Going Vintage (7 page)

There aren’t Imperial cliques at our school, not like you see in old teen movies with jocks and nerds and cheerleaders. I mean, we have all those, but most people aren’t just that one thing, so all the groups bleed into one another. You can be an A student (The Stars) who also does drugs (Burnies, which, if you include dabblers, is almost half the school) and plays the harp (Unusual Instrumentalists—ha, just made that one up). I guess the exception would be the handball courts on the east side of the cafeteria where lots of Hispanics hang. Jeremy always called that Little Tijuana, which I never liked, but he also called the Asian table Chinatown and he
is
Asian and we always sat there, so maybe that makes it okay? Maybe not.

So, lunch. The dominant identifier—whether that be a talent or religion or family income—usually decides table selection, which is why I spot Jeremy sitting with The Kids With Nice Cars, a group we didn’t usually visit, since Dad’s 1994 Ford Escort I occasionally get to drive would not suffice.

“I heard about the breakup. How’s it going?” My friend Paige Santos is next to me, a turkey sandwich in one hand, a Coke Zero in the other, and a severe look of concern on her face.

“Fine.” I’m still staring at Jeremy. He’s laughing at something his cousin Oliver said. He never laughs like that with Oliver; he never even
sits
with Oliver. Oliver drives a fricking Nissan that’s older than he is, so he’s breaking the social-class table rules anyway. Jeremy thinks his cousin tries too hard to be indie and quixotic, not that Jeremy would ever use the word
quixotic
, and … what do I care? The thing that really bothers me is that Jeremy can laugh at all right now, that he can even so much as fake a smile after what he did to me.

How can I hate someone and still love him at the same time?

“Your dress is adorable,” Paige says. “Did you get it at the Circle?”

Orange Circle is the old town shopping area, sort of a Main Street USA that’s been frozen in time. My dad has a small booth in one of the antiques malls. All the hipsters shop in the vintage stores, but it’s expensive, so I usually pray for a find at Goodwill. “It’s my grandmother’s.”

“Wow, that’s even better.” Paige tugs at the sleeve. “Good for you for looking so put together after being dumped.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t believe everything you read on Friendspace. I didn’t get dumped.”

“Then what happened? I texted you and tried calling.”

“I got rid of my phone.”

Paige recoils, her long black hair swishing behind her shoulders. “Got
rid
of it? Did your parents take it away? I was over my text limit once and my father—”

“No. It was, uh, voluntarily retired. I’m simplifying my life by giving up modern technology—”

“What?”

“—and trying to live more like teens did fifty years ago, when communication was more, uh, communicative,” I say.

“So, this is a sort of social experiment then?” Paige bites at a hangnail, calculating. Paige is more interested in high school hierarchy than anyone I know—last year she had a slumber party with a purposefully random group of girls, hoping it would be all Kumbaya, we understand each other now. What
resulted was an awkward night of ranch dip and half-sipped sodas that ended around nine. Experiment = failed. “So it’s a commentary on technology’s hindrance of interpersonal interaction? That’s brilliant.”

“When you say it like that, sure.” Telling this to someone besides Ginnie, even someone like Paige, who I know I can trust, makes me a little self-aware and unsure. “But this might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. It’s not really planned out. I’m winging it.”

“Can I interview you?” Paige’s thinking wrinkle between her eyes deepens. “I need to write an opinion piece for the school newspaper, and a debate on the pros and cons of social networking could be award winning.”

“No.” Leave it to Paige to create a silver lining to my little crisis that also conveniently pads her college application résumé. “Just do a screenshot of Jeremy’s Friendspace page. That says plenty.”

Paige touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can be callous when I’m excited. Tell me what happened with Jeremy. After the rumors I’ve heard, I need a first-person account.”

The problem with the breakup is I look stupid no matter what. If word gets out about BubbleYum, it’ll look like I wasn’t enough for Jeremy, which might actually be the sad truth, but no one else needs to know that. If I stay quiet, the rumors will keep eroding my reputation. My reputation that really only exists because of Jeremy.

Although we left Reno when I was in middle school, we stayed in an apartment in Anaheim first, so we didn’t move to
our house in Orange until the beginning of sophomore year. After only a month at Orange Park High School, I met Jeremy. My life here is wrapped all around him, and now, thirteen months later, I am still the new girl. No other title or description besides Jeremy’s girlfriend ever really stuck to me. He was the one thing I ever fully committed to. With that banner stripped, now I’m … just the girl who won’t answer your texts. Legend.

I’m suddenly tired and need to sit. I ignore Paige’s question and plop down at her table, the meeting place of many of The Stars, that overachieving subgroup combating for the opportunity to pretend to read a book in the “Most Likely to Succeed” yearbook photo. I’m bright enough to be in their presence, but not so exceptional or talented that they see me as a threat. That’s the trick with floating—being enough, but not too much. Today, especially, I appreciate my mediocrity, and that I can crunch my apple in peace.

Speaking of peace, Paige is already talking to the group about the Peace Corps, and since I’m pretty sure that was around in the sixties, I listen. Her eyebrows are knit in calculated concern as she brainstorms ways to raise funds for a primary school library in Malawi.

I should note how dim The Stars can unintentionally make me feel. If I had my phone right now, I would figure out where Malawi is.

“We should all join the Peace Corps together, after college,” Paige says. “The summer before grad school.”

“Screw grad school,” I mutter.

“You mean you’d rather go
before
college?” Paige asks. “But what about early enrollment and internships or—”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t do the Peace Corps, period,” I say. “Too much khaki.”

“They have Peace Corps units all around the world,” Peter Unger says. “You can find a khaki-free assignment.”

I’m in a mood. They could propose any cause or educational goal and I would be crusty about it. Just because the Peace Corps was around in 1962 doesn’t mean I have to join, right? I only gave up my cell phone yesterday. Baby steps. “I just meant, you know, screw grad school. Higher education is high enough for me.”

Yvonne Garcia pats my hand. “Sure. Some people just aren’t into grad school.”

She says
some people
like I’ve just doomed myself to a career sorting doughnuts on an assembly line, which is funny because although Yvonne gets straight As, she is one of the densest girls I know.

Another one of my friends, Cardin Frampton, shouts my name across the quad.

I cringe. Cardin is a girl who can’t help but draw attention to herself. And I don’t need that coming my way.

“Mallory!” She maneuvers around one of the stone benches, all donated from previous classes. The boys at our table go quiet as she bounces over, no doubt imagining her advancing in slow motion, possibly in a bathing suit. “Dude. I texted you until my thumbs got numb, but I heard nothing back.”

“I know,” I say.

“Are you going to give me details or what?”

“Yeah.”

Cardin squeezes into the seat next to me and bends low until our foreheads are touching. Peter Unger’s mouth is open, and I’m pretty sure he’s panting. “Okay,” she says. “Spill.”

“Later. We’re talking about the Peace Corps.” I wave my hand toward the group. “It’s a really heated discussion.”

Cardin seems to notice everyone else for the first time. “Oh, hey, guys. Peter, I like that shirt on you.”

“Thanks!” Peter pipes. He’s little and his voice is high, so he’s been cursed with the nickname The Pied Piper since before I lived here. “Er, we don’t have to talk about Peace Corps anymore. Maybe Mallory can dispel this Jeremy Mui rumor I heard. Did you really drop his computer in the toilet because he changed his security password on you?”

My heart sinks. Give it up to The Stars for fitting gossip into their academic schedules. Can’t a girl just enjoy her apple in peace? Corps? “No. He changed his Internet home page. Jerk.”

They laugh, nervously, like they’re pretty sure I’m kidding, but only pretty. Given how dependent they are on their phones and spreadsheets and e-readers, word of my vintage crusade would be more blasphemous than my grad school jab.

Cardin squeezes my hand. “I’m sure, whatever happened, it was tough for you.”

“Right, and”—Paige speaks slowly and pointedly—“
we
don’t need to talk about it right now.”

I love you, Paige. And Cardin, even if she’s the one who sparked this line of questioning.

This time, Yvonne pats my elbow. “Just know we don’t believe all the rumors. I mean, who would really hack into someone’s Friendspace account? That’s evil. Unless there was something”—she goes from patting my elbow to rubbing it in slow circles—“interesting on there?”

“Just our amateur sex videos.” I pull my arm away. Who decided that elbow touching is sympathetic?

Yvonne gasps, then giggles. “You’re joking, right?”

“Of course she is.” Paige smacks Yvonne’s arm. “How are you in the running for valedictorian, anyway?”

Cardin hops up. “I don’t care what happened. Jeremy
is
a tool, and you deserve to be happy. Will you please text me later?”

“Um.” I can’t say anything about going vintage in front of this group. “Sure.”

“I need a Diet Coke before the bell rings. Bye, girlie!”

“Bye!” Peter pipes. There’s a pause in the conversation as Cardin exits, which is just as enjoyable for the boys to watch as her entrance. Then every Star turns their laser focus on me. I feel like I’m an exam that they’re all trying to ace. I miss silence. Jeremy used to wolf his food down so fast that he designated the first five minutes of the meal as quiet time. Wait. I guess he still does eat fast. I’m just not there to witness it.

I stand and toss my apple into the trash. All these snarky lines are in my mouth, ready to be spewed. But I’m also mad
at myself for getting mad at The Stars. At least they came to the source; that’s a lot better than I can say for others. And curiosity isn’t malice—I mean, it
is
a good story. It gets better every time I hear it. By the time I finish The List, I’m sure the whole school will think I left Jeremy for a web-footed troll. With mind-reading skills. And magical kneecaps.

The List. That’s what I should worry about, not rumors or an attractive ex-boyfriend sitting across the quad, chugging an energy drink, not that I’m noticing. I need to stay busy, stay focused, and prove to my sister (and myself) that I really can go vintage.

I should be thinking about pep club. And if this school is ever going to get a pep club together, I will need the power and connection of The Stars.

“So. Subject change.” I stick both my hands on the table with what I hope is presence. “I know you all are the people to come to about this. I have an idea on how to increase community togetherness.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in the Peace Corps,” Peter says.

“I’m not. What brings a community together is organized pep. We need a pep club.”

“Pep club?” Paige balks. “That’s so … archaic.”

I point at her. “Exactly. Think of it as a sociological experiment.”

“Touché,” Paige says.

“So, uh, how do I start one?” I ask.

“You want to
start
a pep club,” Peter repeats.

For being the smart kids, these folks are a little slow on the draw. “Well, I’d join one if we had one, but we don’t.”

“But there’s key club,” Yvonne says. “And honor society and ASB and spirit week and—”

“ASB is just glorified student council. Not enough pep,” I say.

Peter leans back in his chair. “Ask Oliver—he’s in ASB. He’ll know. Hey, Oliver!” Peter hollers across the quad. Several tables look over. Including the table where Oliver is sitting. Including the table where
Jeremy
is sitting. “Come over here. Mallory has a question!”

What I should do is have the brain trust get their heads together and invent a bench that can swallow me whole. Oliver brushes past the other tables. The rest of the quad has lost interest, and I am extremely intent on Paige’s folder—plain old red two-pocket, figures—but I know Jeremy is staring now, because I know what his stare feels like on me.

“Yeah?” Oliver asks Peter.

“Mallory wants to know how to start a club,” Peter says. “Do you know?”