M.I.N.D. (4 page)

I shake my head. Unbelievable. I'm mad at
her
and she's accusing
me?
“Jealous of what?” I say. “Your wonderful relationship? Wonderful for him, maybe. For cripes' sake, he tells you what to wear! You won't even breathe without his permission. And just so you know, I don't nitpick. I state the obvious.”

“Please. You're so critical you could be in intensive care.”

“
I'm
critical? You compared my life to a nursery rhyme!”

“Are you serious? You told me I look like a tablecloth! And admit it, you think I'm evil for going to the concert.”

“When did I call you a tablecloth?”

“Now you're saying I'm delusional? Ha! Coming from you, that's pretty funny.”

“Nice to know what you really think of me,” I say bitterly.

“Nice to know you spy on me,” she fires back.

She snatches up her purse and hightails it out, leaving me alone with Oreo, a knot in my stomach, and a headache from hell.

Oreo scrambles back onto my bed and plunks down beside me. I scratch him behind his ears. Poor Oreo. Seems I'm not the only one around here having a hard time. He lets out a pathetic mewl, raises his head, and ralphs on my pillow. My pink lacy throw pillow, the one that matches the canopy.

At least he didn't mistake it for his litter box. Still, Mother Goose will not be pleased.

Four

A Rose Is a Rose

“Cassie, move it!”

“I'm coming!”

My mother has developed an issue with buses. She insists on driving me to school. Totally insane. What are the odds of me getting into another bus accident in the month that's left? Actually, it's only half an issue. Luckily for me, her job keeps her from driving me home.

I unzip my backpack and start tossing in books. Since I was keeping up with my schoolwork at home, I have triple the number of books I normally carry and I've run out of room. Must regroup! I dump everything out onto the floor and something shiny catches my eye. It's a heart-shaped locket hanging on a chain. I pick it up and hold it in my palm. It's not real silver, but pretty just the same.

I've never seen it before in my life.

Either I have a secret admirer who slipped it into my backpack, or I'm a kleptomaniac. Unfortunately, the second theory is more likely. But wouldn't I remember stealing it? This is getting scary. Am I an amnesiac crook?

“Cassie!”

“Coming!”

I drop the locket into my top dresser drawer and run downstairs.

“It's about time,” my mother says, waiting in the hallway. “You don't want to be late for your first day back at school.”

What, like they're throwing me a welcome-back party?

On the drive to school she goes on and on about the dangers of the road, but I'm not listening. I can't stop thinking about that locket.

I have to talk to Leanne. Leanne will have an explanation. Problem is, she's not talking to me. I tried calling her last night a hundred times, but she kept hanging up. Typical. She likes to stew for a while before letting things go, like that time I borrowed her scarf and accidentally dipped it into my chocolate mousse. She said it looked like a fungus, and wouldn't talk to me all weekend. The fight finally ended when Amanda stepped in. She scrubbed the stain with some solvent and a toothbrush, and the fungus disappeared. Normally I'm okay with Leanne's deep freeze since it gives us a break, and anyway, sooner or later it always thaws, but I'm turning into a psych case and I need my best friend
now
.

I sprint up to the second floor. She's not at her locker. A mob of hipsters are cruising toward the stairs, the choir has turned the entire second floor into Carnegie Hall, and a pack of geeks are heatedly discussing their motherboards, or maybe it's motherships, but I don't see Leanne.

You know what? If she wants to be this way, fine. I'm sick of being the one who always makes the first move, like it's all my fault. Me, jealous? Now that's a good one. The way she lets Josh boss her around is pathetic. At least I'm the commander of my own life, mistress of my destiny. I don't take orders from anyone. (Okay, maybe my mother, but it's her parental right. But it doesn't mean I give in to her. Not all the time.)

I go back downstairs. Six lockers down from mine, Stephanie is arched backward against her locker, jutting out her assets. One hand on the door for support, the other hand rubbing her arm, Zack is leaning into her, probably wishing he was rubbing her assets instead. In typical adorable-Zack fashion, his gray T-shirt is only half tucked into his baggy jeans, which I should point out aren't baggy by design. She laughs, he laughs, and my heart sinks. For some girls, it comes too easy. (Some girls
are
too easy.) For others, life isn't fair.

Fine, I admit it. Maybe I
am
a tad jealous of Leanne. The closest I ever came to having a boyfriend was in second grade, and that was only because I had really cool markers. Not only were they fluorescent, they smelled good when you stuck them up your nose.

I break the no-phones-in-school rule and try calling her again. This time I remember to punch in the code to block the caller ID, but now she won't even pick up. Hoping she's on her way over here, I look up and down the hallway, but instead of Leanne I see Brendan, and he's coming straight for me. “Hey,” he says as I'm turning off my phone, “got a minute?”

I grit my teeth. I can't think of one thing I like about Brendan. Sure, he's good-looking and all, almost pretty in fact, with smooth brown hair and long girlie eyelashes, but he's the type who can't pass a mirror without looking in it. Some girls like that in a guy, his being so vain; I guess Amanda was one of them.

With a shock, I realize I'm thinking of her in the past tense.

“Do you have news about Amanda?” I ask, dreading the worst. But if she had died, we'd all know by now, right? That kind of news spreads quickly.

“No, she's the same. Too bad what happened, huh?”

Too bad? His girlfriend is in a coma and he says
too bad?
“What do you want, Brendan?”

He pushes a lock of hair off my forehead, and I flinch. He's also the type who has to be right in your face when he talks to you, like you should be grateful he's letting you share his personal space. But what I detest most about Brendan Marsh is how Amanda changed when they started dating. She developed a couldn't-care-less-attitude, which extended even to me.

“How've you been?” he asks, flashing a counterfeit smile. “I've been worried about you, Spass.”

Jerk. No matter how flip I act, I hate when people call me Spass, or Spassie, short for Spassie Cassie. I take a step back. “I'm fine.”

“What about your brain?”

“Excuse me?”

“Hey, relax. I'm just wondering how you're doing. You know, the amnesia? You told me you don't remember anything about the accident.”

Right. At the hospital, when he bombarded me with questions. “I guess I forgot.”

He laughs. “You forgot you had amnesia? Now that's priceless. What do your doctors say?”

“Their guess is as good as mine.” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Like I said, I've been worried.” He pegs me between his arms, backs me against my locker. “I was thinking,” he says, “maybe we could get together sometime.”

I'm confused. He wants to get together because he's worried about me? His eyes roam up and down my body. They're saying something else.

Now I'm really confused, for three fundamental reasons:

No one ever hits on me.

Why the sudden interest?

What kind of dirtball hits on someone when his girlfriend is in a coma?

I glance up at the clock. It's two minutes until my first class, which is both homeroom and biology. Today we're dissecting frogs. Intensely gross, though not as disgusting as Brendan.

“I have to go,” I say, squirming out of his vise.

“Hey, take it easy. I just want to talk about Amanda. What did you think I meant?”

Right. Of course. Is there a hole somewhere I can crawl into?

This is another reason why I don't date. I just don't get the signals.

I'm halfway to homeroom when I remember I forgot my biology book. I jog back to my locker. Except for Zack and Stephanie, who are exactly where I left them, their heads so close together they could be sucking face, the east wing is empty. I grab my book and dash down the hallway, but I don't make it in time. The bell rings when I'm like an inch from homeroom. Mr. Greene, the vice principal, comes charging out of nowhere and belts out an imperious “Freeze!”

Mr. Greene is a million years old with a dandelion crown of bushy white hair. “Gotcha,” he says, shaking his maniacal head. “Follow me to the cafeteria.”

Busted on my first day back at school.

***

Something is wrong with Mrs. Snyder, and I'm not talking about a few cracked ribs. According to her last e-mail, my social studies paper is due any minute now, which is totally nonsensical, since she won't be back at school for at least another week. Plus, why do we have to write this stupid essay anyway? We're not going to Hartford after all, and wasn't that the point? If it's supposed to be about our impressions, shouldn't we, like,
be
there?

Even if I were inclined to work on it, which I'm not, I can't concentrate. I look around. Only a handful of kids were rounded up in the sweeps. Brendan isn't among them. At the table in front of me, Zack and Stephanie are sitting so close together they could be sharing deodorant.

How can I focus when the back of Zack's head is taunting me with its extreme adorableness? Even his ears are adorable. I write in my notebook, “Zack heart Cassie.” Yeah, right. Not in this life. I put down my pen.

How dumb is sweeps anyway? If you're found in the hallway after the bell, you get to miss first period. And the problem is…?

I glance at the poster on the wall. On it are the rules for hallway offenders:

1. 1.
   No talking. (Who would I to talk to, Zack? Just saunter over there, la-la-la, all nonchalant? What would I say to him? So how've you been, and by the way, why are you with that skank?)
   
2. 2.
   No eating or drinking. (Ridiculous. Is this not a cafeteria? Just thinking about food makes my stomach growl. Hopefully no one hears. I probably shouldn't have skipped breakfast, but I wasn't in the mood for scrambled tofu. There's a Hershey bar in my backpack. I could sneak my hand in, pull out the bar, chew it softly…Not a good plan. The
   foil
   would sound all crackly, like at the movies. Funny how I always end up sitting next to someone unwrapping something complicated.)
   
3. 3.
   No cell phones, laptops or tablets. (More ridiculousness. No laptop? How am I supposed to do any work? No snickering, please.)
   
4. 4.
   No reading other than school material. (Forget
   Cosmo
   .)
   
5. 5.
   No chair rocking. (Huh?)
   
6. 6.
   No sleeping. (After the first five rules, this one's hard.)
   

Since there's nothing else to do, I try to work on my essay, but I'm having a brain drain. How can I write about the Connecticut government without the Internet? (See Rule #3.) I raise my hand. Mr. Greene is busy fiddling with his phone, so I clear my throat. Obviously, Rule #3 doesn't apply to VPs.

He looks up. “Yes?”

“Can I go to the library?”

He stares at me like my nose is a pimple. Stephanie snorts, and Zack twists his head all the way around like he's possessed by a demon. I feel my neck redden. Apparently it was a dumb idea. Can you tell this is my first time in sweeps?

Stephanie whispers something in Zack's ear. He laughs and whispers back. “Stop it,” she says in a voice that says the opposite. She's so obvious she could be a billboard.

Mr. Greene glares at her. “One more time, and I'm sending you to the principal.” He lowers his head and goes back to his fiddling.

A moment later, Mrs. Cramdon from the office comes into the cafeteria and hands him a note. Mr. Greene frowns and takes off his glasses. “I'll be back in a few minutes. Cassie, you're in charge.”

What? Why me? Is my middle name Snitch? As he's leaving, Zack makes a gun with his fist, aims at him, and shoots. Then I hear a rumbling. This time it's
his
stomach, and it's really loud. Stephanie giggles.

Maybe I should offer him my chocolate bar. It would be the perfect excuse for me to go over there and talk to him, except for three things:

1. 1.
   See Rule #1 for hallway offenders. Except who would report me? Me?
   
2. 2.
   I'm a coward.
   
3. 3.
   His hand is on Stephanie's knee. Obviously it's not chocolate he's hankering for.
   

She turns around and gives me a long, smug look, like she knows I like him. Oh, God. If she knows, does Zack know?

Her eyes don't leave my face as she grabs his head and smacks her lips to his, and the next thing I know they're kissing like they're trying to crawl into each other's mouths. He gropes at her waist; she closes her eyes. My wounded heart can't take it, so I close my eyes too, and as much as I despise her, as much as I fervently wish that a house will fly by and land on her overly hormoned body, at that moment there's no other person in the world I'd rather be.

The scent of lilac swirls around me.

This time I'm ready for it. This time, despite my aching heart, despite my supreme jealousy, not only am I not terrified, I'm thinking,
Yeah, baby, bring it on!

Zack probes his tongue deeper, so deep I fear for her tonsils. I can't believe it's finally happening. Not just me and Zack kissing, but me kissing, period. It's true, I admit it. I've never been kissed, I'm embarrassed to say. I'm totally jazzed that he's my first tongue. Too bad it's really Stephanie he's kissing.

Except his lips feel limp, like she's kissing cream cheese. Plus, he tastes like sour milk and she's trying not to gag. “Oh, Zack,” she purrs, her mouth glued to his. “Don't stop. Don't ever stop.” She's saying the words, but her throat feels constricted. He reaches under her T, his hand cold and clammy as it inches its way up, sliding under her bra. His free hand glides down her painted-on jeans. She moans, except it feels forced, like she's trying to swallow a hiccup. She grabs his neck and pulls him practically on top of her, right there on the chair.

No way, I'm thinking. How much farther can they go? What about decorum? What about Rule #5?

She freezes.

Seriously? If I'm supposed to feel everything she feels, could she at least not feel like a zombie? Maybe hearing bells is a little optimistic, but where are the tingles? Where's the heat that's supposed to course through your veins? Why isn't her heart bursting through her ribcage? Were all those romance novels lying?

He squeezes her left boob and she gets an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. It's like I'm seven years old again and I'm playing doctor with Jordan Weatherfield. Then suddenly I hear a
whoosh!
and the door swings open. Zack bounces off Stephanie faster than a trampoline gymnast. She smoothes down her shirt, but Mr. Greene isn't looking at either of them. He's too busy stalking over to my table where I'm out cold, head in my hands. Everyone is staring at me, waiting to see what happens next.