B006K5TA1E EBOK (11 page)

Although the Saturday shift at Donner’s doesn’t end for three more hours, I lead Rachel and Izzy in the opposite direction just in case, explaining that there was a creep at my usual bus stop earlier. It’s more or less true.

We take the long seat at the rear of the bus and launch into a discussion about guys.

“How’s it going with Russ?” Rachel asks.

“It’s not. He’s called four times and still hasn’t set a day to get together. He’s obviously not interested.”

“Of course he’s interested,” Izzy says. “He offered to teach you to skateboard.”

“Something I’d pay good money to see,” Rachel offers, grinning. “Maybe you should charge admission—for literacy.”

“Very funny,” I say.

“He’s probably just shy,” Izzy says. “He wouldn’t call if he weren’t interested.”

“It’s just something to do when he’s watching TV,” I say.

Rachel’s brow furrows. “Is he watching sports or a regular show?”

“Does it matter? Rude is rude.”

“It matters. If he’s watching sports, he’s just being a guy. If he’s watching a show with a story line, he’s being a jerk.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I look to Izzy for support. “Isn’t it?”

Izzy shakes her head. “Carson was watching hockey when he called the other night, and I still like him.”

As I look from one animated face to the other, it occurs to me that I’m doing exactly what Scoop said girls do: taking a poll to decide whether to give Russ another chance.

“So what was it,” Rachel presses, “sports or drama?”

“Sports,” I concede, relieved in spite of myself. Maybe I am incapable of independent thought, but at the moment I don’t care.

The focus turns to Izzy, and she tells us that Carson hasn’t formally asked her out either. Although he tracks her down at school all the time, for some reason he hasn’t taken his interest off campus.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have bid on him at the auction after all,” she says. “He must like passive girls.”

“Passive is safer,” I agree. “Less risk of humiliation.”

Izzy knows I’m referring to the call she talked me into making to Tyler and quickly changes the subject. “Do you have a copy of the latest
Bulletin
? They disappeared before I could get one.”

I pull the crumpled paper out of my bag and hand it to her. “That’s strange. Mr. Sparling said he tripled the print run.”

Izzy gathers her things as the bus approaches her stop. “I guess ‘The Word’ travels fast.”

I practically dance into the apartment, wishing I had someone to tell that the
Bulletin
is flying off the newsstand.

“What’s up?” Grace asks from the sofa. “Sparling nominate you for Butt-Kisser of the Year?

I notice she’s wearing a skirt and has blown out her hair. She hasn’t made an effort like that in a long time. “Is that lipstick?” I ask.

She rubs her mouth on her sleeve. “No.”

Throwing my backpack onto a chair, I follow the sound of clattering dishes toward the kitchen. “Mom’s home?”

It’s not my mother putting away the dishes, but Paz. He looks up at me and smiles. “Hey, Shorty.”

“Hey. Want me to the put the plates away? I know the shelf ’s a little high for you.”

He snaps the towel at me. “I still got a few inches on you.” Motioning toward the fridge, he says, “I made spaghetti if you’re hungry.”

“I’ve never known you to lift a finger in the kitchen,” I say. “You really have become a feminist.”

“I’ve learned a few tricks since Gracie moved out,” he admits. Paz has always been a lot nicer without an audience.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” I ask.

He hangs the towel on the rack and lifts Keira out of her chair. “Nope. But the person I
am
trying to impress is even harder to please.”

I collect the spaghetti from the fridge and take a damp fork out of the dish rack. “Did you blow off a shift tonight?”

He shakes his head. “My crew’s down for three days.”

“But I bumped into one of your guys on the bus. Joey.”

“Carella?”

“I don’t know his last name. But apparently you two are so close that you chat about my family.”

He doesn’t deny it. “Joey and I talk sometimes. He’s a good guy and my best worker. Sometimes he picks up extra shifts to help out his dad.”

“My point is, I don’t want you talking about me to your crew. They’re not my friends. I serve burgers, they eat burgers. That’s all we have in common.”

“Fine,” he says, walking into the living room. “You’re not that interesting anyway.”

I follow, shoveling cold spaghetti into my mouth. “Like you’re fascinating.”

Paz hands Kiera to Grace. “Little sis has a sharp edge tonight, Gracie. Things tank with the all-star?”

“They did,” Grace says. “But now there’s Russ.”

“Russ?” he says. “Tell Paz all about Russ, Shorty.”

Grace saves me the trouble. “He keeps calling but doesn’t follow through.”

“He’s just shy,” I say, echoing Izzy’s verdict.

“If he has the guts to call, he’s not shy,” Grace says. “So he must be jerking you around. Right, Paz?”

“Not necessarily.” He sits on the couch and pats the seat beside him. “Let’s analyze ol’ Rusty together. You could probably use a male perspective.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t think so. I have homework to do.”

I fish my math book out of my backpack and carry it to the bedroom.

“Who said you could study in my bedroom?” Grace calls after me.

“Who said you could entertain in mine?” I reply before slamming the door.

I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed when I hear the distant ring of my cell phone. It’s still in my backpack in the living room.

There’s another ring, followed by a giggle and rustling. Suddenly I am on my feet, running to the door. “Don’t you dare touch my phone!”

“Hi, Russ,” Grace says. “It’s Grace. Luisa’s right here, but her agent wants to speak to you first.”

I stand in the doorway and watch as she hands the phone to Paz. There’s no point in fighting. It’s two against one, and I’m still bruised from taking on the weaker one.

“Hey, Russ,” Paz says. “I’m Lu’s brother-in-law and I’m worried about her. I hear you keep calling but haven’t actually delivered on a date.”

I put my face in my hands.

“Don’t worry, Lu,” Paz says. “It’s for your own good. The guy’s stringing you along. Aren’t you, Rusty?” He listens for a moment and says, “You want to set something up for next Saturday? Let me see if she’s available.” Paz presses the phone to his chest. “It’s a good offer, Shorty. Saturday’s a prime night and he’s giving you a week’s notice.”

“So tell him I’m free, already.”

“Not so fast,” Paz says. He puts the phone to his ear again. “What have you got planned?” More talking on Russ’s end. “No. Skateboarding is out, man. Gracie and I cannot afford to have our number-two babysitter sidelined with a concussion.” He listens for a moment and guffaws. “She wasn’t exaggerating. Total klutz, man.”

“Paz!”

He holds up a hand to silence me and continues with Russ. “A movie?” Paz glances at me, and I nod. “I think she can handle that.” Paz sits down on the couch again, and his eyes lose focus. “Sounds like you got the game on… What’s the score?”

“Your family is really, uh, interesting,” Russ says, when I get hold of my cell phone and retreat to the bedroom.

“That barely scratches the surface, Russ.” There’s no point in pretending now. If he bolts I won’t even blame him.

“Huh.”

I can tell he’s not so much stunned as riveted by the football game on TV. To fill the dead air I launch into my usual dance. “So how was your day?”

“Good.”

“How was your chem test?” I hope to get him going with this, as he loves all things science. He even belongs to the robotics club. No wonder Full Tilt Plaid outperformed Mac-
not-so
-nificant.

“Sorry?” he asks, as a crowd roars in the background.

I deliver a monologue about my day, but it doesn’t take long to run out of material. “Lunch was good,” I finish weakly. “The cafeteria fries have improved.”

I pause to give him a chance to ask me to the movie.

Paz has already laid the groundwork. How hard could it be? Too hard, apparently. Other than the TV, there’s silence on his end.

That’s it. I refuse to hang around, hoping, forever. I don’t know about the other ten Luisa Perezes, but this one has pride.

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” I say.

“Already?” He sounds disappointed.

“Russ, I’ve been doing all the talking. You’re watching TV.”

“I’m not watching TV,” he says, and the television is silenced. “It was just on. I’m listening to you.”

“Yeah? What did I say?”

He gropes around mentally for a moment. “You like the cafeteria fries.”

I sigh. “That is the
least
notable thing I said.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes across as sincere. “The TV is always on in my room. It doesn’t mean I don’t find you interesting. I like hearing your voice.”

Okay, that’s more like it. Obviously I was wrong about guys being hopeless communicators. They just need a girl to identify the issue for them, and they fix it. It almost seems too easy.

Russ and I have a few moments of normal conversation, and then at last he asks me to the movie.

The word “yes” is barely out of my mouth when I hear the faint tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard.

There are plenty of things in life I don’t understand—decaf coffee, fuzzy dice, and Ryan Seacrest, for starters. It’s becoming obvious that I don’t understand guys either. Why, I ask, do they bother to call girls if they’re not going to listen?


In an earlier column, Scoop complained about girls talking to each other too much. If we do it’s because it’s more rewarding than talking to someone who slips into a coma when there’s an electronic device in the vicinity.


I’m not bitter, Scoop, I’m just not attracted to zombies. And I’m not the only girl who feels this way. In case you haven’t noticed, some of Dunfield’s hottest women are taking their search for Mr. Right—or Mr. Conscious—off campus. Two cheerleaders are currently dating Turnbull guys. Scoop will say they’re just “dating up,” but what about the girls who are dating guys from Warwick Central? Since that’s dating sideways, maybe guys from other schools simply have something Dunfield men don’t—like a pulse.


Out of the goodness of her heart, Newshound will offer some advice to help any zombie keep a quality Dunfield girl interested:


1. Don’t bother calling us if you’d rather watch TV. Wait until you can offer your undivided attention.

2. Don’t say you like girls to take the initiative if it actually freaks you out.

3. Don’t treat all girls as if they’re identical. We’re as unique as snowflakes.

4. Don’t keep saying “we should get together” without committing to a date. If you’re not interested, don’t waste our time.

5. Don’t call us when you’re out with the guys. Hearing them whooping in the background like a bunch of oversexed hyenas is not a turn-on.

6. Don’t pass the phone to the hyenas in the middle of our conversation.

7. Don’t answer if your cell rings when we’re together, unless it’s important.

8. Don’t tell your friends where we’re going so that they can “accidentally” bump into us. Hanging in a group is fun, but it isn’t a date.

9. Don’t pretend you’ve got to get home early if you’re actually meeting your friends later.

10. Don’t waste so much energy coming up with excuses and evasions that you don’t have any left for being interesting.


And girls, don’t give up on the Dunfield zombies. They may be lifeless now, but we can resuscitate them. Demand the best and I predict you’ll get it.


Mariah’s voice carries from the next table in the cafeteria. “I
love
this girl! When I find out who she is, I’m going to let her hang out with me.”

Izzy glances over at Mariah and then jabs me in the arm with her straw. “She’s holding the
Bulletin
. She wants to make you an Understudy!”

“Excuse me while I slip into something more revealing,” I say.

“Congratulations,” Rachel says. “I’m sorry we can’t be friends anymore.”

Mariah continues to hold forth. “Mac and I never have a moment to ourselves. He brings Morgan McGee with him everywhere.”

This may mark the first time Mariah and I have had something in common. When Russ called me last night, he said he’s bringing his pal Carey along on our movie date tomorrow night because poor Carey just got dumped and needs cheering up. I wasn’t impressed, but Russ wasn’t paying enough attention to pick up on that.

My conversation with Izzy and Rachel about how to handle the situation was pretty similar to the one going on at the next table.

One of the Understudies asks Mariah, “So what are you going to do?”

“Take Newshound’s advice,” Mariah says. “I’m going to stop putting up with crap from Dunfield guys and hook up with someone from Turnbull.”

That’s not exactly what I advised, but Mariah doesn’t intend to be outdone by cheerleaders.

I risk a glance over my shoulder, and Mariah’s topaz eyes light on me immediately. “What do
you
want, Coconut?”

“Just interested in what you’re saying about Newshound’s column.”

“Why? It’s about dating—nothing
you
would understand.”

The Understudies titter.

“Laugh, puppets, laugh,” Izzy says, and their smiles vanish.

Mariah stands. “You mutants had better learn to mind your own business.”

Knowing she likes Newshound somehow makes me braver. “Lighten up, Mariah. We’re just stunned that you and your friends find time to read when there are so many moves to rehearse.”

She doesn’t have a chance to respond before Mac and his cronies arrive. He tracks her gaze to me and leans down to kiss her anyway, saying, “Hey, Beautiful.”

She raises a hand to block the pass. “Don’t.”

Mac pulls away. “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up.”

“If my lips aren’t on yours, something’s up.” Mac grins at his cronies, sparking some shoves of approval.

I roll my eyes at Izzy and Rachel, embarrassed that I was ever interested in a guy who uses lines as lame as that.

“Times have changed,” Mariah tells Mac. “If you want a warmer reception, ditch your hyenas.”

Chief hyena Morgan McGee steps forward to Mac’s side. “You gonna let your girl tell you what to do?”

Mac rises to the challenge. “Drop the act, Mariah.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Understudy One says. “Have some manners.”

“Yeah,” Understudy Two chimes. “Wake up, zombie.”

“What’s wrong with you guys?” Mac asks, honestly befuddled.

“Nothing,” Mariah replies. “Show some respect or we’ll find better company.”

“Knock yourselves out,” Mac says, drifting off with the hyenas.

Rachel turns to me, grinning. “Way to stir it up, Newshound. Couples are probably breaking up all over the school.”

“I’m going to be one of them,” Izzy says, drooping in her seat. “Carson still hasn’t asked me out, so I’m going to have to follow Newshound’s advice and demand better.”

“Don’t give up on him because of me, Izzy. It may be good advice, but let’s face it, I haven’t had much hands-on experience. Maybe no guy is any better.”

“Jason is,” Rachel says, although she doesn’t look happy about it. “I’m the one who should be dumped.”

She explains that Jason has been asking to meet her family for weeks, yet she keeps stalling because he doesn’t know about her parents’ prejudice against non-Jewish guys. Now he’s starting to think she’s ashamed of him.

“I’m sure your parents will be fine,” Izzy says. “They know he’s been treating you well and getting you home safely. That kind of thing scores big points.”

“All they care about is bloodlines,” Rachel grumbles, picking apart her Styrofoam cup.

Suddenly a plate of fries coasts along the table in front of Rachel and knocks the cup out of her hand. The plate comes to a stop in front of me, and I look up to see Russ Davis grinning at me, obviously proud of his aim.

He starts to walk toward me, but a piranha in yoga pants intercepts him.

“I know you,” Mariah says, yanking her top down a little. “You’re the guy with the big… plaid chair. Full Throttle something-or-other?”

“Full Tilt Plaid,” Russ says, skirting around her to join me. “Hey, Lu.”

When Mariah’s jaw drops, my annoyance at Russ evaporates instantly. It helps that he looks really hot in his faded jeans and white T-shirt. Plus, he’s a senior, and Mariah must know that or she wouldn’t be squandering her cleavage on him.

I introduce Russ to my friends, and he tosses a funny remark to each of them. He’s a zombie revived.

“Hey, weren’t you riding shotgun with Carson in the Mixed Heat?” he asks Izzy. “That is one fierce driver. You should hold on to him.”

Izzy blushes, unable to say a word.

I jump in to distract Russ. “Do you want to join us?”

“I can’t, I’ve got a class,” he says. “But I don’t want to wait another day to hang with you.”

“No?” My heart starts to dance.

“Especially now that Carey’s crashing tomorrow.”

He gets it! He gets it!

“Are you free later?”

Yes YES
YES!

He writes something down and hands it to me: his locker number. “Meet me right after last class, okay? It’s in Senior’s Hall.”

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant because I know Mariah is watching.

“Wear your knee pads,” he says. “You’re going to meet Betty Boop.”

“What?” I glance at Izzy and Rachel, who look equally confused.

Laughing, he enlightens me. “I name all my skateboards. Betty’s my favorite.”

Russ turns and finds his exit blocked by Mariah’s thigh. Her foot is resting on a table as she stretches out her hamstrings for Russ’s benefit.

“I’ve been meaning to congratulate you,” Mariah tells Russ. She bends, causing her yoga pants to slide even lower and reveal the pointy tip of a tail tattooed near the base of her spine. A scorpion, perhaps? Or Satan?

“Thanks,” Russ answers, clearly mesmerized by the tail. He shakes his head as if to dispel the image. “For what?”

“For winning the chair race,” she says.

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. “I didn’t win.”

“Really?” Mariah asks, easing down a little farther.

Russ pulls his eyes away with difficulty. “Carson Cota did.”

Her work done, Mariah lowers her leg to let Russ pass. “Well, next time, sweetie,” she says. Her eyes flick toward me. “The best person always wins in the end.”

We’ve barely settled into our seats in English when the PA system crackles and Mrs. Alvarez’s voice booms into the classroom.

“Attention, students, I have an important announcement. Thanks to the proceeds of the recent motorized chair event and the bracelet campaign, Colonel Dunfield has made the top three in the Literacy Challenge, and unless another school wins a lottery, we will very likely be invited to participate in the mayor’s grand finale for the Literacy Challenge.”

The classroom explodes into cheers, and then everyone shushes each other to hear the principal explain that the school board is staging an event in mid-December to profile the top three finalists. It will take place in the lobby of the Harold Washington Library Center, and the guest list will include the mayor of Chicago, the media, prominent figures from the community, and student reps from participating schools.

“The winner will be determined at this event,” Mrs. Alvarez says. “The mayor’s special guests intend to contribute money to the cause on behalf of the school they deem most deserving. Each of the finalists will provide some entertainment.”

In other words, we have to put on a bit of a show for the mayor’s moneybags friends by inviting some local celebrities to attend and support us.

“Our literacy columnists will offer some leadership here,” Mrs. A continues. “Scoop and Newshound have been distracted by gender politics lately, but I’m quite sure they can come up with something to seal the deal at the gala and earn Dunfield students a nice, long holiday.”

From down the hall we hear the bass chant of “Scoop, Scoop, Scoop” and over it the soprano “Newshound, Newshound, Newshound.”

Smothering a grin, Mr. Sparling walks over to the door and closes it. “Okay, people,” he says. “Can someone remind me where we left off yesterday?”

I raise my hand, volunteering for the first time, perhaps, ever. “I believe we were going to discuss Sisyphus, sir. He was the king who tried to outsmart the gods and was punished by having to push a rock up a hill for all eternity.”

Mr. Sparling chuckles. “Very good, Ms. Perez. And what does his punishment symbolize?”

“Vain labor. No matter how hard Sisyphus works, the rock just rolls back down the hill, and she—I mean
he
—has to start all over. It’s a thankless job.” Just like being a columnist appears to be.

Rachel and Izzy giggle beside me as Mr. Sparling nods. “Correct, Ms. Perez. Because it’s never wise to try to outsmart the gods, is it?”

Mr. Sparling catches up to me after class. “A word, Ms. Perez?”

I have more important things to do, like make myself beautiful for my skateboarding lesson, but I follow him to his office, applying lip gloss as I go.

“It’s an informal meeting,” he says, settling into the chair behind his desk. “No need to spruce up.”

I drop the gloss back into my bag and decide to beat him to the punch. I only have nine minutes to get to Russ’s locker, and there’s someone only too willing to stand in for me if I’m late. “I’m sorry about my last column, Mr. Sparling. There wasn’t much to report about the bracelet campaign, so I sort of filled the void with advice to the guys. But I think it’s starting to have an impact.”

“I think so too,” he says. “There will be mayhem in the halls, and not just Dunfield’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean ‘The Word’ is going into syndication.”

He waits for a reaction, but I’m not sure what syndication means. “Is that good?”

“Good? It’s great. Thanks to the cross-pollination you describe in your column, five other schools have asked to run it in their papers, including
The Turnbull Tattler
. All told, there’s a potential readership of nine thousand.”

“Wow, that is great,” I say. “And scary.”