed since Saturday. Only it’s hard to sit still.

  Feeling = I’d rather live my changed life than write about it. But Sheridan won’t be done for another twenty minutes and I don’t want to look like a guy who has nothing better to do than wait.

  The last thing I wrote about was Trendemic. I was trying to pick things to sell but all I could think about was Coach Bammer and how he’d kick me where the balls don’t bounce if I missed scrimmage. So I clicked the first seven things I saw that didn’t ooze slickness and bolted. I don’t even remember what I chose.

  I was the first one in the gym. I thought Bammer would be so impressed he’d change his mind and let me play. All he did was point to the bench and say: Warm it.

  When the rest of the team showed up and saw me sitting there the unfunny nicknames started flying. They called me Bleacher Creature, Dame Judi Bench, and Hairy Penal. Penal was short for penalized. Hairy was just an add-on.

  The unfunny jokes came next.

  Q: What did the bench say when he was introduced to Duffy’s butt?

  A: Pleasure to seat you.

  Q: Why did Duffy get kicked off the Flames?

  A: He didn’t give a sit.

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  Duffy.

  Duffy who?

  Exactly.

  Feeling = I wish I was the Incredible Hulk.

  My Flames shirt would rip open and I’d get huge. Then I’d lift the bench over my head and snap it in half like a carrot. They’d scream and try to run away. I’d scoop them up and jam them in the nets. Their dangling legs would bicycle in midair. The hoop would start to give. The backboards would crack. Coach Bammer would beg me to show them mercy. He’d say they didn’t mean anything by it. They were just being guys and that’s what guys do. They razz.

  I’d lower myself down, look him in the eyes, and burp that stupid word right back in his face. RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

  Bammer would fix his burp-blown hair and then offer me captain but only if I saved them. I’d tap my green chin like I was mulling it over. Meanwhile, the backboards would give even more. Bammer would start begging. I’d keep tapping. And just as everyone started to fall I’d swoop in and catch them.

  Then, as their new captain, I’d give them three minutes to change their shorts. They’d thank me as they ran toward the locker room covering their butts in shame.

  Feeling = How awesome would that be?

  Anyway, I didn’t need to do that. Logan Pratt is off the Flames for stealing the BMW. His dad wants him to be a caddy or some crap. That’s what Bammer said. Exactly like that. So I’m back in the game!

  I can’t wait to tell Sheridan.

  10.22.12

  INT. FRONT SEAT OF THE BMW X5—LATE AFTERNOON.

  SHERIDAN would rather put quill to paper in a vehicle that smells like graham crackers than follow MOM and the TWINS around REI. HENRY and MAX need soccer cleats. They get whatever they want. SHERIDAN does not.

  Call me Big Game Hunting because I am channeling a bad sport. I can’t help it. Everyone’s dreams come true but mine. A starring role would be the ultimate, but right now I’d settle for playing the lead in someone’s life. Audri has clearly replaced me with Jagger. According to today’s lunch letter they had an “epic makeout” on Sunday and are officially boyfriend and girlfriend. They even call each other sugar gliders.

  (Barf.)

  O’course I “acted” superlatively happy for Audri. Only I didn’t feel happy. I felt like her hormones skipped a grade and made all new friends. Meanwhile, I got my period one month before she did. So if anyone should be “epically making out” it should be me because my body matured 28 days before Audri’s. But hooking up is not trending with me right now.

  If were to channel the boy who chopped down George Washington’s cherry tree and therefore could not tell a lie, I’d admit I don’t really know how to hook up. How did Audri? If there’s a script, I certainly haven’t seen it.

  I hoped to get the details after rehearsal but she was busy helping Octavia gather her things. Yes, Journal, you heard me right. I said, Audri was helping Octavia. Why did Octavia need help, you ask? Because Octavia claims she got whiplash from joyriding with Logan and needs “Owdie” to be her “nurse.”

  SOLILOQUY.

  Funny, Octavia, A.J. didn’t mention anything about you getting hurt. In fact, he said you ran off pretty quickly and left Logan behind to take all the blame. But you’ll do anything to keep Audri and me apart, won’t you? Well, you’re not the only one who can manipulate my best friend! I’ll invite Audri and Jagger on a double date with Duffy and me. Rosco’s, table for four! No more joiners. Move over whiplash, a new pain in the neck just rolled into town. Her name is Sheridan Spencer and she’s gonna make you suffer.

  END OF SOLILOQUY.

  CUT TO:

  Duffy was in the hall when I got out of rehearsal. He was sitting all sweaty and flushed from practice, writing in his journal. Suddenly I became jealous of his pen, like it was some flirty girl or something, because it knew his secrets and I didn’t. I knew better than to ask what he was writing about. It was none of my business. Our journals were private and everyone knew it. Anyway, if he wanted to tell me he would.

  What are you writing about? (Me, not being able to help it.)

  Just trying to fill pages. He closed the journal, dropped it in his backpack, and zipped it up. FYI—he never zips his backpack. So now I’m curious with a side of paranoid. But I have to let it go. I have to be cool. I can’t give in to—

  Fill the pages with what? (Me not letting it go, not being cool, and giving in.)

  He looked at me kind of sideways and said, Words.

  I had to let it go. I had to change the subject. I blurt-asked him if he wanted to go on a double date. Only I called it a double hang because I didn’t want him to think I was looking for a sugar glider.

  Cool. (Duffy.)

  Okay, cool. (Me, hoping Audri and Jagger would agree.)

  Instead of busting out iCal and making it official, Duffy changed the subject to basketball. Turns out that after meeting with my dad, Mr. Pratt made Logan quit the Flames as part of his punishment. Which means Duffy’s bench warming days are over. He’s back on the team and the best part is he’ll never have to deal with Logan again. I didn’t want to be all Robert Downer Jr. and ruin his moment so I forced my outsides to look happy for him. But my insides were très Les Misérables. Now Duffy will go back to being a star and I’ll be left behind, again, waiting in the wings.

  He asked if I wanted to celebrate with a frozen hot chocolate from the Honey Bun. I said I couldn’t because of this whole cleat shopping thing. But really? This fading star has lost her twinkle. Not that I’m incapable of feeling joy for others. I can. As long as I feel more joy for myself. And right now the only thing I feel is FADE TO BLACK.

  END SCENE.

  To be continued…

  Tuesday

  Hud and Coops used to call my house the Playboy Mansion. They probably still would if they were speaking to me. But they aren’t.

  Feeling = I bet they would if I really did live at the Playboy Mansion.

  Feeling = How sick would that be?

  Anyway, it’s like they think Mandy comes home from school, takes off her clothes, and dances around in underwear all night with Megan and Morgan. Coops calls it the pants-off dance-of
f.

  Feeling = More like the turn-off dance-off.

  Thinking about my sister in her underwear is like matching up two south poles of a magnet. Force it all you want but it’s never gonna work. With Megan and Morgan it’s different. Sort of. I’m not related to them so they could do a pants-off dance-off and it wouldn’t repel me. But their filibustering does.

  I learned that word today in American Politics. I thought it had something to do with bras, but a filibuster is a professional time waster.

  Like say the Democrats are playing against the Republicans for some legislation. Republicans are ahead 22–18 in the final quarter. With ten minutes to go, the Republicans send in a ringer—some slick dude whose whole job is to talk and talk and talk until the buzzer goes so the Dems can’t score. That ringer is a filibuster.

  Feeling = Amelia would kill me for saying this because it’s disrespectful toward women but girls are natural-born filibusters.

  Feeling = Especially Mandy, Morgan, and Megan. They’re in the kitchen. I’m in the den. I can hear everything. They may as well be wearing Bubbie Libby’s flannel nightgowns and mint arthritis cream. Their conversation is that un-hot.

  Feeling = I want to block their bustering with noise-canceling headphones and some Kings of Leon. But I’ll transcribe what they’re saying instead. For one thing, if Hud and Coops ever talk to me again I’m going to make them read it. And for another, dialogue takes up journal space and I’m way behind on pages.

  MEGAN: Ohmygod will someone please take these Snapea Crisps away from me. I’m about to finish the whole bag.

  MORGAN: I know, right? They’re so yum.

  MANDY: Soooo yum!

  MORGAN: Right?

  MEGAN: Crazy. (Chewing.) Who told you about them?

  MANDY: SELF magazine. Or maybe it was Shape. I dunno. One of them.

  MORGAN: Swear they’re healthy?

  MANDY: They’re snap peas! (Silence.) What? Why are you looking at me like that?

  MORGAN: You’re not eating any.

  MANDY: I’m full. I downed a ton of Persian cucumbers at lunch?

  MORGAN: Those make you lose weight and you know it.

  MEGAN: They do?

  MORGAN: Given! They have like, zero grams of everything so chewing actually burns calories.

  MANDY: Same with Snapea Crisps, right?