Authors: Courtney C. Stevens
Seeing them makes me remember . . . what I’m trying to forget.
Liz and Ray are the opposite. They’re together because they believe they’re
called
to be together. Until they don’t feel called anymore. So then they break up . . . until they’re called again. What the hell? They treat each other like a lion and an antelope bungee-corded together.
Maybe they’re lonely and too complacent to find someone else.
Heather raises a brow. I know what her question is before she asks. “No, I’m not going to the dance with Bodee,” I say.
“I was afraid that might be part of
being nice
to him,” she says.
“Not hardly.” The truth is I
would
go to the dance with Bodee. And I wouldn’t go just to be nice. But that’s too close. Too soon. Right now we’re both yard sales of emotions. A penny for pain. A dime for bitterness. A quarter for grief. A dollar for silence. It binds us together, but I don’t want him to pay the price for the parts of me that are used and broken. And that’s what the dance would be.
Besides, we live together. In the same house.
“That’s a relief. Hayden really likes you.”
“Hayden doesn’t know me,” I say.
Heather copies the last section of my worksheet and says, “He will after homecoming. Seriously, Lex, he’s a good guy.”
“That’s what Craig says too,” I say. According to Craig, there are only a few guys on the football team I’m allowed to date. Hayden’s one of them. Ever-protective, opinionated, determined-to-have-his-way
Mr. Tanner
. I want to tell him to shut up and leave me alone. I’m a big girl, and I can choose my own dates, even if they aren’t on his list. But he’d warn Kayla if I wanted to date some
bad seed
. And she’d tell Mom and Dad.
What does
bad
even mean anymore? Everyone is bad in some way. Except for Bodee.
“Well, there you go. If Craig believes it, then it’s true,” she says. “I think Hayden even goes to some church like you and Liz.”
“Well, gosh, Heather, now you’ve convinced me.” I flash fake googly-eyes at her. “Any guy who goes to church is bound to be Mr. Perfect.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. He’s got, like, a good soul or something, I think. And he’ll ask you himself if you want.”
“Wow. Thank you, date doctor.”
I want to tell her I don’t need her pity hookups, but she knows I won’t take the initiative to flirt enough to snag a date. Her efforts mean I matter to her, and that’s kind of nice, so it’s
only fair that I show her some appreciation. And the benefit of going to homecoming with a football player is that you barely see them until the dance. Basically, I’ll be in the stands all night with Heather and Liz (and Ray). It’s doable.
“I’m sure I’m going to regret this, but why not? Tell him I’ll go if he asks,” I say.
The pent-up squeal Heather lets out just as the bell rings is loud enough for Alaskan wolves to hear. And we’re a long way from Alaska. “
Perfect.
See you at the table,” she says, stacking her books and grabbing her purse. She’s clearly trying to leave before I can change my mind.
I pick up our completed worksheets and speak to her empty desk. “No problem, I’ll just turn this in for you.”
Until tomorrow, Captain Lyric.
The hallway is crowded enough to give Times Square some competition. Hot and thankful for a lunch break, I put my shoulders down like a linebacker and barrel toward my locker. Next year when I’m a senior, the waters will part and I’ll walk like a queen of the high school empire, but for now, I feel like a freshman. In the way.
Bodee’s leaning against his locker, so I wave at him from down the hall. He’s not the waving kind, but he gives me a lime-green hair toss.
I remember that he’s usually not at his locker during this break.
“Got a question,” he says as I reach him.
God, I hope it’s about laundry or toothbrushes or even new
boxers. Please don’t ask me to go back to the crime scene again after school. “Sure. Let me dump my books,” I say, spinning the combination on my locker.
There’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Hang on, Bodee,” I say.
“Uh, Alexi.”
The tapper is not Bodee. I know this without turning around, because Bodee’s voice isn’t that deep. Three books fall out of my locker as I cram my bag inside. Bodee squats beside me and helps me stack the books.
“An admirer,” he murmurs.
An admirer who didn’t help pick up my books. I slam my locker door and turn around.
Hayden: Collie’s friend. One of Craig’s football players. Sits at the lunch table. Deep voice. Dated Janna Fields all last year. And according to Heather, goes to some church. That’s all I know beyond the obvious. He’s picture-ific.
And probably here to ask me to homecoming.
Heather has wasted no time.
“Uh, Alexi,” he says again now that he has my attention. “I was talking to Heather about the dance.”
“Yeah, she told me in psych,” I say, wishing I had something to fiddle with. Where do you put your hands when a guy asks you out?
“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.”
“Um, okay. Yes, that would be nice,” I say. Hayden may or may not be all the things Heather says, but add direct to the
list. He’s clearly no fan of chitchat or the get-to-know-you crap. He asked what he wanted; well, what Heather wanted, and I gave it to him. Done.
“Cool. Guess I’ll see you at lunch then,” he says.
“Yep.”
He walks away with a satisfied look on his face. No details about plans or times. Not even an exchange of numbers. He’ll see me at lunch; and this might be easier than I thought. Hayden strikes me as a guy who won’t think about me again until ten p.m. next Friday night. That’s fine by me. Because I won’t think about him, either.
Except to worry.
The warning bell rings, and I turn back to Bodee. Heat stings my cheeks, because he’s wearing my whole exchange with Hayden on his face. I’ve never seen him at a dance or at any after-school event, but something in his eyes suggests he might have had plans for this one.
“What’d you wanna ask?” I say.
“Nothing important,” he says, and walks down the hallway away from the cafeteria. Why does that make me feel like he’s just lost his mother all over again?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
BODEE
is silent for the next four days.
He speaks only when he has to and says only what is necessary. At the store when we buy a few things. At the dinner table or in the house with my parents. But in the car with Heather and Liz, he says nothing at all. Even at church, which is a mandatory outing at Littrell-topia. Bodee has a way of making his silence feel ordinary, like it’s not a weapon, so I can’t tell if he’s mad at me or if he just has nothing to say.
Heather and Liz double-date the weekend away while I do homework in the closet and make new playlists for the week. Mostly grunge, but ironically, a whole list of classical songs, too. The genres don’t usually make a good mix, but my brain needs both the ache and the peace.
Classical stuff makes me miss being in band. When I turned
in my saxophone at the beginning of the year, my mom was the only one who argued.
“Mom, I’m not going to Juilliard,” I said, and then added some excuse of how I needed more time for homework with my AP class load. Total bullcrap. School’s easy and I love music, but I can’t spend that many hours in marching band. Too near the football field.
“Your call,” Mom said, but I know it worried her for me to give up something I’d enjoyed doing for so long.
All weekend, I don’t scratch my neck. Not once.
But I don’t sleep. And that makes me look like hell. In fact, that Monday morning before Bodee and I leave for school, my mom asks, “Lex, you feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I’m not sleeping so well,” I say. Better the truth on this one, since I have purple-as-a-plum circles under my eyes. She gives me a Mom look and tries for casual in her voice.
“Why, do you think?” She hands me and then Bodee a hot piece of toast.
“A lot on my mind, I guess. The wedding. Not practicing driving enough. The dance this weekend. You know, stuff.” I butter the toast and do a quick check of Bodee’s expression. It’s unreadable.
“Well”—Mom pats my cheek—“maybe you and I need some time away from the house. We could do some shopping in Nashville. I know you’re borrowing one of Kayla’s fancy outfits for homecoming, but we could maybe take some girl time. What do you think? Spoil ourselves a little before we
have to get so busy with the wedding and the holidays.”
“Sure,” I say. Mom probably thinks I’m fretting over the changes in our household. Bodee moving in; Kayla moving out.
“Are you going to the dance this weekend, Bodee?” Mom asks.
“No, ma’am.”
“’Cause you can, you know. John and I want you to feel free to do whatever you like, to go out some or have friends in. Alexi’s borrowing Kayla’s stuff; I’m sure Craig wouldn’t mind if you borrowed something too. Y’all are about the same size.”
Are they? I’ve never thought of Bodee as anywhere near Craig’s size, but now that Mom says it, I see they’re closer than I thought. I figured Craig’s khakis were belted on Bodee pretty good at the funeral, but maybe not.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t plan to go.”
“Shame. I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun. John and I had so much fun at those dances when we were at Rickman. But oh, that was a million years ago now. Things have probably changed.”
“Yeah, Mom, like dinosaurs no longer roam the earth,” I say, and see her grin before heading to the door. “Come on, Bodee, there’s Heather pulling in.”
“Have a good day,” Mom says.
Before I close the door behind us, I know from the look on Mom’s face that she’s happily reliving Rickman High School homecoming, circa the 1980s or something.
“Please. Shoot me if that’s ever me,” I say to Bodee on the way to the Malibu.
“I thought you liked dances,” he says.
“Hell, no.” I point to the front seat and mouth. “I’m only going because of them.”
Bodee smiles for the first time in days.
The day-to-day lines added to my desk are the only other highlights during the rest of my week.
Monday:
I’d like to hold you in the mountains
LIKE TO KISS YOU BY THE SEA
Tuesday:
Take you far, far from here
TO A PLACE WHERE YOU FEEL FREE
Wednesday:
’Cause we are safe
WE ARE TRUE
Thursday:
We are going to make it through
CRASHING WORLDS, FALLING STARS
Friday:
Breaking all of who we are
I WANT INFINITY WITH YOU
“This week’s weirder than usual,” Heather says as she leans over and peers at my desk on Friday. “Y’all didn’t say much.”
“I think we said more than normal.”
Heather twists her braid into a bun and sticks my yellow #2 through the middle. “What will Hayden think when he figures out you’re in love with some random guy who writes on your desk?”
“He won’t care.” I pack my books away. “Not unless it’s about football. And I’m not in love.”
“You’re in somethin’ with him. Like you’re in somethin’ with Bodee. You know we could hear y’all whispering when you got in the car this morning.”
I roll my eyes. “Forget it, Heather. Captain Lyric’s a figment, and you can’t be
in love
with a figment. He exists in this room only.”
“So? I’ve been in love with that guy on MTV since seventh grade, and he only exists on TV. Captain Lyric’s a whole lot closer than that.” Heather points at the door of our classroom. “He’s out there somewhere.”
“But I don’t know who he is.” This is the real issue. That I
could
fall in love with this guy. If I knew who he was.
But all I know about him are the words he chooses from someone else’s songs. If it’s a love story, it’s a short one. “And for your information,” I add, “Bodee and I were talking about him
not
going to the dance. Again, let’s review: he lives In. My. House. We are
not
in love.
We
aren’t anything.”
“Huh. That’s too bad, ’cause I think he’s growing on me.”
“You date him then.” I regret saying this immediately. Bodee’s not a pawn, and he’s not mine to give away. Of course, Heather’s attached at the hip to Collie, and she’s not interested in Bodee. But the thought that she could be gives me the same feeling I have after I find a hair in my nachos.
Heather grins; she’s on the verge of letting go with a hyena laugh. We’re in class, so she jams a fist in front of her mouth and crosses her eyes. It doesn’t help. We’re still loud.
“Ms. Littrell, may I please see you at my desk?” Mrs. Tindell asks from the front of the room.
Uh-oh.
Everyone looks up. I’m like one of Mom’s second graders as I walk the aisle to our teacher’s desk. The rest of the class awaits my punishment.
Mrs. Tindell’s voice is so quiet that no one else can hear her. “I know you’ve already finished your work. Would you mind returning these books to the library for me?”
“Of course not.” Sigh of relief. I reach for the books, but she touches my hand.
“So you know, Ms. Littrell. I find this preferable to telling you and Ms. Jackson to . . . keep your traps shut . . . again . . . so everyone else can work. Understand?”
I’d find it preferable if she’d actually teach us something, but I say, “Yes, ma’am. Uh, thank you.” I take the books from Mrs. Tindell and leave the classroom with everyone staring holes in my back.
The library is on the other side of the school. By the time I get there and leave the books in the return bin, the bell rings. My stuff is still in psych, but it’s hard to be late to lunch. The lines are so long.