Firsts (6 page)

“Well, you look like you need some sleep,” I say, spinning around to face her. I don’t add that she also smells like she needs a shower and some mouthwash.

“Maybe we can go shopping today,” Kim says, cocking her head. “You can help me pick out some new clothes.”

I grit my teeth. This is what I wanted last night. I wanted Kim to act like a mom. But it’s all wrong, the way she does it. She can never get it right. A good mom would take her daughter shopping on a weekend, not at seven in the morning on a school day. A good mom would remember that her daughter has school. A good mom wouldn’t let her daughter leave the house dressed the way I am right now, not in a million years.

“I can’t,” I say, slamming the mug down on the counter with more force than I intended. “I have that thing. School. You know—that place where I go to classes and get straight As.”

“Oh. Duh,” Kim says, slapping her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Well, you can skip it for one day, can’t you? One day won’t hurt.”

I grip the countertop behind me with my fingers. I want to scream, but when my voice comes out, it’s flat and emotionless. Kim can’t get the mom thing right, and I can never show emotion when I feel it. What a fucked-up family unit we are. I wonder who she blames, since I blame her.

“I can’t skip it. In case you forgot, I’m going to MIT next year. I need to actually go to class to get the grades, and I’m not throwing that away so you can buy more clothes you don’t need and shouldn’t be wearing anyway.” I grab my bag off the table and storm out the door with shaking hands.

“Well, have a good day, honey!” Kim calls behind me. I slam the door to the Jeep as hard as I can, but it still barely makes a sound. I don’t look back and I don’t return the wave that I know she’s giving me, her red-talon nails extending to the ceiling. Why can’t she ever get mad? Why can’t she take something personally? Why does everything I say bounce off her, like her plastic skin is some freakish form of Teflon?

I’m already in the parking lot at school by the time I realize I’m here way too early. Class doesn’t start for another hour, and prayer group isn’t meeting today. The minutes stretch in front of me on the clock radio. I can’t sit here, not for another second. I’m full of energy that I don’t know what to do with, so I decide to channel it into something productive and go to the science lab. I can sit at my desk and read ahead on our next assignment. Zach will be thrilled that he’ll have even less work to pretend to do.

I’m met with a warm breeze when I step out of the Jeep, and I reach down to tug at the hem of my skirt, willing it to cover more skin. At least I had the good sense to grab a cardigan. I wasn’t actually planning on leaving the house like this. I was going to wait until Kim left and change back into my normal attire. I could go back now, but that would mean running into her again, and she would ask why I’m changing and then she would know I put this outfit on for her. And that’s not a satisfaction I’m about to give her.

The hallways are dark and quiet. The only sound is my heels clacking on the floor. I remember being in grade nine with Angela, when we hated sitting in the cafeteria but she was worried about being caught eating in the hallway. At the first hint of clacking heels, she would shove her food back into her backpack, and I would always laugh because she looked so guilty. Usually it wasn’t even a teacher, just a senior who would give us a weird look.

The door to the science lab is ajar, but the room is mostly dark. I set my bag down and flip on the lights. For some reason I wander behind the desk Mr. Sellers occupies at the front of the room instead of heading to my own desk. I pick up the whiteboard marker he uses and stand beside the board. I clear my throat and begin to speak to nobody.

“Today, we’re going to be talking about electronegativity. It’s more interesting than it sounds. It’s all about attraction. The higher the electronegativity of an atom, the greater its attraction for bonding electrons.”

I pause and prepare to draw a diagram on the whiteboard, until a soft knock at the door makes me drop the whiteboard marker. My heart starts pounding through my flimsy excuse for a top when I realize who is standing in the doorway.

Jillian Landry, with her perfect hair and perfectly appropriate khaki pants. She’s hugging a textbook to her chest and smiling.

I instinctively pull my cardigan tightly around myself and bend down to pick up the marker with my butt facing the whiteboard. Why is she here? I didn’t even know Jillian took chemistry. I have never been in a class with her. But I guess I don’t know anything about her, really, besides what I gleaned from Tommy. I don’t know anything about her except how much he loves her.

“You’re good at that,” she says when I come back to a standing position. “I never understand it when Mr. Sellers tries to explain it. I always space out after five seconds of hearing him talk.”

I roll the marker between my fingers. I guess I should be embarrassed that Jillian caught me talking to myself, but there are a thousand other things running through my head instead. I wonder if Tommy loves her more now than before they slept together. I wonder if he tells her she’s beautiful, if he remembers special dates and opens doors for her. I wonder if I helped him and in turn helped her. Then I banish that thought from my head. Would I be doing this if I weren’t helping people?

“It’s his voice,” I say finally. “He’s like a drone. Obviously he recites the same spiel, year after year. And year after year, nobody tells him how dry it is.”

Jillian laughs and takes a seat at a desk. My desk. “Yeah. Well, I can’t fully blame him. I have a terrible attention span. Which explains the C I’m getting in this class.”

I sit down at Mr. Sellers’s desk, grateful that its big wooden bulk is covering my bare thighs. Jillian is staring at her notebook now. Maybe I should leave her alone and get out before this gets too awkward.

“I’m Jillian,” she says. “And I suck at chemistry.”

“I’m Mercedes,” I say.

“I know,” she says, raising an eyebrow. For a second all the blood rushes to my head
. I know.
Two words I never wanted to hear coming from Jillian Landry.

“I know,” she continues. “He mentions you. You’re his little superstar.”

Suddenly I feel like I’m going to be sick. My stomach twists in a violent knot. “Who does?” I squeak out, my voice tinny and unnatural.

She smiles. “Mr. Sellers, of course. I think you’re the yardstick he measures the rest of us by. And you set the bar pretty high.”

I take a deep breath as my heart returns to its normal rate. She doesn’t know. It isn’t Tommy who mentions me. Why would he?

“I’m doing this thing,” she continues, thankfully oblivious to my inner panic. “This Students Helping Students program. I came up with it last year to help my friend who was doing shitty in French class. Basically we pair a student who is doing well with someone who isn’t. It benefits both people. The person struggling hopefully gets better grades. The person doing well gets to add tutoring experience to a college resume.”

I lean back into Mr. Sellers’s chair. I remember seeing Jillian during activities week, sitting behind a booth in the hallway. I remember Angela talking about the program but being too nervous to sign up. I remember writing it off because I’m not a joiner.

“Where’s your helper?” I ask.

Jillian rolls her eyes. “Good question. It’s supposed to be Bobby Lewis, but he’s noticeably not here. Again.”

I almost choke on the saliva collecting under my tongue, but I try not to react. I can’t even imagine Bobby Lewis, aka the Acrobat, as a legitimate chemistry tutor. I figured he had no authority teaching anything besides gymnastics, at least according to what went on in my bedroom.

“I really thought this program would help people,” Jillian says, shaking her head. “I guess I never considered that I’d be the one getting screwed over by it.”

I stare at her, with the ends of her hair pooling on the cover of the textbook. Jillian is a good person, the kind who tries to help other people. The violent knot in my stomach returns. My insides feel like they’re being wrung out like a wet towel.

“I’ll do it,” I say before I can take the words back. “I’ll do it. I mean, if you want me to, I’ll help you.”

Jillian smiles broadly. She has a great smile, wide and open and honest. The smile of somebody who has never been hurt before, or at least not badly enough for it to leave evidence.

“It’ll look good on your college application,” she says, even though we both know college applications have already been sent and MIT will never know if I do or don’t tutor Jillian Landry. “I hope I’m not too dense for you.”

So before school even officially starts for the day, I’m the newest member of Students Helping Students. I’ll be working with Jillian once a week as well as a junior named Toby, who Jillian says is desperate. I had no idea so many people needed help, at least not help in the classroom.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jillian says when she closes her textbook after a crash course in electronegativity. “I would have been so screwed otherwise.”

I paste on a smile, even though the inside of my mouth is cotton-dry. All this time I have been trying not to think about Tommy, to keep my mind on atoms and elements and ionization energies. But he keeps creeping in, invading everything that makes sense and dragging along something that feels a whole lot like guilt. I can’t deal with it right now, so I push it out of my head and tell Jillian that I’m happy to help. And it’s the truth, in more ways than one.

7

I’m vaguely aware when I walk into home economics later that day that I’m not anonymous in this class, and not because of my barely there outfit. I switched into this class at the last minute because I fulfilled my math credits in first semester, and because Angela told me it would be fun. I can already tell that fun isn’t the word I’ll use to describe it.

“Mercedes,” Trevor Johnston says, turning around to where I sat down beside Angela. He winks at me and stares too long at my crossed legs, a gesture he probably thinks is subtle but definitely isn’t. I look down at my notebook, willing him to not make eye contact. Then I notice who he is sitting beside: Chase Redgrave, aka the Dirty Talker. Chase at least has the decency to pretend he has no idea who I am.

“How do you know that guy?” Angela whispers in my ear. I shrug, aware that a flush is creeping into my face, but I’m spared coming up with an excuse when our teacher loudly admonishes somebody for coming in late—somebody I have gratefully not slept with. I do a quick sweep of the classroom to make sure I haven’t slept with anybody else in attendance, but luckily Trevor and Chase are the only two. I inwardly panic when I see Trevor whisper something to Chase. How do they know each other? And how much do they know about each other?

I turn my gaze to the back of the room, where there are two vacant desks side by side. Maybe Angela and I can sit back there instead, far away from Trevor and Chase. Maybe it’s not too late to move.

“Can we relocate? That guy’s cologne is giving me a headache,” I whisper.

“I can’t see the board from back there,” Angela says.

“Maybe if you wore your glasses you could,” I hiss.

Angela frowns and turns around. “Wait, isn’t that your lab partner?”

I grip my desk with my fingers and peer over my shoulder. Shit. Sure enough, Zach is slinking into the classroom, taking exaggerated tiptoe steps, no doubt to cover up the fact that he’s walking in after the bell.

“Mr. Sutton,” our teacher, Mrs. Hill, says. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence.”

I watch Zach’s face turn red as he plops into one of the empty desks. When he meets my eyes, he winks and gives me a little wave. I roll my eyes and turn around to face the board. Great. Now I’m trapped between three people I have slept with. It’s like the worst kind of claustrophobia. Why would Zach want to take home economics, anyway? I figured he would hate this stuff. Although, I guess I kind of do, too.

Mrs. Hill is rambling on about our first assignment, the details of which I can glean later from Angela. I already hate her high, screechy voice and the way she insists on rapping the blackboard with a meter stick periodically, probably to make sure we’re paying attention. I have more important things to pay attention to, like whether or not my secret is going to be exposed by the end of the day. I don’t know what would be worse—the whole school finding out, or Zach finding out the real reason I don’t want to be his girlfriend.

Trevor and Chase. Chase and Trevor. Trevor is a jock; Chase is a preppy with a seriously sick mind beneath all that argyle. I never thought their paths would cross. I know that guys were bound to talk within their own groups, but I didn’t think there would be any cross contamination between other groups. So far I have been able to avoid awkward exchanges and judgmental stares and that chatter that stops the second you walk into a room.

I think back to what I tell every guy before he gains entry to my bedroom:
Don’t wink at me, don’t wave to me, don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me. If you do, I don’t have to tell you how much I have on you
. Most of them look at me with wide eyes and nod their heads in assent. The ones who don’t at first do when I threaten to show them the door.

I try not to visibly cringe when Trevor and Chase give each other one of those lame fist bumps. I seriously hope that isn’t universal guy code for “I slept with Mercedes, too.”

“Mercy. Duh.” Angela is poking me in the ribs with her pen. I look up to see the whole class, plus Mrs. Hill, staring at me. Mrs. Hill is even rapping that goddamned meter stick.

“Sorry. I missed the question.”

“That’s not surprising,” Mrs. Hill says, bringing the meter stick to rest beside her desk. “That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hill.” I give her my sweetest smile, which feels like more of a grimace.

“As punishment, I’m going to make you my first victim. Today’s topic,” she says, hitting the blackboard with her meter stick with an ungodly amount of force, “is sexual education. Nobody wants to talk about it, but we have to make it a priority.”