Chasing Boys (3 page)

“She . . . she’s so . . . ,” says Desi.

“A movie rewrite,” says Dylan. “Nice work.”

“How was I supposed to know she’d watched
The Night of the Living Mummies
?” mumbles Desi.

Something makes me think that Ms. Clooney hasn’t watched
The Night of the Living Mummies
. But I don’t say anything.

“I’ve never been in detention before,” says Desi.

She sounds really sad, but I am not fooled for one second. Desi’s doing that wide-eyed thing she does when she wants boys to notice how gorgeous her blue eyes are. Now she’s doing the pouty thing with her lips. Desi would flirt with King Kong if she had the chance.

I leave her to it as I grab my bag and walk to the door.

“Hey! What’s your name?” Dylan calls out.

I turn around to see him looking at me.

“Ariel,” I say. No one calls me Ariel. No one except Mom. “Ariel,” I repeat.

Dylan’s lip curls again and he says, “Well, see you tomorrow—Ariel Ariel.”

Something in the way he says it makes it sound like a promise.

10.

S
o how did detention go?” Margot manages to look bored and concerned at the same time as we scramble at our lockers for next period’s books.

“You know.” I shrug. “What did you do at lunchtime?”

“Same old. How’s Desiree?” she asks.

“Still beating herself up. How it was all her fault that I was sent to detention. How she can never look me in the eye again. Blah, blah, blah.”

Margot nods. “As long as she’s feeling okay, then. How was your Eric? Did he thank you for coming to his rescue? Was it just like
The Breakfast Club
?”

Margot’s expression is deadpan as usual but her eyes glint with something that looks like triumph. Triumph over what? was the question.

“First, he’s not my Eric,” I say. “Second, I didn’t actually rescue him. He stayed in trouble and I just got myself into trouble. And third . . . let’s just drop it.”

Then we are in the middle of the hallway shuffle. Margot doesn’t have a chance to reply and, frankly, I don’t really want to hear what she has to say. Angelique is up ahead. The crowd parts before her as she makes her way gracefully through the sea of bodies. Eric’s arm is draped casually across her shoulders.

I imagine it’s me leaning into Eric’s side.

Suddenly I want to be Angelique Mendez. I want to be her so much, it’s scary.

11.

I
keep a mental list of things to ask Leonard, in case one day I talk to him. I doubt this is ever going to happen but . . . well . . . stranger things and all.

I add Angelique to my list. I’d like to ask Leonard if it’s normal to want to be someone else so much that you would lose yourself.

If it’s normal to fantasize about terrible things happening to her so that you can swoop in and offer support to her grieving boyfriend.

If it’s reasonable that you’ve already picked out your outfit for her funeral.

If it’s okay that you study the way she walks and talks and smiles and flicks her hair and bites at her lower lip when she’s concentrating.

And if it’s strange that you lock yourself in the bathroom at home and part your hair in the middle, in that Angelique style, and suck in your cheeks to find your un-Angelique cheekbones.

Also I would ask him how much money my mom is paying him. How much he charges for a visit. Maybe I could make a deal with him. We could go in half and half on his fee and I wouldn’t have to turn up anymore. It would certainly solve my nearly nonexistent spending-money problem and give him some extra time. A win-win situation. Mom wouldn’t have to know.

But then I think of Leonard with his pressed pants and crossed ankles and know he wouldn’t go for this.

12.

S
econd-to-last period of the day is geography and Dylan is in the class. He walks in unnoticed and sits at the back of the room. Desi is excited to see him again, but Dylan only shifts around in his seat when she gives him a little wave. I’m just glad Margot isn’t around to see her.

When Desi and I have geography, Margot has history. Last year we were together for every subject, but this year it’s changed. We still have our core subjects together—math and English—but our electives have split us up.

“Let’s choose the same electives,” Desi insisted at the end of term last year. “Make sure we have the same preferences.”

We sat in the library one lunchtime and copied down the same electives and preferences—one to eight—but of course we all ended up with different schedules.

Geography’s pretty boring, but our teacher, Mr. Ray, is good. He’s the only person who could make volcanoes and the salination of our waterways even vaguely interesting.

He spends most of the lesson explaining our “big” term project.

“I really want you to get your teeth into this, people. This is your chance to understand what’s happening in your own neighborhood. We’ll be looking at introduced vegetation, population density, traffic movement. The project involves a couple of field trips. I’ll also be handing out a list of possible sources for extra research.”

Desi leans into me and whispers, “Doesn’t he know I only do it the night before it’s due?”

“And don’t think this is something you can do in one night,” continues Mr. Ray. “Now, let’s talk about teams.”

I assume that I’ll be doing the project with Desi, but Mr. Ray is writing down names on strips of paper, folding them, and putting them into an ice-cream container.

“I want everyone out of their comfort zone,” he announces, “so I’m going to pull names out of a hat.”

Desi looks panicky.

“But I want to do it with El,” she says loudly.

The boys let out some hoots and whistles until Mr. Ray tells them to quiet down.

Mr. Ray pulls names out of the hat and writes down teams of three on the whiteboard. Desi’s name is one of the first to be allocated and she has ended up with Christy, the quiet mouse, and Joel, the hood who’s always trying to sell you something that came from a friend of a friend of a friend.

I’m feeling a little edgy as names are pulled out and teams are announced. When my name is pulled out along with Sarah’s and Nathan’s, I relax. Sarah, who I don’t know that well, gives me a thumbs-up. But Nathan says, “I’m already on a team, sir.”

Mr. Ray makes a show of scratching his head and assuming an “aw shucks” expression before wiping Nathan’s name off the board and pulling out another name.

“Dylan Shepherd,” he says, just as I knew he would.

I ignore Desi’s nudge and write down the names in my notebook like I might forget them.

Sarah McVee, Dylan Shepherd, El Marini.

I don’t dare look behind me to see Dylan’s face.

“I want you to get into your groups now and work out a plan. You’ll need to exchange contact details if you don’t already have them. Our first excursion is two Tuesdays away, so you’ll need to get organized quickly.”

Everyone groans as they leave their seats and get into project groups. Sarah bounces over to Dylan. I slowly pack up my things and move over to them to hear her already organizing us.

“I was just telling Dylan that my weeknights are totally out. I mean, totally. If we’re going to do this as a group, it’s going to have to be on the weekend. So there’s the field trip thing, with stats and stuff. I hate stats. Then there’s the history section. I’m good at history, so maybe I should take over that part of the project, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure,” I say.

Dylan nods.

“We can’t meet at my house ever. I mean, never. I have two little brothers and they are totally loud. Out of control.”

“So where—,” I begin.

“Hey, great. Your place, El?” Then Sarah writes down her e-mail address and phone number on two neatly torn pieces of paper. She passes one to Dylan and one to me. “I can’t make it this weekend, though. It’s full. I hate it when they spring things on us like this. Do you have a computer, El? Scanner? Printer?”

I’ve got lots of computer equipment. It sits on a tiny table that used to be a hall table in our last house. But we don’t have Internet access. Mom says it’s a luxury we can do without. I don’t mention this, though. I just nod and write down my details, including my address.

Dylan doesn’t write anything, but Sarah is too busy to notice. She has launched into a debate on a PowerPoint presentation versus a professionally printed book when I peek at Dylan to see what he’s thinking. He’s looking seriously at Sarah, nodding every now and again, then he reaches over to me. I flinch, but he’s just pulling a twig out of my hair. He turns back to Sarah, who seems to have a lot to say about nothing.

Then the bell rings and Sarah says, “So next Sunday at your house, El? Eleven’s good for me.” Then she strides away.

“I have some permission forms for your parents to sign or you won’t be going on any field trips,” says Mr. Ray. “Please take one on your way out. This is going to be fun, people.”

I wait for Desi by the door. She nudges me as Dylan passes us but I ignore her.

“I don’t want to do my project with them,” she hisses as the rest of her group leaves.

I shrug.

“You hate me now. Because of detention. El, I’m sorry. Detention was horrible. It was all my fault.”

“It’s okay.”

“If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be there.”

“I was actually just trying to explain the situation.”

“You’re too noble,” moans Desi. “If I were you I would never speak to me again.”

Then I laugh at the thought of me being Desi. After a second, she joins in. Then she pulls out the latest Delia’s catalogue from her bag and says she definitely has to have the top on page 22. She doesn’t stop apologizing about detention until I promise to meet her at the mall in her quest for the perfect look.

“You realize it’s Thursday night,” she warns.

“You owe me big-time,” I say.

13.

T
hursday night is everyone-at-home-for-dinner night unless there’s something else that’s so important you can’t get out of it. It always has been. Even after Dad was gone, Thursday nights continued, but with one less place at the table. Some nights we get to sit in front of the TV and eat dinner. These are my favorite nights. But Thursday dinners are spent at the dining room table.

There are certain rules in our house that never change. When you eat in the dining room, you must have a tablecloth. You must have a bread-and-butter plate out, even when there’s no bread on the table. You must have a jug of water with sliced lemon and ice cubes and matching glasses on coasters. In a pinch, sliced oranges will do.

The best part about Thursday-night dinners is that Mom makes an effort and cooks something special. For the rest of the week it’s quick stuff, but Thursdays we have a roast or some special Italian dish that Mom’s really good at, like gnocchi or eggplant parmesan. These are dishes that her mother-in-law, Nonna, taught her, and they have become family favorites.

Thursday-night dinners can be okay unless Mom is in detective mode.

Tonight we have an early dinner so I can go out to the mall.

“How was school today, El?” Mom asks.

It’s always the same answer. I don’t know why she bothers.

“Okay,” I say.

“Anything exciting happen?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Any tests?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Any homework?”

“Done,’” I say.

“Any boyfriends?” chimes in my sister, Bella.

“Yep, five,” I say.

Then Bella starts talking about college—she’s doing a business degree—and I’m off the hook.

Sometimes Mom will tell us about her day. She works at the local Social Services office. Her stories mostly sound the same. Not enough funding. Old people needing more home care. Young mothers needing day care. I don’t know how she can stand working nine to five—nine to eight on Wednesdays—when for years she was just helping Dad out with his business. Import, export. Whatever that is.

Tonight I ask her if she misses her old life: driving around in an expensive car; meetings over lunch; being her own boss and all that. The silence at the table is punctured by the ice cracking in the water jug.

“No,” she says briefly.

I’d broken the rules. I’d talked about how things really were instead of pretending that life was great and our life before never existed.

“‘Did I tell you about my economics lecture today?” says Bella.

And I go to the kitchen and top up the water jug.

I’m sure that Leonard would be happy if I told him about Bella.

I’m sure he’d be happy if I just said hello.

Bella is my sister but we don’t look like we belong together. Ever since she was four, she’s had to be the older sister. Ever since I can remember, Bella has been there.

Bella
means beautiful. And she is. Not just on the outside like girls in magazines or anything. She is a beautiful person. It takes a lot to make Bella angry, but when she is, you just need to get out of the way.

You know the girl who isn’t super pretty or super smart or super anything, but there’s something about her, some special thing, that makes people stop and smile when they see her? That’s Bella. She has a gazillion friends and they’re real friends, not just people filling up her cell phone list.

Ever since Dad left, Bella has been our family’s glue. Mom tries hard, but there are days when I’m not sure that she’s really with us. She’s acting like everything’s normal but I’m not fooled.

Bella is blonde and thin as a zipper, just like Mom. I definitely got Dad’s genes. Bella always complains that I have olive skin and she missed out. I always thought that Bella was Mom’s clone and I was Dad’s. But lately, I’m not so sure.

Maybe I’m a whole lot more like Mom than I thought.

All I know is, thank God for Bella.

Not that I’d ever tell her that.

There are just some things you don’t need to say.

14.

A
t the mall I find myself face-to-face with Angelique in Delia’s. Though, actually, it is more face-to-fitting-room-door.

I am hovering outside Desi’s door while she tries on a million different things, when Angelique’s hand snakes over the top of a nearby cubicle door. She’s holding something blue. I know it’s her hand because she is wearing Eric’s ring. It’s a chunky Gothic thing but Angelique makes it look elegant.