Cracked Up to Be (5 page)

My headache flares up. I press my palms against my eyes and try to wish, wish, wish myself out of this situation.

A thousand words?

I sit down, my back against my locker, and glare at the opposite wall, right into the eyes of Jessica Wellington. Jessie. Her photograph, anyway. I forgot. Four years, two suicides, one death, one rape, two pregnancies (one abortion), three overdoses and one missing person. Jessica Wellington. Since late junior year. Just up and ran away.

I’d give anything to be her right now.

So it’s one missed essay. What’s the worst they could do? Maybe I’ll cry in front of Lerner. He
hates
that. He grants extensions at the drop of a hat if girly tears are involved. It’s what he’s famous for.

“Parker?”

Chris. He sits beside me, arm close enough to touch mine. I resist the urge to flee. I can’t stand being around him in class, but it’s easier than being around him alone.

“Didn’t you get enough of me in homeroom?” I ask.

“Are you okay? Your exit from the gym was . . . startling.”

“I forgot to do an essay for Lerner over the weekend, which wouldn’t be that big of a deal if it wasn’t a point against me graduating with the rest of you at the end of the year.”

“Bet you wish you hadn’t gotten drunk on Sunday now.”

I bat my eyelashes at him. “Chris, I believe you don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I think you do it to yourself.”

“Of course I do.” I should at least be trying for a thousand words, but I don’t. I just sit there while he stares at me. “What?”

“You were right.”

“I’m right about lots of things. Be more specific.”

“Becky’s not you and that’s why I don’t want to date her again.”

I laugh.

“Many girls aren’t me. You’d better get used to it.”

“Can’t.”

“Why? I did awful things to you and I’d do them all over again.”

He winces. “I don’t think you meant them.”

“I meant them.”

“You know, that ’94 issue of
Cosmopolitan
didn’t have anything in it about G-spots,” he says. “But I should’ve figured you were lying.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

“But Becky
does
know where it is.” My mouth drops open. I try to recover, but it’s too late; Chris saw it. I don’t know why I expected Becky to tell me something like that. He smiles. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“No.” I swallow. “Okay, so
why
exactly can’t you go out on a second date? If it doesn’t bother you that she’s not me when you fuck her, I don’t see why you can’t—”

He holds up his hand. “We didn’t fuck.”

“Oh, I see. Congratulations.”

“Where do you think she is?”

“What are you talking about?”

He nods at the poster of Jessica. “Where do you think she is?”

“Dead,” I say. “Either that or working as a prostitute. But probably dead.”

“Nice. I can’t believe you just said that.” He blows a strand of hair out of his eyes. “You didn’t used to be this cold.”

“You know, if I do my homework and I don’t come to school hungover anymore, it’s still going to be like this. It’s not a phase, Chris. This is who I am.”

“Do you ever hear yourself?” he asks. “You’re so full of shit.”

“No, I’m
not
anymore. That’s the point.”

He grabs my arm and leans forward, unbearably close. His lips graze my neck and get close to my mouth. I shiver.

“Fuck off, Chris.”

He lets me go and stands.

“Good luck with your essay.”

He heads back in the direction of the gym. I reopen my binder and poise my pen above the blue lines. I should at least try.

Write a thousand-word essay comparing how you relate to “The Yellow Wallpaper” as a senior to how you related to the story as a freshman
.

I didn’t even reread the stupid story and the only memory I have of it isn’t entirely accurate, if I’m to believe Becky, which in this case I do. Still, I’m a fantastic liar in all other aspects of my life, so writing a thousand-word lie should be easy.

I can do it. I can do this.

As a freshman, I found “The Yellow Wallpaper” to be
—

Fuck it, I’ll just cry.

four

I’m a fantastic crier. Everyone is on suicide watch
.

Plus: I don’t have to do the essay.

Minus: it landed me in Grey’s office and she called my parents.

Plus: we’re getting a dog this Saturday!

On Tuesday, Norton surprises everyone by giving us an honest-to-God project that will take up a huge chunk of our time and account for a huge chunk of our grade and I don’t like him so much anymore.

“Two sides of the same landscape,” he announces, standing before us like Patton. “That’s what this project is about. You’ll pair up—”

Norton’s momentarily interrupted by the sound of screeching chairs as best friends skirt close, claiming one another. You don’t want to wind up with someone like me for a partner. He frowns.

“On second thought,
I’ll
put you into pairs—” Everyone groans. “Quiet.”

Chris glances at me. Bet he was going to ask.

“Two sides of the same landscape,” Norton repeats in his gravelly voice. “Here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to arrange a time to meet with your partner to scout the local landscape and take a picture of it. You’ll bring that picture to class. Are you all with me so far?”

I’m bored already.

“You will, as partners, proceed to paint the left and right side of the landscape, respectively, using the photo as a reference for the
base
. I want you to reimagine the landscape itself. The colors, the season—turn a paradise into wasteland! There is one caveat: you and your partner must reimagine each side of your landscape independently and figure out a way to bring it together to form a whole. I want unity and disparity here, people! Surely with everything I’ve taught you, you can manage
that
.”

I’ve never seen Norton so excited. He’s dancing on the balls of his feet and I imagine him lying awake in bed late last night, the idea coming to him like a flash of lightning. He bolts upright and shouts,
Eureka! A new way to torture my second-period senior class!
Or something.

Chris raises his hand.

“I don’t get it, sir.”

Norton surveys the room. “Does everyone else here get it?”

No one says anything. Silence is always consent.

“Looks like it’s just you, Ellory, but at least you’ll be partnered with someone who does and has the time to explain it to you slowly and repeatedly until you understand.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. Chris glares at me and Norton starts pairing us up. Every set of names called is met with either groans of derision or happy little shrieks of joy from all sides of the room. I hold my breath, expecting Chris because it would just be my life to have to fend his lips off my neck while we scout the area and take pictures, but it’s not Chris; it’s Jake.

Which seems so much more obvious in hindsight.

“Fadley and Gardner.”

“Shit,” Jake mutters. I waggle my eyebrows at him.

He rests his head on the table all
kill me now
.

After the bell rings, he approaches me very, very cautiously. It makes me feel very, very intimidating. I like that.

“Let’s make this as painless as possible,” he says. “When do you want to start scouting out locations? Tomorrow?”

“Whoa, slow down. We have to get the cameras and everything—”

“I have a digital camera. We can use that; it’s no problem.”

“Fine, but tomorrow’s still too soon.”

“It’s a huge project,” he says. “It’s probably not soon enough.”

I pull out my ponytail and retie it, thinking. It would’ve been easier if he’d volunteered to take the pictures himself, and from what he already knows about me I don’t know why he didn’t. A couple minutes pass.

Jake clears his throat. “Oh, sure, feel free to take your time. It’s not like I want to eat lunch or hang in the gym or anything.”

So I let a couple more minutes pass.

“How about Friday after school?” I finally suggest. “I have a meeting at the guidance office last period. You can meet me there when class lets out. Bring your digital camera and get a note so you can come on my bus—”

“I already go on your bus. Our bus, actually.”

I blink. “You do not.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jake says in a
duh
voice. “Bus four-twenty-six is my bus, too. I’ve been on it every day since I started here and I’ve seen you on it. You sit at the front.”

“This is fascinating. I never even noticed you.”

I try to recall the seating arrangement, but I can’t. The bus is worse than school. At least at school there are a couple of places I can hide, but there’s nowhere on the bus. I usually sit at the front, close my eyes and open them at my stop.

“Do you sit at the back?”

“Near the middle,” he says. “Anyway, Friday’s fine. See you then.”

Nothing happens Wednesday and almost nothing happens Thursday until I accidentally overhear Becky and Chris schedule their second date for Saturday. I make a mental note to find out the time they’re taking off so I can sneak into his backyard again.

“You said you felt overwhelmed on Monday,” Grey says. “Let’s talk about that.”

“What else do you want me to say? I was overwhelmed.”

“Actually, I was thinking ‘hysterical’ would be a more apt description. . . .”

The thing about crying in Lerner’s was once I started, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even mean it or really feel it, but I couldn’t stop. I could waste time analyzing that, but I won’t. It got me out of the essay and it’s getting me a dog. That’s all that matters.

“The moment got away from me, I guess,” I say.

But Grey wants more than that, like last time, and even though I’m kind of bored, like last time, I don’t want to overextend myself. I need that energy to take pictures with Jake after the bell.

Fridays are turning out to be a major pain in the ass.

I shrug. “Maybe it was because it felt too much like . . . before?”

“You mentioned that last Friday, things feeling like before,” Grey says. She opens her Parker notebook. “It seemed to be a good thing then. What’s changed?”

I stare at the inspirational poster tacked to the wall behind her head. Something about not giving up. Lame.

“I had a lot of responsibilities,” I say. “I was thinking about it. I was captain of the cheerleading squad, I was a straight A-plus student and, let’s be honest, I was popular. All of that takes
a lot
of work. I did some stupid things and lost it all, but that also meant I got rid of all those responsibilities and you know what? I liked life a lot better. Before, I was suffocating. So, lately, I’ve been trying for the homework thing, because I want to graduate, but that essay . . . every time I sat down to write it, I just
couldn’t
because—”

“You felt suffocated,” Grey finishes.

She’s so smart. I mean,
I’m
so smart. She’s so predictable.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I sympathize, Parker, but we can’t make many more allowances for you. As it stands, we’ve—”

“I wasn’t asking,” I say, laughing a little. “I mean, it’s not like I cried in Lerner’s on
purpose
.”

Shit. It comes out of my mouth wrong, like I
did
cry on purpose, which I did, but Grey’s obviously not supposed to know that. And of course she catches it.

Her face darkens.

“Ms.
Grey
!” I bring my hand to my mouth and try to sound scandalized, to diffuse the situation. “You don’t think I did it on purpose, do you?”

But
that
comes out of my mouth wrong, too.

“You just don’t learn, do you, Parker?” She closes her notebook and glares at me. “You run everyone around in circles—”

“I run everyone around in circles?”

“You do.”

“I do?”

“Stop that.” She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “You want everyone to think your problem is what happened over the summer—”

“No, that’s what everyone
wants
to think—”

“But it
is
your problem!” She puts her glasses back on. “You manipulate. You make it your excuse and that’s exactly how you push it away.”

The party starts at eight, but I show up early so Chris and I can have sex. Another year at St. Peter’s is almost behind us and we’ve already slept together eight times. This will be the ninth and there’s going to be a lot more sex in our future
.

We go to his bedroom. The speakers are mounted against his window and he turns on some sweet-sounding music really low and he kisses me and I kiss him back and then, I don’t know, I kind of seize up.

“What’s wrong?”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” I tell Grey.

It’s the last thing I tell her. We sit in silence until the bell rings. I feel like I should be furious with her, and I might be, but more than that, I’m annoyed. I have to remind myself she wasn’t there and she doesn’t know a damn thing so I can’t really blame her for making half-assed assertions once a week. I just wish she wouldn’t.

When I get out, Jake’s waiting for me at the door.

“I’ve got the camera,” he says.

“Great.”

We head outside.

I can’t believe he goes on my stupid bus and I didn’t even notice.

“You can sit where you normally sit,” I tell him.

“Don’t worry; I was going to,” he replies. “So do you have any idea—”

“Yeah, I have an idea: please stop talking.”

We climb on the bus. I take my usual seat at the front and he heads for the middle. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes. I don’t mean to, but I fall asleep, and fifteen minutes later Jake’s shaking my shoulder and looking pretty irritated. All through art he pestered me, “Where are we going? What are we taking pictures of. . . .”

“I
think
this is your stop,” he says sarcastically.

I rub my eyes. “Yeah.”

We inch up the aisle and step onto the street. I can see my house from here, but I don’t want to go through the hassle of introducing Jake to my parents because they’d interpret it all wrong and it’d give them false hope and, like I said before, I don’t do that.