The Symptoms of My Insanity (32 page)

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your number,” he says, dismissing my puzzled face and walking away.

“Mr. Kippley,” I shout over the babbling hum of girls, trying to follow him toward the office without losing him. “I’m Izzy Skymen.” I tap him on the back. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Preston right now.”

“What? Oh. You do? Hmmm. Izzy …” He sighs. “Well, yes … hmmm. Well … let me see if she can still take you.” He pushes a button on his phone, looks around the lobby with a grimace, and says, “Jeanine, I have Isabella Skymen— No, no, she has an appoint— Yes. No. I don’t think that’s the case. Okay, will do.” He slips his phone back in his suit pocket and gestures for me to follow him inside.

I take a seat on the bench outside Mrs. Preston’s door. Thirty seconds later the door opens up and I hear Mrs. Preston say, “And are you sure you want to go on record with this information, Miss Belfry?” Wait, what is Emily Belfry doing in Mrs. Preston’s office? Go on record with what?

“Yup, I’m sure,” Emily says, and her magazine-ad face breaks out in a huge smile when she walks out the door and sees me on the bench. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her teeth for that long.

“Isabella, come in.”

Mrs. Preston adjusts her suit skirt and gingerly takes a seat behind her desk. She tucks a strand of short, curly hair behind her ear and pulls a tissue out from the dispenser on her desk. She’s only about forty-five, but the perfume she chooses to overspray herself with ages her by about thirty years. She takes the tissue in her hand and uses it to dab across her upper lip. Then she lets out a long sigh and smiles at me. The skin around her eyes crinkles at the sides, which makes her liner lines look really off. It hasn’t been proven yet, but we’re all pretty sure Mrs. Preston has her
eye makeup tattooed on. To draw eyeliner of the same angle and thickness, and produce the same blue-green blend on the lids every single day … it’s just impossible.

“So Isabella, good to see you,” she says, looking down at what I’m assuming is my file. “How is your mother? We’re thinking of her, of course, and you.”

“She’s um … the same,” I say.

“Well … yes. So, I have to say you’re a breath of fresh air today. A break from the masses,” she says with a tattooed-makeup crinkle-smile.

I smile back at her, not quite understanding what she means. Then I look behind me at the door, which seems really far away right now. What am I doing here? Why did I think this would make things better? Why didn’t I just let Blake lie for me? Why am I taking the blame for this? What does that solve? What was I thinking? Tell the truth and it’s over? Yeah, it’s over for
me.

No, no, I have to do this. I have to be the one to do this, not Blake.

“So,” I say, taking a deep breath, “what I wanted to talk to you about was the cell phone picture.”

“What? Oh … oh no, really?
Really?
” She lays both her hands flat on her desk and is leaning forward, looking at me, her black pupils taking over her light blue eyes.

“Um … yes, I … See, that picture is actually of me.”

“You know what?” Mrs. Preston jumps up from her chair, shaking her head, and raises both hands in the air as if signaling to the heavens that she gives up. “I give up!”
she actually says, shaking her hands. “I give up! I give up! I give up!”

Uh, not quite the reaction I expected. “Excuse me?” I say, slowly rising from my chair.

“Isabella, I’m disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry I … I just thought I should come forward so that—”

“Kippley!” Mrs. Preston screams into the buzzer. “Miss Skymen is one of them. Put her on the list. All right,” she says to me, opening up her door, “so like all the rest, I now have to officially ask you, are you sure you want to go on record with this information, Miss Skymen?”

“Um, yes … Wait, the rest?”

“Mrs. Preston, it was me! I’m the girl in the picture. It was me,” Angela Rodriguez screeches, shooting up from the bench.

“For the love of all that is sane.” Mrs. Preston shakes her head. “No offense, dear,” she says, taking a long look at Angela’s flat freshman chest, “but that’s just not possible.”

“No, it was me. I’m your girl,” Angela says, nodding her head up and down.

Mrs. Preston sighs, dismisses me with an outward wave, and leads Angela into her office with an inward wave. Then she shouts to Mr. Kippley, who’s standing by the main entrance looking around like it’s infested with mice. “Ten more minutes and that’s it!”

I float out of the main office like I’m on one of those moving walkways. I make my way past the waiting line of
girls, which goes all the way through the main entrance, past the cafeteria, and down around to the study alcove hall, until suddenly Meredith, Cara, and Jenna grab hold of me, and like a bunch of ants seizing a large piece of food, they drag me to the drama room.

•   •   •

“Okay, what just happened?” I ask, falling into a nearby desk.

“That was … amazing!” Meredith says, giggling and opening up a celebratory pop that she cheers into the air, spilling some on Cara’s head. “Mrs. Preston looked like she was about to commit herself when I told her,” she adds. “Classic.”

“Totally, so classic.” Cara bobs her head in agreement.

“Well, she can’t blame anyone now,” Meredith says, clapping her hands together, “right?” She turns to Jenna, who’s standing by the door, nodding and darting her eyes around the room as if this is the first time she’s been here.

“Wait … you guys … you did all this?” I ask.

“Jenna masterminded it.” Meredith giggles, still sounding a little out of breath from our sprint to the drama room.

“You did?” I turn to Jenna.

“We strategized after you left rehearsal last night,” Jenna explains with a sly smile.

“Yeah.” Meredith beams, her eyebrows practically touching her hairline.

“Wow. So … wait, everyone knows?”

“No, no, the other girls don’t know who, they just know to confess,” Jenna says quickly.

“Oh,” I say, still taking it all in. “I— Wow. Thank you, guys. This is— Wow, thanks.”

“So I’m thinking the dance is still on,” Jenna adds.

“Oh”—Meredith turns to Jenna—“my mom said we can use her display panels from her showroom, but we have to transport them.”

“Perfect. Ryan said we can use his van.”

“Just a Man and His Van,” Cara says in a deep voice, imitating Ryan’s dad’s commercial. There’s a pause, and then we all laugh. Cara smiles. “Is he in our group?”

“Oh … I don’t know … I guess we could ask him to be.” Jenna shrugs.

I must look confused, because then Meredith says to me, “We’re screwing the whole date thing, going as a group instead.”

“Oh.”

“Marcus was cool about it,” Meredith adds.

“Uh-huh, totally cool.” Cara nods.

“I mean, he’s like obviously so into you, anyway.”

“Yup, totally. Totally into Izzy.” Cara nods. Which makes me spit a mouthful of pop across the room, and which makes everyone, including Jenna, burst out laughing again.

“What? He’s not in … What are you talking about?” I look over at Jenna, who’s now half smiling, rolling her eyes, and wiping up my spit take.

“Oh please,” Meredith says, “it’s like … the way he looks at you when he’s not talking to you.”

“What way?” I practically screech.

“I don’t know, it’s like …” Meredith’s eyes roll up as she searches for the words.

“Like he wants to marry you and have a hundred babies and live in a little house and be your boyfriend and husband and everything and stuff,” Cara bursts out, which is the most I’ve ever heard her say at once.

“What are you, like five?” Meredith pokes her in the ribs as we head out of the room, giggling past the line of girls that Mr. Kippley is unsuccessfully trying to disband. That one sentence loops through my head as we walk:
“The way he looks at you when he’s not talking to you.”
But then the chaos in the lobby cuts through.

“Ladies, if you’re confessing to the viral picture, the matter is now—”

“But Mr. Kippley, it was me!”

“It was me too!”

“Why are we doing this, again?”

“So Boobgirl doesn’t get suspended, duh.”

“I can’t believe some stupid guy actually sent that.”

“What if we get in trouble?”

“We won’t—there’re too many of us.”

“I don’t know …”

“What if Jason sent your picture around?”

“Jason’s my boyfriend!”

“But what if he did?”

“I would kick him in the balls.”

“If I had those boobs, I’d send the pictures around myself.”

“Sara, that’s not the point!”

“Jenna? Izzy?” We turn to see Cathy Mason charging toward us. Cathy always takes giant steps when she walks, the kind of lengths you would need if you were climbing up stairs two at a time. Meredith and Cara disappear into the clump of girls being escorted back to class, while Cathy cuts Jenna and me off at the pass. She taps her right hand against the dance binder she’s pressing up against her chest, the charms on her multicolored bracelet swinging.

“What are you two doing out here? Are you a part of this madness?”

“No, just heading to class.” Jenna flashes an angelic, made-for-Cathy smile.

“Oh, good. I’m just in such a state. It’s one thing after another. How are we supposed to get a message across that this behavior is unacceptable if there’s no punishment? But we can’t punish a hundred-plus girls, now can we?”

“No, we can’t.” Jenna grins and then shifts to a straight face. “It’s a shame.”

“But, you know, I am relieved, actually, because now we can get down to business, because I said to her, I said ‘Jeanine, all these girls shouldn’t be punished for lending their innocence to one marked lamb,’ right? Right, Izzy?”

“Um … right, yes, Cathy.”

“Bathroom stalls, teachers’ lounges,” she says, as if she’s
listing porn titles. “Make it legal and get a room.
I
had a room. One sacred, matrimonial room.”

“Mom!” Jenna yelps as I turn my head aside to swallow my smile.

“Well anyway”—Cathy points her index finger in the air at no one in particular, her charms clinking against the bracelet—“we aren’t forgiving or forgetting, we’re just moving in a forward direction.”

I look at Jenna, then back at Cathy, and nod solemnly.

“Mom, we gotta get to class.”

“Yes,” I add, “but I’ll take care of my dance list now that it’s … still on.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Do what you can, dear. Jenna and I will take care of it. Oh, that reminds me, here.” She extends her arm to Jenna, which has three shopping bags hanging off it like she’s a rolling rack. “I brought the twine and the rest of the supplies to make the donation card trees. Can you start that tonight, please?”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” Jenna grimaces, transferring the bags to her arm.

“Love to your mom.” Cathy kisses her hand at me and waves us off.

Jenna and I round the corner and head down the much quieter hall to our lockers.

“Thanks again for today. That was … it was pretty amazing.”

“It was pretty fun, wasn’t it?” Jenna grins. “I was all broad strokes, rallying the troops, and Meredith was awesome at
organizing. You know, she’s not so … bobbly … all the time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Jenna balances the bags with one hand and opens up her locker with the other.

“Izzy, I’m sorry that … I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to … I feel like with you I could have maybe seen this all coming or—”

“Well, I think you kind of did.” I cut my eyes to her. When she doesn’t say anything, I go on. “But maybe I wouldn’t have listened anyway. It
was
… Blake.”

“Yeah.” She nods. “It’s just that I gave Meredith a hard time about not knowing about Jacob, and for being
that
girl with Jacob … when really it was me. I’m
that
girl.”

“No. You’re not. I’m not either. And neither is Meredith. There’s really no such thing as
that
girl.”

“When we were figuring this all out last night, I didn’t really think it would work. I thought there’s no way everyone’s doing this. But they did.”

“I know.” I shake my head and laugh. “Emily Belfry?”

“Right? She was amazing. She designed the mass e-mail.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy. Seeing everybody today made me … I don’t know, I guess it made it … not okay, but … you know. Better.” She makes room in her locker for the dance supply bags. “Not that it’s ever going to be okay, what happened with Nate. But …” She slams her locker door. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so …”

“’Cause I did this for you. I did. I just didn’t realize until it was all happening, how …” She glances at me and trails off, this weird look on her face.

“What?”

“Well, I guess it was good for me too. I needed it too, I mean.” Then she grabs my arm, hauling me down the hallway. “Man, I wish you could have seen Mrs. Preston’s face when I told her it was me.” Jenna laughs. “I definitely caught her staring at my T-shirt, comparing my baby chesticles to your pixelated lady curves.”

“Oh no!” I laugh. “Poor Mrs. Preston.”

“You know, it actually
was
a really good picture of you. You’re very photogenic.”

I shake my hands in front of my face, palms out, like trying to erase what she just said.

“I mean it. You
have
seen it, obviously.”

“Briefly. Just once. I’ve deleted it from my in-box like twenty times already.”

“No, no, you have to take a good, long look at it. Own it,” she says, fiddling with her phone. And then mine starts beeping.

“Jenna!” I say, seeing she’s just sent me the picture.

“Save it. Make it your screen saver.”

“You’re hilarious,” I say, holding my phone now like it’s contraband.

“What is going on over there?” Marcus passes us by, shaking his head.

“Free pizza outside Preston’s office,” Jenna ad-libs.

“What? Really?”

“You better hurry!” Jenna shouts.

“You’re so mean.” I shake my head, watching Marcus take off down the hall, and then realize that Jenna’s watching me watch Marcus. We stare at each other silently for a second before Mrs. Kerns walks by us and says, “Hello ladies” in a Mice Skating sweatshirt. Then, for the first time in days, I let myself really enjoy a full-out, totally obnoxious, belly-snort laugh.