“I don’t have it.” I never have it and he knows it. How long is it going to take him to get it?
“Why not?” he barks.
“I wouldn’t want to shock you with unprecedented behavior.”
It’s so quiet I can actually hear the water running in the fountain outside.
Mr. Perry slowly walks over to me as if twenty other kids weren’t in the room.
He is pink.
He is fuming.
He leans on my desk and says, "I don’t like your tone.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had a particular tone,” I say.
“Don’t get smart with me!” he threatens.
I’m vaguely aware that this is escalating into a situation. Mr. Perry should come with a Parental Advisory sticker. If he thinks being late and not doing homework is such a life-or -death situation, this dude seriously needs to brush up on his current events.
Mr. Perry picks up his hall pass, which is a huge protractor with his name on it, and whips it at me. "Go to the guidance office,” he says. "I’ll be there after class.”
I take the pass. I close my notebook. What would be the point of protesting?
When I get to the guidance office, Ms. Everman notices me right away. She’s practically the only adult here who cares about what happens to us.
"Hi, Tobey.” She smiles. "Want a Jolly Rancher?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you here to see me?”
“Well, yeah, but not by choice,” I tell her.
“Hmm, sounds interesting.Why don’t you have a seat?”
I sit in the big stuffed chair. Her office has lots of posters and plants and stuffed animals.The radio plays classical music.
“So,” she says. “What’s up?”
“I was late to pre-calc, and Mr. Perry told me to come here and wait for him.”
Ms. Everman scrunches her eyes up like she’s confused. “Why would he want you to come all the way here just because you were late?”
“I didn’t have a pass.”
"Okay...”
“You always have to have a pass with Mr. Perry or he has a conniption.”
“Why didn’t you have a pass?”
“Because I was just late.”
“Why were you late?”
There’s no way to explain this without telling Ms. Everman the whole story about Sara. I mean, that’s what guidance counselors are for, but it’s too embarrassing to go into it with her. So I say, "I lost track of time.”
“But you’re wearing a watch.”
“I just . . . wasn’t paying attention.”
“Yes, that seems to be the story again this year.” Ms. Everman picks up one of those squishy stress balls from her desk.“I’ve already gotten complaints from a few of your teachers that you’re not doing homework. Are you planning to keep up the same trend this year?”
“You know me. Homework is against my religion.”
“And what religion is that?”
“Dadaism.”
“Dadaism isn’t a religion,” she says. "It’s a cult.”
“You mean they didn’t tell me this whole time?”
“Tobey, if we could be serious for a few minutes here, I’d really like to know what you intend to do about graduating with a decent transcript.”
“Other than doing it?”
“What makes you think you’ll get into a good college without doing all your work?”
“I always have at least a C average.You know that.”
“Yes, but why are you satisfied with that? Especially when we both know you could be doing so much better?”
“I’m fine with it,” I tell her.
Ms. Everman sighs and shakes her head. “There’s a lot more to life than just getting by, Tobey.”
“It works for me,” I say.
“A person with an SAT score of 1450 should have a much higher GPA.” She smiles. “But I’m sure we can find some colleges that would be thrilled to have you.”
“But—”
“Stop,” Ms. Everman interrupts.We’ve had this conversation before. She’s been on my case about college since I met her freshman year. I told her I wasn’t interested in going to college. She told me that I’d realize the error of my ways. Which so far hasn’t happened. “I’m serious. Just think about it. Hard.”
“Okay.” I give her a wide-eyed, optimistic look.
The look works.“You know where to find me,” she says.
In Music Theory, I’m all frustrated from the conference with Mr. Perry and the dean and then writing an essay entitled “Why What I Did Was Wrong and Will Never Happen Again.” And now my pen is getting all blotchy. Cheap pens suck. I write a reminder on my hand to get decent pens after school. Then I glance over at Sara. She’s laughing at something Laila said.
And that’s when it suddenly hits me. A plan that will actually work. I won’t have to pose as a deranged stalker with zero potential anymore. Sara can see me for who I really am.
It does involve some initial risk, though. In order for it to work, I have to talk to Laila.
CHAPTER 11
when you connect
september 6, 3:34 p.m.
I decide that the only way I can possibly calm my nerves before Dave is supposed to pick me up in three hours, twenty-five minutes, and seventeen seconds is to work on my sketchbook. So I fill a glass with water, grab my colored pencils and watercolors, and go sit on the front porch. Everything else I need is already sitting on the wicker couch—glitter, glue, scissors,
Jane
magazines, CD player, and
Creative Visualization
. I’m at the part where I have to make a treasure map of my ideal relationship. The concept is that if I physically create a description of the boy I want, if I can see him that clearly in my heart and in my mind, then I’ll be more open to him coming into my life. Of course, I already think this guy is Dave, so I’m imagining how I want him to be from the little I already know about him. When he’s my boyfriend, I can show him this later, and we’ll laugh about how I knew him even before I knew him.
With my favorite James Taylor CD playing, I use yellow to paint a border around the page, which makes the whole page look like it’s lit up. So far my treasure map is a collage of words I cut out of magazines and glued at all different angles around the page. Words like “romantic” and “smart” and “cute” and “introspective. ” I shade around some of the words with a pink colored pencil. I smudge the pink into light blue.
I spread glitter over the border. Then I write about the way I want to feel when I’m with this awesome boy. Like I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Like I’m the most important thing in his life.
I flip through this month’s
Jane
, looking for more words and images to describe him. I cut out a couple sitting on a hill, watching a sunset. I cut out “irresistible” and “funny.” I cut out a yin-yang symbol. James sings how the secret of love is all about opening up your heart. And then I imagine an absolutely perfect date happening tonight, with romance and excitement and the euphoria that happens when you connect with the person you’re meant to be with. Not that I’ve ever experienced that feeling. But I can imagine how intense it is.
At the diner, I’m feeling really confident. Dave told me I looked great when he picked me up, and he held my hand for half the movie. He even said how he’d been looking forward to tonight all week. So I ask the thing I’ve been dying to know all summer.
“Why didn’t you call me this summer?”
“I was staying with my uncle in Boulder. I had a summer job set up there before I moved, so it was just easier for me to go back than try to find something here.”
Knowing that there was an actual reason he didn’t call me is the best part of the night.“If I’d been here,” Dave says, leaning toward me and reaching for my hand across the table, “I would have definitely called you.”
I am insanely happy.
But I’m still nervous about the inevitable kiss later. I wish that I wasn’t nervous so I could be hungry. When I’m telling the waitress what I want, I’m all weirded out about Dave watching me. For some reason, I always feel self-conscious about ordering food.
“So,” I say.
Dave smiles at me.
I smile at him.
And I can’t think of one single thing to say.
“I’m so glad we had that storm yesterday,” Dave says. “The heat was killing me.”
“Isn’t it hot in Colorado?”
“Not really. Or when it gets hot, it’s not that humid kind of hot. It’s a dry heat, so you don’t really feel it.”
“Oh, yeah! I remember that from earth science. It’s like . . . when air is dry, it has less water vapor, so there’s room for your sweat to evaporate.”
“So why don’t you feel as hot?”
"Because when your sweat evaporates, that’s how you cool off.”
“I knew that.” He smiles at me. “I was just seeing if you did.”
Then Dave talks about basketball, explaining the rules and special techniques and stuff. I’m so not into sports, but I let him go on because he’s gorgeous. Then our food arrives. And the worst thing happens. When I reach for the mustard, I knock over his soda. Dave jumps out of the booth before it pours all over his lap. But his sleeve is soaked.
“Oh!” I yell. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay,” Dave says.
I pull a bunch of napkins out of the napkin holder. “Here, let me—”
“No, it’s okay. I got it.”
When he comes back from the bathroom, I still can’t think of anything interesting to say.
Then Dave’s like, “What are you thinking about?”
“I like that photo,” I tell him. It’s of an old cobble-stone street somewhere that feels like Europe. With lots of plants hanging out of the windows.
“Oh.” He points behind me. “I like that one.”
When I turn around to see it, I’m like,
He has to be joking
. It’s a loud, annoying painting of a boring landscape. Totally impersonal and with stupid colors. It reminds me of the guy on PBS who does these really gross paintings and you’re supposed to paint along with him. As if you would want to.
“Yeah, right,” I laugh.
“No,” Dave says. “I’m serious.”
“Oh!” I look at it again. “Well, yeah. It’s nice.” It is not nice. It is horrendous. But everyone knows that people in a relationship should have different interests. You can’t expect someone to like all the same things you do.
“You know,” he says, chewing, “I didn’t think you would go out with me.”
“Why not?”
“Like, you went out with Scott, and he’s . . . really . . . smart.”
“So then why’d you ask for my number?”
“I always thought you were cute. Remember when I sat next to you at the junior meeting?”
I nod. If he only knew how many details I remember.
“I was hoping you liked me. But I didn’t know if I was smart enough for you.”
“But you’re smart!”
“Yeah.” He squeezes my hand. “But you are absolutely brilliant.” He lets my hand go and touches my cheek. “And really cute, too.”
I am insanely happy.
When the check comes, I remember what Maggie said to do. She said that since Dave asked me out, he should be the one to pay. And that I shouldn’t offer to pay for my half the way I usually do.
I bite my lip. My lips are dry and crackly. And of course I didn’t bring any Chap Stick. So I have to think of a way to lick them without Dave noticing before we kiss later.
Dave pays. I exhale.
I kind of blank out during the ride to my house. Neither one of us is talking much. I’m way too nervous about the kiss. He must be, too.
We hold hands walking to the porch. Then we’re standing on the porch. The light is on. I look over at my neighbors’ yard to see if anyone’s watching.
“Thanks for dinner. And the movie. I had a good time.”
“You’re welcome,” Dave says. “I had a good time, too.”
I look up at him. His brown eyes look black in the night. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
I wait for the rest to happen.
Dave leans toward me. I lean toward him.
And then he kisses me.
On the
cheek
.
Dave says, “So . . . see you Monday.”
“Yeah,” I say. “See you.”
Even after he’s gone, I’m still standing there. Still waiting for my real kiss.
CHAPTER 12
more determined than ever
september 6, 7:58 p.m.
“That’s a fucking awesome plan,” Mike announces. He twangs the strings of his bass, tuning up again.
“Why do you have to have a plan?” Josh asks. “Why can’t you just ask her out?”
This makes Mike defensive. The man likes his plans. “What’s wrong with having a plan?” Mike says.“Three years ago when everyone thought The Cure was going to break up,
Bloodflowers
came out. Why? Because they had a plan. And they acted on it. And now look.”
“Fine,” Josh says.“But when Tobey freaks her out acting like a psycho and she hates him, can I say I told you so?”
“You
are
sort of obsessed,” Mike tells me.
“I don’t know what my problem is,” I say. I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that Sara and Dave are out together right now. I keep messing up my chords. I keep forgetting how the lyrics go. And I’m the one who wrote them.
“Dude,” Mike says. “Stop stressing. Remember what you’re capable of. Cynthia’s wet panties were on the floor before you could say ribbed or glow-in-the-dark.”
“You my hero, dog,” Josh says.
I only think about having sex with Sara once every three seconds. But talking about her that way with the guys seems like I’m disrespecting her. I’ve told them everything about the other girls I’ve been with. But it’s different now.
Josh clashes the cymbals. "Are we doing this or what?”
We’re working on our set for Battle of the Bands. Actually, we only get to play one song.Two if we make it to the final round. But we’re still narrowing it down.
We go through this Led Zeppelin number Mike’s convinced will rule. Then Mike says,“This is the one.” I kind of disagree, though. His vocals aren’t sounding all that.