Intentions (17 page)

“You waiting for someone?” she asks me.

I shake my head and put my phone down on the table.

She looks at me and says, “OK.” She seems sad, or shocked. Not that many teenage girls eat alone.

“It’s OK,” I say. “My friend might show up.” See? See? I want to say. I have a friend. OK, so it’s an imaginary friend. I do have a real friend, but if she shows up, it will be with a cop.

“Do you want to wait just in case or order now?”

My waitress has more faith in my “friend” than I do.

“I’ll order now.” When Grandma and I used to come here, we got chopped salads with blue cheese dressing on the side. Alexis and I always get (got)—

“I’ll have a grilled cheese and tomato, deluxe.” Deluxe is the way to get fries without saying “with fries.” So you can pretend you’re surprised when the fries come. “On rye. And a Diet Coke.”

“Thanks,” I say to Luanne when she puts down my soda, almost instantaneously.

I squeeze some lemon in and drop it into the glass. Do people in restaurant kitchens wash the outside of lemons? If they don’t, what if it has dirt on it? Or raw meat? Are you supposed to put the lemon into the soda like I did, or just squeeze it in? Why don’t I know the answer to this?

God, what an idiot I am. I can’t believe I did that.

Well, I can’t believe she did that. With Jake. I can’t believe he did that.

I can’t believe I did everything I did.

“Here you go, sweetie.” Luanne puts down my plate gently, in a very un-diner-like way. “Enjoy,” she says.

I take a bite of my grilled cheese and—oh, God, I love the
salty, fatty flavor of it. I have heard of people who can’t eat when they’re upset. Not me, apparently. I enjoy every bite of my sandwich and all of my fries, which I have sprinkled with lots of salt. Every single bite.

When I finish, my plate is empty. There is not a speck of food on it. I have even eaten the mushy diner pickle.

I feel full, satisfied, not sick to my stomach as I probably should. Now I know what they mean by “comfort food.” I should have bought the bigger size. Who am I kidding? At the rate I’m going I should have bought size 22.

I’ve lost everyone now. Everything.

Damn that Alexis.

As if I’ve summoned her, I look out the window and there she is, walking by. With her mother, who is holding her by the arm. I sat here for a reason, even if I didn’t realize it.

Her mom is yelling, and Alexis is shaking her head, yelling back. I know exactly what Alexis is saying, and I know that her mother is not believing a word of it.

What I honestly do not know is how I feel about it.

CHAPTER 23

LOCKED OUT

A Monday morning to beat all Monday mornings.

I spent the rest of the day yesterday alternating between fury and terror. Every time the phone rang, I jumped out of my skin. It was never Alexis, or her mother, or Morrison’s. Or Jake. As if.

It was either Grandma or about Grandma.

At five o’clock it was Mrs. Philips calling to say Grandma was wandering again. After that call, Mom fired the aide and Grandma spent the night at our house.

I did not give her the perfume. It seemed tainted. I was afraid it would burn through her skin. I put the bottle in one of my desk drawers.

After dinner, I helped Mom get Grandma in the den, put her to bed on the pull-out couch. When Mom bent down and kissed Grandma on the cheek, Grandma said, “You are such a good daughter.”

And it hit me so hard, in my gut, sharp like horses’ hooves, what a terrible, terrible, horrible thing I had done.

Even what Alexis did to me—if she really did it—cannot justify what I did to her. And to her
mother
.

After all they’ve been through. After all we’ve meant to each
other. You don’t just turn off a friendship like a faucet of scalding water.

The epiphany I had at that moment was that I have to make it right. Immediately. Alexis first. I will figure out the Jake stuff later.

I dress like crap because I feel like crap. I am crap. Baggy jeans, a black top that I don’t look good in, and black sneaks and I’m done with it. I don’t look in the mirror again. I go right downstairs to the kitchen.

Dad’s pouring his coffee into a travel mug.

“Dad, can you drive me to school? I need to get there early.”

Mom looks up from her laptop, gives me the once-over. I expect her to say something about the way I look, but she doesn’t. “Why do you have to get there early?” she asks.

Before I can lie, Dad says, “I have to leave right away. You can come with me, but you’ll get there really, really early.”

“That’s fine,” I say, and fortunately, neither he nor Mom questions it.

School is practically deserted. I pass no one as I walk to my locker.

I get what I need for the first part of my day, and yeah, that takes about a second. Great. I have way too much time to kill.

Alexis’s locker is right down the hall from mine. I could write her a note, slip it into her locker, instead of talking to her like I planned.

But what would I write? “I’m sorry I screwed you over. And by the way, screw you, too.”

That would go over well. Besides, the thing is this: I am not that sorry. I am, but … I am more sorry about who I became when I did that than … for what it has done to her.

And that is the dirty, honest truth.

I think.

No it’s not.

I don’t know. I really don’t. I am a flip-flopping mess.

What I hope is that we can figure it out together. Alexis and me. That we can actually talk about it all. That’s what I really want. Which I couldn’t accomplish with a note.

I fall asleep standing at her locker. The first bell startles me awake.

When I finally see her coming through the throngs, I can see she’s had a hard night, too. Of course she has. Her face is pale, and even from far away I can see she has dark circles under her eyes. We have been friends for so long. I can’t stop caring just like that. Maybe she can’t either. Maybe we are even now and it will all be OK.

I am ready.

But she doesn’t notice me. Or pretends she doesn’t notice me. She goes to battle right away with her lock, which is temperamental. It usually takes her two or three times to get it open. For some reason I can do it better than she can. I think about offering, but she finally gets it. When she looks up to grab her books from the top shelf, I see her see me. I wait for her to acknowledge me, but why should she? It really is up to me.

I take a deep breath. “I want to make this right,” I say.

“How the hell are you going to do that?” she says.

“I’ll go into Morrison’s, tell them I did it. Tell your mother. Tell everyone.”

“They won’t believe you, Rachel,” she says angrily. “
I
don’t even believe you, actually.”

“Wha—?”

Alexis turns away and wipes her eyes. Is she crying?

“Lex—?”

“Look, you little shit,” she says, whipping back around to me, her face bright red. “I’ve been caught at Morrison’s twice before. After what you did, I’m never allowed back in there. Ever. Three strikes and I’m out, babe. They called the
police
. They fucking
fingerprinted
me, Rachel.”

Oh, God.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I cry. “That you shoplifted and got caught?? I didn’t know!”

Alexis shakes her head. Sighs. “How would that little talk have gone?” she snaps at me. “With sweet, innocent Raebee? Can you actually picture the two of us
having
that conversation?”

I hate her for saying this, but I know she’s right. I would have been horrified.

“I want to make this right—I do. I mean, I’m still
furious
at you for what you said to Jake, what you
did
with him, but I want to make this right. OK? OK?” Pleading.

She looks at the floor. Says nothing.

“I really
am
sorry, Alexis.”

She picks up her head and looks at me. This is the moment when she will yell at me, which I deserve, and then we will cry, hug, make up, and I will promise to go to Morrison’s.

But no.

No.

“Fuck you, Rachel.”

I look at her. Her eyes are dead.

“Oh come on, Alexis! We’ve been friends forever. Can’t we talk about it? Fix this?”

The second bell rings. She slams her locker door, gives her lock a spin, and, when the bell stops, looks at me. “You are
so
not worth it,” she says. And she walks away without giving me a glance.

CHAPTER 24

ALMOST AMISH

I wish I were Amish. I do. Or a Hasidic Jew. There’s something about that kind of closed-off community that is appealing. All the rules are set for you, all the decisions made. Wouldn’t that be nice?

The Amish do this thing that would be incredibly helpful right now. I’d convert for it in a heartbeat. It’s called
rumspringa
, which means “running around.” We learned about it on a field trip to Lancaster in eighth grade. They let their teenagers go off into the world and experiment. The kids drive cars, drink, fool around, do all these things Amish adults aren’t allowed to. But the thing is, when the kids come back to the community—which most of them do—there are no questions asked and no punishments. They just take them back.

What I wouldn’t give for
rumspringa
!

OK, everyone, I’m back! I was just kidding!

Lex, babe.
Alexis
, you hear that? I’m
back
. Jake, I’m here! It’s me, the old Rachel!

But no. I don’t have anything at all like
rumspringa
.

And I have no Jake. No Alexis. Having no Alexis at all, not even a distant Alexis unpredictably alternating with old familiar
Alexis, makes me realize just how alone I really am. Without her, without Jake, I’m just a sparrow in a flock of other sparrows. These other girls, the friendlets, are just sparrows to me.

Alexis was never just a sparrow.

I don’t even have Adam. He has been ignoring me completely since the party. It’s like I’m invisible. The Amish do that, too. They shun someone who’s done something wrong. They don’t yell at them or hurt them; they just ignore them. Maybe I’ve leapt into an alternate Amish universe.

When the Amish make a quilt, they put in a mistake intentionally, as if to say only God can make something that’s perfect. Well, I sure have gone and made sure there are mistakes in my quilt. My quilt is all mistakes at the moment.

I keep trying to text Jake, but what would I write? I hope when I see him, I will brilliantly think of exactly the right thing to say, but he is not in study hall or in English class. I see the back of him in the hall once, so I know he’s alive. But that’s it.

By Thursday I’m desperate for human contact. So in history class I try talking to this girl Zoë. She’s no Old Alexis, but she’s intellectual and arty, veggie-crunchy. I like her.

Me: “That was a lot of reading last night.”

Her: “I liked it. I like Howard Zinn.”

Me: “Yeah, he’s good.”

Her: “I meditated after reading the homework, and it was, like, really a good meditation.”

Me: Huh. Think of something to say. Think, think. Draw her out. “Yeah. Can you tell me some of your insights?”

Her: “Meditation is private, Rachel, I’m sorry.”

Me: “Maybe you’ll teach me sometime.” God, am I reaching, reaching …

McKelvy says, “Anyone have any thoughts about last night’s reading?”

Zoë’s hand shoots up. “Zinn has great insight into the minority person’s plight in this country.” McKelvy nods his head happily, turns around, and writes on the board, “Whose country is this?” and underlines it three times.

Then he goes back and underlines
Whose
a fourth time.

What is it about some teachers and chalk?

Lunch is a real challenge. Where would I sit? So I’ve skipped it every day this week so far. Stayed in the library instead. Foodless. Those jeans look OK on me now.

But today is murder. I didn’t have time for a real breakfast; it was raining, Mom had an early appointment, and she offered to drive me to school. I had only eaten a granola bar in the car (“Over a napkin, Raebee. Don’t get my Prius dirty!”). And now the librarian, Mrs. Yankovitch, is heating up leftover pasta Bolognese. Her husband has been taking cooking lessons from an Italian chef. It smells way too delicious.

I head for the cafeteria. I’ll sit at Zoë’s table; she sits with yoga/tofu/vegan types. They’ll probably ignore me, but in a peaceful way. The line is short, the service quick, and I have my tuna hoagie with the works within a minute. When I get to the veggie-crunchy table, Zoë is the only one there except for this couple, Chase and Autumn, who just started going out and can’t take their eyes, or hands, off each other.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Zoë whispers to me. “Everyone else is on a field trip with environmental science class.”

“So you’re left here with Goo-goo and Gaga,” I whisper back, and she laughs.

It is so nice to hear someone laugh at one of my jokes.

In my newfound happiness I take a huge bite out of my hoagie. Too huge. I almost choke as Zoë stares at me, either out of disgust or concern. If I were her, I’d be thinking, Do I remember how to do the Heimlich maneuver?

I swallow finally and say, “I was famished.”

She nods. “I was worried about you.”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and take another huge bite.

I don’t know which would be worse—not finishing my hoagie or becoming the laughingstock of the cafeteria, because all of a sudden I realize everyone is looking at me.

But then I hear little sex noises, and I realize they’re not looking at me. They’re staring at Chase and Autumn, who are going at it so hot and heavy that they might be making a baby right here, very soon.

“Guys,” Zoë hisses at them, “stop it! Too far!” Chase has his hand up her shirt. Autumn—oh, give me a break, she has her hand down his pants. The front of his pants. Yeah, I’d say they’re going too far.

I totally know about losing control, that’s for sure, but really—in front of the whole cafeteria? Can’t they tell time has stopped still? There is not a sound—no clinking of dishes, nobody talking. Every single person in the whole place is completely silent, watching to see what will happen next.