Going Vintage (6 page)

Clearly, it was not Grandma’s intent when writing her list to alter the course of her future granddaughter’s life. The List might have been her creation, but this is my experiment. Here’s my hypothesis: life—social life, at least—was simpler and easier in 1962. I want to see what kind of girl I am without technological crutches. It might take me a while to find the answer to that question, because I don’t have much of a battle plan. For day one, I set out to:

1. Wear the seersucker dress.

2. Abandon the twenty-first century.

3. Avoid Jeremy.

I manage one out of three. Jeremy is waiting for me outside first period.

The worst part is not how cute he looks in his black V-neck (which, okay, is slightly plunging), or the curious looks everyone gives as they walk by. Or the fact that the navy seersucker dress, although fabulous, is living up to the sucker part and doesn’t give me enough room to gulp in much-needed air. No, the
worst
part is that my stomach does that flutter, an unintentional that’s-the-boy-I-love butterfly jump. The feeling I always get when I see him, like my stomach has no idea that BubbleYum even exists. And neither does my heart.

His expression clouds over when he sees me. “Mallory.” His voice is hard. “I’ve called you
thirteen
times.”

I’d planned to not talk to him, like, ever. Not the most realistic plan, but a hopeful one. I’ve learned over the past weekend that I don’t know Jeremy as well as I thought, but one thing I do know is that Jeremy’s persistent. If this doesn’t happen now, he’ll be outside my next class, and my next. I breathe out, the crisp dress constricting my ribs. “I haven’t checked my phone.”

“You check your phone every three minutes.”

“No, I don’t. I mean, not anymore. My cell phone is gone.”

I push past Jeremy and make it to my desk. We only have two periods together this year, which was distressing a few weeks ago, but a blessing now. I can get through two periods a day, until he stops talking to me, maybe even stops talking
about
me. Eventually, he’ll be that one boy in my class. That one boy who was also my first love. That one boy who made me feel like an idiot. That one boy who … is wearing Hollister cologne.

Jeremy sits down in the seat in front of me, even though that’s Bradley Pittmore’s seat. Bradley hates when Jeremy sits there before the bell rings. Right now, Bradley is talking to Mrs. Yee, but his eyes bug out when he sees his occupied seat. Jeremy leans into me, like we’re still together, like he didn’t say all those things to BubbleYum, like we’re discussing our plans for the afternoon and not like we just broke up, albeit unofficially. “What happened to it?”

“What? My phone?” I avoid Jeremy’s gaze, instead focusing on Bradley, who needs to get over here and kick Jeremy out of his seat. “Nothing, I just don’t use it anymore.”

“Well, what about my e-mails?”

“I’m not online anymore. I’m going … I’m taking a break from all of that.”

“‘All of that’? You mean communication with everyone, or just communication with me?”

Intoxicating cologne is an unfair battle strategy. “Both.”

Finally, Bradley crosses the room and taps Jeremy on the shoulder. “I hate when you sit in my seat.”

Jeremy lowers his voice, and when he speaks at this softer level, he’s tender and husky. It’s a voice just for me, the voice that always does me in. “Mallory, it’s not what you think.”

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he was right? Wouldn’t that be magical if there really was some justifiable reason to have 353 e-mails from another girl? Or maybe someone had hacked into his Friendspace account and invented the whole site? “What
do
I think?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

I swallow. “That you’re cheating on me with an online cyberwife.”

“Cheating?” Jeremy’s thick eyebrows arch in surprise. “It’s just a game!”

“And this is just my life. My
real
life.”

“So what? You’re flaking, just like that?” He slaps his hand on the desk. “Figures.”

I don’t have the energy to point out that
he
is the one who flaked on
me
. That this is
his
doing, that my emotions are completely valid, that 353 e-mails filled with romantic song lyrics makes him the mayor of Cheatsville. I wish with everything that I respond with conviction, but the bold statement comes out with a question mark at the end. “I need a break from you?”

“Dude, talk to your girlfriend after class.” Bradley jabs at Jeremy harder.

Jeremy stands, never breaking eye contact with me. “It’s cool, Bradley. I don’t think she’s my girlfriend anymore anyway.”

I spend the rest of the period looking away from my officially ex-boyfriend and brainstorming ways to accomplish The List. If every day is going to be like this, then Jeremy’s Hollister cologne is going to Do. Me. In.

Fourth period isn’t as hard, because Jeremy doesn’t try to talk to me again. Okay, so maybe this makes things harder. I can’t decide. Most likely, I’ve hit the terminal velocity of hardness. The stares from my classmates continue. I brainstorm more
heinous things that could happen in life than a cheating boyfriend. The list, really, only depresses me. And the stares …
why are you staring?

Mr. Hanover tells us that we’re working on our virtual industries today and to go log on to our computers with our partner. The problem here is twofold because:

1. Jeremy is my partner.

2. I’ve sworn off the Internet.

And of course everyone knows Jeremy and I are computer partners, so now there are dozens of eyes on me as I raise my hand. “Mr. Hanover? Can I speak with you for a minute?”

“What is it, Mallory?”

I do not give anyone the satisfaction of making eye contact right now, most of all Jeremy. “Um, it’s private.”

Mr. Hanover looks at the door, then back at me, probably wondering if discussing anything in “private” can get him into trouble. “Okay, class, get on your computers. Mallory, outside.”

We step into the hallway, door open. Everyone thinks I’m telling Mr. Hanover that I need a new partner, but it’s worse than that.

“I can’t do this assignment.”

Mr. Hanover scratches his peppered beard. I probably shouldn’t have used the word
can’t
. Mr. Hanover is all about having a can-do attitude. “Are you feeling ill?”

“No, it’s just … I can’t use the Internet. I mean, I
can
use the Internet, but I’ve made a choice not to.”

“Is this some new homework cop-out?” Mr. Hanover glances back into the classroom. The buzz inside is quiet—everyone is
already online working on their Industrial Revolution projects. We had to choose an industry like steel or cotton and build a mill and hire workers, all virtually. Jeremy, big surprise, is already the tycoon of the project—we have the cleanest working conditions and greatest growth. I wonder if he’s duplicated BubbleYum in our project. She’s probably his secretary. “I don’t think you even have much more work to do on it. Your partner has been so dedicated.”

“No. I just … I can’t do this assignment. At all.”

“Do you need a new computer?” I look of realization spreads across Mr. Hanover’s wrinkled face. “Ah, or a new partner?”

“No, it’s not about my partner. Bottom line is I am morally opposed to using the Internet in any capacity. It’s a deep personal belief, and I would like an alternative assignment.” I swallow. “Please.”

“I don’t think that’s enough of a reason to let you out of this.” Mr. Hanover is quiet but firm. It’s a big deal that we got these computers. Mr. Hanover had to apply for a million grants and change his whole curriculum after years of teaching to fit in the technology-heavy unit. And I
so
wanted to take this class—the entire junior class did—and not just because of the projects. Mr. Hanover is interesting, funny, and fair. He’s that teacher who will have a book dedicated to him someday by a former student. “You knew when you signed up for the class that most of this unit involves the Internet.”

I feel close to tears. When I made my oath, I didn’t think about schoolwork or other justified reasons to use technology. I don’t think NASA should pull every satellite out of the sky
that’s monitoring … whatever the satellites monitor. This isn’t a crusade for everyone, just my personal battle. “Can I write a report instead, or make a stick model of our mill or … oh! Trains were big then, I can bring in a train set my dad just found and, uh, tweak it to fit the right century.”

“If I give you an alternative assignment,” Mr. Hanover says calmly, “where are you going to get your research?”

“Books. Remember, those things we used before Wikipedia?”

“Mallory—”

“It’s history, not computer science. I’m being historical. And I promise you, Mr. Hanover, there is a really noble and sane reason why I can’t do this.”

There’s laughter and yelling in the class. Mr. Hanover pops his head in and with one frown the class quiets. He cuts me a hesitant glance. “Fine. We’ll keep it simple. Write a paper on how the Industrial Revolution shaped modern society. Four pages—”

“Four?”

“Five.” Mr. Hanover barks a laugh. “I’m giving you a break. Take it and be grateful.”

I think of Jeremy. I can’t take a whole semester of sniffing his delicious sniffiness. “Sorry. I
am
grateful. Thank you.”

“I want that typed, of course. Is it just the Internet that offends you, or are word processors also off-limits?”

Oh. I don’t know. They didn’t have word processors then, but I don’t have a typewriter. Can I fudge on this point? Write it out and make Ginnie type it for me? “Um, I’ll type it. Somehow.”

“It’ll be due next week, when everyone presents their virtual industries. And you can turn in a note tomorrow from your parents or doctor or church leader or some legitimate authority figure explaining why you’ve gone medieval. Got that?”

Good thing Ginnie is a champion forger. “Got it.”

He pushes up his shirtsleeve. The gray fuzz on his arms looks like a sweater of hair. “You do know that people literally gave their lives back then for advancements in transportation and technology.”

Exactly. They were so busy working on the railroad all the livelong day that those early-nineteenth-century folk did not have time for computer indiscretions.
That’s
a lesson learned.

Jeremy and I always sat together at lunch. Not by ourselves—we kind of worked our way around the different tables and benches, but always together, especially this school year. Junior year was to be Our Year of the Couple. I’d mentally dubbed it as such when Jeremy told me he loved me in July. He even cried when he said it.
Cried
.

I can sit most anywhere and be fine. Relatively fine. There
is
the dilemma of trying to find something 1962-ish to eat from a menu filled with Papa John’s pizza and vending machines. I finally give up and grab an apple, not overly hungry.

I survey the quad, considering the large trees, circular tables, and rows of bleachers facing the outdoor theater. If I really wanted to avoid people, I could head inside to the actual cafeteria, since no one eats in there, not in sunny California. Well, no one
worth
sitting by.