How to Ruin My Teenage Life (4 page)

5

To make a sin offering to God:
a) sacrifice an animal to the Lord (Leviticus 6:18) or
b) wait until Yom Kippur and fast a whole day.
(Leviticus 16:29)
So good to know I can erase my sins.
(Erasing guilt is outlined in Leviticus 5.
If God can forgive, surely humans should, too.)

I'm grounded for the rest of my life.

My dad laid down that law a few minutes ago, and he sounded dead serious. Now I hear his little outbursts of anger coming from the kitchen.

The phone rings. It's probably Jessica.

“Don't you
dare
pick dat phone up!” he yells from the other end of the condo, his thick Hebrew accent getting thicker by the minute. I swear, the neighbors are going to start calling the police soon if he doesn't calm down.

I hear him stomping closer to my room. He opens the door and scowls at me while running a hand through his hair, his signature and patented I-am-frustrated-and-don't-know-what-to-do-with-my-teenage-daughter move. “Do you not understand what you did was wrong on so many levels, Amy? You stole my credit card—”

“Borrowed it,” I correct him.

“You made me look like a fool in front of clients. You sign me up for a dating service … what's next?”

Before I can open my mouth to defend myself, he says, “How much did it cost me?”

“The dating service?”

He nods.

“Um … less than sixty dollars a month,” I answer.

“How much less?”

“One penny.”

“Go on the computer now and cancel it before I have to pay for two months.”

“Um,
Aba
?”

“What?”

“I got you a six-month subscription. It was cheaper to pay it all up front. I got a deal. Think of me as your Yente from
Fiddler on the Roof
. Your personal matchmaker.”

This time he laughs, and I think he's broken way past the anger barrier and is quickly gliding toward delirium. A delirious Israeli ex-commando is not a good thing.

“What's the problem with a dating service? It's for
Jews
,” I interject, hoping to lessen the blow. “You gotta love Jewish women. You're Israeli.”

“That's not the point. You used my credit card without asking.”

“Yeah, well, I don't exactly have one of my own.”

I swear I hear him praising that fact under his breath.

The doorbell rings. Mutt is going nuts, barking nonstop. “Arg! Arg! Arg! Arg!” It gets my dad's attention. He's afraid he'll have to pay a fine if we get too many complaints from the neighbors about Mutt's excessive barking. I'm saved from my dad's rant for now.
Thank you, Mutt!

“Stay here,” my dad orders, leaving my room.

So now I'm sitting on my bed, alone once again. And I'm grounded. I wonder how long I'll be stuck here before he gives in.

“Amy, come here!” he calls out.

“Yeah?” I say innocently as I head to the foyer of our condo. Dad is holding Mutt's collar, holding him back from jumping on and sniffing the crotch of whoever is at the door. I've had the talk with Mutt, but he doesn't listen. I don't know what the big deal about crotches is. I assume once you've smelled one, you've smelled them all. Not that I'd know. I have no desire to go near anyone else's to test my theory.

“You know Mrs. Keener, don't you?”

I scan the suit and tailored attire of the woman, sure she hasn't smiled in at least a year. Can she pull that 1970s bun tighter on her skull? I turn my gaze to the person beside her. Oh, no. It's Concerned Citizen Boy, in the flesh.

Mrs. Keener pushes him closer to us and directs her conversation to my dad. “This is my nephew, Nathan. He's come to live with us for a while.” She shakes her head as she says, “It's a long story. I know your daughter is about the same age and was wondering if she'd be able to show him around the city.”

Nathan looks about as happy as I do to be in this situation. But I suppose being grounded and stuck in my room is worse than being stuck with Nathan Keener.

Nathan Keener.

Just the name alone could get a kid beat up.

“Amy's grounded,” my dad says.

Thanks a lot for sharing that humiliating piece of information, Dad
.

“Oh,” Mrs. Keener says, obviously put in an awkward situation.

“But I guess if she takes Mutt for a walk, she could go out for a bit—”

Needing no further push, I grab Mutt's leash off our hall tree and snap it on his collar. “Come on, Nathan,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry to the elevator with a very excited and very large puppy.

Nathan, it seems, needs no further push either. He follows right behind me and enters the elevator as soon as Mutt and I step inside.

We have no elevator music in our building, so it's just silence except for heavy panting courtesy of my dog.

“You don't have to babysit me, you know,” he says while crossing his arms over his chest, trying to look tough. He doesn't.

“Your aunt seems to think I do,” I reply.

The elevator door opens. Nathan Keener is right behind me, not missing a step when I exit our building. But once I turn toward the dog park, I don't hear his footsteps behind me anymore. Turning around, I find Nathan walking in the opposite direction. With his long, corduroy-wrapped legs, he's already half a block away.

Mutt is pulling me toward the park. “Hey, Nathan!” I yell, but the guy doesn't turn around. Now what am I supposed to do?

6

Chicken soup can help heal you
when you're sick. Is there a recipe for healing
relationships?

If you can believe it, I found out this morning Nathan Keener is going to my school, a private prep school called Chicago Academy. Yep, it's true. I also have the pleasure of sitting behind him in English class and he's even in gym class with me. It wouldn't be so bad, but he's already the talk of the entire school.

What is it about transfer students that fascinates people so much? If I hear one more time,
Amy, did you see the new guy?
I swear I'm gonna scream. It's fifth period. I have study hall. I sit next to Kyle Sanderson, the varsity center for Chicago Academy's basketball team and all-around popular guy. The only flaw is that Kyle wears no less than a half a bottle of cologne every day. You can tell when Kyle leaves a classroom that he's been there. He's like a bear, leaving his scent behind for girls.

“What's up, Nelson?” he says, calling me by my last name as he slides skillfully into the seat next to me. Do you think he practices that move?

I'm not about to tell him I've been hyphenating my last name since the beginning of the school year, using both my parents' last names. I'm now Amy Nelson-Barak. I'm not telling Kyle because 1) he wouldn't care and 2) he wouldn't remember even if I did tell him.

“Not much,” I respond.

“That's not what I heard.”

Huh?

“What'd you hear?” I ask him. Is there a rumor about me?

“That you signed up for a dating service.”

“Who told you that?” It's not true … exactly.

Kyle leans his chair back on two legs. “The new guy. You know, the one with glasses and dorky clothes.”

“Nathan?”

Kyle shrugs his big shoulders and says, “Yep. The dude's my bio partner this week.”

I'm going to kill that tall, lanky jerk who wouldn't know the difference between Dana Buchman and Armani. How dare he spread rumors about me!

“So … are you that hard up?” Kyle asks. “'Cause you're kinda cute, Nelson, and you got great boobage.”

I whip my head around and glare at him. “Boobage? Jeez, Kyle, do you make these words up?”

He puts his hands up in question. “You'd rather I said tits?”

“Shut up,” I say before opening my trig book and sticking my head in it. I swear, if he keeps staring at my chest I'm going to make sure he can't pass the ball at the next basketball game.

“Miss Barak, would you care to share your conversation with the rest of us?” Mr. Hennesey barks out from the front of the room. Mr. Hennesey is the gym teacher as well as study hall monitor. Study hall policeman is more like it.

If Kyle mentions my
boobage
to the rest of the room, I'm going to kill him … along with Nathan Keener.

“Nope,” I say.

“Then I suggest you both quit talking or I'll have to separate you.” I wish.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Hennesey walks out of the room. As everyone knows, when a teacher walks out of the room it's an invitation to start talking. Right now I don't want to talk.

“You need a date for the Valentine's Dance?” Kyle says, loudly I might add.

I cock my head to the side and answer sweetly, “Why? Are you asking me?” Ha! Right back at ya. Nothing like a lowly junior putting a popular senior boy on the spot.

I'm sure everyone in the entire room hears our conversation. The snickers and looks in our direction are a clue. I think the words “Valentine's Dance” alone would turn heads. It's on everyone's mind since the posters went up last week.

“I will, if you want to do a threesome. I already asked Caroleen Connors, but I'm man enough to take you both on at once.”

Kyle has the nerve to wink at me. Eww! The guy needs a serious ego adjustment.

Mr. Hennesey walks back into the room, so I can't respond. So now I'm sitting here, seething at Kyle for being a male chauvinist pig and at Nathan for spreading rumors about me.

After study hall, I walk to social studies while plotting ways to confront the geek who moved into my building. Is he
that
socially inept he has to stoop to spreading rumors about me just to get attention?

“Did you see the new guy?”

I look up at my friend Raine, who has no clue my heart rate just jumped and my veins tensed at the mention of him. I look up at her with my patented sneer.

“What did I do?” Raine asks, wide-eyed.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just please don't talk about Nathan Keener.”

A guy's voice behind me says, “FYI, it's Nathan Greyson.”

I'm left with my mouth wide open, staring at my neighbor and his oversized tortoise-rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Raine says, “Nice pants,” and walks away giggling.

“You and your friends really know how to throw out the welcome mat,” Nathan says with a fake smile. “Private schools are a breeding ground for fake, plastic people. This school is no exception.”

I don't understand this guy. He's geeky, but he's got an attitude that doesn't mix with his outward appearance. “Who
are
you?” I ask.

“Hell if I know,” he responds, and without another word walks away.

Leaving me to wonder if he's a vampire or alien in human form.

I walk into social studies and the last thing on my mind is current affairs. But Mrs. Moore is obsessed with vibrant class discussions on the president, his policies, and making sure we all know what's going on in this great country of ours. I think the mere act of looking at the American flag brings her to tears.

When the bell rings at the end of the day, I stuff my homework in my book bag and trudge through the slush to the bus stop with Jessica, Cami, and Raine. Mitch is standing at the bus stop already, and when Jessica walks close he casually puts his arm across her shoulders. I can tell Jess is still upset he hasn't asked her to the dance. She's as stiff as the icicles hanging from the bus stop sign.

“Seriously, Amy. Did you join a dating service to get a date for the Valentine's Dance?” Roxanne says, and laughs like a hyena giving painful birth to twins.

I
really
hate her. She knows it, too, because last year we almost came to blows in tennis when I bumped her down from the varsity team to JV. The cheat always pretends to hyperventilate in the middle of a match she's losing so she can take a break and regroup. Nice try, Roxy. I still beat your butt.

“She's got a boyfriend,” Jessica chimes in while rolling her eyes. “Leave her alone, Roxanne.”

I want to cheer
Go Jessica Go!
, but don't. Jessica doesn't reveal the fact that I signed my dad up on PJSN because she knows it would embarrass me. One of these days Roxanne is going to find herself banned from the bus stop if her mouth keeps running like diarrhea.

Unfortunately, we have to wait ten more minutes for the bus to come. We all live on the Gold Coast and have to take public transportation to school. It doesn't make sense to have a car when you live and go to school in the city. So we're at the mercy of the Chicago Transit Authority. It's cool during the summer and spring, but when snow dumps itself on Chicago it can get pretty rough. We ususally wait inside the school until the last possible minute, then trudge outside and freeze our butts off until the bus stops and opens its doors.

As if standing next to Roxanne wasn't bad enough, Nathan comes sidling up the sidewalk and stands with us. He's got his iPod headphones in his ears, highlighting that he doesn't care to start conversations with fake, plastic people. Kyle kind of nods his head in acknowledgment of him. Nathan nods back, then pushes his glasses up again. Someone should clue him in that they sell non-slip glasses now.

The bus turns down the street. Relief time! I'm the first one on, ready to get out of Roxanne and Nathan's sight even if it's for ten seconds. I head to the back of the bus where we hang until our stop. Jess and Mitch—“the couple”—sit across from me. Cami and Raine sit together, so do Kyle and Roxanne. That leaves Nathan and me, the singles.

Nathan doesn't even contemplate sitting next to me as he and his headphones plop themselves down onto a bench in the front of the bus. He makes it very clear he doesn't consider himself one of us.

I have no clue why this irks me so much.

Maybe it's because he insulted my school and my friends. And me.

Whatever. I don't care what Nathan Keener Greyson thinks about me. I have my own friends and boyfriend, even if he does live halfway around the globe.

Ugh. I miss Avi, especially at times like these when I need someone just to ramble to. Jess has been depressed lately—I have no clue if it's really about Mitch or if something else is bugging her. She won't open up to me.

Cami is studiously doing her homework so she has less to do when she gets home. And Raine is just the opposite, concentrating on putting her lip-gloss on to keep it fresh. She doesn't give a crap about homework. In fact, I bet she probably has her mom do it for her.

Roxanne is flirting with Kyle. Maybe she's moving on to someone who doesn't have a girlfriend. I wonder if she knows he's going to the Valentine's Dance with Caroleen Connors. Probably not by the way she's leaning into him and touching him as if he's her property. I swear, Kyle just eats up the attention. But thank God he's focused on her
boobage
now instead of mine.

The bus stops on the corner of Dearborn and Superior, where I get off. Of course Nathan gets off the bus, too, and we walk into our building together. Elevators are a strange place to begin with. The creaky sounds and rattling of the doors can put anyone on edge. But when you're in the elevator with someone you don't particularly like, the place can make even a non-claustrophobe feel like they're stuck in a coffin.

I'm on one side of the elevator; Nathan is on the other. He still has his iPod earbuds in his ears, but I have no clue if there's music playing in them. I almost want to say something to test him. I know people who pretend they're listening to music but are really eavesdropping on conversations when others think they can't hear.

“I'm not plastic,” I say to him. “Or fake.”

No reaction, except for a little twitch of his jaw. And his breathing halted, just for a millimeter of a second.

It's true. I'm as real as they get, no holds barred. My dad says sometimes it's a good trait, and sometimes it's a horrible one.

We finally reach the fortieth floor.

“Check ya later, Barbie,” Nathan mumbles.

Did I just hear right?

Barbie? Um … that's not gonna fly with me. No way, no how.

I stop dead in my tracks and turn around. “What did you call me?” I ask.

I should have known the guy would ignore me. Ignoring is apparently Nathan's specialty.

Inside my condo, Mutt greets me with a pounce and a germ-infested lick. Most people say that a dog's mouth is cleaner than a person's mouth. But most people haven't tested my dog's mouth. He licks too many private parts to be considered clean by anyone's standards.

I look up when Mutt runs over to his leash. To my surprise, my dad is sitting at the dining room table.

“You get fired?” I ask.

My dad looks up. “No. Just wanted to be here when you got home.”

That's a first. “Why?”

My dad's attention is taken by Mutt, holding the leash in his mouth and wagging his tail around like a lance. “Let's talk about it after you take Mutt out.”

This doesn't sound too good. “Tell me now.”

“He's going to have an accident on the floor if you don't take him.”

“I'm going to freak out if you don't tell me. What's worse?”

My dad takes a deep breath and says, “I'm new at being a fadder, but I have to try my best. You used my credit card without my permission. You signed me up for a dating service without my permission. That six-month membership is costing me over three hundred dollars.”