Holding Up the Universe (6 page)

According to Mr. Dominguez, if he wasn't teaching driver's ed, he'd be repossessing cars. Not the cars of people who can't afford payments. No, he'd reclaim the cars of the people who are bad drivers, and then, like Robin Hood, he'd give those cars to an orphanage or to good drivers who can't afford their own set of wheels. It's hard to tell if he's serious because he has absolutely no sense of humor and he glares at everything. He is the sexiest man I've ever seen.

“A lot of schools are doing away with driver's ed. They send you out somewhere to take classes…” The way he says
somewhere
makes it sound like a dark and terrible place. “But we teach you here because we care.”

And then he shows us a film on underriding, which is when cars rear-end semitrucks and go plowing under them. At first, this boy named Travis Kearns is laughing, but then he utters one last “Goddamn” and goes quiet. Ten minutes later, even Bailey Bishop isn't smiling, and Monique Benton asks permission to go throw up in the bathroom.

After she leaves, Mr. Dominguez says, “Anyone else?” As if Monique walked out in protest and not clutching her stomach. “Statistics say you're going to die in a car crash before you're twenty-one. I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen.”

My skin prickles. I feel like he's preparing us to go to battle, like Haymitch to our Katniss. Across the room, Bailey goes, “Oh my golly,” which is her equivalent of “Holy fuck.” Everyone looks ill except me.

This is because in that moment, as someone's head goes rolling off down the highway, I know the part I want to play here in this class and at MVB High. I'm not going to be a statistic—I've beaten statistics for most of my life. I'm not going to be one of those drivers who gets smashed under a truck. I want to be the girl who can do anything. I want to be the girl who tries out for the MVB Damsels
and makes the team.

I raise my hand. Mr. Dominguez nods at me and my skin goes electric.

“How soon do we drive?”

“When you're ready.”

I stop in the office of Heather Alpern on my way to fourth period. She is eating apple slices, long legs crossed, long arms draped like cats on the armrests of her chair. Before she was coach of the Damsels, she was a Radio City Music Hall Rockette. She is so beautiful that I can't look directly at her. I stare at the wall and say, “I'd like a Damsels application, please.”

I wait for her to tell me there's a weight limit and that I am far, far beyond it. I wait for her to throw her beautiful head back and laugh hysterically before showing me the door. After all, the Damsels are high-profile. In addition to football and basketball games, they entertain at every big event in town—grand openings, parades, dedications, concerts.

But instead Heather Alpern rummages through a drawer and pulls out a form. “Our season technically started this summer. If we don't lose anyone, the next tryout period isn't until January.”

I say to my feet, “What if you do lose someone?”

“We'll have auditions. We'll make an announcement and post flyers.” She hands me the application. “You can fill this out and bring it back to me and I'll keep it on file. Just make sure to get your parents' permission.” And then she smiles this beautiful, encouraging smile, like Maria in
The Sound of Music,
and I float out of there like I'm full of helium.

I bob and bounce like a balloon through the halls feeling as if I'm carrying the world's greatest secret.
You may not know this about me, but I love to dance.

I am looking at the faces of everyone passing by and wondering what secrets they're keeping, when someone slams into me, a square-headed boy with a big, ruddy face.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Is it true fat girls give better blow jobs?”

“I don't know. I've never gotten a blow job from a fat girl.”

People are passing by on all sides, and some of them laugh at this. His eyes turn cold, and there it is—the hatred a total stranger can feel for you, even if they don't know you, simply because they
think
they know you or hate what you are.

“I think you're disgusting.”

I say, “If it's any consolation, I think you are too.”

He mutters something that sounds like and probably is
fat whore.
It doesn't matter that I'm a virgin. I should have had sex a thousand times by now for all the boys who've been calling me this since fifth grade.

“Leave her alone, Sterling.” This is from a girl with long, swinging hair and legs up to her neck. Bailey Bishop. If the Bailey of now is anything like the Bailey of then, she is earnest, popular, and loves Jesus. She is adorable. Everyone loves her. She walks into a room expecting people to like her, and they do, because how could you not like someone so thoroughly nice?

“Hey, Libby. I don't know if you remember me…” She doesn't link her arm through mine, but she might as well. Her voice still has the same lilt to it, every sentence ending on a high, happy note. She almost sounds as if she's singing.

“Hey, Bailey. I remember you.”

“I'm just so glad you're back.” And then she throws her arms around me, and I accidentally suck in some of her hair, which tastes like a cross between peaches and bubble gum. Exactly how you think Bailey Bishop's hair would taste.

We pull apart and she stands there grinning, eyes wide, dimples shining, and everything about her is too bright. Five years ago, Bailey was my friend, as in an actual friend and not one I made up. Five years is a long time. We barely had anything in common back then, so I'm not sure what we'll have in common now. But I tell myself,
Be nice. This could be the only friend you will ever make.

She calls out to a girl walking past, and says to me, “I want you to meet Jayvee. Jayvee, this is Libby.”

Jayvee says, “Hiya. What's shakin'?” Her hair is cut in a swingy black bob, and she's wearing a T-shirt that reads,
MY REAL BOYFRIEND IS FICTIONAL.

Bailey is beaming like a lighthouse. “Jayvee moved here two years ago from the Philippines.” I wait for her to tell Jayvee this is my first year back at school after being a shut-in, but all she says is “Libby's new too.”

Fourth period is advanced chemistry with Monica Chapman. Science teacher. Wife. And the woman who slept with my dad. As a rule, teachers are easier to recognize than students because of these three things: there are fewer of them than there are of us; even the younger ones dress older than we do; and we have license to stare at them on a daily basis (i.e., more time for me to learn their identifiers).

None of this helps me with Chapman. I've never had class with her before, and everything about her is
young
and also ordinary. I mean you'd hope that the woman your dad decides to cheat with on your mom is so remarkable that even a person who doesn't remember anyone would recognize her. But there's nothing about her that stands out. Which means she could be anywhere.

I choose a seat at the back, by the window, and someone sits down next to me. There's this look people get when they know you and when they expect you to know them, and he gives me this now.

“Hey, man,” he says.

“Hey.”

At some point, this cluster of girls breaks apart and one of them walks to the whiteboard at the front of the room. She looks around at everyone, introduces herself, sees me, and her face freezes, just for an instant, before she remembers to smile.

After everyone settles, Monica Chapman starts lecturing about the different branches of chemistry, and all I can think about is the branch she's not mentioning—the one that's responsible for her affair with my dad.

The way I found out was Dusty. He was the one who saw the text on Dad's phone. It was just sitting there, where anyone could see it. Dad had walked away, and Dusty was looking for things to collect—like me, he's always collecting things—and later he said to me, “I thought Mom's name was Sarah.”

“It is Sarah.”

“Then who's Monica?”

So the bastard didn't even bother to change her name on the phone. There it was, plain as day,
Monica.
To make matters worse, it wasn't his regular phone, but some phone he must have bought just to talk to her. Figuring out
which
Monica took a little more work, but you can take my word for it, it's her.

Right now she starts in on physical chemistry, and I raise my hand.

“Do you have a question, Jack?”

I think,
Do I ever.
If I can get the next words out of my mouth, it will be a miracle, because I feel like my chest is stuffed into my throat.

“Actually, I just wanted to tell you what I know about physical chemistry.”

The guy next to me—who seems to be Damario Raines—nods at his desk, and some of the girls turn around to see what I'm going to say. They are identical to each other, and I wonder if they want to look exactly the same or if they even know they do. They're expecting me to say something clever. I can see it on them. Besides, no one else knows about what happened between Chapman and my dad. Marcus doesn't even know, and I want to keep it that way.

“Go ahead, Jack.” Chapman's voice sounds perfectly normal, breezy and clipped, with a hint of Michigan or maybe Wisconsin.

“Physical chemistry applies theories of physics to study chemical systems, which include reaction kinetics, surface chemistry, molecular quantum mechanics, thermodynamics, and electrochemistry.”

I smile this dazzling smile, one that competes with the overhead lights and the sun beating in the windows. I am going to blind her with this fucking smile so she won't ever be able to see my dad again. A girl two chairs over is grinning at me, chin in her hands, but the others look confused and a little disappointed. The Guy Who Seems to Be Damario says to his desk, “Man.” And I can tell in that one word what a letdown I am.

“Actually, I think that's my favorite, electrochemistry. There's just something about a good chemical reaction, am I right?” And then I wink at Monica Chapman, who—for the next twenty seconds—goes speechless.

As soon as she can talk again, she gives us a pop quiz to “judge our aptitude,” but really I think she's doing it to mess with me, because she grades them at her desk and then says, “Jack Masselin. Pass these back.”

And it is on.

I get out of my seat and walk to the front of the room and take the quizzes from her. And then I stand there for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. The class is looking at me as I look at them. There are four kids who are definite IDs. Three, I'm fairly sure I don't know and am not supposed to know (but I'm not completely, totally sure). Eight are in the gray zone—better known as the danger zone.

Now, I can march up and down the aisles, trying to match the names of people I know with the faces. I can take all the shit that would be thrown at me as soon as it's clear that I don't know who everyone is.
Prick. Dumbass.

Or I can do what I'm doing now—hold up the stack of papers and say, “Who here really wants to see what you got?” It was a pop quiz, after all, so it's not like any of us prepared for it. For good measure, I flip through the pages, and most of the grades are C, D, C-, C. As expected, no one raises a hand. “Who would rather take this opportunity to promise Mrs. Chapman you'll do better from here on out?” Almost all hands go up. These hands are attached to arms that are attached to torsos that are attached to necks that are attached to faces, which swim at me, foreign and unrecognizable. It's like being at a costume party
every single day
where you're the only one without a costume, but you're still expected to know who everyone is.

“If you're interested, I'm going to set them right here.” I drop them onto an empty desk at the front and take my seat.

When the bell rings, Monica Chapman says, “Jack, I'd like a word with you.”

I walk right on out the door like I don't hear, and go directly to the school office, where I tell them I need to change to the other advanced chemistry class, even though it's taught by Mr. Vernon, who is at least one hundred and deaf in one ear. The secretary starts in with “I'm not sure we can switch you because we'll have to reorganize part of your schedule…”

For a minute, I'm tempted to say forget it, I'll stay right where I am. Believe me, I'm more than happy to torment Monica Chapman for a semester. But I think about my dad losing his hair, about how paper-thin the chemo left him, about how frail he looked, like he might crumble away in front of us. I remember what it felt like to almost lose him. There's a part of me that still hates him, that maybe will always hate him, but he's my dad, after all, and I don't want to hate him any more than I already do. Besides, I actually like chemistry, and why should I ruin that for myself?

I lean on the counter. I give the secretary a smile that says
I've saved this up for you and only you.
“I'm sorry if it's inconvenient, and I don't want to be a pain in the ass, but if it helps, I know we can get Mrs. Chapman to sign off on this.”