Brett McCarthy (14 page)

I couldn’t believe her words. I couldn’t believe how utterly clueless I had been. Here I was, assuming that whatever had gone wrong between Diane and me could be fixed. A few apologies and we’d be right back where we’d started. Right?

Not right.

It occurred to me that Diane had to have learned this somewhere. Unfortunately, I put my thoughts to words.

“Is that what your dad told your mom?” I said. “That he’d outgrown her? That he’d moved on?”

Big mouth. Brett McCarthy: Violent, Suspended, Practically Friendless, Biggest Big Mouth in the Eighth Grade. Not that I was wrong, mind you. But I didn’t need to say it.

Diane stood up. She made two big boot prints in the middle of her angel.

“And you think Jeanne Anne’s mean?” she said quietly. “You don’t know anything—
anything
—about my family. Or me.”

I scrambled up from the snow, trashing my angel as well. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s like I told you. I’m
not
good with words. I use the wrong ones all the time. Do you know, I made a papier-mâché mouth for this party tonight? That’s what I want to blast from the bazooka: my big mouth.”

Diane was listening to me with her arms folded across her chest. Not very promising body language.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think I care. I’m outta here.” She turned and began retracing our footprints back to the house. I decided to make one last try.

“You’re wrong!” I said. “I do know you. Better than Jeanne Anne. Better than Darcy. Or Bob, even. And you’re not like them, Diane.”

She interrupted her retreat to the house and turned to face me.

“What you don’t seem to
get,
” she finally said, “is that I’m not like
you.
”

sur•re•al

By midnight only the Emergency Contacts remained: Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack (with Michael, of course) and Mr. Beady. They helped Mom and Dad deal with the post-party wreckage. Brownies mashed into the carpet. Crushed paper cups sticking out of the snow. Junk littered across the lawn from the blastings.

Until the last guest had left, Nonna remained in her armchair by the window, regally receiving gifts and greetings and watching from the comfort of her warm house. Now, party over, she finally got up.

“Eileen, don’t even think of cleaning,” Mom said. She was on her knees under the kitchen table, picking up spent birthday candles.

The highlight of the evening had been the brownie lighting. More than a hundred people, packed elbow to elbow inside the overheated house, or outside, encircling the bonfire dishes, held paper plates with little flickering lights and sang to Nonna. As one, we’d each blown out our candle and made a wish, and for a second there was absolute quiet. No one spoke as all our silent wishes floated up to the stars. Then everybody cheered.

“No, no,” Nonna said to Mom. “This girl knows her limits. But I do want Brett to help me outside. Just for a minute.”

This, it turns out, was no small task. It took a lot of layers to get Nonna warm enough to leave the house, especially at night.

“You look like the Michelin Man,” I commented as I zipped her parka. In addition to a turtleneck, sweater, and fleece vest, she wore long johns, sweats, and Mom’s ski pants.

“Why, thank you,” she said. “Grab that bag.” She pointed to a canvas tote near her armchair.

“Remind me what we’re doing?” I asked.

“Last blasts,” she said.

I had forgotten all about my gift. Diane was on my mind. After our “conversation,” she’d returned to the Gnome Home, pulled her mother aside, and whispered into her ear. Mrs. Pelletier had looked confused, but within minutes she had said goodbye to Nonna, packed Merrill and Diane into the car, and driven off.

I had seen this all from outside, standing alongside the trampled snow angels and watching it play out behind the picture window. It was surreal.

Surreal:
having the intense irrational reality of a dream.
Like when Jeanne Anne placed that call to Bob. Like watching an ambulance pull up your driveway. You have this uncontrollable desire to turn back time, rewind, return to normal.

I felt regret, no doubt about it. But another part of me felt…relief. The truth was out: Diane Pelletier was not my best friend. Hadn’t been for a while, only the Queen of Denial had been too obtuse to realize it. Our friendship had been redefining itself since…I don’t know…the beginning of junior high? So while it
seemed
like some single event—a prank phone call, a divorce, a sick grandmother—had pushed us apart, it was a lot more complicated and more gradual than that.

And here’s the really surprising part: It was okay. It was sad, but in the world of Big Bad Redefining Things, this was manageable. Diane was right: I wasn’t like her. And while that didn’t matter when we were very little girls, it did now. Especially because our differences had to do with people. She chose Jeanne Anne and the Darcy crowd. I chose Michael and Kit and the Fifth Period gang. We were worlds apart.

Michael was shaking a can of Aqua Net and Mr. Beady was waiting patiently as Nonna and I approached.

“Eileen, I do believe if you hit the ground, you’ll bounce,” he said.

“That’s always been a personal goal of mine,” Nonna declared, “but perhaps we can put it off for another evening. Right now, Beady, I want to see what you’ve got for me.”

Mr. Beady cleared his throat dramatically and reached into a deep inner pocket of his winter coat. He pulled out a paperback book. Opening it to a page he had folded, he began to read.

“‘What do they think has happened, the old fools, / To make them like this?’” he began. He did not get one word further. Nonna clapped her hands over her eyes and shook her head.

“No, not Philip Larkin!” she cried. “No no
no
Beady, he’s all wrong!”

“Once I might have disagreed with you, but not anymore,” Mr. Beady declared. “Eileen, I have finally come to your way of thinking about Philip Larkin, and tonight, as a special gift to you, I am going blast my copy of his collected works.”

“Do you have any idea what they are talking about?” Michael muttered to me.

“Sort of,” I replied. “I’ll tell you later.”

“So, now, Philip Larkin, to borrow from the words of Eileen’s
favorite poet,
Dylan Thomas, I bid you to go not gentle but
loudly
into this good night!” Mr. Beady proclaimed. He stuffed the book down the PVC pipe, squirted some hair spray into the base, and pressed the ignition key.
Poof!
The collected works shot from the pipe, and with a soft
swoosh
the sheets of glowing, singed papers floated back down to earth. Nonna beat her heavily mittened hands together hard.

“Beady, it takes a great man to admit he’s wrong,” Nonna said.

“Then I must be very great, because I am often wrong,” he replied, putting his arm around Nonna’s shoulders. “Except about you. Happy birthday, my dear, dear friend.” Nonna rested her head on Mr. Beady’s shoulder.

“Okay, who’s next?” Michael asked abruptly. “I think Brett still hasn’t gone.” I reached into Nonna’s tote and pulled out my papier-mâché mess. Leaves of red paint flaked off, dotting the snow.

“Well, if you use your imaginations, you can see that this is a mouth,” I explained.

“We don’t have that much imagination,” Michael said.

“Shut up,” I said. “Okay…this is a mouth. And as you all probably know, my big mouth has gotten me in a lot of trouble lately. More lately than you even realize. I think it’s something I need to get rid of.” I handed the mouth to Mr. Beady, who accepted it solemnly.

“Go on, Mr. Beady. Blast it,” I said. Mr. Beady stuffed, sprayed, and ignited, and my big mouth shot over the woods like a falling star. Nonna squeezed my shoulders and planted a soft kiss on my cold cheek.

“Michael’s already gone, so that leaves just me,” Nonna said.

“Why are you blasting? It’s
your
birthday!” I said.

“This is my gift to myself,” Nonna replied. She reached into the tote and pulled out a medium-sized Nalgene bottle.

“You’re getting rid of a water bottle?” Michael asked.

“No, it’s just a receptacle,” Nonna explained. “There’s something inside. But even though I need to lose it, I couldn’t bear to burn it in the bazooka, so I put it in this Nalgene. They’re practically indestructible, you know.”

“So what is it?” I asked.

“A secret,” she said. This caught me up short.

“Seriously. What are you blasting?” It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t answer.

“I’m not going to tell you, Brett,” she said firmly. “It’s private. Please respect that.” She handed the Nalgene to Mr. Beady.

Mr. Beady solemnly held the bottle over the mouth of the pipe for a moment before letting it slide down. I could see a white envelope stuffed inside.

“Three, two, one, fire!” Mr. Beady cried, and the Nalgene exploded from the pipe. The three of them whistled and clapped.

“And now, ladies—actually, lady—and gentlemen,” Nonna declared, “I am long overdue for my beauty sleep. Thank you very, very much for all your blasting efforts at this wonderful party.” She took my arm, and we headed slowly back to the Gnome Home. We didn’t speak. I think she was too tired to talk. I simply couldn’t.

I waited. I waited until the last brownie pan was scrubbed, dried, and put back in the cabinets, the last crushed candle scraped from the carpet. I waited until the taillights of Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack’s car had disappeared down the dark driveway. Until Mr. Beady had dragged the bazooka into the garage and pulled the door shut. I waited as Mom and Dad got Nonna settled down for the night, turned off the Gnome Home kitchen lights, and walked with me across the snowy, glistening lawn to our house.

I waited for them to stop talking quietly in their bedroom, for the light beneath the crack of their door to go out. I waited for Dad’s heavy, rhythmic breathing, signaling sleep. Then I crept down the stairs, slipped into my boots and parka, and grabbed a flashlight.

There was a lot of stuff scattered in the snow—blasted bits of paper and cloth—but I knew the object I sought would be intact. Nalgenes can take a beating.

It had traveled far, halfway to the woods. It stuck upright in the snow and didn’t even look singed. The top unscrewed easily, and I pulled out the envelope.

It contained a single photograph, one I knew well. Nonna usually kept it on her fridge. It had been taken this past August, from our boat, the
Dolly Llama.
Nonna had clicked the photo as the
Dolly,
piloted by Mr. Beady, buzzed across the water toward Spruce Island. Mom, Dad, and I were on the shore, watching their approach. It was a brilliant summer weekend, one of those bright Maine weekends when every color burns intensely. Like the colors in the cap I’d knitted.

The resulting picture contained the island, the lighthouse tower in the background, and in one small corner the three of us, waving. The things Nonna would have to give up.

I don’t know how long I sat there, in the snow, holding the picture and the Nalgene and rocking back and forth, back and forth, feeling sadder than I ever thought I could possibly feel. And thinking, I’m never going to get up. I’m going to sit here and it’s always and forever going to be night and cold.

But after a while I realized my face was wet and swollen. And I was freezing. So of course I went inside. I brought the Nalgene and picture with me. And I put them inside my closet, on the floor, behind boxes of old shoes.

ir•ra•tion•al

Here’s the thing about lunch in junior high: It’s the Inferno.

What might appear innocently enough as a friendly cafeteria filled with tables is actually Hell, all set out like a giant banquet. Instead of growing boys and girls intent on filling their bellies with wholesome things, we’re obsessing about the social order. Choose your dining companions and take your place in the world. It’s as simple—and as awful—as that.

Since Suspension #2, I hadn’t eaten in the cafeteria. First there were the No-Hare lunch dates. Then, with the introduction of the lighthouse project, the whole Special Challenges class started eating a “working lunch” together in the classroom. Nonna, accompanied by Mr. Beady (he had become her designated driver at that point), joined us on her nonsick days. I don’t have to tell you how popular I got with the Fifth Period crowd when my grandmother started showing up with Super-Sized Raspberry Chunk Brownies.

One cold afternoon in January Mrs. Augmentino was absent and the “working lunch” canceled. So for the first time in months I found myself standing with a loaded tray in a noisy cafeteria, wondering where to sit.

I scanned the room for Kit. She usually ate with Girl Jocks, although she often floated to other tables. She played sax for the jazz ensemble, so sometimes she found herself seated at the Band Table. Occasionally she even joined Diane in Cheerleader World. She called those her “hungry days” and explained that she could pick up whole, uneaten sandwiches from Darcy and Co. “Those girls just don’t eat!” she’d say in amazement. But I knew it wasn’t really about food.

Kit resisted the clique thing. Even when we were a clique—me, Diane, Kit, and Jeanne Anne—she’d do stuff with other people, even guys, like go to the movies or spend a day at the beach.

“Kit defies the social box,” Michael said. I remembered the admiration in his voice when he’d said that. It was the reason he’d moved her from Eat More Than Their Share in the Inferno to True Friends and People Who Are Honest in the Paradiso, Dante’s version of Heaven.

He didn’t say it, but I suspected it was the reason he’d kept me out of that ring. My inability to get beyond the “social box.”

My eyes flitted from group to group, but I couldn’t find Kit anywhere. I had just decided to make my way to Girl Jocks when someone nudged me from behind: Monique Rose.

“Hey,” she said, pointing across the room. “We’re by the windows.” The entire Special Challenges class had taken up the long, sunny table near the windows. There were plenty of empty seats. Monique Rose walked toward them, and I followed.

I put my tray down between Michael and History Dude, right across from Carla Lonsdorf, the Unit. Carla is the slowest slow grower in the school. She barely tops four feet, and she is so thin that her friends have declared her a unit of measure, like a pound. Or an ounce. For example, a car might weigh 65 Carlas. Darcy Dodson probably weighs 1.5 Carlas. Big Joan probably tipped the scale at just under three Carlas.

The Unit’s eyes, already enormous behind her thick glasses, widened to owl proportions when she saw my tray. I had two large Oakhurst Dairy milks—a strawberry and a chocolate—in addition to a very full plate of spaghetti.

“Lucky,” she said. “My mom won’t let me drink flavored milk. She says there’s too much sugar.”

“She’s right,” I said, unscrewing the top of the strawberry. “But how would she know if you drink it at school?”

“She gets a weekly printout of everything I’ve bought for lunch.” Carla shrugged. My eyes rested on the colorful salad arranged on her tray.

I chugged about half the milk and held the rest out to her.

“You didn’t buy this one.”

Before she could reply, a familiar voice cut into our conversation.

“Check it out. Look who’s sitting with the Nerd Herd.”

It had been a long time since Darcy and Co. had bothered to taunt me. I assumed I had fallen so low in the social order that it wasn’t worth their effort. Mocking McCarthy had gotten too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. But sitting with the Fifth Period gang was a not-to-be-missed opportunity. Especially for Jeanne Anne, walking by with Darcy and just within earshot of a table packed with Demigods.

“Hey, Brett, no offense, but you’re not smart enough to sit with the Herd,” Jeanne Anne said. “Although…you are
desperate
enough!” Darcy’s high-pitched laughter followed. I looked across the table and saw two bright patches of red appear on the Unit’s cheeks. To my right, Michael was staring at his plate as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

I stood up, fast. There’s something about standing up swiftly in a crowded junior high cafeteria. You get people’s attention, especially if they’ve come to expect irrational behavior from you.

Irrational:
lacking usual or normal mental clarity or coherence.
Acting in a way that could lead to suspension.

My hands closed. I tried to pick from one of the really choice comments forming in my mind. Violent, Practically Friendless, Juvenile Delinquent, Redefined Brett McCarthy took a deep breath and—

“Oh. My. God!” I said this loudly, with feeling. I looked, with exaggerated panic, at Jeanne Anne, then at the kids sitting at my table. I knew I had an audience. “Are you saying that these people are…are…NERDS?!?” I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. I widened my eyes. Poor Carla looked terrified. Michael had his arms folded across his chest, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Jeanne Anne, Jeanne Anne, I had no idea!” I exclaimed. “I thought they were BRAINS! That’s what they told me! I had no idea they were…NERDS!” Someone snickered behind us. A Demigod.

“Hey,” said a kid sitting left of History Dude. “Who are you calling a Nerd? I’m a Geek, and proud of it.”

“Well, speak for yourself, Geek,” said Michael. He stood up. “I’m an Einstein.” He looked at me. I caught the trace of a grin.

A hand shot up. A friend of Michael’s from math team who looked like a walking Fifth Period cliché, with short pants, white socks, and a piece of tape holding his glasses together. “I’m an Einstein too,” he said.

“Hey, man, I’m Einstein Three!” boomed a voice from Boy Jocks, followed by deep laughs and some table pounding. Whoops of laughter now.

“Excuse me!” The Unit stood. Her cheeks were still pink, but she’d lost the panicked look. She faced Jeanne Anne. “I am not a Geek. I’m Gifted, thank you.” She sat down again. She picked up my strawberry milk and took a long gulp.

I threw my arms around Jeanne Anne’s shoulders and gave her a not-so-friendly squeeze.

“Thanks for warning me, Jeanne Anne, but it’s okay. See, they’re not Nerds after all.”

She pushed me off, glaring. She looked like a cat ready to spit.

“You are such a loser, McCarthy,” she said angrily. “Don’t touch me.”

I closed my eyes, pressed my hands against my chest, and fell back with a theatrical faint.

“A loser! She called me a loser!” I exclaimed loudly. “My heart is broken. Does that mean it’s all over between us, honey? Please, don’t be mad at me!”

Jeanne Anne walked quickly away, toward a section of table where Darcy was already seated. Low whistles and a few kissy noises from the Demigods followed her. “Hey, honey, don’t get mad!” one of them crooned. “C’mon, let’s make up!” I had a feeling Jeanne Anne would be sure to stay as far away as possible from me in the future.

Meanwhile, high fives were being exchanged down the length of the Special Challenges table. Broken Glasses Kid was arguing with Michael that actually
he
should be Einstein One, since he’d scored three points higher in their latest Math Olympiad. Carla was polishing off the last of my strawberry milk. Michael just had this very—I don’t know—self-satisfied look on his face. Like he had a secret.

When the bell rang and everyone drifted toward the exit doors, he and I walked out together, not talking. Just heading to the lockers like nobody’s business. Einstein and Brett McCarthy, Class Clown.