Dedication (10 page)

Laura crosses her eyes in my direction from the alto section of the risers. I scrunch my nose, making a rabbit face in response. “We need to wake up! The concert is three weeks away and you don’t want to embarrass yourselves.” Mrs. Sergeant waves her man-hands at the baritones, and a sad trickle of “We Built This City” ekes out into the choir room for the millionth time.

Backed by Todd Rawley on bass, little Mrs. Beazley attacks the piano keys, her pink beads jumping against the flopping bow of her blouse. A row beneath Laura and me sits Jake, and I watch as his finger slides along his song sheet in time with the actual song. Not the Muzak-nerd version Mrs. Sergeant is aiming for.

“Sopranos, let me see those ‘ooooo’ faces, big and round! And!
Say you don’t knooooow me oooooor recoooognize my face.”
Her mouth opens so wide I see the outline of her tonsils. “Now really enunciate here—
ea-ting. Up. The. Night.”
Sergeant stops us with a frustrated shake of her Play-Doh beauty parlor perm, but Mrs. Beazley joyfully continues.

As does Jake. Pitch perfect, his voice fills the air like light unearthed from beneath the soil of all our breathy singing. Everyone twists to watch. He’s good. Really good. Buy it at the mall, listen to it in your car, good. And much, much better than molar-mouthed, oversinging with her feet planted, doing her best Valkyrie, Mrs. Sergeant. Red splotches appear on her jowls and everyone studies their music folders. Mrs. Beazley purses her lips, pushing back her pink glasses. Jake clears his throat and Laura takes the moment to make a huge “o” face. I snort.

“You think this is funny, Katie Hollis?” Mrs. Sergeant spins to me, seething.

I freeze. “No—”

“You think someone trying to steal the show from forty-eight of his classmates is worth laughing about?” Her shoulder pads lift above her earlobes.

“No, I—”

“You
what?
Or were you just trying to get his attention?”

I sit at the edge of my chair. “No, I just…remembered something…funny someone said at lunch.”

“What?” She raps her music stand. “What was the funny thing someone said? You think it’s worth being so rude about, you should let us all enjoy it.”

“Nothing.” I shrink. “I’m sorry.”

“It takes years of work, hard work, school and practice, years of practice, before you can just sing wherever and whenever you like.” She narrows her eyes. “I want you and Mr. Sharpe here to take your huge egos and put together a presentable duet with a descant of your own devising. The last section of the song, through ‘Marconi plays the mamba,’ to be performed for all of us, let’s see…a week from this Friday seems fair. That should be something two freshmen can handle if they think they’re prodigies.” A sneer forms her last
s.
“And Katie?”

“Yes?”

“Enough flirting.” A blast of heat explodes in my face. With a satisfied smile, Mrs. Sergeant nods and Mrs. Beazley begins again.

Benjy bounces a Hacky Sack from one hand to the other as he sits slouched against the locker next to Laura’s. “It’s ’cause Sergeant’s not doin’it.”

“Shut up,” Laura and I chime. “Neither are you,” she adds, to clarify her sexual status for anyone in earshot as she wriggles the
Daisy Miller
CliffsNotes out from a pile of textbooks wedged into her locker. He tugs at her bare calf and she collapses into his lap shrieking, “Ben-jy!”

“It’s not like we can just use the sheet music,” I say, starting to panic, “We have to devise a descant. I have no idea how to do that!”

Craig, slumped with me against the lockers across from them, doesn’t even look up from the car magazine he’s leafing through with his free hand. I pull mine from the other to ruffle his hair. “Hey, I need advice.”

“What? You have to do a song.” Craig flattens his bangs back the way he likes them.

“A duet,” Laura corrects as Benjy’s hand tries to push under her sweatshirt. Giggling, she grabs it through the fabric, holding it at bay below her under-wire. Craig drops his arm around me in an attempt to keep up, and I pull my legs in so I can curl against his sturdy frame. The tallest frame in the class. The frame that for the last four months I am proud to call my boyfriend’s. The frame that’s had a secret crush since the Middle School Graduation Dance when he was too shy to talk to me. The frame that thinks of me as KatieHollis, one word. A cute frame, a nice frame, an honest frame. The frame of someone who would never, ever, in a billion years, say they don’t want to go out with anyone and then, less than a week later, start going out with Annika Kaiser.

“You have a good voice, Katie.” Craig squeezes my shoulder as he flips another glossy page. “Just practice and do it. It won’t be such a big deal, you’ll see.”

Exasperated, I give him his arm back and stand up. “Thanks.”

“Katie, I’m sorry,” Laura responds, swatting Benjy away and standing in turn.

“It’s just…” I scan her eyes. Now that I’ve publicly clarified my lack of enthusiasm for this assignment, I suddenly find myself not wanting to go any further in front of Craig.

“I know,” she says, squeezing my hand. “It’ll be fine. I’m sorry I got you into this mess. Just let him figure it out. Follow his lead.”

The crocheted sack flies past our knees and Craig dives to avoid it. “Should I be jealous?” He hurls it back at Benjy.

“No!” we cry in unison.

Three days later Jake Sharpe has not done anything—that I can follow, or otherwise. I walk over as Biology ends and inch in between his friends as they pack up their books. Closer than I’ve been to him in the five months since our “date,” I try to ignore the lingering freckles from his spring break tan. “Jake?”

“Hey.” He fidgets with his pen.

“Hey. So we should probably plan to practice or something.” Sam and Todd turn and push their heads over his shoulder, sticking their tongues out like Gene Simmons.

“Cool. Whenever.”

“I have fourth period free on Monday. Do you think it’ll be enough time to prepare? If we wait till Monday? That’s only five days.”

Suddenly his eyes land on mine and he smiles like he just remembered the idea of me and likes it. “Yeah.”

“So, fourth period, Monday. Think the music room’ll be free? Maybe that’s better. I think the gym is free. The gym is definitely free. What do you think?”

“What do you think?” Todd mimics, grinning stupidly.

“Whichever.” He shrugs.

Yeah, I get it, you don’t care. “Fine. The gym.”

“Cool.” He nods, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder. As they walk away a dime slips from a hole in the canvas where he has ball-pointed a lizard. I pick it up.

I get into the gym at the start of fourth period. I get a hand-cramp flipping that f’ing dime between my fingers. I get a sore butt from sitting on the hard wood and keeping my hair fluffed just right for three hours. I get detention for skipping fifth period in case I had the time wrong. I get annoyed on a whole new level.

“Jake.” I tap him on the shoulder at the drinking fountain. “What happened?”

“Hey.” He pulls back like I stung him.

I drop my offending hand. “Hey. So, what happened?”

“What?” He wipes the droplets from his chin. “Fourth period, Wednesday.”

Sam strolls by and punches him in the arm.

“Monday. That was yesterday,” I say as he reaches around me to punch Sam’s departing back. “So, what do you want to do?” I crane my head for his attention, trying to keep from biting the inside of my mouth in annoyance.

“How about Wednesday, you know, fourth?”

Of course I can’t fourth on Wednesday. “I can’t fourth on Wednesday.” I switch my books to my other hip. “How about after school? The music room should be free.”

“Cool.”

So not. So far from cool. So very far. Mrs. Beazley stops in some time after dark to pick up her forgotten fuchsia glasses and wakes me on the risers, my hands asleep from resting under my hair to keep it fluffed.

“Hi, Jake?”

“Hey.”

“This is Katie Hollis.” I lean against my kitchen wall.

“Yeah, hey.”

“Hey.” I repeat.

Laura rolls her hand at me, helpfully prompting. I take her cue, “I’m calling because—so, what happened?”

“Right,” he says like he knew I was going to call.

“Oh my god!”
I mouth to Laura, throwing my palm out. “Yeah,” I try to relax my voice so as to avoid further fulfilling any expectation of me as psycho. Laura makes a stern face and I turn my back to her, focusing instead on the stove clock. “Well, we only have two days left.”

“I know. After school?” he volunteers.

Arms crossed, I stare at the braided rag rug, puckering my mouth to the left. “How about before, just to be safe. Is that too early for you?”

“No way. I’m there.” I hear the twanging of a guitar being tuned in the background. “Sam, dude, hold on.”

I pivot back to Laura, who is practicing her twirling with two spatulas. “Okay, Jake, so, seven
A
.
M
. tomorrow. Music Room. You sure?” She catches them to give me a thumbs-up.

“Definitely.”

“Stood up! Again! Detention! No sleep all week! Three chapters behind on
House of Mirth!
And I have to get up in front of everyone tomorrow and Mrs. Asshole and try to wing a descant with Jake Sharpe, who may actually, now that the evidence is in, be clinically retarded. And I’d say that to my dad’s face!” I grip my books to my chest as I stomp up the hill home with Laura.

“I’ll pull a fire drill. Or Benjy can call in a bomb threat? I think he’d be up for it, I really do.”

“No! This is now officially Jake Sharpe’s to fix.”

“Agreed.” We nod at each other as we hoof through the last patches of snow giving way to full-blown spring.

“Except I’m the one who’s going to sound like a beaten cat.”

“That’s so sad!” She stops her stride to ponder. “Such a sad picture, a cat that’s being beaten, who would do that?”

“Laura!”

“Katie! Just, I don’t know, march over there and tell him what a retard he is!”

My eyes widen as the reality of the idea passes between us. “What if I do?” I murmur.

“You’d be my hero and I’d bake a whole batch of devil’s food cupcakes just for you.”

“Step aside.”

I tug one arm free from my backpack, raising the other shoulder against its load, because I need every ounce of cool right now and will not risk precious points for proper spinal alignment. I push the glowing doorbell again and glare at the Easter garland. I’m going to stay here all night, that’s what. I’ll just wait for him until he comes out in the morning and we’ll practice this stupid freaking duet all the way to stupid freaking school—

“Hey.” Jake slouches inside the doorway, holding a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

“Hey.”

“So, come in.” He waves me inside with the blue cardboard. Thrown by his expectant demeanor, I dumbly follow. I go to drop my bag in the front hall, like at Laura’s, but am struck that a worn green JanSport would look very out of place on the gleaming hardwood. His socked feet sliding Tom Cruise–style, he’s already retreating through the door on the other side of the living room like a sweatpant-clad white rabbit. I try to keep up, but I’m mesmerized by the wood paneling, Chinese pottery, and little smushed-face porcelain dogs on the mantel—the bar with rows of crystal decanters. The closest I’ve been to a house like this was the lobby of the Boston Ritz-Carlton, where we met my cousins for tea when I was nine.

I find him in the kitchen, which is wallpapered in a lilac pattern with matching fabric in the breakfast nook. But no pictures. No tchotchkes. No art or good grades stuck to the fridge. No Mickey Mouse ears resting on top of the cookbooks. Sitcom kitchens, trying to look like real family kitchens, have more stuff in them than this real family kitchen.

Jake is stirring in the cheese powder on the stovetop. I stand behind him, gripping my books. Finally satisfied, he turns around, slides the pot onto the counter of the island, and hops onto a lilac-cushioned stool.

“You going to put your books down?” he asks, taking a big, wooden-spoon mouthful. I rest them on the counter and slide off my backpack. He puts the spoon down. “Sorry. Want some?”

“Sure,” I say automatically and he leans to grab two forks from a drawer, bouncing one over to me like a skipping stone. I catch it as he shoves the copper pot between us.

“Where’re your parents?” I ask, taking a forkful of orange noodles.

“My dad’s traveling for work. Somewhere west. Texas, or New Mexico this week, I think. Mom’s asleep. Upstairs.”

“She doesn’t work?”

“No,” he half-laughs, stabbing his fork around in the pot, his hair flopping down.

I nod awkwardly and try to figure out how I suddenly found myself in this intimate activity, made all the more intimate by the ringing silence of this house. Because in the two feet between us, mostly what I am doing right now is not throwing our forks across the room, grabbing his face, and kissing him. Right now I am the girl not kissing Jake Sharpe. I am the girl not kissing Jake Sharpe who will now clear her throat.