Leap Day (7 page)
Becky Dickson watches Josie hang her photograph on the clothesline without having rinsed it long enough. A few drops of fixative fall on the floor, leaving a small puddle that anyone could pick up with their shoe and track into their kitchen at home, where maybe their baby brother would crawl over it and then put his hand in his mouth. Josie doesn’t even notice and walks right out of the darkroom. Becky wonders if Josie ever wonders why she isn’t friends with her anymore. The two of them used to ride their bikes together after school until that day in seventh grade when Becky was at Josie’s house and saw Josie’s brother pick his nose and stick it under the kitchen table. Since then Becky has refused to step foot inside Josie’s house. She would have given Josie an explanation if she had asked, but she never did.
No one ever notices the things that Becky does. They don’t know so many important things. Like that scientists have found flesh-eating bacteria on pay phones. Flesh-eating! They don’t know never to use the middle stall in a public restroom because it is the most germ-filled. Becky knows these things and more, but nobody listens to her. When she is thirty-three, with twin boys and an ex-husband, she will wash her hands so many times during the day that they bleach, and the doctor will diagnose her with obsessive-compulsive disorder. She will argue that she is not obsessive; she is just taking necessary precautions. Her therapist will be able to trace the onset of her condition to a documentary she saw when she was eleven, which used a special infrared camera to show the millions of microscopic bugs crawling over people’s bodies as they go about their day.
Katy glares at the three students still holding onto their history tests. They don’t seem to care that they are keeping her prisoner in this room. The clock is definitely moving backward. There is no other explanation for the eternal slowness of this class period.
Greg Adler is relieved that he has a little time to practice his
Haf
Torah during photography class. He can’t believe his bar mitzvah is in two weeks. If it were up to him he wouldn’t do it at all, but his grandfather would be really disappointed. At least now he’ll finally become a man like he should have at thirteen. He didn’t notice any of his friends from Hebrew school becoming any manlier, though, so he’s not expecting much. But at least that pain in the ass Becky Dickson will stop making fun of him. He feels like he regresses to second grade when she talks to him.
Greg overhears Josie telling Tyson Davis that she needs to leave the room and wonders if he should explain why he was laughing at her picture. It was just so funny seeing Zoey holding this phallic-looking hot dog. After he’d kissed her that summer, she wouldn’t even talk to him. It wasn’t like he really minded. After all, she is so pale she looks like a vampire. A kind of cute vampire, though.
Mrs. Lombardo thinks she will never be able to sort through the stacks of paper piled on her desk like miniature skyscrapers. She unfolds the note from Josie Taylor and gives it a quick glance on its way into the filing drawer. Then she brings it closer to her face and reads it carefully. She pushes herself out of her seat and steps out of the office. She looks down the hall in both directions, but Josie is gone. She tucks the note into her pocket for safekeeping and then takes it out and reads it one more time.
Wiping away any traces of tears, Marissa Badish holds her head up high as she leaves the bathroom. She is embarrassed to have made such a scene in front of that sophomore. The girl was nice, though. Nicer than she would have been in her place. As she walks in a daze to her next class, she passes ultra-pregnant Sherri Haugen making her way slowly to her class. Her friend Val has to carry her books since she can’t balance very well anymore. Marissa counts backward from the first day of her last period and hopes that her math is wrong. If she finds out she got knocked up like Sherri did, she’d lose her mind. Then she’d kill Steve. At lunchtime that afternoon, a relieved Marissa will find herself in the nurse’s office looking for a tampon because the dispenser in the girl’s bathroom is empty. Nurse Sanders isn’t around, so Marissa will take one from the box on the shelf and vow never to have unprotected sex again. And she won’t, until one afternoon twelve years later, when she will conceive a baby with Steve’s cousin Kerry, whom she will have married because his face reminded her of Steve’s, even though she swore to Kerry that it didn’t.
In the gym locker room, Alyssa Levy pulls her t-shirt up over her head and unsnaps her bra. She watches as her breasts fall gently out of the cups. She wonders how long she will have them, since every woman in her family has had breast cancer. Only her mother and one aunt have beaten it by having their breasts removed before the cancer could get them. She is determined to enjoy hers for as long as she can and begins her daily stroll through the locker room, aware of the envious stares and storing them up for later, when the stares will be of pity instead.
Thirty seconds after the bell rings, Katy Parker runs into the school office. Before she can get any words out, Mrs. Lombardo reaches into her pocket, holds up the note, and says, “Is this what you’re looking for?”
10:35
A.M.
– 12:15
P.M.
I sit down on the hard metal bleachers and wait for the rest of the class to get changed into their gym clothes. Jason Count enters from the boy’s side. He looks even better than he did on the bus this morning. Maybe it’s the tight gym shorts. I flip my hair over my shoulders and give him my best smile. He looks caught off guard but gives me a quick smile back. Then he looks away. I’m sure he’s thinking,
Just what I need, one more girl with a crush on me.
And I don’t even like him that much. I mean, I don’t even know his class schedule!
Jason starts jogging around the track, his sneakers squeaking with each step. Admittedly, exercise is not my thing, but gym class has never made much sense to me. When am I ever going to have to climb a rope at top speed? To escape the clutches of a crazed lion? Or I’m sure some day I’ll find myself in the middle of a circle trying to dodge a rubber ball being thrown at me from all sides. It’s the same every day, no matter what sport we’re playing: all the boys try to show off how athletic they are and the girls just try to avoid getting hit by the ball so we don’t break a nail. Or maybe that’s just me.
“Not joining us today, Josie?” Ms. Bitner asks. “You’re not sick, I hope?” She does a set of lunges in front of me as she waits for my answer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her stand still for more than a few seconds at a time.
I shake my head. “I have to leave in a few minutes to take my driver’s test. The office approved it.”
Her lunges turn to squats. “Would you like to get in a few laps before you go?”
“Um, not really?”
“Okay,” she says, reaching down to touch her toes. “But you should be sure to do some exercise today. Maybe jog a few miles after school.”
“I’ll try,” I tell her, knowing for a fact it will never happen. Oddly enough, I don’t think lying was on the list of seven deadly sins. But wait,
sloth
is, and I’d say being too lazy to exercise counts as sloth, so my homework is one-seventh done! Actually, it’s more like three-sevenths done, if you count my
pride
in my appearance this morning in front of the mirror, and my
anger
at Katy for making me miss saying hi to Grant in the hall. Hmm. I’m moving through them at a remarkable speed. At this rate I’ll be finished by lunchtime. I wonder if I should be concerned about this.
Ms. Bitner blows her whistle and everyone joins me on the bleachers for attendance. Katy is the last person out of the girls’ locker room. She runs over with one sneaker still in her hand and sits next to me.
I lean close and whisper, “Where did you go before?”
She whispers back out of the side of her mouth, “I just had to take care of something.”
“Is it about my birthday?”
Katy pauses. “Uh, sort of?”
“Cool.”
“Here,” Katy says loudly as Ms. Bitner calls her name. Then she points to a bulge in her sock and whispers, “I stuck my cell in there on vibrate. That way you can call me if you pass the driver’s test.”
“You think I might not pass?” I ask, instantly worried. If my best friend doesn’t believe in me, what hope is there?
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sure you’ll pass, don’t worry.”
I can’t help but worry. I only manage to parallel-park correctly half the time. I also don’t know what to expect, since none of my friends have gotten their licenses yet. Katy and her long legs jog off to join the rest of the class for jumping jacks. I sling my bookbag over my shoulder and make my way around the jumping-jackers. As I pass Alyssa Levy I’m reminded of yet another of the seven deadlies that I’ve already committed.
Envy.
I’m really blowing through that list.
When I get to the front lobby, a boy I’ve never seen before is waiting as well. He nods at me as I set my bag down in front of the tall windows. We stand in silence for a minute and I sneak a glance at him. He has this expression on his face like he’s thinking about something very deeply. My eyes wander over to a poster taped on the wall reminding the seniors not to bring their dart guns to school this week. I forgot Dart Wars starts after school today. It usually starts on the first Monday in March, but leap year must have pushed it back a day. I wonder if Rob signed up. Last year two kids were suspended for bringing their Nerf guns to school. Each year the principal tries to ban Dart Wars, but he never can. It’s a tradition. The prize is five hundred dollars, but it’s not really the money that matters. It’s more the winning itself. The winners are famous for the rest of the year. I read the rest of the poster while I wait.
ONLY TWO PEOPLE TO A TEAM. NO SHOOTING ANYONE ON SCHOOL PROPERTY OR IN THEIR CARS OR AT THEIR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT. NO NERF GUNS ANYWHERE ON DISNEY PROPERTY.
They left off the most controversial rule of all — you cannot be shot if you disrobe down to your underwear. It’s not like they could write that on a poster in school. Everyone knows it anyway.
Suddenly the boy next to me gives a kind of half giggle, half shout. At first I actually think he knows I’m picturing someone stripping while a dart gun is aimed at him. I quickly realize that of course he doesn’t know that. Just to be on the safe side, I move a few inches away and peer out the window for my father’s car.
“Sorry,” he says, turning to me. “Did I make a strange noise?” “Pretty much.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s in my head or out loud.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you want to know what I was thinking about?” he asks.
I look at him in surprise.
“I was thinking about parallel universes. Are you familiar with them?”
“Not really.” In the split second after I say this and before he responds, a strange jolt zips through my brain. I don’t know what I was expecting him to be thinking about, but it sure wasn’t parallel universes. I don’t know why, but I always imagine that other people are thinking about really boring, mundane things. Why is it just hitting me on my sixteenth birthday that if I have weird thoughts, then other people probably do too? Is this something that everyone besides me knows?
“Let me explain, then,” the boy says, his eyes bright. “The theory of parallel universes states that with every decision we make, there are an infinite amount of other choices that another version of ourselves is living out. So I was thinking that on some parallel Earth, some other version of me is standing right here, waiting for his mother to pick him up. Except this other me, he’s going to town hall to get an award for outstanding service to his community. That’s why I was laughing. At least one of me is doing something good.” He laughs again.
I smile at him. “So you’re not going to town hall, I assume?” “Oh, I’m going all right. But not to get an award, that’s for sure.” I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. We stand in silence again. I look down at my watch. It’s officially 10:45 and no Dad in sight. He’s been so strange lately. At least I always knew where he was when he worked nine to five. Maybe something bad happened. An image of a tornado swirling out of the sky and flinging Dad’s car into the air fills my head.
“What’s your name?” the boy suddenly asks, dissolving the tornado image.
“Josie.”
“I’m Mike Difranco. You going to the doctor or something?” “Driver’s test. I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easy. Just watch out for that parallel parking. It’s a doozy.”
“Great,” I say with a sinking feeling.
Mike suddenly looks excited. “Hey, does that mean it’s your birthday today?”
“Yup.”
“No way! You were born on Leap Day? That’s awesome! Do you know how rare that is?”
I felt myself stand a little taller. “Yes, actually, I —”
“Sorry, gotta go, that’s my mom,” Mike says and two seconds later disappears through the door. I watch him climb into a red Toyota. As the car pulls away, my dad’s car zooms into the circle in front of the school and screeches to a halt. I’ve never seen my dad screech before. I run out and hop in.
“I’m sorry I’m late, honey,” he says as we take off. “I was reading about the history of Disney World.”
“Boy, you must really be bored.” But he doesn’t look bored. There’s a gleam in his eye I haven’t seen very much of before.
“Did you know there are hundreds of Mickey Mouse designs hidden all around the parks?”
“No, Dad. I did not know that.”
“Yup.” He doesn’t say anything else so I start daydreaming about an alternate me who lives in a parallel universe and who fails her test and hides in her closet in shame. As long as the alternate me fails, then the real me will have to succeed. It stands to reason. We slow down for a red light and I make a mental note of how close to the light Dad gets before he starts braking. When we come to a full stop he turns to me and asks, “You know how your mother and I always encourage you kids to follow your dreams?”
That’s twice in five minutes that people have surprised me with what they ask. “Why is everyone asking me such weird questions lately? Do I have a sign on my back?”
