carefully everywhere descending (12 page)

I think my cheeks are a dull red as I say, “Then follow the instructions here.” I rip three pages out from my notebook and hand them to her. “Conduct a minimum of six experiments and record your results and observations for the written report. I'll do the same. Have them ready by Tuesday. I'll work on the display board, and we'll put it together next week.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

We sit for a moment, and then her phone buzzes on the desk. She angles it toward her and glances at the screen. She laughs at whatever's written and starts tapping out a reply.

I gather my stuff and go.

I spend the whole evening and most of Saturday absorbed in creating the project—probably to an unhealthy extent. The experiments are easy enough, but extrapolating from the data and presenting it in a way that makes the project sing takes extra work.

I find a box of mac and cheese in the cupboard and stretch it to last until lunch on Saturday. Mom is back in the bedroom. There's enough bread and supplies for Sam and Jimmy to have sandwiches, as well as a frozen pizza that they split for dinner on Friday. So when Amber texts and asks if I want to hang out with her and Steven at the nearby greasy spoon, it's largely the rumbling of my stomach that prompts me to reply
Sure
. I split the twenty I made from mowing that fateful day with Sam, and my half should get me a decent meal.

The Mercury Sable is free, so I take it to our favorite regional chain diner, Dine-N-Dash. I get there first and grab us a booth by a large window with a perfect view of the setting sun. I'm playing with the straw in my glass, pushing down ice cubes and watching them bob back up, when Amber walks in with Steven affixed to her side.

He's a big guy, bulky-shouldered and built like a barrel. Which is to say he looks powerful and would be a little intimidating if his round, slightly pimply face didn't always have a sweet smile on it.

“Hey, Audrey, how are you?” he asks as he scoots in gracelessly across from me. After a couple of seconds—a moment's hesitation obvious to me, but is it to Steven? Do boys pick up on things like that?—Amber slides in next to him.

“I'm good, Steven. How are you?”

“Good! I've been training for next year's football season pretty much nonstop, so I'm starving.”

Steven, according to Amber, is massively into football (and clearly that disclaimer wasn't told to be a confidence, but a warning).

“That's great,” I say. “I didn't follow this last season. How did you guys do?”

This proves to be a tactical error.

The third time the waiter comes back, impatience barely held in check, finally forces Steven to pause his enthusiastic spiel long enough for us to order. They're having a burger special (a cheeseburger, drink, fries,
and
a side salad for only $6.99), so I get that. Steven orders meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and onion rings, and Amber gets a soup-and-salad combo.

Amber seizes the pause in Steven's narrative to quickly ask how my science project is going, wide eyes conveying her apologies for the last fifteen minutes of unrestrained, detailed football minutiae. I would tell her not to worry if Steven wasn't there. It doesn't bother me. In fact, it's nice to see people love things that much.

“It's fine,” I say, with an uncomfortable twist to my stomach. Thinking of the project makes me think of Scarlett, and I don't want to think of Scarlett. “Did you tell Steven about my neighbor?”

Amber rolls her eyes delicately while Steven asks, intrigued, “What's up with the neighbor?”

I explain his bizarre behavior with frequent, perfectly placed injections by Steven of “That's nuts!”; “No way”; and “Is he a murderer?”

I shoot a triumphant look at Amber.

“I think you both are trying to cultivate a sense of excitement over something that is perfectly normal,” says Amber firmly. Over her shoulder and around the side of the booth, I see our waiter stride toward us with our orders on a tray over one shoulder.

“You know what you should do?” Steven asks as the waiter sets the tray down on the table near us.

“Hmm?” I ask, watching my burger with a watering mouth. I realize just how hungry I've been all weekend. So of course my plate is the last one he places on the table.

“Is there anything else I can get for you? A refill on drinks?” the waiter asks, hands clasped in front of his chest. We all agree to the refill.

“You go to his house,” says Steven, picking up his fork and cutting into his meatloaf, “and you bring something to welcome him to the neighborhood. That way, you have an excuse to be there and make conversation.”

“What if he doesn't open the door?” I ask before shoving five fries into my mouth.

“Then you leave it on his doorstep and go back when you're sure he's there, under the guise of making sure he got it okay.”

“Oh, please don't encourage this,” says Amber.

“That's brilliant,” I say.

“Or,” he continues around a mouthful of food, “you wait until it's night and you know he's
not
there, grab a flashlight, and look in his windows.”

“Mildly illegal,” I say, “but I'll take it under consideration.”

“I really don't understand your obsession, Audrey,” tuts Amber.

“I don't like not knowing stuff. And there's something distinctly off about this guy. If you'd been there, you'd understand,” I reply.

“You haven't even spoken with him.”

“You can tell a lot by body language.”

“That's true,” says Steven, nodding. “Coach is always drilling us to watch for the tells in the other players' stance and movement. They give away a lot without knowing it.”

“I saw a sign at the door that this place is hiring,” says Amber, obviously trying to change the subject away from both of us. “Would you want to work here, Audrey?” Then, “Audrey's looking for an after-school job,” to Steven.

“I would, if I could guarantee a schedule that allows me to share the car with Jimmy,” I say dismissively. Then I sit with that thought for a second. “It wouldn't hurt to apply.”

A spark of hope ignites in my chest. Waitressing wouldn't be so bad. I might even get discounted food.

On the way out, I ask the hostess for a job application, and she directs me to apply online. The nearest public library is closed on Sundays, so it will have to be Monday before class.

That plan is slightly derailed when the bus is late to school Monday and I barely have any time to make it to my locker and the room before the bell rings. I manage to eke out some time during lunch to start my application. It's a multipage effort with lots of boxes for expanding on my experience. I fill out as much detail about babysitting and how reliable and how customer-focused I am as possible. The bell rings with just a few questions to go, and I hesitate between hurrying and finishing, or saving and returning to it later. I finally click “Save Application” and log out. I want to proofread everything before I actually submit, so I don't make any typos or put in a reference's contact information incorrectly and take myself out of the running before the race begins.

Mr. Nwaogu spends the class droning on about electromagnetism and doesn't give us time to work on our project. Irked, I wonder how he expects us to compete with the other schools at the ImagineExpo with barely any notice or time dedicated to our experiments. Poor planning on his part, most likely. Scarlett and I studiously avoid each other, so the whole period is kind of a waste.

I need some materials for the display board's wording and content, to really make it pop, so I make my way toward the vacated art room and duck into the supply closet before my next class. I'm rooting around the loaded shelves when I hear Carolina's voice behind me.

“Thanks for meeting me here.” Startled, I whip around, expecting her to be at my back. But I only see the partially closed door and the small view of the classroom it affords.

“Sure! Your text worried me. You sounded really upset.” The other voice is female, but not one I recognize. Probably one of Carolina's many companions.

Uncomfortable, I take a step to the door to let them know I'm here and can hear them.

Carolina takes a watery breath. “It's Scarlett.”

I freeze.

“I have to break up with her, but I don't know how.”

Barely breathing, I inch my foot back, slowly putting the weight on bit by bit to withdraw deeper into the closet.

“I mean, when we're together, everything's mostly good, but then I think about Serhan and how I feel about him, and I… I just can't keep this up.” She begins to cry. “I used to love Scarlett. I really did. Now when she makes some stupid joke, all I want is to roll my eyes. I just… I think we're better as
friends
, you know?”

“Yeah, totally,” says the other, unknown girl. “I never got what you saw in her in the first place. I mean, she's
gorgeous
, don't get me wrong, but she's also… you know.”

“Yeah,” says Carolina, sounding relieved.

No, I want to say indignantly, storming out of my hiding place. She's
what
? She's funny and kind and hurt and loyal and
trying
, trying so hard, and none of that is good enough for you?

“I just don't know how to tell her,” Carolina says in a wrecked voice before starting to cry again.

“Text her,” suggests the girl. My mouth drops open.

“Oh, I don't know….”

“It's okay. That will give her time to let it sink in before you see her again. It's better for both of you this way. Trust me.”

“Well….”

“Lina. Picture yourself staring into her eyes and saying, ‘Scar-Scar, I want to break up.'”

A fresh round of sobs bursts forth from Carolina at this.

“I don't see what the big fuss from people is,” says the other girl over Carolina's crying. “I mean, it gets the job done and gives both parties space to process their emotions without hurting each other. If you think about it, it's actually more humane to do it this way, right?”

Carolina's settled down into little heaving breaths.

“O-okay….”

There's a long moment of quiet, filled just by ambient sound: distant murmurs from the hallway, the air conditioning humming, a clock ticking, and little taps and movements from the two girls on the other side of the door.

The bell rings, making me startle so hard I bump into the rack behind me. A red-splattered paint tube starts to fall, and I just manage to catch it with my left hand.

“Quick, how does this sound?”

I expect Carolina to read her text aloud in true dramatic fashion, but there's just a pause before the other girl says, “That's good. Hurry and send it. We're late for history.”

“We'll be fine. It's right around the corner. That's why I asked you to meet me here.”

They leave, and I stand alone in the midst of an array of colors I don't see and sound I don't hear, completely stunned.

 

 

T
HERE
'
S
A
class of freshman noisily traipsing in for their art class, and I'm able to leave the supply room without attracting too much undue attention.

I'm shell-shocked. On one hand, I'm devastated for Scarlett. On the other, overjoyed. Carolina's no longer in the picture. That means, Scarlett and I….

I get to Spanish a few minutes after the bell rings and have to give my excuse in Spanish to avoid getting a demerit. I realize in the middle of saying, “
Yo estaba las cosas para el proyecto de la clase de ciencias
” that I failed at actually getting the stuff I was looking for. Oh, well. Mrs. Thomas accepts my excuse, but corrects my pronunciation before letting me take my seat.

Scarlett doesn't share Spanish with me.

Mrs. Thomas gives us a chance to ask questions about the most difficult sections of the huge exam we have tomorrow. A lot of students are finding present participles challenging.

Has she seen the text from Carolina yet?

I recite verbs aloud with the other students.
Comiendo
…
siguiendo
…. Is she heartbroken, or maybe, at least a little, relieved? Is this something that she secretly wanted?
Tú ve delante, que yo te sigo
…. Or what if she meant it, that she really is in love with her?

The bell rings, and I blink out of the fog of my thoughts. I panic a little; the test tomorrow is 30 percent of the grade, and I'm far from perfect in Spanish. I'll have to spend extra long tonight on it to make up for being so spacey in class.

I'm angry. I tell myself it's aimed at Carolina, but mostly I'm disgusted with my continuing loss of control over myself.

I go to the library and finish my application for Dine-N-Dash. Riding the feeling of accomplishment, I plug in my headphones and listen to the online language program the library has to get my pronunciation down and memorize phrasing. I take the late bus home and immerse myself in the complexities of the foreign language for the rest of the evening, refusing to let my thoughts stray to a certain blue-eyed girl.

 

 

T
HE
NEXT
day I can barely wait for school to begin, and I hate myself a little for my rabid anticipation. Before class I explain to Amber in a low, controlled voice what's happened, telling her it's highly confidential. Her face is sorrowful for Scarlett as she sorts through her textbooks for AP World History, which we have together. With Scarlett.

“Poor Scarlett.”

“Yes.” I hesitate. “Not that I expect anything to happen”—this is a lie—“but do you think…. She seemed interested in me before….” I can't think of how to delicately phrase what I want to ask.