Trinkets (10 page)

It’s one of those rare spring nights when it’s not too cold, so I roll down the windows on the drive home. I think of Elodie pulling out that little Coach clutch and how fun it was to sprint down the street in a pack, like we were on the run, like real criminals.

I stop at a light and glance at the car next to me. The guy driving it smiles at me. He looks like a pimp. He probably
is
a pimp. I feel like Portland has more pimps and strip clubs per capita than other places, but then again, I’ve never spent much time anywhere else.

I give him a small smile back. I might as well. It’s not like a pimp is going to follow me home and get me to marry him. Then again, maybe he would. I’m relieved when he turns off onto a side street and I drive on through
Southshore, the pines pointing into the dark sky, reminding all who pass that even if they’re rooted into the ground, the only place you can really grow is up.

Later that night, when my mom’s key turns in the lock, I go into the kitchen to meet her.

“How was your night?” I ask. Her eyeliner is all smudged and flaky.

“Oh, it was lovely, honey,” she says, pouring herself a glass of water and popping some vitamin B12. It’s her favorite hangover cure that doesn’t cure much, but she still swears by it. She throws in a multivitamin, and Lord knows whatever minerals and antiaging pills for good measure, and chugs them all down. “How was your group therapy?”

I shrug. “It’s not really group therapy, but whatever.”

“So you’re not going to do it again?”

“You mean steal stuff?”

My mom glares at me.

“Do I look like an idiot?” I sneer, even though I hate lying to her, especially when she looks all disheveled and sort of lonely standing there.

“Of course not. You don’t need to be so hard on me.” She starts getting teary.

“I’m not!” I say, then I decide,
What the heck,
and I reach out and hug her good night. Her fingers linger on my back for a second, like a vapor drifting above warm liquor that’s just been poured into a frosty glass.

“See you in the morning,” I say. Misty-eyed, my mom nods and smiles at me, making me wish that I’d left the whole hugging part out of the picture, but what can you do? Sometimes it’s nice to be nice.

Seeing Noah flirting with Kayla Lee in the parking lot doesn’t upset me as much as you’d think it would. I walked right past him. I know he saw me, and I’m sure he was wondering where I was going. I like that he doesn’t know what I do after school. He just keeps sending me texts asking me where I go. So far his guesses are:

1. in training for a beauty pageant, ha-ha (he knows I think Miss America is the most evil thing ever)
   
2. singing lessons
   
3. needlepoint class
   

Today he sent me one that said, ARE YOU A SPY?” And I wrote back, YOU’LL NEVER KNOW.

When Brady sees me in the hallway before lunch, he doesn’t look happy. We hooked up a few days ago after school, but I kept the conversation to a minimum. When he calls, I mostly send his calls to voice mail, but it’s pretty hard to avoid all contact if your locker is right next to his, and your friends are his friends. It takes timing and coordination, like being a thief.

He catches up to me as I’m walking to the snack bar. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. It feels like one.

Brady glares at me. “What’s your problem?”

“What do you mean?” I shrug, playing as innocent as possible, even though I feel as guilty as possible.

“You throw a bitch fit in front of everyone at Derek’s a
month ago, and you’ve been acting all hot and cold since then…. What the hell? Why are you being a freak?”

I can’t help but laugh. I sometimes laugh when I get nervous. I guess it’s a bad sign when your boyfriend makes you nervous.

“And now you’re laughing at me?!” He looks furious.

“No!” I say, but then another little laugh comes out. I’m sure I sound like a person on the brink of hysteria. Brady steps closer and grabs my arm, pinching it. Hard.

“Ow!” I cry, yanking away. I wince and look down. A little red mark flowers on my triceps.

“Whatever,” he says. Then turns and walks away.

I watch him go, and wonder if a normal girl would have pinched him back. Or screamed. But what’s the point of that? Then I’d be making yet another scene.

I stand there a second, before turning and robotically walking toward the snack bar as the spot on my arm blossoms into something less than beautiful.

Even after I buy my veggie dip and crackers, I still can’t stop shaking. I head for the library so I can eat my lunch somewhere away from everyone. I keep telling myself,
This is what happens in relationships—people accidentally hurt each other. It’s a common occurrence.

I walk past Keith Savage and Zoe Amato leaning against the lockers. Zoe wipes her eyes, and I can tell she’s been crying but she’s pretending she’s hasn’t. At first I think it’s just another fighting couple and it makes me sick, until I see how Keith is staring at her, and he reaches up to touch her shoulder. It’s gentle, like he’s going to apologize for saying or doing something wrong—proving, I guess, that even if people fight, they’re still capable of loving each other and being kind to each other. That kind of love makes me want to cry, so I keep walking.

I pass all the Spring Fling signs that promise
FUN FUN FUN
!!! and they only stress me out more. The last time I kissed Brady by the lockers and actually enjoyed it was over a month ago, and he’d asked me what color dress I was wearing to the Fling. But there’s no reason to think of that now, because giving it airspace in my head just makes the pit in my stomach bigger.

I throw my veggie dip and crackers in the trash and decide to go to Ms. Hoberman’s class early. As I’m heading into her room, I pass Moe walking out. She must have fourth period with her or something. She’s with a few burnouts who are being kind of loud.

“What the hell’s a villanelle?” a pimply guy with a faux-hawk says. “Is that some kind of zombie pill?”

The other girl with bleach-blond hair and a nose ring laughs. “Bring on the zombie pills, yo.” I think her name is Alex. I remember because last year she got accused of setting Taryn’s backpack on fire. Not like a full blaze or anything, but enough to cause the principal to ban all lighters and matches on school grounds.

As Moe passes we meet eyes for a second, and then she gives me a wink. None of her friends seem to notice. She keeps walking as I head into the classroom. And, weirdly, it’s the only thing that gets me a little bit closer to feeling better.

“Maybe we will save the world, one trinket at a time.”