One of the Guys (27 page)

“The demand isn't there anymore,” I say, resting my head against the window. Emma's spotless car smells like spring air. It's nice. “Maybe it's time to end this, Emma. Really end it. It's only a matter of time before Mrs. Kemper discovers who's behind it all anyway. We should distance ourselves.”

Emma presses her lips together and stares straight ahead. I think we both know this is the end. It's time to cash in our chips. We failed. Our business failed.

Admitting my feelings for Micah was difficult enough, but I don't know how to tell Emma about it. Girls share these things, I think. But talking about my
feelings
isn't my strong point.

If I say it out loud, will it lose its meaning?

Is love more powerful when it's a secret?

After Emma drops me off at home, I stare at Micah's house, my breath fogging in the cold. I would bet every cent of my
Rent-a-Gent
profits—which are currently tucked away safely beneath my mattress for a rainy day—that he is holed up in his room right now, sick as a dog. I bet he's not eating or drinking. I bet he's not taking medicine. He's like a cat. He will hide his pain until the end of time.

Inside, Mom and Brian are curled up on the couch, watching a home improvement show on TV. Their laughter floats into the kitchen as I gulp down a can of Mountain Dew. A fresh batch of Brian's incredibly mouth-watering, heavenly delicious, mini-raspberry and white chocolate whoopie pies rests on the kitchen counter.

I steal a peek into the living room. Mom and Brian remain stuck together like two melty chocolate figurines, nuzzling each other, lost in a bliss I fear I will never understand. They didn't hear me come in.

My attention returns to the whoopie pies. Unable to resist, I shove one in my mouth and scoop a few into a Tupperware container. I stuff a pack of cold medicine into my back pocket, grab a jug of orange juice from the fridge, and head next door.

I balance the orange juice on top of the Tupperware, staring at the Garrys' doorbell. For a moment, I second-guess myself. What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he pushes me away? The thought of him lying in his room, plagued by illness, alone and suffering, trumps my fears. I ring the bell.

Amy answers the door. Her cheeks are stained with blush and her lips are colored apple-red. “Oh,” she says in a less-than-enthusiastic tone. “It's you.”

I brighten. “Hey, kid.”

Amy closes the door behind me. “Please don't call me that.”

She bounces to the floor-length mirror hanging next to the coat rack, ignoring my presence. She checks herself out, smacks her lips, adjusts her red sweater, hikes up her skinny jeans. I remember a time when she dressed like me. Basketball shorts, frumpy T-shirts, old sneakers. I remember a time when comfort came first for her.

I clear my throat, opting to attempt conversation with this new stranger. “So you're almost done, huh?”

“Excuse me?” Amy looks at me through the mirror. She has his eyes, but hers lack his comfort.

“Freshman year.” I smile. “In a few short months, you're done. It's the hardest year of high school, in my humble opinion. If you make it through undamaged, you're good to go.”

Amy scoffs. “Maybe it was hard for you, Toni. Not me. I'm popular. Oh, and I don't belch like a man.” As she huffs up the stairs, her bare feet leave prints in the carpet. I sigh and readjust the load in my arms.

“Nice,” I mutter as I head down the hall to Micah's room. The house is eerily quiet. I assume his parents are out for the afternoon. They're the kind of couple that goes couch shopping every Saturday afternoon, but they never actually buy one.

When I reach his door, it feels like a trapeze artist is swinging behind my ribs. I raise my hand to knock and almost drop the jug of orange juice. I decide to set my care package on the floor. Mrs. Garry is not a fan of stains. Like mother, like son.

I yank at the bottom of my sweater and pick off a black cat fur from the sleeve before I knock. A noise sounds from behind the door, but I can't make out any words. So I turn the knob and step inside.

The first thing I notice is the pile of crumpled tissues surrounding the bed like a fortress. Organized book shelf containing monster books? Check. Dust-free television on top of an equally dust-free stand near the bed? Check. Bigfoot poster? Check.

I spot an unmoving body sprawled across the hunter green comforter, staring at the ceiling. I inch forward. “Your imitation of a corpse has improved since the last time I saw it. You legitimately look like death. I'm impressed.”

Micah's mouth hangs open. A strange snarling sound escapes him as he attempts to respond. I'm surprised flies aren't buzzing in here.

“Erm,” he mumbles.

I set the packet of cold medicine on the desk before bringing in the orange juice and pies from the hallway. I unscrew the cap of the orange juice and ask, “Can you sit up please?”

“Erm.”

I scoot Micah into a sitting position until his head rests against the wall. His eyes look glazed, his nose red, his lips chapped. He snorts and lets out a disgusting sneeze. I jump out of the way just in time.

“You're lucky I have a fantastic immune system,” I say, bringing the jug of orange juice to his lips. “Drink.”

“Nngh.”

I roll my eyes. “Just do it.”

He takes a few sips and swallows two pills. If Micah would attempt a good night's rest every now and then, he could avoid the nasty colds. He doesn't think he's susceptible to disease. He thinks he's a machine. But he spends so much time combing the lake for legends, he's bound to run into some germs.

“When your taste buds regain functionality, there's a surprise waiting on your desk,” I say, screwing the juice cap back on. I straighten the pie container so the ends are perpendicular with the desk. Just like he would want it.

I open the drawer on the TV stand and dig through the various DVDs, searching for the perfect movie.

“Hey! Don't mess with my stuff!” His voice sounds clogged as he sinks lower into his comforter, groaning.

“Oh! He speaks!” I exclaim, clutching my heart. “Relax. I'm choosing from your stash. Which means I can't go wrong.”

One title catches my attention. I pop in the DVD, kick off my shoes, and scoot in next to Micah on the bed. As I slide my feet under the covers, my sock brushes against his. He doesn't move. I wonder if he can hear the sound of my heart.

“Tell me.” I set a full box of tissues on his lap. “How many Academy Awards has
Ice Spiders
been nominated for? With a title like that, I imagine it sweeps all categories.”

He sits up a little. “Oh, this is a classic.”

I can't think about anything else other than his shoulder touching mine. We stop talking and lose ourselves in the movie. About thirty minutes later, the medicine kicks in, and his eyes start drooping. I slide out of bed, pull on my shoes, and tiptoe to the door.

“Toni?” Micah whispers from beneath the covers.

“Yeah?”

“You're pretty. And awesome.” He sneezes and wipes his nose. “You know that?”

My heart pounds as I flip off the light. Oh, man.
I so love you, Micah Garry. Loch
. “You're delirious,” I say. “Go to sleep.”

As I watch him burrow deeper beneath the covers, I almost tell him. I should tell him. That I love him and all. It can't be that hard. Just say the words.

Maybe tomorrow.

When he'll remember.

twenty-seven

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
I
WAKE WITH
Tom Brady the cat sleeping on my head. He purrs super-loud. I move very, very slowly. All of a sudden he hisses, digs his back claws into my forehead, and then bolts from the room.

“AH!” I curse and sit up, clutching my head. A faint smear of blood sticks to my palm. I groan and check the clock. I'm already late.

I clean up the scratch and slap a Hello Kitty bandage to my forehead, the only kind we have. Oh, the irony. I trip a few times as I scramble into my Winston uniform. As I comb the knots from my hair, I glance out the window. Micah's car is still in his driveway.

In the kitchen, I grab a Mountain Dew, hoping the sugar will provide some extra courage. Mom enters, wearing her scrubs, her hair pulled into a high bun.

“We need to talk,” she says.

“I'm late—” I'm hoping to see Micah before he leaves. Not sure what I'll say to him though. I just want to see him.

“This won't take long.” Her eyes rise to my forehead. “What happened there?”

I mumble something about the cat. Uneasy, I sit down and slide the pop can from hand to hand so it makes this annoying sound across the countertop. Seconds later, Brian enters the room, and that's when I know this conversation is likely to suck. I've been ambushed.

“Brian and I would like to ask you something,” Mom says, glancing at her husband for reassurance.

Brian straightens his tie and sips his coffee. I'm not sure what he does for work. Something to do with insurance, I think. Maybe I should ask him sometime. “My brother offered your mother and I his cabin this weekend,” he says.

“Can't go,” I interrupt. “No offense.”

Brian blinks a few times, as if he's hoping to wipe me from existence with his stare. My mother leans forward and takes the pop can away from me.

“We want to go alone, sweetheart,” she says.

I sit back. “Oh. What happens to me then? Are you going to throw me out on the curb next to the recycling bin?”

My mother looks to Brian again, ignoring my comment. “We know it's last minute. But we both think you're responsible enough to take care of the house while we're gone.”

Maybe
she
thinks that, but Brian looks pale at the thought of leaving a (gasp!) teenage girl alone in the house. He believes a teenage girl to be the equivalent to an in-heat hyena. Like I'll stain the couch with my hormones or something.

“What do you think?” Mom asks, hopeful. “Is that something you can handle, Toni?”

Brian desperately wants to get away from me for a weekend, I can tell. Who am I to squash his dream? I plaster on a fake smile and reply, “Sure. You can totally trust me.”

Mom slides the can back over to me. “Good. We'll head out later tonight. Now go to school. Do amazing things.”

I jump up and run out the door. As I rush down the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Micah's car disappearing around the corner. And then it's gone. He's gone.

The Circle of Feelings has been silent for five minutes. The apple cider untouched. I stare at the wooden floor as if it's the most interesting thing on the planet. Emma sits across the circle from me, chewing on a strand of her hair. Her eyes are wide and bug-eyed.

Mrs. Kemper waits, a
Rent-a-Gent
envelope in her right hand.

“No one knows anything about these boy profiles?” Mrs. Kemper asks. “I find that unbelievable.”

Lemon coughs but says nothing. Not even Shauna speaks. She stares at the mugs of apple cider lined up on the table before us. We're all suddenly catatonic.

Mrs. Kemper crosses her ankles. “Running a business on school property is a serious offense,” she says, voice stern. “This type of operation goes against our code of conduct. Someone knows something. These profiles didn't end up in the hallway on their own.”

Without thinking, I look accusingly at Shauna. Mrs. Kemper catches it.
Crap
.

“Tonya? Shauna?” She holds up the envelope. “Do either of you know about these?”

My butt itches. I look to Shauna. She looks to me. A slow sly smile appears on her lips, and then she opens her mouth to speak—

I blurt out, “I'm in love with my best friend!”

Shauna's jaw snaps shut, and everyone stares at me. Mrs. Kemper leans forward and says, “What?”

“I want to share today,” I stammer. “I'm ready to share. For real.”

Mr. Kemper blinks a few times. “Well. That's different. Um, go on, Tonya.”