Crazy in Love (15 page)

He winces, kind of like you would if you’d watched your puppy get run over and were just now recalling the scene. “Yeah. She didn’t take it very well. She made me promise not to tell anybody we were breaking up until we had a chance to talk things through.”

This isn’t the report I was hoping for. But at least he talked to her.

Nicole is one seat up and two seats over, and she hasn’t quit glaring at me since I walked into the room. “Well, you better finish the job soon, Jackson,” I say, “because I’m all alone over here. And everybody’s got me labeled as the villain in this thing.”

He frowns, looking genuinely surprised. “The villain? How could anybody think that? You couldn’t be a villain if you tried, Mary Jane.”

I’d like him to repeat this, loud enough for Nicole to hear.

But our teacher interferes and begins class. He writes study questions on the board, and Jackson gets out his notebook and starts copying. The rest of the hour, Schram talks, Jackson writes. Schram writes, Jackson writes.

I try to follow his good example. I do want a boyfriend who takes school seriously. But I’m busy dreading the rest of the long, lonely day ahead.

When English is over, Jackson has to rush off to his next class, and I’m left to shove my way through the Attila High masses by myself. I get so many cold shoulders, I’m numb. The only hopeful sign is that the male population of Attila has stopped pursuing me, apparently. One guy acts suspiciously friendly in French class, but that’s it. I give Jackson credit for working his un-gossip campaign behind the scenes, behind enemy lines. Private Jackson, my war hero.

The only one of The Girls who even speaks to me is Cassie. And that’s just when I catch her at her locker right before lunch.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She glances nervously over her shoulder, no doubt fearful of having crossed the battle line.

“No, I’m not okay. How would you feel if everybody hated you?”

She risks touching my arm. “Everybody doesn’t hate you, Mary Jane.
I
don’t hate you.”

I’m pitifully grateful for this watered-down declaration of friendship. I tell myself that as soon as Jackson and I are totally together, The Girls will come back to my side. I’ll even make a point to include Star, which is something she’d never do for me. I just have to hang on for a while.

I don’t even try lunch. Instead, I eat the mints and cough drops I scrounge from my backpack and locker, then hide out in the library with the ax murderer until lunch is over.

The rest of the day slogs by in a nightmarish blur until I happen to run into Jackson after his last class. Could be because I leave study hall early and plant myself in the doorway of his classroom until he exits.

Jackson is in the middle of a group of escaping seniors as he hustles out of the classroom, so I have to shout to get his attention. “Jackson! Over here!”

He glances over at me and smiles his melting smile while I make my way upstream to him. When I get there, I have the distinct feeling that his darting gaze is shooting past me, over my shoulder. Down the hall.

“Could we talk later, Mary Jane?” he whispers. He does that hall-glancing thing again.

I turn to see what he’s looking at.

And there’s Star. She’s walking toward him, smiling. She waves, in her short leather skirt and white cashmere sweater that falls off one shoulder. She’s strolling and chatting to Lauren, but she’s obviously heading for Jackson.

When I turn back to him, I guess my disappointment is written on my face because he gives me this look that would be an apology if it were words.

“Give me time, Mary Jane. Please?” he whispers. I feel his hand squeeze my arm. Then he moves around me and strides off to meet
her.

The crowd flows by, jostling me. I am the stone in the river of students eager to leave the building.

I’m still standing there, just outside the classroom, when Nicole walks out. I try to ignore her and turn to go, but I’m not quick enough.

Nicole stops in front of me. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Mary Jane,” she says. “And if you don’t know that, you’re the only one in Attila Ill who doesn’t.”

I was expecting anger in her voice, outrage from the ambassador to the Star. Instead, she sounds sad, sorry. Sorry for
me.
Anger I could handle. But pity?

She comes closer and lowers her voice. “Jackson’s playing you,” Nicole says. “Star’s never going to let him go.”

19

It’s all I can do to
drive Fred home without swerving into oncoming vehicles. My eyes are tear-blurred. My mind keeps replaying the image of Star and Jackson together, and the voices in my head won’t shut up.

My cell rings, and I almost go off the road trying to dig the phone out of my pack. I hate the national anthem.

“What?” I say, slamming on my brakes when I realize the light’s turned red.

“Mary Jane?”

It’s Jackson. The nerve! Does he think he can talk his way out of this? Keep a little Mary Jane on the side and a healthy serving of Star as the main entrée?

“Go away!” I shout. And I flip the lid on my cell.

A second later it rings again.

I check. It’s Jackson. I hit END, hanging up on him.

Again, the national anthem blares. This time I shut off my phone and toss it in the backseat. I will never talk to Jackson House again.

I park Fred in front of the house and run up the sidewalk. All I want to do is get to my room, where I can wail on my bed in private. It’s early enough that Mom and Sandy could still be at basketball practice. But when I open the door, I discover that my luck’s run out at home, too.

“Mary Jane, I’m glad you’re home early!” Mom says, rushing to meet me before I’ve even shrugged out of my coat. “Your boss at the pretzel shop called. He wants you to call him. He’s called twice already.”

All I need to make my day complete is a nice talk with the Pretzel Boss. “Can I call him later? I was just going to—”

“You better call him right away,” Mom interrupts. “He sounded pretty desperate.”

I take the number from Mom and make the call from my bedroom. I try to remember if I told Robbie about my plans to miss THE day. Maybe he let it slip to Pretzel Boss, sending him into a pre-Thanksgiving panic.

Robbie answers the phone. “The Twisted Pretzel. Robert speaking.”

“This is Mary Jane, Robbie. I need to speak to the boss.”

“Wow! This is the first time you’ve ever called me. How are you, Mary Jane?”

“The boss, Robbie?”

“Oh. Sure.”

A full minute later Pretzel Boss is on the phone, panting. “I need you, Mary Jane!” he shouts.

“I don’t work school nights,” I inform him. This is only partly true. A couple of times I’ve gone in after school to fill in for one of the other part-timers. But right now, I’d rather eat my young than twist pretzels.

“You have to come in!” He sounds like he’s under attack.

The thought of spending so much as a minute in that den of pretzels makes me even more depressed than I already am, a state I wouldn’t have thought possible. “Don’t think so,” I say.

“Please!” he cries. “It’s crazy here! I’ve never seen it like this.”

“Very tempting,” I mutter.

“Gina is out sick. Orlando quit. That other boy—what’s his name? Ishwan? He broke his arm and just got back from the hospital, and he refuses to come in. You’re my last hope!”

“Nice to be first on your list and all, but there’s no way I’m working tonight.”

“I’ll pay you overtime.” This is an offer Pretzel Boss has never made anyone.

Even in my whacked-out, beaten-down, exhausted state of depression, I’m starting to realize the opportunity here. This man is desperate. Now that I have no boyfriend, no girlfriends, and nothing at all going on in my life, a career in pretzels seems about right. I should think twice about quitting my job. Plus, how could my day possibly get worse?

“I might come in”—I pause dramatically—“under one condition.”

“Name it!”

“Overtime. Plus, I get Thanksgiving Friday off, as in the day after Thanksgiving.”

“What? THE day? No way!”

“Nice rhyme,” I say calmly. “But my sister has a game I can’t miss. So that’s the deal. Today or THE day.”

Someone’s shouting in the background. I think I hear Robbie yell “Help.”

“Okay!” Pretzel Boss screams into the phone. “Just get down here now!”

On the drive to the mall, I can’t even celebrate this small victory over Pretzel Boss because I’m on my way to Hell’s Kitchen, home of the twisted pretzel and the three-cornered hat. Some victory.

When I turn into the mall, I can see why Pretzel Boss was so freaked. I’ve never seen the Springmill lot this full on a weeknight. I circle the whole complex before taking an illegal spot on the grass.

When I get to The Twisted Pretzel, the line snakes all the way to Nordstrom’s.

“Hey! Line forms back there!” barks a four-hundred-pound woman, pointing a stubby finger.

The last place she needs to be is at the front of a pretzel line, but I refrain from telling her so as I slip behind the counter.

“Gloves! Hat! Hurry!” comes the warm greeting of the Pretzel Boss. “You and Robbie both need to wait on customers. I’ll cover the oven.”

Robbie looks like he’s been wrestling alligators. His hat is crooked. Strands of hair hang over his forehead, and he’s covered in pretzel dough.

I don’t ask.

I get to work, and although I’d never admit it in front of a firing squad, it’s good to be this busy with mindless labor. Keeps me from thinking about Jackson. Okay. Keeps me from thinking about him every single second.

Amazingly, I make almost no mistakes in the next hour, and the line dwindles to a dozen or so.

“Your cell’s going off again!” Robbie shouts. The mall has piped in Christmas music to drown out the crowd noise, but I’ve been hearing the intermittent ringing of the national anthem coming from my coat pocket since I arrived. I’ve chosen to ignore it.

“Let it ring, let it ring, let it ring!” I shout, in tune to the “Let It Snow” music of the moment. If it’s Jackson—and it’s probably not, because he’s undoubtedly moved on to other side dishes—I don’t want to talk to him. I have no friends to call me. The only other possibilities would be the football team or maybe the math club. Who needs ’em?

The night wears on, and the screaming, complaining customers help take my mind off Wicked Witches of the West and men like Jackson House, who need a brain, a heart, or a strong dose of courage on their way through Oz.

Finally, Pretzel Boss shouts, “Closing!” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy. He even thanks me for coming in and wishes me a good night.

I’m hanging up my hat and gloves when Robbie comes up behind me.

“Do you want to go out with me tonight?” he asks. But he sounds so tired, I doubt he’d follow through if I said yes.

I don’t risk it. “No, Robbie. Thanks for asking.”

He shrugs and puts on his orange quilted parka that would come in handy if anybody ever decides to hunt deer in the mall.

I put on my coat and duck under the counter. When I come up on the other side, I’m standing face-to-face with Jackson House.

“Go away,” I tell him, even though my heart is pounding holes in my chest.

“I have to talk to you, Mary Jane,” he says. He’s wearing this long black wool coat that makes him look older and—

“No!” I will not fall for this again. The voices in my head are reminding me how much this guy hurt me, although
M.J.
is whispering that he looks so darned good in that coat.

“Please?” he begs. “I’ve been trying your cell all night. I tried your house, and your mom finally told me where you were.”

Robbie comes up behind me. “Everything all right here, Mary Jane?” he asks. I can tell he’s trying to make his voice sound deeper. “Is this guy giving you trouble?”

I turn and look down into Robbie’s pimply face, screwed into his best tough-guy frown, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a little brother. “Thanks, Robbie,” I say, with feeling that’s real. “I appreciate that. I really do.” I turn back to Jackson. “But I can handle this guy all on my own.”

I think Robbie makes a relieved sigh. “Well, if you’re sure, then.” And he walks off, taking time to glare back over his shoulder at Jackson.

I think I love that kid.

“I’m leaving now, Jackson,” I say, buttoning my coat. I’ve put the wrong button in the wrong buttonhole and have to start over. “Better run along. You don’t want Star to catch you.”

“I deserve that,” he says.

“And much more,” I agree. “Unfortunately, I just don’t have the time.” I move past him toward the mall exit. The lights inside the mall dim. The only thing open is the cinema at the other end of the mall.

“Mary Jane!” Jackson calls after me. “Wait!”

I wheel on him then. “Wait? Guess what, Jackson! I’m done waiting!”

Yes! Let him have it!
Plain Jane
cries in my head.
He made you feel like pond scum. And if you’re going to get dumped, which of course you already are, you might as well try to take a little dignity with you.

“What am I anyway?” I shout, stomping back to him. “Somebody you sneak out and kiss when nobody’s around to see? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“It’s not like that,” Jackson protests. “It was never like that.”

“Maybe and maybe not,” I say. “But it’s not going to be like that anymore!”

Exactly! You tell him!
M.J.
cheers, even though she still thinks he’s totally hot in that coat.