Changing rules in Sandy’s game makes the game more fun. I’m not sure yet whether the rules I feel changing in life have the same effect. I’ve been waiting all my life for boys to choose me. Now I’ve chosen one. And I’m not sure what the rules are.
We scoot closer to the fireplace and settle cross-legged in front of the fire.
“Did boys make you sick?” Sandy asks as she deals out all the cards except five.
I’m so stunned by her question that it takes me a minute to respond. Sandy and I have never talked about boys or dating or anything related to the topic. I just don’t think of Sandy like that. “Wh-why are you asking me that, Sandy?”
“Because I heard Mommy. She thought boys made you sick. Did they?”
I have to be careful how I answer. I never would have imagined that Sandy’s thinking would take her here, to this question. It makes me wonder what else is in her head that I don’t know about. Once, when Sandy’s kitten died, she wouldn’t stop crying. All day, she bugged me: “Where’s Smalley? Where’s Smalley?” I tried to make her feel better, saying stuff like, “Smalley’s in heaven with God, Sandy.” She’d nod and say “Okay.” Then an hour later she’d be back with the same question. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. We were out in the garage, where I was getting my bike to go somewhere with Alicia. “Where’s Smalley?” Sandy asked. That was it. I pointed up, toward heaven, and said firmly, “Sandy, little Smalley’s up there! He’s happier than down here. And that’s that.” She stopped crying and never mentioned the kitten again, until almost a year later when Dad was climbing to the attic above the garage to get down the Christmas decorations. Sandy came out and saw Dad on the ladder. “Daddy!” she shouted. “Get Smalley!” The poor kid had gone all that time thinking her kitten was in the attic.
I choose my words carefully. “No, kiddo,” I finally answer, picking up my cards. “Boys didn’t make me sick. They drive me crazy sometimes. But not sick.”
“Sometimes boys are nice,” she explains. “Sometimes nicer than girls. Chris is.”
I remember what Alex said about Chris, Red’s brother and Sandy’s teammate, and I try to study Sandy’s face for signs of embarrassment or confusion or any of the angst I’m feeling about Jackson. But there’s nothing.
“Do you like Chris, Sandy?” I ask, almost afraid to tread these waters with her.
She cocks her head to one side and squints at me like I’m whack. “Of course.” Then she studies her fistful of cards and demands, “Give me all of your red cards with faces on them.”
I give Sandy all of my red jacks, queens, and kings. She places couples down on the carpet in front of her, a jack of hearts with a queen of diamonds, a king and queen of hearts. And a jack of clubs with a ten of spades, just because.
The phone rings, and Mom answers. A second later she hollers, “Mary Jane! Telephone!”
She looks worried, but I know it’s Jackson. It’s like I can feel him on the phone. We have a connection.
I take the phone from Mom and walk down the hall for privacy. “Hello?” I say in my sexy
M.J.
voice.
Mom turns to me with a screwed-up expression. I move farther away.
“Hey, Mary Jane! This is Tim. Wondered if you’d changed your mind about going out with me.”
I’m so disappointed that it’s not Jackson that I can’t even come up with a great putdown for Tim. “Nope. Haven’t changed my mind. Won’t change my mind.” And I hang up.
I tell myself that Jackson just hasn’t had time to right all wrongs and restore to me my just reputation. But my stomach’s feeling queasy. And when the phone rings again, I’m so startled that I drop my cards.
“Hey, Mary Jane. This is Brad. “So you want to—?”
Before he can finish, I say, "No! Call Jackson!” and hang up.
It takes all the fake confidence I have to convince the rents that all is well and justice will prevail without involving the local police force and the FBI.
I get three more calls Sunday evening, all of them from different guys at school. None of them jocks. Something is definitely fishy. It feels like a fresh second wave of gossip. I explain to each caller that I am not interested, not available, and not that kind of girl.
When the phone rings at 10:00 p.m., I grab it. “What do you want?” There’s not an ounce of sex in my voice.
“Uh . . . this is John White? We had algebra together our freshman year until you dropped it.”
I can’t believe this! John the Math Geek White? “I know who you are,” I say, trying to control myself from taking it all out on this . . . this . . . math lover.
“I need to know how far ahead you’re booked,” he continues.
“Booked?”
“Dated?” he tries again.
“Let me get this straight,” I say evenly. “You want to know how far ahead I’m dated up. Are you taking a survey, John? Plan to run the stats and do dating equations?”
“No,” he answers, dead serious. “I’d like you to book me for one. One of those dates, I mean.”
“What do you mean ‘those dates’?” I snap.
“You know. The kind Star said—uh—never mind.”
“Star?” Of course! I can’t believe I’ve been so dense! “Star Simons put you up to this!”
“Uh . . . who?”
“What did she say about me, John?” I demand.
“What did who say?” he stammers.
I want to reach through the phone and grab him by his scrawny chicken neck. “Star! I want to know exactly what she said!”
“Aw,” he groans. “I don’t want to—”
“Now, John!” I scream into the phone.
“She just said you were giving guys a real good time. Things like that. You’re not going to tell her I told you, are you?”
“Good-bye, John.” I slam the receiver down. Sometimes old-fashioned phones are better than cells that way.
I have to use the phone book to get Star’s number. My heart pounds the whole time, not easing a beat as I dial her number and listen to the rings.
“Hello?” I can’t believe my luck when Star herself answers the phone.
“Listen to me, and listen good,” I begin.
“Who is this?” she asks.
“It’s the one you’ve been spreading rumors about. Although come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you did this to lots of people. So, just so you make no mistake about it, this is Mary Jane Ettermeyer telling you to back off!”
“Mary Jane, are you all right? You sound—”
“Don’t even try that two-faced routine with me, Star!” I shout. “I’m so on to you. Just stop it. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Are you finished?” she asks, her voice soft.
I don’t answer.
“Just stay out of my business, and I’ll happily stay out of yours.”
I know she’s talking about Jackson.
“You have no idea what my business is, Star. Or Jackson’s. ” And with that, I hang up. The click of the phone never sounded so good.
Before I have time to think, to listen to the voices in my head, I grab my cell and press #1 on my speed dial. I have reprogrammed it to reflect current realities.
Jackson answers his cell on the first ring. “Just Jackson talking,” he says.
“Just Mary Jane answering. Jackson, I need to talk.”
“I’ll be there soon as I can,” he promises.
I stare out my bedroom window at the street below, even though I know he can’t possibly appear before 10:30 at the earliest. But I wait. And while I wait, the voices in my head come in loud and clear:
Plain Jane:
What are you doing? You know full well that at this very moment, the lines are being drawn. Star is gathering her warriors against you. Your friends are hearing Star’s side of this ugly little story of betrayal. You can’t seriously believe that Jackson will dump Star for you. So where does that leave you?
M.J.:
Nothing matters except Jackson. You don’t need anyone except Jackson House on your side.
It’s 11:00 before I see Jackson’s Cherokee turn onto my street.
I race downstairs, skipping the squeaky step. Mom always leaves the sink light on in the kitchen because Dad’s been known to get the late-night munchies. I just hope he doesn’t get them tonight.
I ease outside and wish I’d worn a coat instead of counting on my sweater to keep out the night chill. The sky is midnight black and filled with stars that shine brighter than streetlights.
I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say to Jackson. I will calmly inform him that his current girlfriend makes the Wicked Witch of the West look like Mother Teresa, and the sooner he breaks all ties with her, the better for all mankind. I will further explain that there will be no romance until this whole mess gets straightened out. There will not be one iota of physical expression of affection expressed affectionately between us until my reputation has been restored, and Star Simons is wearing an “ex-girlfriend” tattoo on her forehead. My plan is to remain firm, mature, controlled, yet carefree and fun.
But approximately seven seconds in the car alone with him and every carefully rehearsed line flies out of my head. I stare into his eyes, and I feel my own eyes fill with tears.
He looks alarmed. “Mary Jane? What is it? What’s the matter?”
Then I burst into tears. I can’t speak. I can’t stop crying. All I can do is try to sniff the tears back inside. But it sounds like I’m vacuuming a swimming pool.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he coaxes. He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him.
I don’t even feel the stick shift poking into my thigh. All I feel is his hand on my head, smoothing my hair. And I let myself sink into his broad chest. “She’s . . .
sniff, sniff
. . . so . . .
sniff
. . . mean!” That’s all I can get out.
He hugs me then and rests his head, his chin, on top of my head. “I know. I know. I’ll talk to her. I’ll make it all okay. Don’t worry.”
Then before I realize what’s happening, he’s kissing me. And kissing me.
And I’m kissing him back.
18
The Battle of Attila Ill
I have no idea
what to expect when I pull Fred into the senior lot on Monday morning. I don’t know if I have anybody left on my side of the battle line. Jackson still needs to talk to Star to tell her they’re done, finished, over, history,
and
that she’d better stop spreading lies about me. And I haven’t talked to The Girls since the mall.
I’d give just about anything to have Alicia with me right now.
I got up earlier than usual and tried on everything in my closet. It felt like selecting my battle armor.
Plain Jane
thought everything made me look fat, but at least my new green sweater was way better than that brown fuzz one that got me into trouble at the mall. She also approved of the tennis shoes, in case I had to flee for my life.
M.J.
had her heart set on low-rise jeans, with a low-cut, short red top that would only fly if I got that belly button piercing she’s been lobbying for. And if I put on my coat before the rents saw me.
I’ve ended up with a clothing compromise: tennis shoes, low-rise jeans, green sweater.
Lauren rolls into the spot next to Fred, and we get out at the same time.
"Hey, Lauren,” I call as she locks her door and turns toward the building.
She doesn’t answer. Her feet move faster.
I’m pretty sure she heard me the first time, but just in case, I holler after her, “Lauren!”
When she keeps going without turning around, I know the battle lines have been drawn, and she’s on the other side.
Cassie and Jessica aren’t milling around, so I have to walk up the sidewalk alone.
The second I get inside, Jill Sweeny and Emma Phillips charge.
“Listen to me, Mary Jane,” Emma shouts. “Stay away from Tyler!”
People are watching, staring. We are the accident they’re gawking at.
“Why would I—?” I begin.
“Don’t even bother denying it!” Jill snaps. “And while you’re at it, keep away from Tim, too.”
I didn’t know Jill was dating Tim, not that it matters. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I haven’t done anything.”
“Really?” Emma challenges. “Are you telling me you and Tyler haven’t talked on his cell?”
“Well, no, yeah, but—”
“Because I have proof ! Your number is on his cell, Mary Jane. How do you explain that?” Emma folds her arms as if satisfied that she’s caught me red-handed.
“Proof that
he
called
me!
” I can shout, too. “I didn’t call him. And I’d be very happy if you had this conversation with him instead of me.”
Jill starts to say something, but I cut her off. “And the same goes double for Tim!”
I storm to my locker. But when I glance back, I can see that the opposition is growing. Four girls are circled around Jill and Emma. This is worse than I thought.
I rush to English class because I know Jackson will be there. The room is half empty. I suppose it’s also half full, but this feels like a half-empty kind of day. I stop just inside the door and sense eyes turn to me.
Jackson is in the second row, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He’s laughing with Sean Reed, who plays basketball for Attila, so he doesn’t see me yet. It amazes me that Jackson is able to stay on the sidelines of this battle. All evil glares seem to be reserved for me.
I size up the situation and make my decision. Holding my head high, I ease myself into the empty seat next to Jackson. I do this as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Jackson turns, and his dimple deepens when he smiles at me. “Hey, Mary Jane.” He says it like he’s very glad to see me. I’m not sure what I expected.
“Hey, Jackson,” I return. It will be a miracle if the entire class isn’t sweating from the sexual tension between us. Attila High could save on heating bills. Just let Jackson and me sit next to each other in every classroom. I lower my voice. “So? Did you tell Star?”