Waiting for You

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

VIKING
Published by Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published in the U.S.A. by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009

Copyright © Susane Colasanti 2009

All rights reserved

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Colasanti, Susane.
Waiting for you / by Susane Colasanti.
p. cm.
Summary: Fifteen-year-old high school sophomore Marisa, who has an anxiety disorder,
decides that this is the year she will get what she wants—a boyfriend and a social life—
but things do not turn out exactly the way she expects them to.

eISBN : 978-1-101-15549-3

[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.
3. Anxiety disorders—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.
6. Family life—Fiction. 7. Divorce—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C6699Wai 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008046977

 

 

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The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
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For everyone out there who is still waiting

August-October

1

The best thing about summer camp is the last day. Because that’s the day you get to go home and live like a normal person again.

Don’t get me wrong. Camp was freaking awesome. I spent the entire summer in Maine at a special camp for the arts. My dad gave me his old Nikon camera and taught me how to develop photos last year, and ever since then photography has been my passion. There’s something about vintage film that captures the Now in a way digital can’t. It just makes everything look softer somehow. And the whole old-school method of developing your own photos exactly how you want them is really cool.

So yeah, I learned a lot more about photography at camp and had a ton of practice. I’ve also been playing the violin since seventh grade, so I had violin lessons there, too. We even had a concert last night.

I’ve only been home for like three hours but I’ve already participated in the following critical post-camp activities:

The only thing left on my list is to get together with Sterling for the first time since June, so I’m majorly stoked. I can’t wait to see her. Not just because she’s my best friend, but because school starts in a week and we’re getting psyched for it.

I love the beginning of the year. It’s all about renewal and reinventing yourself, becoming the person you’ve always wanted to be. You can go back to school as a whole new person and have a totally different time. Every year I get all excited about how everything’s going to be different, but it never really is. I’m tired of always being disappointed. This has to be our year.

It feels good to knock on Sterling’s door with “Wheel” playing in my head. Like I’ve come full circle after a long journey, even though I’ve only been at sleep-away camp for two months. But this is such a “Wheel” moment. That song rocks. The best part is where John Mayer says how our connections are permanent, how if you drift apart from someone there’s always a chance you can be part of their life again. How everything comes back around again. I have a theory that the answers to all of life’s major questions can be found in a John Mayer song.

Sterling flings the door open. Her hair isn’t brown anymore. Now it’s blonde.

“Oh my god, your
hair
!” I yell.

Then she grabs me and we’re hugging and squealing and doing this thing where we’re hopping around.

“I know!” Sterling goes. “It was supposed to come out more like yours, but the stylist said your color is complicated.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dyeing it?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, I’m surprised.”

“So, what do you think?” Sterling twirls around so I can inspect her hair from all angles. It’s a lighter blonde than mine, since my hair has different shades of blonde mixed in, and I’m not sure if it works with her coloring.

“It’s hot,” I say. Maybe I just have to get used to it.

She points to my usual stool in the kitchen. “Sit,” she says.

Sterling took over the kitchen when she was twelve because her mom can’t cook. Plus, she’s never here. And Sterling got sick of eating things like hot dogs and Tater Tots and those instant pasta sides every night for dinner. So one day, Sterling announced that she was doing all of the cooking. Now she takes cooking classes and everything. Her mom was thrilled. The agreement is that Sterling puts what she needs for the week on the grocery list and her mom gets everything.

There are four different pots going on the stove. Vegetables in all different colors compete for space on the counter. Two place mats are set out across from each other on the other counter where we always sit, with cloth napkins and schmancy silverware.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I go.

“Of course I did. What kind of lame welcome home dinner did you think I was making?”

“Yeah, but it’s so . . . extensive.” I had to beg my parents to let me come over to Sterling’s for dinner since it’s my first day back and all, but they finally let me. And we’re going to a pier party after.

“Only the best for you, friend girl.”

“Wow.” Something bubbles in one of the pots. Everything smells so good. “Thanks for doing all this.”

“Please. You’re the one who’s doing me a favor. No one’s tried any of this stuff yet. Well, except for me, but I’m not exactly impartial.” Sterling picks something out of a bowl and stuffs it in her mouth. “I can’t stop eating these,” she says. “Try one.”

I peer into a bowl of weird-shaped cracker thingies that look like someone cut them out of cardboard. “What is it?”

“Feng Shui rice crackers.” Sterling used to have this tone with me when I asked her what something was, like,
How can you not know this?
But now she’s used to my culinary ignorance. My family is basically the meat-and-potatoes kind.

Slowly, I stretch my hand into the bowl, as if a rice cracker might bite me. They feel kind of sticky. But I don’t want to insult Sterling, so I take a small bite of my cracker. “Hmm.”

“Aren’t they
so
good?”

I guess I’m not a rice cracker person. “They’re . . . different,” I tell her. Which I know will make her happy. That’s like the highest compliment you can give Sterling about anything going on in her kitchen. She’s into the exotic.

“I know.” She chomps into another cracker. “I’ve already eaten like a whole bag of these.”

It’s hard not to be jealous of Sterling. She’s so tiny, but she eats constantly. If I even look at a doughnut I immediately gain five pounds.

Sterling darts to the stove and multitasks between two pans and a massive pot.

“What are you making?” I ask.

“Risotto. Wait, I have to concentrate on this part. It’s all about the timing.”

While we’re eating, Sterling tells me about her new lifestyle plan. She got on the self-improvement train the first day of summer vacay and is riding it right into sophomore year. “Okay. So.” She puts her fork down. “Do you need more sauce?”

“No, I’m good.” Everything tastes incredible. Sterling could be a professional chef right now, and people eating at her restaurant would never know she’s only fifteen. You know, if she stayed hidden in the kitchen and all.

“So,” she goes. “You know how I’m kind of high-strung?”

“Pretty much.”

“Guess what I’m into now?”

“Uh . . . competitive Ping-Pong?”

“No.”

“Auto repair?”

“No! Guess real guesses.”

“I give up.”

Sterling puts her hands up, like,
Wait for it.
Then she announces: “Yoga!”

“Yoga?”

“Is that cool or what?”

I’m kind of leaning toward “or what.” If it was anyone but Sterling, I’d agree that it’s cool. But she’s the most hyperactive person I know. Her attention span is nonexistent unless a recipe is involved. She can’t even sit still for more than three minutes. And now she’s doing yoga? How is that possible?

Of course, I can’t say any of this. I’m her best friend. I have to be supportive.

So I go, “Is it fun?”

“It’s already changing my life! I can
feel
my concentration improving.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Totally. Now you.”

We do this every year. We get together before school starts, when all of the electric energy of possibility is zinging around, and make a pact on how we want our lives to change.

“I’m tired of waiting for my real life to start,” I go. “Like, when’s all the good stuff finally going to happen?”

“Now! This is our year!”

“How do you know?”

“I can just tell.”

I really hope she’s right. There’s only so much waiting a person can endure until they start thinking that maybe nothing exciting will ever happen to them. Like,
ever
.