Shrinking Violet (4 page)

"Okay, class." Ms. Peters claps her hands together. "What do you think Ms. Austen was saying?"

Amelia Samuel's hand shoots up. If I ever had a complete opposite, it would be her. She has curly blond hair, could practically fit in my pocket, and talks incessantly. "I think Ms.

Austen was telling us that you have to surround yourself with good friends because they are the ones that can really help you through heartache. And believe me, love is no picnic. Even when you're little, like the time in second grade when I was in love with ..."

I eye the class and notice that most people are either staring at their own notebooks or whispering to their friends, but just about no one is listening to Amelia. So maybe we do have one thing in common.

I darken the letters. D-I-S-A-P-P-O-I-N-T-E-D. It's a very long word, a word that does not fall easily off your tongue. I cover the first three letters with my thumb,
dis,
and instantly it becomes a neutral word. The word
appointed
carries no feelings. That means
dis
is the culprit.

"What stands out to you in this quote, Tere?" It's not until she says my name that I realize Ms. Peters is standing right in front of me. Her stubby hand rests on the corner of my desk and the tips of her maroon loafers are nestled underneath.

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Why is she calling on me now? She knows I never have anything to say. What did I do?

She's left me alone for over a month. I glance up at her bright red lips. She cracks a smile and moves her hand to my shoulder.

The whole class is silent. They're waiting for the death of me. I know I shouldn't be so dramatic, but whenever I'm forced to speak aloud, I like to at least have a little notice so I can mentally prepare.

Time seems to have stopped as Ms. Peters waits for my answer. The rest of the class waits, too. I look down at my paper, lick my dry lips and close my eyes. If I don't see all those eyes staring at me, then it's like I'm alone. Finally, I open my mouth,

"Disappointed."

Ms. Peters waits for me to say more, but there is no more. She gets the hint and walks to the center of the room.

"Disappointed. When is love a disappointment?" she cheerfully asks the class.

Stacy's hand goes up. "When Frank dumps you."

Everyone laughs. Frank turns red because he dumped Stacy's best friend and volleyball captain, Laurie, last week.

I should raise my hand and say,
I
have no idea what they're talking about.
That I've never had the chance to be the dumper or the dumpee. That it's nothing to laugh about or take for granted because not everyone gets a chance to experience love. But saying all that would definitely constitute public suicide.

Pretty soon people's hands shoot up, and they mention first 42

loves, broken marriages, Jerry Springer guests that cheat on their lovers--but no one says anything about actually being a disappointment.

Gavin Tam, the tall, slim guy on my right, with straight black hair and dark brown eyes, taps me on the shoulder. "I know what you mean. Love is a lie."

He does? I instinctively flip my notebook over to a fresh page. I force a smile from my lips. Maybe he really does.

He smiles, then goes back to giving himself a tattoo of weird squiggly lines on his arm.

Besides me, he's probably the next quietest person in the class. But I don't think he has trouble speaking, he just chooses not to. Ms. Peters moved him next to me a month ago when she rearranged the seats. He's cute, but I've never had the nerve to ask him for more than a sheet of paper.

Ms. Peters tells us to use our free-writes and expand our thoughts into a two-page essay about an incident where a good friend really came through for us. She uses an example from her own childhood when a buddy looked out for her. Her ballet teacher said if she forgot her tights again for rehearsal, she wouldn't be in the show. Well, she forgot them. But her best friend Kate thought she might, so she spent her own allowance on a second pair of tights and kept them in her ballet bag as a spare for Ms.

Peters.

I really can't think of anything like that. I stare at my blank page. Audrey is a good friend--don't get me wrong--but we're in the same boat. Neither of us asks for much and we try to stay

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out of the spotlight. I write her name up top of the page, hoping that will spark something. I look over at Gavin's paper to see if he's started the assignment. Man, does he have a lot to say. He's abandoned his tattoo art and is scrawling away in his notebook. I can't read a word of it, though, because his writing is small and slanty.

I check to the other side of me and see that Amy is busy writing, too. She has built a wall with her arm and has her nose to the paper, like someone might steal her response.
I'm
sorry, Audrey. You really are a good friend.
I need to think harder, but I got thrown for a loop today. First I pissed off Stacy, then Ms. Peters called on me and I answered her question like a moron. Ugh. I shake my head back and forth. I need to let everything go.

It's really no big deal.

I could make up a story. Write about all my best friends. How we have each other's backs. How we'd risk ruining everything just to help a girl out. I could have Ms. Peters in tears at the end of the essay, wishing she had a group as tight as mine. But I can't do that to her. To me.

Finally, I end up writing about the time my mother royally pissed me off because she said I dressed like a slob and that's why I didn't have any friends. Nice, huh? After I used up a box of tissues, mopping up my tears, I called Audrey and she had her dad come pick me up. We spent the night scarfing down pizza and watching TV. We didn't talk about my mom once because we had agreed long before that when we were mad about something, we needed to escape, not rehash what happened. She gave me the biggest 44

hug when I left the next morning and told me if it wasn't for me, her one true friend, she'd be the most depressed person in the world. That made me feel important.

The bell rings as I'm still writing, and Ms. Peters tells us to have the papers typed up for her by Wednesday I wait for Stacy to leave before I desuction myself from my plastic seat, but she doesn't even look at me. She's too busy flirting with Frank on the way out.

"Cool shirt," Gavin says as he shoves his books into his backpack.

I look down at the picture of the Escalade on my tee with the words
PJ Squid
written on the side in gold letters. Gavin knows who PJ Squid is? I thought he only listened to heavy metal and music about death.

I say "thanks" and look up, but Gavin's already at the door, tucking a piece of his chin-length hair behind his ear.

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I'm starving when I meet up with Audrey for lunch in the courtyard. I usually have first lunch (since all the students can't fit into the cafeteria at once, we have three lunch periods at Ridgeland), before English, but our whole schedule was screwed up today because we had an all-school assembly during second period this morning on the Everglades. We've had the same monotone speaker for four years, and his speech hasn't changed a bit. He wouldn't last a second on the radio. Everyone would fall asleep at the wheel listening to him drone on about wildlife.

It's eighty degrees out, so Audrey and I sit near the coconut trees but not directly beneath them just in case a coconut decides to fall. Plus, one year a bird pooped on Audrey's head, and I had to

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help her wash it out. Not a pretty sight, especially in a bathroom full of dopers.

Audrey unwraps her ham-and-cheese sandwich. "Did you ask him?"

"Who?"

"Rob. Did you ask him if you could fill in at the station?"

"No way." I pull my string cheese apart like a wishbone.

"What's the worst thing that can happen?"

Three Softball players rush past us. One's yelling into her cell phone, another is telling her what to say to the caller, and the third is sobbing. They're headed to the parking lot.

I unscrew the top to my water bottle and take a sip. "He could say no."

"Exactly my point."

"Or even worse, he could say yes." Then I'd have to face all those people, thousands of them, at their homes, jobs, sitting in traffic, jogging along bike paths, hanging around with friends. I would be a part of all of their lives and I wouldn't even know who they were. Frightening but also fascinating. Radio holds a lot of power. But how could someone as weak as me play such an important part in people's lives?

I pull out my iPod and hand one of the earbuds to Audrey. "Check this tune out. It's pretty fresh."

She sticks it in her ear. "Who's this?"

"Maltese. He's the guy with the six-pack. And a really good dancer."

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"Ah, now I see why you like him!" She laughs.

A couple of populars walk by, salon-style hair dancing in the wind. I survey the area to make sure there are no cameramen filming a Pantene commercial. Both girls are talking on their jeweled cell phones. It would be funny if they were talking to each other just to seem important. That's something my mother would have done in high school. If I were one of the jeweled girls, she'd be thrilled. But even then I'm sure she'd find something else to complain about.

I notice that Gavin's sitting with a few friends against the side of the building. Two of them are talking, Gavin's listening to his iPod, and another guy's playing some little handheld game. But Gavin and the handheld guy are in the middle, so the other two have to talk over them. It's funny to watch.

"What do you think of Gavin Tarn?" I nudge Audrey.

"The metal guy over there?" She points to the side of the building.

I slap her hand down. "Yeah. But he likes rap, too."

"Okay, the rap metal guy. What about him?"

"Oh, nothing. He's in my English class." The corner of Audrey's lip goes up. "You like him?"

"No." I turn up the music a notch.

Audrey gets the message, and I cue up another hot jam. Neither of us wants to go back to class. Back to life. The way I see it, there are three parts to me. The way my mom wants me to be, the way I'm expected to act at Ridgeland, and the way I want to act.

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I haven't figured that last part out yet, but I know it's not the way everyone else wants me to be.

Only two more classes left after lunch, then I'm home free. Audrey has band practice, otherwise I would've dragged her home with me. She tried forever to get me to join the band, but since I don't play an instrument, I thought it was a ludicrous idea. She said if I chose something like the clarinet, I could pretty much fake it because there were four other clarinet players. She, however, is a star French-horn player and certainly doesn't fake it.

After lunch I go left to sociology and Audrey goes the other way to Spanish. Ms. Collins makes us sit in alphabetical order. She says it's easier to take attendance, but I think it's just one of her cruel little experiments to see if I survive sitting in the first row. All my life, with the last name Adams, I've hated alphabetical order with a passion. I'm always first, unless Alison Abel or Phillip Abraham is in my class and then I'm second or third.

My worst fear, that I've had ever since I entered high school, is that if Phillip and Alison are both sick the day of graduation, I will be the first person to walk up onstage in front of hundreds of people. To have so many eyes staring at me at once will make me go blind.

Luckily, Phillip is sitting next to me today. I peer over at him. Looks healthy, pink skin, no rings under the eyes, definitely no problem eating. Good, hopefully he can stay that way for the next few months. I'll cook his meals and do his homework if I have to.

Ms. Collins takes attendance; then Phillip raises his hand.

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"What is it, Phillip?" Ms. Collins reaches for a stack of papers on her desk.

"I feel like I'm going to hurl. Can I get a pass to the nurse?"

Okay, so much for him being invincible. After he leaves, Ms. Collins hands out a pop quiz. Did Phillip have a premonition? Well, I'm happy to take the quiz if that means I won't be called on.

The quiz is easy. A few questions about societal norms from last week's reading and an essay question on how we would feel if we had an arranged marriage right after graduation. First off, if my mom chose the guy, it would be totally hopeless. No doubt he'd be hot, but his brain would be malnourished. He'd probably spend all day flexing in the gym mirror, and it'd only be a matter of months until he cheated on me.

But what if by some stroke of luck my mom happened to come across a guy that was good looking and intelligent? That would be amazing. I would never have to drool over guys again, wishing I had the courage to speak to them, wishing that one would ask me out.

Before Ms. Collins has even collected all the quizzes, some of the girls are already chatting about the essay question.

"I'd, like, slit my wrists if my parents chose a guy for me." Beth, senior class vice president, twirls a strand of hair.

"Yeah, my dad would pick the geekiest guy on the planet," another girl says.

Not my mom. She'd show up with a guy that's hotter than

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Brad Pitt. She'd pull him out of a mental ward if she had to. To Mom, looks and first impressions are everything. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm such an introvert. I never wanted to say something wrong when I was little, give the wrong idea.

I didn't want to make Mom angry, so I figured it was better to keep my mouth shut and let her do the talking. I guess after a while I just got used to it. I was comfortable with my role as the quiet observer.