So Much Closer (5 page)

“What happened?”

I tell her.

“Are you sure Scott was with her?” April says.

“Yes. She had her hand on his shoulder.”

“That could have been—”

“He was
with
her.”

“Blerg.”

“I thought he wanted to go with me!”

“Who was she?”

“How should I know? I just got here.”

“Have you seen her at school?”

“No.”

“Maybe she doesn’t go there.”

“Maybe she’s Scott’s girlfriend.”

“She could have just been a friend.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How do you know?”

“I could tell.” It wasn’t as strong as The Knowing, but I immediately got this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach when I saw them together, like they’ve been going out all summer and I’m a complete fool for thinking I ever had a chance with him. “I could
not
have looked more ridiculous. Scott saw everything. Oh, and I stole a chair.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I can’t believe I was hoping this could work.”

“You don’t even know what he’s thinking. He probably thinks it’s funny.”

“Do you think it’s funny?”

“Um ... it might be a little funny.”

“This is so not funny.”

“I know,” April says.

I wish April was here. I’m not used to being by myself at night, and it’s getting lonely. Dad had to work late. This morning I found money and a note on the kitchen counter, saying that I should order whatever I want for dinner. Dad was already gone by the time I woke up. He said he’d probably have to work late a few more nights, but that it’s just temporary craziness. Some big client needs his attention or something. But how could he work late and not even come home for dinner when I just got here?

I shouldn’t have moved. This was a ginormous mistake. I’m all alone. I don’t know where anything is. I’m a total outsider at school. I don’t know anyone. Scott doesn’t count. He didn’t even recognize me at first. I’m obviously thinking about him way more than he’s thinking about me. And I really don’t see that changing anytime soon. Because how do you convince a boy that you belong together when he’s going out with someone else?

I’ve discovered the
best coffeehouse ever. It’s called Joe the Art of Coffee and it’s only a few blocks away. Mom didn’t let me drink coffee back home. But I would drink it anyway when April and Candice and I hung out at Bean There. What I now realize is that the stuff at Bean There was merely masquerading as coffee. Joe has shown me what real coffee tastes like. It is seriously delicious. They even make these swirly designs on top of the lattes that look like fancy leaf decorations.

The first time I came here, I felt intimidated. New Yorkers are all so entrenched in their routines in this way that makes you want to run out and get your own routine. Everyone has these automatic motions, ways that are totally ingrained into their daily lives. I feel like a foreigner just watching them. So the first time I came to Joe, it was awkward. I didn’t know where to stand after I ordered. I didn’t know where the napkins were. And were you supposed to leave your mug on the table when you’re done or put it in a bin somewhere?

Things are different now. I’m really comfortable here. I could totally sit here all day reading or doing origami. I even snagged the prized window table today. I’m attempting to dull the pain of seeing Scott with another girl by sipping my latte and reading a good book. It’s about a woman who suspects that her husband is having an affair. I like books with plots about infidelity or divorce. I like being able to relate to the story I’m reading. It makes me feel less alone. All those books about shiny happy people are such a load. Real life is nothing like that. The best books make me feel hopeful when the characters’ problems work out in the end realistically, not conveniently tied up with a big, red bow. Big, red bows are such a lie.

The little bell over the door chimes when a girl comes in. She squeals, “Leslie?!”

Something makes me look over to see who Leslie is.

It’s her.

The girl from last night.

Scott’s girl.

I really, really want to leave. But I just got here. I’m not about to give up my prized window table and bother the barista to pour my latte into a paper cup just because
she’s
here. That would completely ruin the fancy leaf decoration.

I try to focus on my book.

A boy is watching me. He’s at the other window table across the room. Every time I look over, he looks back down at his laptop. He seems a little older than me, like he might be in college. New York University is nearby. Maybe he goes there.

Eventually, the girl who yelled Leslie’s name leaves. I’ve been keeping my head down while reading my book so Leslie won’t notice me. She probably wouldn’t even recognize me, though. It was dark out there. She only saw me for a few seconds before I ran off with my chair. I could have been anybody.

When Leslie gets up to leave, I slink down.

“Hey,” she says to me.

Game over.

“Hey,” I say back.

“Weren’t you at RiverFlicks last night?”

“Huh?”

“
I Love You, Man
.”

“Excuse me?”

“The movie.”

“Oh. Yeah, no. I mean, I stopped by to see what was playing, but then I had to go.”

Leslie glares at me. A piece of hair is stuck to her gooey lip gloss.

“Scott said you guys went to the same school before you moved here,” she informs me.

“He did?”

“Yeah. He did.”

Sweet! This means he talked about me last night. He didn’t just turn back around, watch the movie, and forget he ever saw me. Which is actually what I was hoping he’d do. But this is so much better. He
talked
about me. To the girl he was
with
.

Leslie is not as excited about this revelation.

She’s all, “Just so you know? We’re together.”

“Okay ...”

“I go to Eames Academy so people at your school might not know Scott has a girlfriend yet? But he does.”

If she’s trying to impress with the whole Eames Academy thing, it’s not working. I don’t even know what that is. I’m just relieved she doesn’t go to West Village Community with me and Scott.

“What does that have to do with me?” I ask.

Leslie smirks. “I met Scott right when he moved here. We’ve been together for two months.”

Could she be any more insecure? She’s a total train wreck.

Note to self: do not be intimidated by Leslie.

I sit all the way up in my chair.

“Congratulations,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

She smirks some more. “Yeah, Scott said you were like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know. Angry.”

Scott said I was angry? I find that hard to believe. He doesn’t even know me. How would he know how I am?

I throw my book in my bag and get up. A power couple armed with a fat newspaper and a laptop lunge at the table before I even step away from it.

As I pass Leslie on my way out I go, “You must have me confused with someone else.”

Whatever. So I’m angry. You would be, too, if your dad left your mom for another woman.

It was worse than horrible.

I heard all the fights. I knew some of the reasons for them. Reasons I wish I could forget.

Things had been bad for a while. I can’t remember when it started and I never knew why. All I know is that there was something wrong with my parents.

When Dad came home from his poker nights, Mom would drill him with questions. She’d ask him who was there and did he go out for a drink after and if so where did he go and who did he talk to? It sounded more like an interrogation than a conversation. Whenever they went out to a party or something together, there would usually be a fight when they got home. They’d hold out long enough to pay the babysitter. Then Mom would start in on Dad. I guess they assumed I was sleeping. But I was usually awake. And when they got to their room, I could hear everything.

A typical fight went like this:

Or this:

Even though I was young, I was old enough to understand that Mom’s jealousy issues drove Dad away. But after Dad moved out, Mom started telling me different reasons for why he left.

“Your father never knew what it took to be a decent parent,” she ranted. “He was always looking for a way out, right from the start. I should have known things would end up this way.”

Mom told me the kind of stuff you should never tell your kid. Even if it’s true. I didn’t believe her at first. But after hearing too many times how Dad left us because he’d rather have his freedom than be part of a family or how if he loved us more he’d still live here, I started thinking that maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t entirely her fault.

Actually, I know it wasn’t. Because before he left us for some woman he’s not even with anymore, there was that thing with my babysitter.

Justine was my friend. When she came over, it was never like she was just there to watch me. It was like she really wanted to be there. We told each other secrets. She’d tell me things about her life, things that mattered, like about college choices and boys she went out with and how it felt to be so close to the new life that was waiting for her after high school. I knew she would be leaving for college soon, but I hoped she’d go somewhere close so she could still come over.

Justine was like the older sister I’d always wanted.

This one time when I was ten, Justine was downstairs waiting for my parents to come home. I was in bed, but I wasn’t sleeping. Then I heard my parents come home. I was always nervous when they got back from social events because I was never sure if they’d start fighting as soon as Justine left. I decided to sneak downstairs and see if Mom looked mad.

Except I didn’t find Mom when I went downstairs. I found Dad.

And Justine.

Kissing.

I don’t know if Mom knew about it. She never said anything to me. Of course I never said anything to her. She had enough pain in her life without me adding to it. But after that night, Justine never came back. She never even said good-bye.

People destroy your trust. Then they leave.

You can never completely know anyone, no matter how well you think you do. There will always be parts of their lives they leave out. There will always be some truth about them you don’t ever get to know.

Or maybe one day you’ll find out their truth. And you’ll wish you never had.

Being inconspicuous was
a lot easier at my old school. Here, there’s nowhere to hide.

First off, classes are smaller. Even if I sit in the back row, I’m still way exposed. Teachers care more here. If you zone out, they call on you. If you don’t do your homework, they make this huge production out of it. They even call home if you mess up enough times. Seriously, you can’t get a break for one second. Like with calculus. Ms. Jacobs is insane. She expects us to be ready to take notes right when class starts. She acts like we’re supposed to pay attention to every little thing.

None of this is helpful when the boy you moved here for has a girlfriend.

I wish I could think about something else. Just focus on anything but the fact that Scott has a girlfriend who isn’t me. This being calc, the only available distraction is a set of parametric equations.

I tackle them.

Avoiding classwork was simple at my old school. I know that everyone always says their school is the worst, but trust me, mine was the worst. You could totally get away with doing nothing, because the teachers never said anything. They would just give you a bad grade, which didn’t faze most of the kids anyway. They hardly ever collected work. If they were going to, you could always just copy the answers from someone else. Lots of teachers didn’t even read what we handed in. For most classes, your grade only depended on the quantity of work you did, not the quality. And people were actually surprised that I wasn’t into school?

When I finish solving the last equation, I sneak a look at the girl next to me. She’s still working on hers along with everyone else. Her name is Sadie, and she’s wearing the same earrings as me—same silver hoops, same thin black stripes. Her look is actually kind of cool. She’s got this whole Smart Sexy Girl thing going on, all shoulder-length copper hair with gold highlights, brown eyes that are more interesting than mine, and cat’s-eye glasses. She’s like two inches shorter than me and looks cute in everything she wears. She might want to rethink the headbands, though.