Keep Holding On (11 page)

I made out with Matt too long and now I’m late for Spanish. I knew I should have left fifteen minutes earlier, but it was impossible. My lips just did not want to leave his lips.

Instead of going straight to Spanish after study hall, I had to go see Mr. Gilford. He needed to confirm that I don’t have a class fifth period. He gave me a special pass that says I’m allowed to be in the lit mag office fifth period and after school. Then he gave me a late pass for Spanish. Which is a small price to pay for being crazy with lust.

Normally, I hate making entrances. Being late is a whole different thing when you’re me. When Pretty Perfect Popular girls come into class late, they’re fine with everyone looking at them. Why wouldn’t they be? They have perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect clothes. If I had any of those things, I’m sure I wouldn’t mind all those eyes on me. But today is different. Today I’m wearing my new top I got at the mall.

As soon as I saw it on the rack, I knew we were meant to be together. The soft, clingy fabric. The soothing sky-blue color. The low cut that wasn’t low enough to get me sent to the principal’s office. I even had some bangles painted with sky-blue and violet flowers that Sherae gave me to go with it. And I’m wearing my jeans that actually fit.

I hover outside Spanish. Mrs. Yuknis is saying how a bunch of people didn’t do their homework and so we can’t do the activity she had planned. Or something like that. My Spanish skills really are lacking.

I go in. Everyone stares.

Including Julian.

Mrs. Yuknis comes over. I give her my late pass.

“¿Tiene la tarea?”

I admit that I don’t have my homework.

“¿No? ¿Por qué no?”

Somehow I think
Because I didn’t feel like doing it
isn’t a good enough reason.

Eyes are still on me. I’m still standing in front of the whole class like Exhibit A of a dork display.

Mrs. Yuknis goes off on a tirade about how it’s only April and we need to stop acting like the year is already over and get off our lazy butts and do our homework. Or something like that. Of course I had to come in late on the day she’s having a snit fit.

I can feel Julian’s eyes on me.

I take my time walking to my desk. Then I turn slowly before sitting down so Julian can see the way this top clings to my curves. Not that I have major curves. But at least now he can see that I have some.

I spend the entire class hoping that Julian will come up to me after. When the bell rings, I put my things away slowly.

“Hey,” Julian says.

“Hey.” I can feel the heat of him next to me. I have no idea what is preventing my desk from bursting into flames.

“You look nice.”

I look up at him. How many times have I looked up at Julian like this, with him so patiently by my side? Why is he even talking to me? I totally rejected him. It’s like nothing fazes this boy.

“Thanks,” I say.

“New shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.”

I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder. My shirt rides up. I tug it down. It clings to my breasts. Which seemed like a good idea in the dressing room. But now I’m embarrassed.

Julian and I are like two inches apart. I can feel him breathing. I can also feel him looking at me. I can only look at the floor.

“Can I get by?” a girl coming in for the next class says. We’re blocking the aisle.

Julian touches my arm. He guides me to the door. I let him walk with me touching my arm for the nine steps it takes to get to the door. They are quite possibly the most daring nine steps I’ve ever taken.

“See you later,” he says.

“Yeah. Later.”

When Julian walks away from me, all I can think about is getting close to him again.

I triumphantly stride past the cafeteria on my way to lit mag. I even give it the finger. Well, I give the wall the finger. Doing it in the doorway would be a bad idea. With my luck, Warner Talbot would see and think I’m giving him the finger.

There are two girls working at computers in the lit mag office. I think one’s a sophomore. She doesn’t look up from her screen. The other girl is Darby. I’ve never really talked to her outside of class. She seems like a loner. So she totally catches me off guard by smiling right at me.

“Hey, Noelle,” she says. “Congrats on the coeditor gig.”

“Thanks.”

“
How are you liking it?”

“It’s good.” I’m not about to admit that I’m only here to get out of lunch. Actually, it’s not as bad as I expected. Some parts are even fun, like getting my own desk and correcting people’s typos. The best part is that it feels really comfortable in here. Like a safe zone.

“Cool,” Darby says. “Just let me know if you need anything. I can be found glued to this very station.”

I notice Darby’s wearing the same shirt I got at the mall a few months ago. Which throws me off all over again. I’m not used to seeing anyone wear the same clothes I do.

“Did you get your shirt at Delia’s?” I ask.

“On sale for nine ninety-nine, just the way I like them.”

“Me, too.”

“Righteous. I hate when I’m stalking something, waiting for it to go on sale but then I panic that they’ll sell out, so I buy it anyway and it goes on sale like the next day.”

“I know!”

Darby shakes her head. “Tragic,” she confirms.

It’s so weird how connecting with someone in a different setting can bring out this whole other side of them. Like how certain places inspire us to act in ways we normally wouldn’t. If Darby wasn’t on lit mag, we’d probably never talk like this.

A pile of submissions to be edited is waiting for me on my desk. Everyone has to hand in a hard copy of their work, then submit a final version by email after they get their edits. There’s a Post-it note stuck on top of the pile:

I get out a purple pen to edit the first short story. When I’m a teacher, I won’t be using red pens to grade papers. Red pens will forever be associated with criticism and bad grades in my mind. I don’t want this person to get their short story back with harsh red pen marks all over it. Purple is much friendlier.

I’m on the third page when Simon arrives.

“Lunch!” he announces. He’s carrying a tray piled high with good things to eat. Grilled cheese sandwiches, fruit, bottles of water and iced tea, chips, brownies, and cookies. “I got way too much as usual.”

“Sweet!” Darby says. “Thanks, Simon.”

Simon puts the tray down on the big table in the middle of the office. Darby goes over and takes an apple and a cookie.

Sophomore girl is still oblivious that anyone else is in the room.

“Help yourself,” Simon insists. “I usually bring a tray in for whoever wants. So you don’t have to worry about missing lunch or anything.”

“That’s awesome,” I say. “Thank you.” As usual, I’m starving. The grilled cheese smells so good. And the peanut butter cookies look amazing. It takes a massive amount of restraint to not attack the tray and inhale everything on it.

“I’m a fan of grilled cheese,” Simon informs me.

“
Same here. But I thought you weren’t allowed to take trays out.”

“They let me anyway. The older lunch lady likes my ties. And I always bring the trays back after school.”

We work. I have a grilled cheese sandwich. I have some grapes. Then I have two cookies. I’m paranoid that everyone will think I’m taking too much. But no one’s noticing. They’re busy with their own work.

Everyone else leaves a few minutes early. When the bell rings, it’s just me, the office, and the lunch leftovers. I shove two bags of chips in my bag. It would be a waste to leave them behind.

Simon’s lunch tray was a sharp contrast to our kitchen. The only time we have enough to eat is when mother gets food stamps. But after a week or so, it’s back to starvation city.

The first time mother got food stamps, she dragged me to the grocery store with her. It was a little while after we moved into the apartment, so I was twelve or thirteen. I didn’t know why she was taking me. She always went shopping alone.

Mother liked to shop at the upscale gourmet grocery store instead of at the more reasonably priced one a few towns over. She was determined to shop where everyone else did. I pushed the cart while mother selected items from the shelves. Elevator music played. Everything was so clean and shiny. Items were neatly lined up on the shelves. Even the floor gleamed, reflecting rows and rows of perfectly packaged food. I watched a lady switch one box of cereal for another just because the first box was slightly dented on top.

Real moms pushed packed shopping carts past us. Their children riding in the shopping-cart seats had bright, colorful toys or beeping devices to keep them entertained.

We went up to the fancy deli counter. The glass display case gleamed under the bright lights as perky Muzak continued to play. Carefully arranged plates of stuffed artichokes and pesto salad and sautéed portobello mushrooms taunted me. Prepared chickens awaited selection. That deli counter was wrong in so many ways. How could tons of styled food be there for anyone who could afford it, while people around the world were dying because they didn’t even have clean water?

Moms were stopping to talk with other moms. None of them even said hi to mother. It was like they knew that even though mother was trying to fit in by shopping there, we were still poor. And Poor was a disease you could catch if you got too close.

Mother has this thing where she gets totally fake in front of other people. I call it her Normal Mom Act. She thinks she can trick people into believing that she’s a good mom if she acts like she cares. Sometimes people say that we look more like sisters than mother and daughter. Which makes mother get even phonier, pretending she didn’t hear them so they have to repeat it. But no one was even giving her a chance to bust out the Normal Mom Act that day. It was like everyone in the grocery store had made a pact to ignore us.

We got to the checkout line. Mother pushed me in front of her. I was sucking on a lollipop and bit down hard on my tongue when she pushed me. She took our items out of the cart one by one, handing them to me to put on the conveyor belt.
When the cart was empty, she moved up near the cashier.

“How’s your day going?” she asked him with a bright smile. The Normal Mom Act was in the house.

“All right.” He smiled back at her. “How’s it treating you?”

“Can’t complain,” she said. As if she ever stopped complaining.

The cashier scanned our items. Mother was being all flirty with him. Which was creepy because he was clearly in high school. I was relieved he didn’t know me.

Mother said something I don’t remember. The cashier laughed.

“Your total is seventy-three oh seven,” he said.

She gave him some coupons. Except they weren’t coupons. The cashier had been smiling at mother. But when he saw what she gave him, his smile instantly vanished.

He looked at me. He looked at her. He looked back at me.

My tongue throbbed where I’d bitten it.

Then the cashier yelled, “Need a manager on four! Food stamps!”

All the moms in the other lanes turned to see who was using food stamps.

Audrey’s mom was three lanes over.

I could see a light of recognition in her eyes. This was back when Audrey and I were friends. I could tell her instinct was to come over and say hello.