Trinkets (8 page)

I’m doodling on my notebook in third-period Creative Writing in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with anyone. Miraculously, I’ve managed to avoid having long conversations with people since Derek’s party five days ago. However, I feel Jason Baines smirking at me from a few chairs over. This is one of those moments I wish life were a
Final Destination
movie and a random chain saw would fly from the hand of a gardener outside and smash through an open window to violently saw Jason Baines in half.

Distracting me from my fantasy of carnage is Ms. Hoberman, loudly proclaiming, “Your parents need to sign your
Romeo and Juliet
field-trip forms by Wednesday.”

Serena Bell is staring at me and whispering something to Kacey Madigan. I look back down at my doodles, which
consist of a heart with an arrow through it and a small monkey face. Clearly, I have no artistic ability.

“For today’s free-write, I want you to write a short memoir about your family,” Ms. Hoberman continues. “It can be in poetry or prose, comedic or dramatic—obviously it doesn’t have to be as dramatic as the Montagues and the Capulets, but I’d love for you to be creative and candid.”

Writing about my family with candor or creativity does not sound fun. What is there to say? My dad hooks up with women who aren’t my mom? And that I once saw him on a date once with a brunette at Le Bouchon downtown as they sat in front of candles and ate snails on plates? Should I write that he was saying something that made her laugh? Because for an expert at making people miserable, my dad’s actually a pretty funny guy?

Frankly, I’d rather get an incomplete than say any of that. I don’t need to dredge up any more reminders of my dad; I already get those a few times a week when I catch a glimpse of his briefcase in the front hall, sitting there like a fantasy of hello or a promise of good-bye.

I wish I could say our cafeteria wasn’t like a teen movie where there’s a whole by-the-numbers social structure and the dorks sit here and the pretty people sit there and the theater people sit over there and the lax bros sit there and who knows who else sits who knows where else, but it pretty much
is
almost exactly that way.

“This corn dog is disgusting,” says Kayla as she tries to bite into the soggy, khaki-colored tube.

I gag at the sight of it. “I don’t know why you eat that crap,” I say, opening my carrots and hummus.

“I like pizza day,” Kayla says. “When
is
pizza day?”

Patrick Cushman walks by. “I got the recipe from the lunch lady. If you ever want to try to make a pizza at home.”

“You can do that?” Kayla says.

“That’s weird. Who knows how to make pizza?” Taryn finally looks up, flicking a crouton crumb off the sleeve of her tight red shirt. Her boobs look like they’re going to fall out of it. Sometimes I wish this school had a dress code.

“Apparently, he does,” I say, with a glance at Patrick.

Patrick smiles. “Well, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s not the same without that special LO grease pool on top.” He walks on, heading over to sit with the theater geeks. At least I think they’re theater geeks. One of them is doing some kind of loud imitation of Will Smith from
Independence Day
. Patrick seems to find it amusing. I want to tell him not to encourage stupidity, because it only creates
more of it. Instead, I get beaned in the head with a French fry.

I look up to see Brady standing there.

“Wanna fry?” he asks, grinning at me. He sits down, reaching over to grab another of Jason’s fries off his plate.

“Hey, dude, that was mine!” Jason Baines cries, protectively covering them. “You can’t be throwing them around!”

For the past two days, I’ve been avoiding Brady and succeeding because he had extra lacrosse practice and meetings during lunch hour and a big game last night. They won, so now he’s full of bravado.

“No, thanks.” I choose to ignore him and turn my attention back to Kayla, who’s dissecting her corn dog like a mortician in the middle of an autopsy.

“What is the ‘dog’ in the ‘corn’ made of?” Kayla wrinkles her nose at it.

“Don’t try to understand it,” I respond. “It will only cause you pain.”

Taryn looks over at Brady. “You guys were uh-mazing last night,” she simpers. I look at her sharply. Seriously? She’s going to gush on him? Girl code is clearly dead.

“I missed my good-luck charm, but I guess I’m so good I don’t need it.” He nods pointedly to me. I pretend my hummus is the most interesting thing in the world. It has red peppers in it. And cumin. And some other sort of spice that tastes like—

“Can I come sit with you so you can congratulate me and we can talk about the sexy dress you’re going to wear to the Spring Fling?” Brady says. He’s enjoying having an
audience of Jason and his friends and all the other people at our table. Taryn elbows me, and I sigh. Sometimes it’s just easier to let things go back to normal than it is to try to change them.

“Sure.” I shrug.

Brady stands up and walks over, plunking his tray down across from me. On it is a Diet Coke and a huge salad with vinaigrette dressing. He doesn’t eat cheese or carbs or drink regular Coke ever. He’s like a girl that way.

“Hi, Tabs,” he says softly. I finally look up. He’s wearing a blue shirt that makes his eyes look like the sky on a perfect summer day.

“Miss me?” he asks. Fuck. He’s got such a cute smile.

“Miss
me
?” I retort.

“Like crazy,” he says, and then pelts a pickle at me. I hurl one back at him. Then Kayla throws one at Jason, and Taryn flings a splot of hummus at some poor nerd sitting at another table, and someone else chucks something else because this is what happens when you start something that looks like so much fun. Everyone else joins in because they’re afraid of what they’ll miss out on if they don’t.

My aunt keeps bugging me to invite friends over to hang out at the house. I don’t know why she’s so into it. The last time I had Alex and Janet over, we spilled L’Oreal Superior Preference Intense Dark Red hair dye on the floor while Alex was coloring my hair and Aunt B was super pissed. And she hasn’t forgotten about it because every time she passes the spot on the floor she mutters, “Damn hair dye.” I try not to make her mad, but I always seem to anyway. At least my hair turned out amazing. Although I can’t say as much about that big red stain on the living room rug.

Her insisting I have friends over probably means Marc’s been telling her he doesn’t like my friends or they’re not good for me, so she’s worried and thinks I’m on drugs or something and wants to keep tabs on us. I find it kind of
entertaining, so I constantly itch my nose when she’s around. Yesterday I even left a rolled-up dollar bill on the kitchen counter with powdered sugar on it. She called me a wiseass. I want to tell her to lighten up, but it doesn’t take a genius to notice when you tell people that, it usually has the opposite effect and they get hostile. I wish she had more of a sense of humor, just like she probably wishes I had a totally different personality.

“Want to come over and watch
Top Model
?” Taryn asks me in sixth period. She loves reality TV. She’s Generation Kardashian all the way. Even though I do, admittedly, read about them on blogs, I can’t take the girls on those shows. I guess you’ve got to admire them for cashing in on their tits, their asses, and their desperate need for attention, but it seems like there has to be more to life than fragrance lines and endorsement deals. So that’s why I don’t feel guilty for hoisting a fragrance or two by Khloe or Kim or jeggings by Kristin Cavallari; they’ve all stolen hours of my life at Tayrn’s behest.

Not today, though. Today I have to pay penance for my sins at Shoplifters Anonymous. I lie and tell Tayrn I’m doing an SAT prep course across town.

“Yuck. I’m sorry,” she says, and doesn’t press for more details. As predicted.

When my mom drops me off, I take a bottle of her Smartwater with me and ask her to e-mail Jeffrey. Maybe she can ask if it’s possible for me to get through the class in less than the normal required time.

“Why do you ask?” she says.

“Because it sucks, and because there’re people from my school in there I really don’t want to deal with.”

“Okay,” she says. “But in the meantime, why don’t you try to make the best of it?”

That means she won’t be emailing Jeffrey. Crap.

I get out of the car and slink into the building, past the AA meeting, the Al-Anon meeting, the Nicotine Anonymous meeting, down into the basement, and into a chair in the back row. I immediately bury myself in Facebook on my phone.

“Afternoon, lovelies!”

I’m dropkicked out of my status-update reverie by Shawn’s chipper voice.

“Tabitha, can you please turn off your phone?”

I obey as she launches into a “Group Participation and Identification Exercise.” As if to underscore the humiliation, she pairs me with Moe and Elodie. We drag our chairs together awkwardly as Shawn adds, “And, Harold, why don’t you join them too?” A guy who looks like he’s ninety-five years old slowly stands and starts to move his chair over.

Shawn calls out, “Moe, can you help Harold?”

Moe takes Harold’s chair from him and hoists it over her head, then drops it down, practically smashing it on
my foot. I shoot her a dirty look. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“I want you to go around with your group-mates,” Shawn says, “and share exactly why you’re here and what regrets you have about getting caught.”

I keep my head down and curse myself for ever being stupid enough to look at the blog with Alexa Chung wearing that Maya Brenner bracelet.

Moe clears her throat. “My regret is that I shouldn’t have broken into someone’s car and stolen their CDs,” she says with a shrug. “I don’t even have a CD player.” Then she looks at Elodie. “What’d you take?”

“Stuff from Fred Meyer,” Elodie says quietly.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… licorice, a clock, condoms—”

“Condoms?”
I practically snarf my Smartwater.

Moe laughs. “Awesome.”

“I may need them,” Elodie says, defensive.

“Why’d you steal condoms?” I ask, genuinely curious. This girl doesn’t exactly radiate sexual activity.

“She probably stole them to have sex,” Moe says. “Duh.”

“With who?” I volley back. Obviously, the chick’s lying; she’s never stolen condoms. It’s not that she looks like a total square, but girls who’ve had sex look different from those who haven’t. And that’s not to say that I’ve had a ton of it and am some kind of expert. But I’ve had enough to at least know what I’m missing and what I’m not missing.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I press.

“Oh, so a committed relationship is required to bone somebody?” Moe asks.

Harold snorts, and we look over. He’s sound asleep in his chair. I guess conversations about illegally acquired birth control don’t really interest him.

“What about
you
?” Elodie says, glaring at me a little bit. “What did you take?”

Fuck. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Complete strangers knowing my business. But you know what? At least I was taking something more exciting than condoms that would only turn to dust in my purse.