We Are All Made of Molecules (17 page)

—

“WHAT HAPPENED AFTER HE
toured you through the house?” Lauren kept up with the twenty questions as we headed inside.

“He lit a fire, and we sat on a bearskin rug…. He even poured us a bit of his parents' wine.” Only the wine part was true; the rest was another scene from my favorite soap.

“And then?” Claudia asked, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly in a very unattractive way. I could tell she was hungry for gossip. Whatever I told her would spread like wildfire throughout the school, so I chose my words carefully.

“He has lovely soft lips.”

They all squealed with delight like I knew they would.

I DIDN'T WANT TO
see Jared. He'd texted me a couple of times on Sunday, but I hadn't answered.

I'd had this image of him, which he had kind-of-not-quite-totally-but-still-partly wrecked on Saturday night. I mean, I know I haven't exactly been waving the rainbow-colored flag on behalf of my dad, who I'm still mad at for totally ruining my life, but I'd never, ever want him to get called horrible names or get beat up for who he is.

And then there was the look on Jared's face when he was on top of me. Like he didn't even see me anymore.

Half of me thinks I should walk away now.

But the bigger half of me thinks maybe I'm overreacting. I mean, maybe that kid at his school really was a pervert. And as for what happened in his room, well, guys get carried away when it comes to that stuff, right? Also, I'm pretty sure he was just about to hear what I was saying to him and stop.

The thing is: he's so perfect in every other way. And usually he is very sweet to me. Maybe I can change the not-so-nice stuff over time. Men change for the better thanks to the love of a good woman all the time in the movies, so why not in real life?

I mean, we look
so good
together!! Like we could be on the cover of a magazine!! Do I really want to throw that all away over one slightly creepy night?

WE ARRIVED AT OUR
lockers. Lauren saw it before I did. “Oh. My. God!” she said. Then I saw it, too: a single red rose, sticking out of the slats of my locker door.

I pulled it out. A note was wrapped around the stem.
Sorry about Saturday
, it read.
Crazy about you
.

Lauren and Claudia tried to read the note over my shoulder. I covered the
Sorry about Saturday
part with my thumb and let them read the bottom half.

“Omigod, you are sooooooo lucky!” Lauren shrieked.

And for the most part, I had to agree with her. I
am
lucky. Although during English, a thought struck me.

Is he sorry for the way he behaved? Or is he sorry that his housekeeper interrupted us?

I HAD ALISTAIR OVER
for another sleepover this weekend, and, as per usual, it was awesome. We made a lot of progress on the electric bike, and after that we played
Settlers of Catan
in my room for a good two hours. At around nine o'clock, I went down to the kitchen to get more snacks and ran into Ashley.

“You're home early,” I said.

“How's that any of your business?” she snapped. Then she poured herself a glass of water and went upstairs.

If I were to create a graph representing my moods in a twelve-hour period and Ashley's moods in a twelve-hour period, with ten being “over the moon” and one being “totally depressed,” it would look something like this:

I have sometimes wondered if perhaps she has a personality disorder that needs to be treated. I even suggested this privately to my dad once, but he shook his head and said, “I'm pretty sure that's just Ashley.”

—

ON SUNDAY, AFTER A
massive blueberry-pancake breakfast courtesy of my dad (and after we had put all the plates into the dishwasher so Caroline wouldn't have a heart attack), Alistair and I went Christmas shopping. We both hate shopping, so we decided to try to buy everything we needed in one place. And because we were on tight budgets, we decided that our first stop should be the thrift store on Main Street.

We hit the mother lode. I bought:

For Caroline, her very own Royal Doulton figurine! It's a statuette of a boy fishing, and you can hardly notice that one of his hands is missing. Price: $5.

For Dad, an eye-catching navy tie with yellow and red penguins all over it. Price: $4.

For Alistair, when he wasn't looking, I found a travel chess set with all the pieces. Price: $5.

For Phoebe, I found a brooch in the glass display case by the counter. It's a unicorn! It's made of brushed metal, and it's painted purple and yellow. I am sure she will love it. Price: $8. But Phoebe is worth it.

For Ashley, I finally settled on a fluffy gray-and-white pair of cat slippers. The cat faces have whiskers and everything. Because they look brand-new, they were my most expensive purchase. Price: $10.

Total cost: $32 plus tax.

This meant I had money to spare, so I decided to call Phoebe on my cell to see if she'd like to join us for lunch. “Is it okay if Violet comes?” she asked. “I'm at her place.”

“Sure. We'll pick you up.”

She gave me Violet's address, and Alistair and I walked to her house, which was just a few blocks away on the other side of Main. It's much older than our modern one, and very purple. I liked it immediately because it reminded me of our place on the North Shore.

We waited in the foyer while Violet put on yet another different pair of Converse shoes. Her mom and her sister were out shopping, but she introduced us to her mom's
“brand-new husband.” He wore a red-and-green Christmas sweater with Santa's reindeer on the front.

“I'm Dudley. Dudley Wiener,” he said, giving us both a firm handshake.

“For the record,” Violet said, “none of us took his last name.”

When he found out we'd been Christmas shopping, he said, “What do you call people who are afraid of Christmas?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Claustrophobic.”
Alistair and I laughed; there really is nothing like a good pun.

Violet pursed her lips. “Don't encourage him.”

As we walked back over to Main Street and King Edward, I said, “Your stepdad seems nice.”

Violet shrugged. “He's okay. What can I say? I am resigned to my fate. How about you? Do you like your stepmom?”

“Well, technically she's not my stepmom, because they're not married.”

“But they probably will be, one day.”

My heart started pounding. As naïve as it may sound, I hadn't really thought ahead to that possibility. Two things my mom could still lay claim to were (1) being Leonard Inkster's one and only wife, and (2) being Stewart Inkster's one and only mom. The second would never change, but the first one definitely could. Even though I wanted us to be a real family, I wasn't sure how I felt about wedding bells. But all I said to Violet was “Caroline's nice. She tries hard.”

We arrived at Helen's Grill. I treated everyone to the all-day breakfast, which I wolfed down in spite of having eaten
a stack of pancakes just a few hours earlier. Once our plates were cleared, Alistair and Violet got up to use the bathroom. Phoebe and I were left alone in the booth.

“Did you talk to Jared?” she asked.

“I tried. It didn't go very well.”

“I did some research. I have a friend whose cousin goes to St. Pat's. Apparently Jared was kicked out for beating up a student because he was gay.”

I felt nauseated all of a sudden. It could have been the massive wad of food in my digestive tract, but I didn't think so. “Are you sure there wasn't another reason? Like an argument they had or something?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I don't know. I don't think so. My friend says it was premeditated. Jared waited outside the school and ambushed him. The guy had to go to the hospital. He had a couple of broken ribs and a concussion.”

“But you can't be positive, right? It could be a case of broken telephone.”

“It could.” But she sounded doubtful.

Violet and Alistair returned. I paid at the counter and we all stepped outside, putting up our hoods because it was starting to rain. “I have a French horn lesson,” said Phoebe.

“And I'm meeting Jean-Paul,” Violet added. “Thanks a lot for lunch.” The two of them headed east.

A lot of thoughts were churning through my head as Alistair and I walked back home. But one thing had become crystal clear.

It was time to tell Ashley everything I knew.

AFTER ALISTAIR GOT PICKED
up, I found Ashley lying on the couch in the family room, flipping through a fashion magazine.
To Kill a Mockingbird
was on the coffee table, untouched. “Ashley,” I started, “I need to talk to you—”

Then I saw them.

Dopey and Bunnykins. Back on the mantel.

“So you
did
take them,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about. You stole my mom's figurines.”

“Did not, nerd-face.”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

It went on like that for a while. My old Model UN Club would have been ashamed.

When I lived on the North Shore, I would sometimes babysit our neighbor's three-year-old, Amelia. She was adorable. She loved to play hide-and-seek. I would count to ten, and when I opened my eyes, she'd still be right there in front of me, but with her hands over her eyes, as if that made her invisible.

Ashley reminded me of Amelia. The evidence was right there in front of us, and she was denying it. But unlike Amelia, it wasn't remotely adorable, or cute; it was infuriating. “You are such a liar!” I shouted.

“I am not, you freakazoid! Now get lost!”

So I did. I stormed out of that room without telling her a thing.

She and Jared deserved each other.