Chasing Boys Read online

  Margot has already unfolded herself from the floor. I watch her straighten her skirt, smooth her hair, and walk to the meeting room. Desi follows quickly behind.

  I don’t know what to do. At the last minute I race quickly after Desi before the meeting room door shuts behind her.

  “Hello,” says Angelique with a smile.

  34.

  Did you see her nails?” repeats Desi for perhaps the fourteenth time.

  “Yes,” I answer, flipping to the back of my math textbook for an answer.

  “I mean, they were professionally done. Professional. I should know, because my cousin Kiera works in a salon. Not that there’s anything wrong with your nails, El.”

  Desi hasn’t shut up since we invaded the newspaper group at lunchtime. She is fascinated with Angelique and acts like we’ve been in the presence of a movie star. She’s also careful to let me know that I am her friend and she’s on my side when it comes to the whole Eric saga.

  Strangely, Margot has barely said anything. All she said as we got to our lockers was, “Well, that was interesting.”

  As usual, I can’t decide whether she really meant it was interesting or if she was mocking it. I don’t know what to make of the meeting. There seemed to be a lot of talk about what people were going to do, but so far no one seemed to be doing anything. Nobody except Angelique and the guy called Coop, the one from detention, who was writing an article on the school basketball team.

  “I heard her father is some famous journalist,” says Desi.

  “Who?” I erase my math scribbles and start again.

  “Angelique’s dad. And her mom used to be a model. I’ve never heard of her, but she was big in Europe years ago. She lives in France.”

  “Who does?”

  “Angelique’s mother. If I was Angelique, I’d live in France. Imagine the clothes. Do you think she uses French products on her hair? Not that there’s anything wrong with your hair, El.”

  Ms. Clooney cruises by like a shark on food patrol. She pauses long enough to rest her fingertips on Desi’s textbook before moving on. Margot is sitting nearby, looking out of the window.

  “Problem?” asks Ms. Clooney as she stops at Margot’s desk.

  Margot shifts her gaze to her book. “No problem,” she says.

  I wait for Margot to look up at me and roll her eyes, but she doesn’t and I feel the earth shift a little beneath my feet.

  For eighteen months, Margot and I have been best friends. For eighteen months, since I moved to Blair, Margot and I have shared secrets and laughed at the losers and sighed at the crapness that is our lives. Before I came along it was just Margot and Desi. Then it was Margot and El and Desi. The magical power that is three.

  But lately something’s changed. It may not be real, but it’s there like a tiny stone in my shoe. I limp along as if I have no choice, but I could make it more comfortable in an instant. I just need to confront Margot, but what do I say? “Are we still friends? Have I done something wrong?” I can see her eyebrow lift now as if asking whether I’ve gone crazy.

  Maybe I have.

  35.

  It’s the geography field trip day and I’ve forgotten to bring my signed form, so I secretly sign another one and hand it to Mr. Ray. I have not been looking forward to this. I figure the constant waves breaking in my stomach are due to an early start and no breakfast.

  We get on the minibus and everyone is jostling to get the seats at the back. Desi and I choose a seat in the middle and Sarah sits in front of us and turns around. I feel rather than see Dylan pass us to go farther toward the back of the bus.

  “I’ve made up some forms for you and Dylan to use—you know, for the whole stats thing.”

  Desi nudges me but I keep a straight face and say, “Thanks, Sarah.”

  “I figure if it’s okay with you and Dylan I’ll just take some photos and maybe interview some people. Stats really aren’t my thing. Did I mention that already?” asks Sarah.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve also brought my digital camera. You know, for my part of the project. But you can have it if I finish early.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need a camera . . . Thanks anyway, Sarah.”

  When we get there, everyone piles out. Dylan, Sarah, and I group together and Sarah reads the riot act about what we should be doing.

  “Here are the forms,” she says. “It’s probably better if you split up—we’ll finish earlier that way.”

  Our group is responsible for taking stats around the mini golf club and shopping plaza across the street. They flank a busy road that seems filled with trucks. I feel sorry for the little cars. Sarah leaves to record interviews with some sales assistants and shoppers and golfers. Dylan stands with the form in his hand and looks lost.

  “I’ll take the stats for the number of cars in and out of the parking spots,” I say. “You note the number of trucks and buses going past.”

  I try not to think about the last time he saw me.

  Dylan heads off to the corner, clicker in one hand and Sarah’s form in the other. Mr. Ray checks on us a couple of times and nods encouragingly.

  “Remember to note the vegetation surrounding the area,” he says. “Native or introduced?”

  Vegetation? I guess you could call the mini golf green vegetation. There are houses on either side of the plaza and golf course, but they are old row houses and don’t have a lot of front garden space. I notice a tree here and there, trying to exist among the fumes. A gray house has some ivy twining in and out of its chain fence and I note it under the section for introduced species. The convenience store has a pot of something green out front but it’s pretty wilted and I don’t know if I should mark it down or not.

  It’s a busy place. I’m amazed at how life goes on when we are locked away at school. Trucks arrive to deliver supplies. Mothers come and go with tribes of children—one kid comes over and leaves his grubby paw prints on my school pants. A man with a haircut meant for someone much younger pulls up in a red convertible.

  All the while, through these comings and goings, I watch Dylan out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I think he is watching me. I wish it were Eric instead. In a perfect world it would be Eric standing on the corner. If it were Eric standing there, I could go over and discuss the project. We could talk about other things. Find out what we had in common.

  But it is not a perfect world.

  Sarah finishes early so I get her to take photos of whatever vegetation she can find. Then Mr. Ray blows his whistle and Dylan comes over to wait for the bus.

  “I think we are definitely going to get an award for this project,” says Sarah. “Group photo.” She bunches the three of us together, holds the camera at arm’s length, and clicks.

  I’m in the middle, between Dylan and Sarah, and my head only comes up to Dylan’s shoulder.

  36.

  That afternoon I get home from school to find Mom home already. I ask her what’s wrong and she mumbles something about leaving early as she shuffles around the kitchen. I’m not really listening. My head’s full of my own problems as I grab a bowl of cereal and head to my bedroom. Half an hour later I’m lying on my bed with my earbuds plugged in when Bella thumps through the door. She’s wearing a scowl that could wilt full-grown trees.

  “What?” I ask, removing one earbud.

  “You lazy cow,” says Bella. “Are you going to be a leech all your life?”

  Wow, you seem upset.

  I hate to see you like this.

  Is there something I can do to make you feel better?

  Also, am I a cow or a leech?

  “Shut up,” I say, as I put the earbud back in.

  But Bella pulls both earbuds out.

  “When are you going to grow up, El? You treat this place like a hotel. I’m sick of sharing a room with you—you’re a pig. There’s no housekeeper to clean up after you anymore. Mom’s not home to pick up your slack—”

  “Well, whose fault is that?” I snarl.
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  “It’s not Mom’s,” she says.

  But I don’t want to hear it. I blame Dad the most, but I blame Mom too. She should have been keeping an eye on things. The word “bancrupt” flits around my mind like a mosquito. I swat it away but it returns.

  “Sick . . . lazy . . . bed . . . drugstore . . . medicine . . . dinner,” are Bella’s words that filter through to me.

  “What? Slow down. What are you talking about?” I finally manage.

  Bella’s lips are a thin grim line. “Our mother is sick,” she says slowly. “That is why she is home from work so early. So you need to get your lazy butt off that bed and make dinner while I go to the drugstore for some medicine. Got it?”

  Then she leaves before I answer. I wait until I hear the door slam before I creep into Mom’s room. Her blinds are down. She takes up hardly any space in her big bed.

  “Mom?” I say.

  She answers with a coughing fit. “Looks like I have your cold, Ariel,” she says finally, with a shaky laugh.

  Great, so it’s my fault.

  She reaches out to me, but I pretend not to see.

  “I’m going to make dinner,” I say.

  Mom always used to make dinner.

  When Dad had his own business, Mom would go into his office every weekday, but she would always be home when we came back from school. She’d have a snack for us. Make sure we were warm enough, cool enough, happy enough. She’d sit down and help with math. And listen to our funny stories. We might have had a cleaning lady, but it was Mom who sewed our concert costumes and read The Little Mermaid to us and chased out the shadows when there were monsters in the middle of the night.

  And now I’m making dinner. And my mother is in her bedroom. And I know I should chase out the monsters in her shadows, but I just don’t know how to do it.

  I make chicken with instant gravy, which is the only thing I know how to make apart from noodles and eggs. I hate dicing up the raw pink meat, so I throw it in the frying pan quickly to keep bad thoughts away. The hot oil spits and catches me as I push the meat around with a wooden spoon. The mark on the inside of my wrist is white-hot with pain. Instead of feeling angry or sad, I feel satisfied.

  This is what I deserve. I am a lazy cow-leech.

  After dinner, Bella spreads out her textbooks on the dining table. Mom is back in bed, after sitting on the couch and watching a little TV. She is asleep when I poke my head into her room, so I don’t disturb her. I go into my bedroom, shut the door, and take a good look at the room. It’s looking like a before and after photo, all in one. Bella’s bed is neat, her bookcase is tidy, and her shelves are full of interesting things.

  My side of the room is the before picture. By the time I finish with it, over two hours have passed. I’m humming along to my iPod—the last present I got before the B word ruined everything—as I put the final touches to the bedside table that Bella and I share. I get an idea and sneak outside to the communal garden, if you could call it that. On my way back inside, the cat lady next door appears at her door calling for Socks or Shnookums or whoever.

  “A bit chilly out,” she says.

  I just nod as I sidle back inside.

  When Bella comes to bed, she bends down to sniff the stolen flowers sitting bravely in a small glass of water. She doesn’t say anything about the room but climbs into bed, reads a while, then turns off her light.

  “Night night,” she mumbles.

  And the knot in my stomach loosens just a little.

  Later on, when Bella is snoring quietly and Mom has stopped coughing from her room, I creep into the bathroom and dial Leonard’s number. He calmly lets me know that his hours are from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., Monday to Friday, but that if it’s an emergency I can call his cell phone. Then his answering machine beeps and waits for my message and I hang up.

  I find my way to Mom’s room, stand in the doorway, and listen to her breathe.

  37.

  As I settle down to another session of Radio SRN on Wednesday, Margot and Desi give me sad little waves through the tiny window that looks out onto the hallway. Then they walk away. When the door opens, I expect to see the vice principal. Instead it’s Dylan—the last person I want to see. Dylan is now taking up 80 percent of the space in my little radio booth. A work folder dangles from his hand.

  I figure Dylan is here to talk about the geography project.

  “Can we do this later?” I ask.

  “Listen, I just want to say . . . ,” he begins. “About the Eric thing . . .”

  If he’s going to remind me that Eric is taken, I don’t want to hear it.

  “I’m busy,” I say.

  Dylan just closes the door behind him and leans against the wall.

  “Go ahead,” he says. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  I shuffle the papers, trying to get them in some order, and gasp when he grabs my wrist.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  I watch, mesmerized, as he traces the outline of the oil burn on the inside of my wrist.

  “What happened?” he says. He seems angry.

  “Cooking,” I say, pointedly looking at my wrist.

  He finally lets go, but doesn’t look convinced that that’s the real story.

  I’m not sure how to demand that he leave without sounding desperate, so I shrug as if it doesn’t matter and start the announcements. Halfway through I hear the door click shut behind me and I sense that Dylan has left. I’m not sure why, but I feel disappointed.

  Today’s pile of announcements just goes on and on. Missing uniforms, lost textbooks, an invitation to join the debating team. To save myself from being bored I try a few different accents. This keeps me amused for a while. The last paper in the pile is a notice about the school newspaper.

  “Don’t forget, Blair students, you can volunteer your talent to this year’s school newspaper—articles, fiction, illustration, and photography. Meetings are every Monday at lunchtime in the Library Conference Room.”

  I switch off the system and tidy up the notices. There’s a scrap of paper on the floor and I pick it up, but it’s not a notice. It wasn’t on the floor when I first arrived. I crumple the page and throw it in the garbage. There’s still ten minutes of lunch break left—enough time for me to eat my limp sandwich from home.

  I don’t know why, but something makes me stop at the door, grab the crumpled sheet from the trash, smooth it out, and put it in my pocket.

  38.

  Angelique stops by my locker that afternoon and I try to ignore Margot’s exaggerated thumps as she loads up her books for home.

  “Hey, El,” says Angelique. “You’re doing a great job on SRN.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Neither Margot nor Desi has said anything about what I’m doing except to offer suggestions of how to get out of it.

  “Eric told me you helped him out with that basketball court time thing—”

  I wave her into silence and hope that Margot hasn’t heard.

  “It was nothing,” I say.

  “I wondered if you’d like to come to the game Friday night? The guys have to win this one to have any kind of chance of being in the finals. It should be good.”

  I can feel Margot’s eyes burning into me, and my laugh is shaky.

  “No can do,” I say. “Friday night is movie night.”

  I suddenly remember that Angelique saw me shopping with Mom last Friday night and I hope that she doesn’t mention it.

  A little frown forms between her two delicately plucked eyebrows and she lays a hand on my arm.

  “That’s too bad,” she says. “It would have been fun.”

  Margot makes some more noise with her locker, then walks off, her bag slung over one shoulder. She turns around halfway down the hall and says, “Did I mention I can’t make it this Friday night, El? Feel free to go to your basketball game.”

  Angelique looks uncertain. “Hey, your friends are invited,” she says. “The more the better.”

  “Thanks anyway,” I s
ay, wondering whether I should run after Margot.

  The stone in my shoe stops me from running.

  That afternoon I make my usual visit to Leonard. He seems distracted, sad almost, and I want to ask him what the trouble is, but really that’s his job, not mine. When he says hello, I try to add a little warmth in my return nod.

  Outside in Leonard’s park, the trees are finally bare. They stand bravely in the weak winter sunlight, but they look lost. I want to hug one as I leave, but I don’t want Leonard to see me and think that I’m crazy, so I just touch their trunks as I walk past.

  That night Desi calls me to thank me for passing on my cold. She’ll be in bed for days, she says cheerfully.

  “You know how my mother is,” she says. “I’ve already had enough chicken soup and lemon drinks to sink the Titanium.”

  “Titanic,” I correct her automatically.

  The thought of Desi’s mom fussing over her sick daughter is making my heart shrink. It’s hurting.

  “Maybe you could come over on the weekend,” she suggests. “I’ll be climbing the walls by then.”

  I leave her with the idea that this is going to happen, then I call Margot. I have an awful feeling that she’s not going to talk to me, but she gets on the phone and I tell her about Desi.

  “That girl is a hypochondriac,” she says.

  I just laugh. Desi is Desi.

  “Of course, it’s quite a coincidence that we have that science test on Friday. I’m sure she’s devastated about missing out on that,” Margot drawls.

  “About today,” I say.

  There’s silence on Margot’s end. I picture the thin line of her mouth.

  “About Friday night . . . ,” I begin again.

  “Yes?”

  “Are we going to the movies or not?”

  “I told you,” says Margot. “I have other plans.”

  “Oh.” I want to ask what those plans are, but something in her voice tells me the subject’s off limits. “So what movie does this remind you of?” I ask, trying to get a laugh.

  “It’s not the end of the world if we miss a movie night,” says Margot briskly. “It’s not like we’re joined at the hip or something. I do have other friends, you know. It’s not like we come as a two-for-one package.”