Abysmal.
Devin’s big word echoes in my brain as I stand still beside her. The sun’s so bright I have to squint against the glare off dozens of windshields. Of course, on the one day I need Mom not to be home, here she is. My heart’s already beating so fast I can barely breathe.
Mom always takes me straight home, then watches what I do all the rest of the day. How can I get to the mailbox before her—or without her seeing?
Everything I’m waiting for should be here today, and I’ll be free again, and talking to Paul—if I can get to the mailbox. And I’ve got to get to the mailbox. I can’t take it anymore, missing him so much. Or feeling so trapped.
Abysmal.
I start toward the car.
Devin tugs on my arm hard enough to break my stride. I stop and turn back toward her. “Huh?”
“Did you hear anything I said?” She frowns as she lets go of my arm. “Sometimes, I swear you’re on some other planet in your brain.”
“I heard you,” I insist, then try to remember exactly what she
did
say. If she wants me to repeat it, I’m toast.
Devin’s eyes narrow. “Planet Paul, maybe?”
Tension grips my neck and back. “I’m not allowed to talk to him. You know I’m still grounded.”
Total slit-eyes now, with pursed lips. Not good. “But you’re thinking about him. Admit it. You’re thinking about him all the time, even though you’re not telling me. You don’t tell me
anything
anymore.”
“I do too!” I glare at her and open my mouth again, intending to lie about the whole Paul-obsessing thing, then change my mind. “I think about the fact he’ll probably blow me off because of this. That he might just move on to somebody who can’t get grounded. A girl who doesn’t have to deal with parents.”
Devin’s eyes get a fraction wider. She lets out a breath, and her shoulders sag. “Would the world stop spinning if he does, Chan? I mean, I know you’re having trouble around here because of—well, Adam-P and all that. But it’s not like you’ll ever really get to meet Paul. He lives hours from here. Plus, your parents—you know?”
I hold my breath to keep from yelling, which makes it hard to say, “I know.”
“So, when I stopped you a second ago,
did
you hear anything I said?”
“Not all of it, probably.”
Devin puts her icy fingers on my cheeks and makes me look at her as she repeats herself. “I want that headline,” she adds as she lets me go. “ ‘The Wild Dyke of Amherst.’ You owe me that headline. Don’t forget. And don’t forget it’s due Monday.”
My stomach tenses along with the rest of my muscles, but I nod. “Done.”
As I start for the car again, Devin says, “I’m calling to remind you every day this weekend, even if I can’t talk to you!”
I wave at her over my head, like,
Yeah, okay, you do that
, and hear her laugh. The sound sort of fortifies me as I face the prospect of riding home with Mom. We haven’t been talking much since the whole laptop-confiscating incident—need-to-use-words moments only, and even then, as few words as possible.
Oh, and that big threat about tracing Paul—she hasn’t been able to do that, best I can tell.
Trying not to scowl, I get into the front seat.
Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Mom asks, “School okay?”
“Fine.” I rub my hand across the beige upholstery on the door and watch Devin through my window as she runs toward her boyfriend. This week it’s Mac “Mack-daddy” Brown, one of the football players. Total player in every sense of the word, but Devin knows that.
He’s just arm candy, honey. I get to do arm candy every now and then, don’t I?
One day, I’m going to tell her what I really think about how she treats guys. Maybe.
Mom eases us into the flow of traffic, and the air in the car seems to get a little colder despite the heat pouring out of the vents.
No secret. Mom doesn’t want to be in the car with me any more than I want to be in the car with her. Only, she’s
the mom, so it doesn’t seem right that she gets to act like this. I try not to look at her, but it’s hard in such a little car, and because I’m working like mad to figure a way to get out of the house to get my mail, and get it back inside without her catching me. Like that’ll ever happen.
Every minute or so, Mom lets out a big loud sigh, which makes me turn my head in her direction.
Finally, about three miles from the house, Mom says, “You can stop worrying. The tech guys at headquarters couldn’t follow your tracks on the laptop. But then, you know that, because you downloaded hacker programs to make sure everything got erased
and
purged.”
Okay, yeah.
I knew that.
But still, my heart jumps on top of its pound-pounding about getting to the mail.
“Who put that idea in your head, Chan? About the eraser programs?”
I’m so not having this conversation again. If Mom chooses to think I’m too intellectually impaired to come up with anything smart on my own, well, she can just be that way. I turn my head away from her and watch neighborhoods fly by as she accelerates—probably more than she should.
“Your computer had two worms and a Trojan on it, though, so you weren’t
that
careful. It’s a bad idea, disabling your virus program.”
My attention stays on the outside world. Who cares
about worms and Trojans? Worms and Trojans only matter when a person has a computer. I don’t have one. I’ll probably never have one again, at least not one I get from Mom.
Another sigh floats through the car. “Do you think this silent routine will keep me from punishing you more?”
I think it doesn’t matter one way or the other.
The inside of the car crushes in on me. I want to roll down the windows so I can breathe air Mom’s not breathing. My chest actually hurts. We’re about three minutes from home. From the driveway.
Mom says, “As soon as football season’s over, you’re grounded to your room, except for competition practice, assuming you make it through Regionals.”
That brings my head around in a hurry. “Assuming? Gee, thanks for all your faith, Mom.”
Her sweatshirt reads
Stop using Jesus as an excuse for being a narrow-minded bigot
. Her face reads
Finally I got Moody Brat to talk to me
.
I really want to tear off that stupid sweatshirt and cover her face with it, just so I don’t have to see the look she’s giving me.
“Sorry, Chan,” she says with another huge sigh. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re so oversensitive with me all the time. Why do you blame me for everything you’re going through when
you’re
the one who broke the rules?”
“I don’t blame you for everything,” I say before I can
shut myself up. “I blame you for the stuff
you
did. The stuff
you
said. The stuff
you
think.”
Mom pulls to a halt at the mailbox at the edge of our driveway and glares at me. “Just exactly what is it that I think?”
“That I’m dirty because I had sex and got herpes.” I force myself to look at her and not the mailbox as I fumble with my seat belt. “Go ahead. Say you don’t think that.”
But she doesn’t have a chance, because my mouth slips a gear and just keeps going. “You look at me like I’m filthy because I still want a boyfriend even though I have a disease. You treated me like I was ridiculous and gross because I showed my boobs to somebody
I
chose, that
I
like and wanted to share part of myself with. It’s my body, isn’t it?”
Mom’s eyes go wide. She blinks a few times. “Chan. At sixteen, you—”
“I what? I don’t know who I like? I’m not allowed to be attracted to somebody?”
“No—I—I …” Mom’s mouth keeps moving, but she’s not making sounds. It’s like she can’t quite figure out what to say.
“You stick your nose in everything, and I hate it. I have
no
life, and that’s what I blame you for!” With that, I jump out of the car, stalk over to the mailbox holding my breath, grab the mail out, and march inside. I slam the front door behind me and lock it, too, half to slow
Mom down, and half because I’m so mad. I storm all the way to the kitchen and throw the pile of stuff on the counter. It takes me a few seconds to paw through a bunch of junk mail, some newspaper flyers, a thin, square box for Lauren from her friend Michelle—complete with little heart and puppy stickers all over the brown paper—but there’s only one thing for me. A bulky white envelope that has my whole name typed neatly on the front, and my school’s return address in the upper left-hand corner.
Baratynsky
is printed neatly under the address.
Totally not the Bear’s wavy scrawl, though.
Okay, I’m confused. And so disappointed I can barely see straight.
What would the Bear send me?
Or … is this from Paul?
How did he know my school’s address—wait, wait. I told him the name of my school and the name of my coach. He probably got the rest off the Internet and did this to make sure my parents wouldn’t raid the package.
Genius. Total brilliance. I’m amazed.
I start for the stairs, but right about then, Mom slams through the front door, blasts down the hall, and storms into the kitchen.
It’s all I can do not to stick the white envelope behind my back.
Why didn’t I just take it and go upstairs? I’m such an idiot!
Mom’s eyes blaze, and she looks ready to spit fire.
When she speaks, her voice shakes. “Just so you know, I don’t think you’re filthy because of what happened last year. You just made a mistake, that’s all.” She takes a breath, not so loud or dramatic. “I’d like to help you avoid a few more. That’s why we have the rules we have.”
Her eyes drift from my face to the envelope in my hands. “What is that?”
“It’s from Coach Baratynsky.” My voice comes out way too loud, and blood rushes hard against my eardrums. “Here.” I thrust it toward her. “Would you like to open it and examine the contents to be sure they don’t break any
rules
?”
Mom looks mad for a second, then like she just might start crying for real.
I hold my breath until I wonder if I might actually turn blue.
Mom glances at the envelope, long enough to see the return address and the way-too-neat
Baratynsky
written beneath it.
“No, Chan. I don’t need to open it.” She sounds like she’s been a few rounds with a boxer and lost. Really bad. “Why don’t you get yourself a snack and go upstairs. We both could use some cooling off time, I think. Besides, I have to go pick up Lauren from Michelle’s house. I’ll be back in under an hour.”
A few smart remarks pop into my brain, but I stifle them all, grab an apple, and run for the upstairs. For the sanctuary of my room.
My heart’s still pounding, and I’m sort of hot and mad and weird all over. Part of me feels like I was watching myself do everything, like I’m really some person on a balcony, way up high over my own head. I stare down at myself as I lock my bedroom door, listen for the sound of Mom’s car pulling out of the driveway, then sprawl on my bed and pull open my envelope.
Out falls a small box and a photo I.D. of me, with my real name and everything, that looks just like something the DMV gives people for identification. All the information’s correct, except my birthday, which has been adjusted two years, to make me eighteen.
I stare at the I.D. for a second, not quite believing it. Then I pick it up. It’s all plastic and laminated like the real thing. Just holding it feels wrong and exciting all at the same time. It takes me at least a minute, maybe two, before I can make myself slide it into my pocket—and I can’t even begin thinking about how I’ll get out of the house to open a personal mailbox down at the mailbox place a mile or two away.
In the white box I find a new Berry3000, the B-3k, the very latest wireless handheld. I stare at the black-pearl-colored machine that fits neatly in my palm and still can’t believe what I’m seeing. It has a full-color screen that covers my fingers, and on the bottom, a mini keyboard. Little icons let me know how many functions it has—the thing’s like a complete laptop, except I can hold it in one hand. I can hide it in a jacket, or under my pillow.
God, how much did it cost?
And the plan—does it have a plan?
As fast as I can, I flip through the manual, then press the power button and wait as the screen brightens.
All the icons shuffle into place, the signal meter lights up strong, and the screen’s already labeled.
Red’s Talkbox
.
My face flushes.
Paul obviously played with the machine a little before he sent it, got it all set up for me. How sweet!
I use the middle button to move a teeny cursor to the upper right-hand corner and click on
check plan
.
Minutes used: 1
Plan Type: Unlimited.
“Oh, no way!” What does that cost? Hundreds a month?
But I’m already flipping pages in the manual again and working my way toward logging on to my e-mail.
When I figure it out, I squint at the screen to see I have a post. From KnightHawk859.
The post has only one sentence:
I didn’t buy it—you did.
No sig line.
He didn’t buy it? What does he—oh.
Oh, no way.
As fast as I can with the tiny keys, I punch over to Portalpay and log into my account.
And drop the handheld on my bed.
This has to be some way freaked-out mistake. I can’t have seen what I thought I saw. Absolutely not.
But when I pick up the B-3k and stare down at the tiny numbers from Portalpay, the balance in my account is over a thousand dollars.
Mouth dry, chest squeezing so tight I can barely move, I call up a transaction history.
Paul has been putting money in my account a little at a time since I e-mailed him Tuesday morning. All the transactions are marked
LovelyLifter
.
My weightlifting video.
He sold it. He actually did it—and just like he had promised, he made me some major money, probably from freaks and pervs and who knew what else, but oh, my God. I have a Berry3000. I have a way to talk to Paul, a way Mom doesn’t even know about. And I have some major cash to pay for the plan, at least for a few months. I can almost buy a new laptop, and I would, if I thought for one second I could get it past Mom.