Freshman Year (28 page)

My mom asks for my proof of study hall attendance the second I walk into the kitchen, which I guess is going to be her new way of saying hello until the quarter is over.

It's like coming home to the Big House these days, so I say, “Here you go, Warden,” and give it to her.

She immediately posts it on the fridge.

“Seriously, you should consider giving up art to become a prison guard.”

“Get out your homework,” she says, pretending like I'm not hilarious.

“Come on, Mom,” I whine, “it's a pain in my butt to work out here, literally. Can't I just sit in my room on my bed? I'll leave the door open.”

This is when she leaves the room. Seconds later she comes back with a throw pillow from the couch and puts it on the hard dining-room chair. “There you go. Problem solved. Now get to work.”

I try really hard to hate my mom, but of course, I'm a complete failure at that, too. But I have to wonder how someone who claims to love me can torture me so much. I know, she's doing it for my own good, but if she only knew how much it hurts to be away from Keeta, she might be a little less Cruella de Vil about the whole thing.

At least I still get to see Keeta before practice and on our away games, but the season's coming to an end, which means every part of my life is going to officially stink worse than the instant-tan lotion Kate made me try this past summer.

*

A month of Suckfest-a-palooza finally passes, and I actually have something to look forward to. Valentine's Day is coming up, which is why I've been spending every spare second of my evenings, after my mom is in a deep sleep, working on Keeta's card. It's a masterpiece, thanks to my art teacher, Ms. Chafouleas. Once I finally dismounted my high horse (my mom's a real-life artist, after all) and started to pay attention in class, I noticed Ms. C actually has some mad skills, especially in the art of paper pop-ups.

My card is a large paper heart with the usual doilies and glitter on the outside, but when Keeta opens it, a picture of me will cartwheel across the middle. The caption underneath reads: “I'm head over heels for you!” Finally, I'm going to tell Keeta I love her, sort of.

*

I get up early on Valentine's Day morning to curl my hair, apply eye makeup, and to dress up in a previously Kate-approved boobage-and-booty-boosting outfit: tight low-rise jeans and a low-cut, light-colored T-shirt with dark push-up bra combo. Then I carefully pack Keeta's card and the cookies I made in my backpack, the cookies I told my mom I was making for my teachers.
Pshyeah.
Whatever.

This morning, I practically skip to the performance hall. This is, by far, going to be the best Valentine's Day ever because, for the first time ever, I actually have a Valentine who isn't related to me.

I'm just about to burst into the room and say Keeta's name when I hear her sexy voice singing “Hey Jude,” which is one of my favorite Beatles songs, while being accompanied by mediocre guitar strumming.

Then I hear, “
Así no
. Not like that, like this.
Ay,
let me show you.”

My smile deflates like a two-day-old birthday balloon, and flashes of Stef's warning appear in my mind. Keeta said those exact words to me a million times in class. Her showing me how to play a chord or strum the strings gave her the excuse to wrap her arms around me and touch my hands.

Then more horrible strumming starts up again and Keeta says, “That's it. You've got it now.
Muy bien, chula
.”

Cutie? Who the hell is she calling cutie? That's when I storm into the room like I'm the FBI. Keeta and her little
chula
part quickly but remain calm like they aren't doing anything wrong.

“Hey, Abbey.
Qué onda
?” Keeta asks.

“What's going on? I'd like to know the same.” I'm sure my face is quickly turning the color of an angry Valentine.

“
Pues aquí trabajando
with Osiris. You know, doing my job,” Keeta says and walks toward the stage. “
Nada más.
Help me in the instrument room?”

I should turn around and get out of there, but I worked damn hard on my Valentine and I'm not leaving until I give it to her, so I follow her into the tiny room in the back.

She shuts the door behind us. “Happy Valentine's Day, Amara,” she whispers, as her lips near mine.

I turn my head to avoid her poisonous kiss and push her away from me to get a better view of her lying face. “What are you doing with her? And don't tell me you're just helping her because I know that's bull, Keeta.”

She takes my hands in hers and laughs. “Amara, are you getting jealous? You're so adorable.” Then she leans in to try and kiss me again.

I turn away again so her kiss lands on my cheek. “Just tell me the truth, Keeta.” Sure, I ask her for the truth, but in my head I'm praying that the truth is she loves me, and only me.

She steps away from me finally and leans against the metal shelves that hold the violins and clarinets. “The truth about what?”

“You and Osiris.”

“Me and Osiris?” It's obvious to me she's stalling. My heart starts to break. Then she almost seems annoyed at my question. “Yeah, we flirt a little. So what?”

“Well, uh,” I select my words carefully, “because we're going out and you supposedly
care about me
.”

“I do care about you, Amara, but I mean, you and I are not exactly girlfriends.”

The truth finally comes out and I can hardly stand how much it hurts. “What…what are we, then?” I ask, my voice shaking from pain and embarrassment while Stef's distant voice mocks me.
Don't think you're that special, Amara.
A tear escapes from my eye.

“Well, it's not like we ever talked about
not
seeing other people.” She runs her fingers through her silky black hair. “I mean, I really like you, sweet Amara. You're a beautiful girl.”

“That's all I am to you? Pretty?” Another tear rolls down my cheek.

“Come on, Amara, let's not do this. You know what you are to me.”

My ears start to ring and I can hardly hear the rest of what she says.

“
Chale
, don't cry.” She steps closer and touches my shoulder. “I guess I thought we had an understanding. I mean, I was dating Stef for a long time. I'm not ready to settle down again with one person. Can't we just be…I don't know, special friends?”

I wipe the tears off my face with the sleeve of my special occasion T-shirt, since there's no point in trying to look nice anymore, and my mascara leaves a black smear on the yellow material. “Keeta, I thought you said I was like no other girl and that when you are with me, you lose track of days and months. I don't understand.”

“Amara…”

“Don't call me that if it doesn't mean anything.”

“This is who I am, Abbey. I thought you understood.”

I hear the distant bell and realize I have to hurry to get to algebra. But how can I leave things like they are? I stare at her (with eyes that I am sure are mascara-raccooned) and ask the one thing I have never dared to ask before. “Keeta, do you love me?”

I look at her and wait. I wait for that smile that's only meant for me. I wait for
Yes. I love you, Amara.

Instead, Keeta puts her hands in her jean pockets and looks sheepishly at the floor. “Abbey, I really love being with you, and I want to keep on seeing you, but…”

As she speaks, I tune her out and finally see how right Garrett and Stef have been all along. “Here,” I say and hand her the cookies and the Valentine and then leave the room. She doesn't try to stop me.

Thirty seconds later, I end up collapsing on the front steps of the school, sobbing into my hands. I know…dramatic. But if any other girl were in my Converse, she would have done the same.

The tardy bell rings, but I'm in no condition to go to algebra, and I can't hide in the bathroom because I will surely get caught, get a detention, and get escorted to class anyway, which would make my mom freak out again.

As a last resort, I consider ditching school. I pick my head up to see if there's anyone at the front gate. Dammit. Remembering Jenn's advice, I know there's no way of smooth-talking Mr. Cowen.

All hope is lost, so I start to cry again.

“Abbey, let's go talk in my office.” Ms. Morvay's voice is like an angel's. “It's freezing out here,” she says, as she lifts me up by my elbow.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve again and try to act like I'm fine, but there's no point in hiding it. I let her help me up and I follow her inside.

In the safety of her warm office, sitting in her comfy chair, I cry and cry until my head feels like it's been pounded with bricks. By the time I can actually talk to her, there are about three dozen soggy tissues in my lap and my eyes are nearly swollen shut.

“It's just, I don't understand what happened,” I say between sobbing gasps.

Ms. Morvay gets another box of tissues from her cabinet and puts it in my lap. “Take your time.”

I blow my nose and try to breathe like a normal person. “I mean, I don't know why we can't just be together. Why doesn't she love me?” I know I sound pathetic, but I really didn't think anything could hurt as much as when I lost my dad, which is a thought I'm too embarrassed to tell Ms. Morvay.

“I should have listened to my friends. I should've listened to Stef. I'm so stupid.”

Ms. Morvay reaches out to touch my hand. “Oh, Abbey, you're not stupid. I can see that you really love her.”

I look up stunned. “How did you know?”

“Well, let's just say I put two and two together. Anyway, you can't beat yourself up for falling in love with someone. Falling in love is a natural part of life, and sometimes we get hurt.”

Hurt? This is more than that; my heart feels like it's been dragged over a cheese grater. But I don't know how to explain that feeling to her, so I nod.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Besides Garrett, Ms. Morvay is the only one I seem to be able to really talk to about this.

I nod again but can't seem to gather any words.

“Just start with the beginning, Abbey.”

So that's what I do. I tell her about the deal Kate and I made about basketball. I tell her about making friends with Garrett and Stef. I tell her about how I flirted with Keeta behind Stef's back and about the kissing, the poetry, the necklace, and the special name Keeta has for me. I tell her about Kate and why we stopped talking and how I've been lying to my mom about every little thing. I even tell her about ditching fifth period but leave out the part where Tai abuses her office aide powers.

“It's like, I feel so far away from everything that was once familiar to me. You know, getting good grades, wanting to please my mom, and acting like my best friend's pet. At first, it was really cool, but now I feel like I've lost everything that used to really matter.”

After I tell her all that, she furrows her brow a little. “Hmm,” she says, in her counselor sort of way, then asks, “Abbey, if you could have one thing back that you think you have lost, what would it be?”

I tear apart a wet Kleenex in my lap and think about it. Maybe Ms. Morvay knows what I'll say, but it comes as a surprise to me that the first person to pop into my head isn't Keeta. I look at her when I finally say the truth. “My mom and Kate.”

“It's not too late to get them back. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” And I know exactly what I have to do.

As I put on my ugly jersey before the game, I tell Garrett the tear-by-tear details of what happened between me and Keeta earlier in the day. She listens like a good friend should but seems pretty unsympathetic to my situation. After all, it isn't the first time a friend of hers has been flattened by the sledgehammer of Keeta's love.

“So, you guys never officially became girlfriends, huh?”

“I guess not. I just sort of went along with falling in love with her. I thought that was what she was doing, too.” I put on one sock and then stop to rest my head on my knee. “I miss her so much.”

Garrett rubs some of my vanilla-scented lotion on her legs. “Well, at least you know where you stand now. So are you guys still going to see each other?”

I've already spent the whole day in a hazy fog of despair because, in my head, Keeta and I broke up. And now Garrett's asking if Keeta and I are still together? “Did you not just hear what happened to me today?” I ask her like she's crazy.

“Well, you don't have to stop dating her just because she doesn't want to see you exclusively. It's not that unheard of, Abs. Get with the times.”

“But I thought Keeta loved me. I thought I was, I don't know, special.” I look in the mirror to make sure the word
sucker
isn't written across my forehead. Special? Ha.

“Abbey, Keeta does care about you.”

“And how would you know?”

“She told me. We talked at lunch. She feels pretty badly about the way things ended with you guys this morning. Oh, I was waiting for the right time to give this to you. Here.” She pulls a folded letter from her gym bag and tosses it on the bench. “She wanted me to give this to you, and you don't have to read it to me. I already read it.” She gathers her hair into a ponytail, which is always perfect on the first try because that's how things are for beautiful people like Garrett. “Keeta still wants to see you. That's something, isn't it?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I pick up the letter from the graffiti-laden bench and put it in the small pocket of my backpack with my guitar pick and A pendant. I have a game to play, and as much as I want to read Keeta's letter right this second, I know I have to get focused on kicking some butt on the court.

Garrett and I join our teammates on the bleachers to wait for our game, and I silently wonder how it would be to share Keeta with someone else. At least then I wouldn't have to hurt so much. Maybe I could live with the idea of only hurting a little.