Out of Order (6 page)

My sister once made cupcakes that looked like breasts.

She didn't notice that they looked like breasts, but boy, did I. Each one had white icing, and a cherry on top. Cass made them for some party she was going to, and she said I couldn't have any.

I wasn't in the mood to fight about it, so I waited till Cass was busy getting ready for her party, and I took a cupcake and ate it. I figured once it was gone, there was nothing she could do about it.

That's what's going to happen with Grace. It's what always happens. I don't fight and argue and toss a bunch of words back and forth about how uptight she is. I just wait till things are getting really hot, and she forgets to worry and
be
uptight. It always works, up to a point. And every time, it works closer and closer
to
the point. One of these days it's going to work beyond
the point. That's just the way the world works—you want something bad enough, you eventually get it.

And you know, with Cass and the cupcakes, she never even noticed one was missing. She just grabbed up the tray and ran out the door, and never even looked. Girls are like that—they get all freaked out in advance over something that once it happens, it's going to be in the past anyway. Know what I mean?

 

One of the few things I've always liked about school is how everybody knows where they fit. You can take one look at somebody and know who they are. You can't get that kind of order anywhere else. Not at the mall, not at the movies—you can't even really count on it at home. Just at school. It's got nothing to do with getting As or understanding poetry, it's got to do with where you belong in everybody else's eyes.

I belong at the top, and everybody knows it. Every day I walk to our spot in the front foyer like I always do, passing all the regular people and the hangers-on. There's a bunch of us who've been in the same crowd since middle school, except for temporary additions like Whorey Dori and a couple of permanent additions who came over from St. Andrew's in the ninth grade already knowing the right people.

The circle's already gathering. Me, and of course Eric
and Patrick, and Preston McGowan's there, and Cara Weston. Morgan, who if you ask me is in PMS mode about ninety-nine percent of the time. Stephanie, who would probably be better for me than Grace, because she's more into partying. I just can't see any point in being attached to Stephanie, though. This summer she dated some kid a year behind us, for cripe's sake.

Looking around, I see that Grace and I are pretty much the top of the top, the cream.

Grace. I step into the circle beside her. She doesn't see me; she's got this look on her face, like she smells something bad.

Right away I know why. It's because McGowan is speaking. Grace, the animal lover, can't stand McGowan ever since one time he told everybody how his kid brother took their hamster for a swim in the toilet, and then accidentally flushed it. That got him on Grace's bad side, and then what really cooked her was that he laughed about it. I
almost
laughed, but just in the nick of time I saw how Grace's eyes were starting to tear up in hamster sympathy. So I wiped that smile off damn quick.

McGowan stops talking, and Grace's face smooths out. She's got her hair hanging down loose today, all straight and shining—no clips, just one side tucked behind her ear, and she's got on some tiny little earring that
sparkles, and she's wearing that pale-green blouse that matches her eyes exactly. But she still doesn't see me, because she's waving to someone walking past.

I check to see who it is, because it'd better not be a guy.

It's not. It's a girl. Alicia Doggett, the chihuahua-headed loser.

Grace is a terrific person, but she works a little too hard at being nice, if you ask me. Like waving hello to someone like Alicia Doghead.

Grace has always been that way, never any common sense. It's another of the things we'd always be fighting about, if I didn't keep my mouth shut—the way she has this idea that everybody in the world should be treated equal. Grace has never seen that other people have to be and dress and act a certain way, or else…well, they just
do
.

But I don't want to fight. We're back together, so I'm not going to make a deal over it. And it's worth it; when she notices I'm there in the circle, a smile breaks out on her face.

I know that smile. It's the kind you have when you're just so glad to see someone, the happiness has to bust out all over the place.

 

When I get to biology I have to go by Alicia Doggett on the way to my seat, so I make a little “arf” noise as I
walk by. I'm feeling pretty good. I don't bother to see if she cringes or not.

In my seat I look up to the front of the room to see that we've got a substitute—the Fossil.

He's one of the regulars, one of the subs you see in the halls every day of the week. Normally I doze through anything he teaches. The man's about a thousand years old and all his sentences are about a thousand words long. He always comes with a briefcase full of Xeroxed sheets in case the teacher didn't leave a lesson plan. Which Ms. Keller didn't.

I'm having a good morning, and I can't stand ruining it by being bored to death. I'm not tired, I couldn't sleep if the Fossil handed out sleeping pills instead of those goddamn Xeroxes. Even though the only thing I've got to do today is be counted present—which I have been.

I sit there and actually try to work a stupid crossword puzzle, although I really don't want to be in here at all. I need to be doing something physical, not sitting at a lab table where I can't talk or stretch or hardly even move.

It occurs to me that I could easily—easily—make up a story that would make the Fossil give me a pass out of here. At the same time I know I really—really—ought to buckle down and work hard and stop messing around.
In this state they have a no-pass, no-play rule. That means if I don't make at least a C in all my classes the six weeks before the season starts, I don't get to play ball.

So I really—really—need to start taking it more seriously. By the end of December, anyway.

“Mr. Fozzeltini.” Haley behind me is waving her hand. “Can I open a window? It's stuffy in here.”

It's always stuffy in here. This is one of the old rooms, where the thermostat is set on bake.

The Fossil thinks about it. “Yes,” he finally says, and then adds in his usual long-winded way, “I think that would be acceptable.”

Haley gets up and opens the window right next to me. In the old rooms the windows slide straight up, not like the newer ones that just push open at an angle.

It looks pretty nice outside, for October. It looks almost summery. Blue, blue skies. Just a few wisps of cloud.

I put my pencil down. The biology classroom is one of two that looks out over the baseball fields. I see—guess who?—Jordan Palmer and Max Gutterson, hitting some balls. Seniors don't have to take a first period if they don't need the credits.

What I wouldn't give to be out there.

A gust of fresh air blows in. It brushes right past the smell of Xeroxed sheets, and lab chemicals, and Formica or
formalda or whatever it is that you pickle dead things in.

And then that fresh air touches my nose.

It smells like outside.

I stick my pencil down in the pocket of my folder and shut it. I stack the folder and my book on the table in front of me. I'm ready to think up my lie.

The Fossil's up front, his back to me. He's writing a bunch of letters on the board, under the word
Unscramble
.

While I'm thinking, he mutters to himself. He rubs out a letter with his fingertip and writes another. I hear the scratching of pencils all around.

That's when it hits me.

Why lie? This old guy isn't going to notice if I'm here or not.

The window's partly open. Beyond lie the baseball fields of R. A. Pleasence High School.

It'll be great. It'll be funny. It'll add to the Trammel mystique.

I shove my book and folder onto the wire shelf under my chair. I stand up and step to the window, nice and casual. I open it all the way, like I'm feeling a little stuffy, too.

Nobody says anything.

I check Haley, behind me, in case she's going to complain how it's too windy now.

Haley's frowning down at her paper.

I check the front. The Fossil's still got his back to me.

I turn, still casual, like I'm just leaning against the sill. Now I can see the whole class. My heart's beating a mile a minute.

Michael McMillan raises his head and sees me standing there. He starts to say something.

I give him a warning look. A keep-your-mouth-shut look.

McMillan knows something's up. He leans back in his chair, grinning, ready for the show.

Haley looks up as I turn to lift one leg onto the sill. She gasps and darts a glance over at the Fossil. But she doesn't say a word.

I lift the other leg onto the sill.

Taptaptap
. I freeze. It's Chlorophyll, tapping her pencil against the tabletop.

I forgot about her.

She hasn't seen me yet. She's just thinking. She scribbles a word on her crossword puzzle without looking up.

I ease both legs outside. Almost there. But I can't resist—one last look around, legs hanging out the window—to savor the moment.

Half the class is watching me now. Across the room Alicia Doghead is outright gaping. McMillan's nodding in approval. Haley looks scared.

Chlorophyll notices all the heads turning. She looks over and sees me, too. Her pencil freezes over her crossword puzzle.

We're looking right into each other's eyes. Hers are light brown, under dark lashes. Her mouth is kind of small without even a hint of gloss or color—but it's not tattling on me yet. There's no telling what she's thinking. No telling what she's going to do.

I can't help it—I smile at her. A real smile, a genuine Colt Trammel smile. It's the adrenaline, it's the rush from not knowing what's going to happen next.

Her eyes widen, like I just popped a flashbulb in her face.

I couldn't surprise her by almost exposing myself. But a smile—that surprises her.

Which gives me the most satisfaction yet today.

The Fossil drops the chalk back into the chalk tray. “All right,” he says, dusting off his hands as he starts to turn around.

A little kick, a little push—and I'm already gone.

 

It occurs to me on the way to my car that my book and folder are probably going to get stolen out from under my biology chair. Along with my only pencil.

Oh, well. I can borrow today. And buy new stuff tomorrow.

Nobody catches me getting my equipment bag out of my trunk. Nobody catches me going down to the field. And it looks like nobody from my class has pointed me out to the Fossil, even though the field is in full sight of every window.

Palmer just laughs when I tell him I jumped out the window. “Bet old Fozzeltini didn't even notice” is the only thing he says. He and Gutterson let me take a couple of turns hitting. God, it always feels good to get my hands on a bat! When I send one sailing over the fence, I turn and wave at McMillan and Haley, in case they're watching. I even give an extra little wave for Chlorophyll—who might or might not tell.

 

I don't get called down to the office at all the next period. By lunchtime, I know I'm safe.

Fifth-period assistant, I've already got my head down when I hear the door open and the sound of Chlorophyll's squeaking shoes. Her chair screeches back. Every day it's the same thing—I can tell exactly what she's doing, without even raising my head.

But this time there's something different. A swish and a thud—something lands on the table right by my ear.

I look up. It's my biology stuff.

Chlorophyll sits down without a word.

I pick up the folder. I can see the lump my pencil
makes, down in the pocket.

“Thanks,” I tell her, sliding the book and folder to one side.

“You're welcome,” she says.

I put my head back down. I'm not sleeping, just resting my eyes. Although I could sleep if I wanted. Because now I know the score—she's a loserette, but she knows when to keep her mouth shut.

For some reason it makes me think about Grace. How it's a good thing that she didn't see me going out the window.

The truth is, Grace and I are not all that much alike. She's bored by baseball, she doesn't drink, doesn't party. I don't understand half of what she says, and I'm pretty sure that if she knew how little I understood, she'd dump me like a used TV-dinner tray. No “emotional connection” and all that.

But it's still going to work. Us, I mean. No matter how unalike we are. I can make it work. That's how bad I want her.

And really, there's good things about us being so different. For one thing, I can really appreciate her. All the bad stuff about me means that I'm the one guy who can appreciate how smart, how deep she is.

And hey, only for a girl like Grace would a guy like me try to be a better person than I really am.

What they say about how opposites attract is absolutely true. Grace and I are opposite, but we're perfect for each other.

I raise my head up, rest my chin on my arms. Chlorophyll's taking out a book like she always does. And those glasses. I'm not saying anything, she's not saying anything. Just like always. But I guess I do appreciate the pencil thing, and I'd like to say something to let her know that was pretty cool.

“Opposites attract,” I blurt. I don't know why. It's what I happened to be thinking, so that's what came out.

Chlorophyll opens her book without looking up.

Then I get this dim idea that maybe it sounded like I was saying something about her and me, which I wasn't—Jesus, no way! But of course it came out all wrong. As usual.