What Curiosity Kills (7 page)

  Ling Ling makes a grab for the small, gold, round tin that sits in the palm of my hand. The coach gets to it first. Whatever I've found must be worse than red lipstick with a dirty name.

  The coach says, "Mary Richards, what do you have to say for yourself?"

  I shriek, "Smell it! Don't you smell it?"

  The coach brings the tin to her nose. "Strawberries."

  "It's not strawberries," I say.

  Ling Ling says, "It is! It's lip balm. Everybody has it!"

  I recognize the red vine printed across the lid. It's the same brand my sister uses. The twins use it too. I don't because the smell is too artificial. It doesn't smell like strawberries. That pink stuff smells pink. But whatever is in Ling Ling's tin doesn't smell like fruit or color to me. How can the coach be fooled? She shakes her head at me but twists open the lid. Judging by how wide her eyes get, I was right about what's not inside. Even if you don't smoke it, you should be able to identify that small, dull, brownish-green clump.

  "Ling Ling Lebowitz, marijuana is grounds for expulsion."

  Girls clutch their towels above their chests and push forward to see.

  Coach blows her whistle, but Ling Ling screams over the shrillness, "It's not mine! I'm holding it for Nick!"

  This shuts everyone up.

  Footsteps fill the silence, running fast away from the lockerroom door, toward the main gym exit across the basketball court. Rubber soles—Nick's. He is repeatedly tripped by shoelaces, untied.

  Dang it if I don't run after him.

  Behind me, I hear Octavia: "What the—?"

  I never hear the curse she inserts. I've squeezed through Coach and Ling Ling, shoved through the girls, sprung out of the locker room, and I am now close to halfway across the gym. I'm hurdling with nothing to hurdle. I feel like I could leap from the foul line all the way to the exit. Energy surges through me. My legs won't be stopped.

Coach shouts, "Slow down!"

  I slip on the floor wax and slide into a pyramid of yoga blocks. Showered with dull foam edges, I don't feel any pain.

  "Mary Richards, what has gotten into you?"

  Am I high? Is this what high feels like? Can you get high without smoking? I thought pot was supposed to relax you. I am not relaxed! I get up. I have to catch Nick and make him answer my questions. Why did he look at me that way? Why is he dating Ling Ling? Was she really holding his weed for him? Since when does Nick smoke? Since when does Ling Ling? What's so special about her? What's so special about me? Barreling forward, I am fueled by curiosity.

  When I reach Nick, he's at the principal's office door, confessing.

  "Ling Ling made me trade it for one of her mom's fake doctor's notes."

  "Her
what
? For
what
?" The principal frets. His chin—or rather, chins—blotch. Principal Sheldon is a thin man, but his neck is that of a man who was once fat.

  Coach arrives with Ling Ling and explains the situation. I'm on the outer rim of the conversation—there but not there. Still, Principal Sheldon seems to understand that I broke into Ling Ling's locker and that this offense is on par with the hidden marijuana. The coach escorts herself back to the gym, leaving Principal Sheldon to call our in-case-of-emergency numbers. Turns out Dr. Lebowitz is in surgery. Mom's inaccessible in her writing studio, and Dad can't get away from the news desk. My parents will be here at the end of the day for Octavia's debate, so it's decided that the principal will talk with them then. In the meantime, in lieu of Nick's parents, who are out of the country on their annual winter getaway, his Greek grandparents totter in.

  Nick's yiayia is draped in an oversized mink that smells like mothballs. Her hands are tucked inside an ancient muff. She removes nothing as she takes the seat her husband pulls out for her. Nick's papou opts to stand along with the rest of us. The principal shoos Ling Ling and me out of his office, but Yiayia objects.

  She says, "These girls are why our Nick is in such trouble. They should stay and see what fate befalls him."

  The principal says, "Mrs. Martin, the girls will be counseled separately."

  "Mrs.
Martin
is my daughter-in-law. When she married my son, she changed his name and my grandson's name for her reasons. Me, I am Mrs. Poulikakos."

  "Mrs.…" Principal Sheldon won't risk mispronunciation, so he doesn't say it. He explains, "It is school procedure that offenders are met with individually. I will meet with the parents of Miss Lebowitz and Miss Richards—"

  "Oh, these names you can say, but mine is such a hardship!"

  Insulted, she extends her hand for her husband to hoist her out of her seat. I swear, her fur coat bristles. My leg and foot suddenly itch. I lean forward to scratch, but my head spins like I'm having a combination sugar and caffeine crash. I sit back on the windowsill. My gym shorts ride up. Yiayia cuts her eyes at me. I've never been looked at with such disdain. Her mink has her stuck in the chair. Papou scoops her under the armpits. He pulls. She shrieks as if every brittle bone will dislocate and break.

  "Fine, fine!" the principal says. "Everyone stay where they are. Nick, out with it."

  Nick says, "I have asthma."

  Ling Ling glares at him. Does she hate to hear the flaw uttered out loud? I am surprised I never knew about it. Nick's never had an asthma attack at school. The condition makes him a little less normal. He's not too skinny, not too fat, not too tall, not too short. He's got nice legs and deep, dark eyes. But, lo and behold, there's something about himself that he keeps to himself. What other secrets of Nick's does Ling Ling share? For one, that she's his girlfriend. And why was that a secret? Ling Ling's mean, but since when has meanness been a dating deterrent?

  Papou explains, "The asthma affects our Nick only at night. But it keeps him from sleeping. You want him to do cartwheels, rotate the handstands, in a condition like his?
Nico mou
is exhausted. He didn't want to confess to his true life affliction or be bullied by your drill sergeant of a coach, so he white-lied— said he had a cold or cholera or whatever the girl wrote on her mother's pad. He took care of himself the best way he knew how. He was right to take the excuse from the girl."

  
The girl.
Ling Ling shifts her glare to Papou. Well, what did she expect him to call her, his future granddaughter-in-law? Or is her relationship with Nick a secret from his family too?

  The principal says, "Excuse or no excuse, your grandson brought an illegal substance onto school grounds. Nick, where did you get it?"

  "From us," says Papou.

  Principal Sheldon's chins quiver. "From you?"

  Papou nods. "Please—his mother does not know. We keep it in the spice rack, in the oregano jar."

  Yiayia states flatly: "His mother does not cook."

  Turns out Nick's grandparents are potheads who take pride in growing their own in the lowlands of Mount Parnitha. Every Christmas, they come to New York for two months and smuggle a big plastic bag of it through customs. They use airport security profiling to their advantage. Papou plays the part of the kindly, loving, but exasperated husband while his wife shrieks in Greek as customs inspectors plow through her meticulously ironed and folded clothes. Customs inspectors never have the patience or stamina to make it through what the Poulikakoses bring with them. September 11 changed nothing for them in regards to how they travel. Instead of suitcases, they pack ten to twelve mini-boxes from the local agora. The boxes are taped and tied together with butcher's string and bungee cords. Finding the pot is like finding the million dollars on Deal or No Deal: an all-but-guaranteed impossibility.

  "But what about drug-sniffing police dogs?" Principal Sheldon asks, mostly out of bafflement. His anger has faded.

  Yiayia laughs at him. She clutches the handle of her purse like a roller-coaster safety bar as she rocks onto the back legs of her chair.

  Papou says, "Dogs are for Colombians, Jamaicans. JFK is not so concerned with our little oregano."

  Principal Sheldon says, "We are not talking about a little oregano. We are talking about breaking the law. Risking arrest. The rest of your lives in prison. Not to mention setting a bad example for Nick."

  "For us, to help our only grandson is a privilege." Papou chokes up, waves off a box of tissues. "It is right. We have no choice. To see him suffer is not for us. What we bring to him is natural. From the earth."

  "Like a cucumber!" exclaims Yiayia.

  "Nai, like a cucumber," says Papou. "A cucumber takes the bags from under your eyes. It hydrates you when you have no water to drink. Sir, what we bring Nick helps him to sleep.
Medicinal
is how I think that you call it."

  "How can you encourage a young man with asthma to smoke?"

  "No smoke," says Yiayia. "Brownies! I hide the good stuff like pureed spinach!"

  Nick's neck reddens. He's embarrassed, either because his yiayia has to trick him into eating his vegetables or because he can't take a toke like a man—I'm not sure which. Ling Ling seems turned off by the whole half-baked scenario. But this makes me more curious about who Nick really is. After the way he stopped, dropped, and rolled for me under the parachute, he's obviously no burnout. No wheezing invalid either. Hidden pot, closeted asthma, girlfriend on the sly—none of this makes sense.

  I look to Nick, and there are those eyes: steady, perfect ovals. Again, I'm lost in their darkness. I have no sense of how much time is passing. A clock ticks on the wall. A bell rings for next period. Then, his invisible hand grips my wrist. Before he blinks and breaks our bond, I get the message: I am surrounded by lies.

  The principal says, "Your grandson must have an inhaler."

  Yiayia mutters, "This is no good."

  "Mr. and Mrs…"

  "Poulikakos !"

  "Madam." Principal Sheldon looks her in the eyes. "What you do in the privacy of your own home is not my concern. Western…Grecian…ancient medicine—that's up to you. But when a student brings marijuana into my school and shares it with my students, we have a problem."

  Papou says, "You will never again have this problem from Nick."

  "Sir, I want to believe you."

  "Believe him," says Yiayia. "It is best that you do. You expose Nico mou, your Purser-Lilley parents will do away with right to privacy as they did with team sports. There will be security guards, random searches to conduct, the testing of urine. Consider your future, sir. The rest of your school life riddled with interruptions. All because of a little oregano."

Nick got let off with a warning and a week's detention.

Ling Ling got two.

  Dr. Lebowitz protested until she learned that her daughter had gotten time for both drug possession and masterminding a P.E. black market. Like any good mastermind, Ling Ling didn't name names, and the principal didn't press her. If he had, half the boys at Purser-Lilley would get detention. When Ling Ling's hall locker was raided, Principal Sheldon confiscated Dr. Lebowitz's prescription pad, last year's sophomore trig and biology final exams, three bags of Haribo gummy twin cherries, and an IOU from Ben Strong for a C-note.

  Me, I got a lecture. Before I opened my mouth to defend myself, the principal copped a plea for me. If it hadn't been for my killer curiosity, he would never have known about what was going on right under his nose.

Kathryn Ann holds court at the head of three tables-for-two shoved together at Pizzeria Uno. She, the twins, my parents, my sister, and I are finishing our unlimited soup for supper and reliving how the Purser-Lilley debate team destroyed the Nightingale girls. My visit to the principal's office wears heavy on my parents' faces, but they are giving Octavia her moment of glory. During the debate, she brought one of her opponents to tears. Ben Strong, normally a fact-gatherer not a verbal assailant, reduced another girl to running off the stage as her rebuttal. Instant disqualification! My sister was impressed—but not as impressed as Kathryn Ann is with me.

  She drawls, "Mary, hon, you are a star. If more people got involved with bustin' drugs, this country would be a safer place."

  If you've watched Chime In with Kathryn Ann, you know she blames drugs for all of society's ills. According to her, if people didn't do drugs, they wouldn't be poor. There wouldn't be birth defects. The murder rate, which to her includes vehicular manslaughter, would plummet. Drugs lead to stealing, and stealing leads to bullets and knives. Drugs are depressants, and depressed people rape. Kathryn Ann is a teetotaler. I've never seen her so much as dip a fork into a pot of white wine-laden cheese fondue.

  She says, "Who's Mama's little narc? Mary is! Yay, Mary!"

  Octavia looks embarrassed for the twins. I don't blame her.

  Mom says, "I'm worried about our Mary."

  "Oh, my word," Kathryn Ann chuckles. "What is there to worry about? Your Mary's not on drugs."

  "She's not herself lately."

  "Mom, I'm fine," I say, but I am in fact worried sick.

  Kathryn Ann says, "All Miss Mary needs is a night in with her friends. The girls are scheduled to spend the night at our place tonight. Let 'em. Their highfalutin school is a pressure cooker. No wonder your Mary snapped."