Take Me There (7 page)

“There you are!” she gasps.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing! Nothing’s wrong.” She stands right in front of me, swaying from side to side. “I, uh . . . I just thought you left already.”

“So?”

“No, it’s just . . . I have a surprise for you.”

I smile really big. I love surprises. As long as they don’t disrupt my schedule or anything. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you—duh! Okay, so let’s go.” She grabs my arm and spins me toward the stairs.

“Wait! I need to go to my locker.”

“No way. We don’t have time.”

“Why not?”

“Because of the surprise!” Nicole coughs. “We have to leave
right now
.”

“But I need my stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Uh . . . review books? And my math book?”

“Oh, yeah! I totally spaced on those homework problems.”

“What are you talking about?” Nicole never forgets about math homework. She stresses it every night.

“You know what?” Her voice sounds all high-pitched and anxious. “I have to get my book, too, so why don’t I get your stuff for you?”

“What—is Brad dealing weed in front of my locker again?”

“Ha-ha! Right? Okay, so meet me out front!” Nicole zooms off.

“Wait!” I yell after her.

She turns around and walks backward. “What?”

“Get the roses!”

“What roses?”

“Just get them!”

We know each other’s locker combinations and we’ve gotten stuff for each other before. But she’s acting weird. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was hiding something from me.

The cute waiter we always hope we get at Chat ‘n Chew puts a huge plate with a grilled cheese sandwich (tomato and bacon) and fries (extra crispy) in front of us.

On the walk over here, I told Nicole about the roses. I wanted her to agree that it was Steve’s way of saying sorry. But she looked less than thrilled. She’s definitely in a weird mood.

Instead of talking about Steve, Nicole talked my ear off about the Last Blast dance. That’s what we’re getting instead of a junior prom. Joni’s cousin goes to school in New Jersey, where they’re having their junior prom next week. So of course Joni’s all twarked up into a big snit because she won’t have the opportunity to spend hundreds of dollars on a dress she’ll only wear once in her life. She took her argument straight to the principal. Plus, her father’s this big-shot PR rep who’s probably the only parent to donate money to the school every year. Supposedly, when he heard we don’t even get a junior prom, he was outraged.

So Mr. Pearlman said we could have a junior dance at the end of the year, but it had to be before June. He didn’t say why, but I know he’s paranoid of anything that would distract us from studying for the Regents. As if a dance would even make a dent in the abundance of other distractions in our lives. It’s like this: if a lot of kids pass the Regents Exams, the school gets a reputation for being good and the principal can go home happy at the end of the day thinking he had something to do with it. So the Last Blast dance is this Friday.

The whole scenario was supposed to teach us about compromise. But all I really learned is that money is powerful enough to bend the rules. Rhiannon: 0, Dad: 1.

“You better be treating,” I say. “I have, like, four dollars.”

Nicole picks up her half of the sandwich. Melted cheese oozes from her piece to mine. “Of course. That’s the surprise!”

“Just so you know? I was about to get Steve back when you ran into me.”

Nicole chokes on a huge bite of cheese. “How?”

“I have my ways. . . .”

“Ree.” Nicole gets her serious look she always gets when she’s trying to convince me to think like her. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but . . . he might not want you back.”

“So then what were the roses for? And I know he still loves me. Oh, and he smiled at me in lunch today. Why would he smile at me if it’s really over?” I sprinkle pepper on my half of the fries. “He’s just worried about us not being together next year is all. But we’ll still have the whole summer.”

“Are you sure it’s only about next year?”

“Yeah. What else could it be?”

Nicole sips her lemonade through a purple straw. She doesn’t say anything.

There’s this project for Contemporary Design that’s due next Monday. We have to pick a museum to do research at and go there sometime this week. I picked the MoMA because modern art rocks. We’re allowed to work in pairs, but then the project has to be twice as long. And both people get the same grade, even if it’s obvious that one person did all the work. Which I usually hate, because I’m always the one who ends up doing all the work. So I don’t normally work in pairs if there’s a choice, but Nicole’s in my class so we’re working together. We’re doing our project on using recycled material in designs that enhance urban aesthetics.

After Chat ‘n Chew, we argue about when we’re going to the MoMA.

“Fridays are free from four to eight,” Nicole advertises.

“But I don’t want to wait that long. And there’s the dance Friday.”

“But we could go before.”

“Can we please just go now? I seriously need something to distract me until I can see Steve tomorrow. I’m going
crazy
.” I use my pity-me frownie face. It works.

“Okay,” Nicole gives in.

“Let’s go.”

“Fine. But we need to hurry up. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“What stuff?”

“Just stuff.”

Lately it’s like there’s all this drama going on in Nicole’s life she’s not telling me about. And she hasn’t even given me the remotest hint about what it is.

We go. We take notes on sculptures. I want to find this one Picasso sculpture called
She-Goat
that used all these recycled materials. Picasso totally put in a wicker garbage can and flowerpots and bottles and stuff when he was making it. That’s hot.

But we can’t find it. So I go up to a guard and say, “Excuse me. Where is Picasso’s
She-Goat
?”

And he’s all, in his snazzy French accent, “Zee goat is in zee garden.” And he sweeps his hand in this grand gesture that’s like,
After you, madam.

The sculpture garden is awesome. I recognize
She-Goat
from some photos I saw online. I put my face really close to the surface. I don’t know if you’re allowed to touch the sculptures or not. There’s no sign or anything saying not to touch them. I mean, I know you’re not supposed to touch the paintings because the oil from your hands could damage the paint, but these sculptures are all outside. One of the photos even showed
She-Goat
almost buried in snow from that huge storm we had last winter. So it’s probably okay.

But maybe not. I look closer.

“What are you doing?” Nicole says.

“Trying to find the garbage can.”

“Huh?”

“You know how it’s—”

“Oh, yeah. You told me.”

I can’t find the garbage can. Or the flowerpots. Or really anything.

We take notes for a while, not talking much. But I’m still wondering what’s taking over Nicole’s life these days. And why she hasn’t told me about any of it. I’m trying to be okay with respecting her privacy, though. We had a big fight last year about how I felt like I was sharing a lot more of my life than she was. And she said how there were some things she just wasn’t ready to talk about. But she promised to tell me about the important things. So whatever’s going on, it’s probably no big deal.

The sound of the phone not ringing is the loudest sound there is.

It’s distracting me from the poem I’m supposed to be reading for English. I can’t concentrate on iambic pentameter. I can’t think about anything but why Steve isn’t calling me.

He gave me flowers. He should be calling me.

I get up from my desk and open my window some more. It’s so nice out. I’m dying to walk to the pier and sketch the moon since it looked so incredible yesterday. But I don’t want to go in case Steve calls. I can’t have my cell on when I’m visiting the moon. That would be impolite.

I sit back down at my desk. I stare at the next page. My brain refuses to work.

The phone still doesn’t ring.

I can’t concentrate. But I have to do something.

Sitting still long enough to watch a movie is not an option. I need to move around, but I can’t leave. Cleaning my room would be a perfect solution if it wasn’t already perfect. I’m so anal about it. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m an organization freak. If even one thing is out of place, I have to put it back or else it totally distracts me. I guess that’s why I want to be an interior designer. Or even a closet organizer. I think organizing people’s stuff is super fun. The most fun is when someone is a total slob. You can organize their life for days. And inspire this calm feeling that permeates into all areas of their life. Since everything is connected.

Nicole is always saying my room is so cool. It has a puffy red couch against the wall with all the pillows I made that have satin trim and ribbons and sequins. And a stainless-steel mini fridge with a magnet that says, LEAP AND THE NET WILL APPEAR
.
Then there’s my architect table with the special lamp that I love sitting at because it makes me feel all adult. Like I just came back from a hard day at work, figuring out how the skylights should look in a new green office building.

And then there’s all my projects. Things I haven’t felt like doing since The Incident. Like the decoupage jewelry boxes and bags I make for my friends.

There’s just no inspiration anymore. The passion’s gone.

The phone still doesn’t ring.

At my computer, I click on my day-planner widget. I have this thing about writing down everything I have to do. I like the feeling I get when I finish something in my day planner and I can check it off. So maybe there’s something pending I forgot about. But when I go through everything, there’s only school-related stuff.

There’s a pile of journals on my desk. Each one is for something different: fave quotes from books and movies, Top Five lists, and my general journal where I do my moon sketching. I’m not ready to take it to the blog level. Because how can you be totally honest about your feelings if you know someone’s going to read all about them?

I decide to make a new list.

It feels like the walls of my room are closing in on me.

What if I organize my books by size and color instead of author? I saw that one time in
Real Simple
magazine and it looked sharp. And it’s only ten thirty. Steve might still call for like another hour. . . .

By the time I’m done with Project Reconfiguring Bookshelves, it’s after midnight. None of my homework is done.