Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better (2 page)

“I have to stay after tonight, for mock trial. But I’ll give you a call later, when I get home.” And then he squeezes my hand and takes off down the hall. Sigh. So much for honesty.

When I get into science, I slide into my seat next to my other BFF, Mel. She’s looking at something in her binder, but quickly closes it when she sees me. “What are you looking at?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says quickly, but a guilty look passes over her face. “Just trying to get a head start on the reading.”

“What reading?” I ask, feeling slightly panicked. “There was reading?”

“No, no,” she says. “I just mean for next week.” She takes her science book off the bottom of her pile of books and places it on top of her binder. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I sigh. “Except that I’m having a crisis.”

“What sort?” Mel asks, her brown eyes serious.

“A boyfriend crisis,” I announce. I lean in close so that no one will overhear. Some of Luke’s friends from soccer sit at the lab table behind us, and the last thing I need is them reporting back to Luke about my obvious
insecurity. “Luke was passing notes with Bailey Barelli during English, and to stop it, I had to play Romeo to her Juliet.” I pause and wait for Mel to exclaim how horrible that is.

But all she says is, “What kind of notes?”

“I dunno,” I say. “That’s the point. He didn’t tell me what it said.”

“Wait, notes or note?” Mel asks.

“Note,” I say. “Well, that I saw anyway.” I think about it. “Is there any way they could have been discussing class work over more than one note?” You’d think one note would be enough. One note I’m willing to forgive. Two notes, now that’s a little more serious.

“Devon,” Mel says, in a tone that makes me think I’m not going to really like what she has to say. “Maybe you should just trust Luke. It could have been anything in those notes.” I look at her skeptically. “And,” she rushes on. “If you’re worried about it, maybe you should just ask him.” There’s a pause, and then Mel says, “Remember how being honest and straightforward is the best policy?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I know she’s thinking about a little, uh,
situation
I had a few weeks ago. See, this summer I stayed with my grandma while
my parents were sorting out some problems in their marriage, and while I was there, I met this girl named Lexi Cortland. I kind of sort of accidentally might have told Lexi that at my school back home, I was totally popular and dating Jared Bentley, the most popular guy at Robert Hawk Junior High. Which wasn’t true, but I figured it was summer, I was just having fun, and I’d never see Lexi again.

Except then Lexi transferred to my school last month, and I had to spend a lot of time and energy scrambling around trying to fix everything. It all became super complicated, because I was trying to pretend Jared was my boyfriend, even though he wasn’t, and then I started liking Luke, and Jared starting liking Lexi. And to make matters worse, Luke and Jared are best friends. It was all a very tangled mess.

“But that all turned out fine,” I remind Mel, waving my hand like it was no big deal. And it did. Lexi and I are now BFF, she’s going out with Jared, and Luke and I are together. And yes, there were some, um, challenges to be worked out, but everything’s fine now. Better than fine, in fact.

“Hellllllo,” Lexi trills, walking into the classroom and sliding down on the other side of the table. “How are my girls this lovely morning?”

Lexi’s a morning person, probably because she gets a cappuccino every morning on her way to school. Lexi doesn’t ride the bus. Her mom drives her in, and they stop at Starbucks.

“Not so well,” I say. “I just had to play Romeo to Bailey Barelli’s Juliet.”

“Ugh,
Barelli
,” Lexi says, wrinkling up her small nose to show her distaste. “I’m so not a fan.”

“Thank you!” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. I give Mel a “see? she is pretty bad and I’m not overreacting” kind of look.

“Well, I have news, too,” Lexi says. She folds her hands on the table and waits. I notice that her nails are painted light blue with little silvery star stickers on them. Very cute. Mel and I look at her expectantly. “Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

“What is it?” Mel asks.

“Jared asked me to the dance.” We all squeal, even though since Jared is Lexi’s boyfriend, it’s kind of a given that he would ask her to the dance. But still. It’s a semiformal, which is kind of a big deal.

“Has Luke asked you yet?” Lexi asks. “We all have to go together.”

“No,” I say, grabbing the frayed corner of my science notebook and scratching it with my fingernail.

“And even if he does, the real problem is going to be getting my mom to allow me to go with him.”

“Well, you better start working on her now,” Lexi says wisely.

Hmmm. Good point. Maybe I can offer to do some more chores around the house? And then she’ll be all, “Devon, you have been so amazing lately, of course you can go to the dance.”

“Yeah,” Mel says. “Your mom’s the type that’s going to need a
lot
of work. More than just doing chores around the house or something.”

Great.

Later that night. Dinner. My mom is at
the stove, making something in a big pot, and I am at the table, doing my homework. Every so often, I’ll ask her a question, like, “How do you spell ‘necessary’?” or “What’s the capital of North Dakota?” This all has nothing to do with my homework, and everything to do with preparing for my big request, which is, you know, that I’m allowed to go to the dance.

My plan is that if I appear like I need instruction and guidance, she will assume that the dance is a very innocent endeavor. Plus, I’m going to tell her I’m going with a group of friends. Which isn’t exactly
a lie. Lexi and Jared are my friends, and Luke was my friend before he was my boyfriend. Well, sort of. We were friends for like a week or two. But still. It counts.

“Look at my picture, Devon!” my sister Katie instructs. She shoves the piece of construction paper she’s been scribbling on in my face.

“What is it?” I ask, frowning. It looks likes two stick figures with big yellow dots on their chests.

“It’s my homework,” Katie says solemnly, even though she’s in preschool and doesn’t get any homework. “It’s a picture.”

“Yes,” I say. “But what is it a picture
of
?” Then I remember that I’m not supposed to ask Katie what her pictures are of, since that makes it seem like I can’t tell. Which I can’t, but I don’t want to make her feel bad. Katie’s only five, and she’s still getting over the fact that we had to go stay with my grandmother this summer. My mom and dad call it “a difficult transition.” A lot of times I want to point out that I’m having a difficult transition, too, since over the summer my parents basically bought me everything I wanted, because they felt guilty, and now that they don’t, I’m stuck wearing all my old clothes. “I mean,” I correct, “please tell me about your picture.”

“Well,” she says. “It’s you and me getting Olympic medals.” She points at the page. “See? There’s me, getting the gold, and there’s you, getting the bronze.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Better luck next time.”

“Thanks,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at her. I stare closely at the paper. “What are those things on my face?” There are little red dots on my cheeks, and pink and purple smudges all around my eyes.

“That’s your makeup,” Katie explains. She selects a blue crayon and adds a layer of eye shadow.

“I wear makeup to the Olympics?”

“Yes,” she says solemnly. “The Olympics are on national television. You know that, don’t you, Devon?”

“Yes, of course I know that,” I say. “But how come you’re not wearing makeup then?”

“Because I’m not old enough.” She puts her crayon back.

“That’s right,” my mom says from the stove. She’s frowning at a recipe that she’s printed off the internet. My mom’s new thing is watching the Food Network, then printing off her fave recipes to try. Rachael Ray is like her new best friend. “You’re not old enough to wear makeup, Katie.”

“But when I’m thirteen like Devon, I can wear it,” Katie reports.

“Not to school,” my mom says. She stirs whatever’s in the pot. “You can’t wear makeup to school until you’re sixteen.”

This is definitely not the way I want the conversation to go, with my mom listing things that aren’t age appropriate right before I’m about to ask her about the dance. I decide I need to seize control of the situation.

“But,” I say. “Katie, you
will
be able to wear makeup to other things. Like, for example, if you want to go to the mall with your friends.” Which my mom lets me do. All the time. “Or if you want to have fun at a sleepover.” Again, totally allowed. “Or if you want to go to a semiformal at school or something.” My mom’s nodding her head at the stove, but at the mention of the word “semiformal,” her forehead wrinkles up.

“Well, Katie,” she says. “You don’t need to be worried about going to any dances anytime soon. Those are only for big girls.”

“Right,” I agree. “Like when you’re my age.”

Katie jumps out of her chair. “Sometimes we do the chicken dance at school. And it goes like this. ‘With a
little bit of this and a little bit of that and shake, shake, shake!’” She shakes around. “So I am old enough to go to dances.”

“No,” my mom says. “You’re not. Dances are for big girls.”

“I am a big girl!” Katie says. Uh-oh. I can sense a tantrum coming on. And when Katie has a tantrum, it’s not good for anyone. Especially my mom, because she will not be in a good, let-Devon-go-to-the-dance kind of mood.

“Katherine Delaney, you will not—” my mom starts.

But at that moment, the back door opens and my dad comes sliding into the kitchen, home from work. “Something smells good in here!” he says, sounding relieved. It actually does smell good in here. Like tomatoes and some kind of meat. I hope it’s goulash.

“What are you making?” I ask. My mom isn’t exactly the best cook.

“She’s making food that is hot, hot, hot on your tongue!” Katie reports. She’s sitting back at the table now, her tantrum forgotten for the moment.

“It’s not that hot,” my mom says. “It’s a chicken tikka masala, a traditional Indian dish.”

“I love chicken tikka masala,” my dad says, setting
his briefcase down and giving my mom a kiss on the cheek. “We used to always order it from that little Indian place down the street from our first apartment, do you remember that?”

“Yes, and we ordered from there so much that they got to know our order before we’d even tell them.” My mom gets a dreamy look on her face. Ugh. I feel a little disgusted, because let’s face it, it’s kind of gross to see your parents being all in love with each other. Although I am happy they’re getting along.

My parents have been in counseling lately, in order to get through their “marital roadblocks and issues.” I definitely think this past summer of me and Katie being away worked out well. For them, anyway. I mean, there was that whole tricky business about me making up a whole fake life for myself.

The phone rings, and my dad gets to it first, before Katie can jump out of her chair. “Devon, it’s Luke,” he says, handing me the phone.

Ooh, yay! Maybe he’s calling to ask me to the dance! Or to tell me all about his note-passing with Bailey, and how it didn’t mean anything. My mom and dad give each other a look: one of those “There’s a boy calling our house for Devon and how do we feel about that?” kind of looks.

“Hi, Luke,” I say, stretching the phone cord as far as it will go, through the archway of the kitchen and into the living room. Honestly, there is no privacy in this house. The only cordless is upstairs in my parents’ room. I don’t even have a cell phone, like everyone else my age. My mom thinks it’s “not necessary.” Not necessary! Doesn’t she know that cell phones save lives all the time? What if I get kidnapped, and I need a cell to text to the police where I am, so they can come and save me? It happens, I saw it on an episode of
Dateline
.

“Hey,” Luke says, sounding cute and a little nervous. He always gets nervous when my dad answers the phone. I guess he doesn’t realize that if he should be afraid of anyone around here, it’s my mom.

“What’s up?” My stomach flips. Luke and I talk on the phone almost every night, but like the hand-holding-in-the-halls thing, I’m still not completely used to it.

“Not much,” he says. “Just got home from the first meeting of mock trial.”

“Oh,” I say. “Was it fun?”

“It was awesome,” he says. Which I find hard to believe. In mock trial, kids get dressed up like judges and then reenact trials. I think. Or maybe they act out new, fake trials? Do they make them up? Who writes
them? And why would you want to act out a trial?

“That’s great,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m going to be super busy with it,” he says. “But it’s good, you know? Now that soccer’s over, I’m going to need something to occupy my time.”

“Right,” I say, wondering why he wouldn’t want to occupy his time with me.

“So, listen,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Oh, really?” I say innocently. “What about?”

Beep. The call waiting beeps on the other line. I check the caller ID, since my parents get super annoyed if I don’t answer call waiting beeps when I’m on the phone. They’re afraid they’re going to miss important calls. Which is ridiculous, because if there was an important call that couldn’t get through to the house phone, whoever it was could just call their cells. Unlike if the call is for me, because, hello, I don’t have a cell. Beep. It’s Lexi. I decide to call her back in a few minutes, when I can tell her the details of Luke asking me to the dance. Quietly of course, so that my parents don’t overhear until I have a chance to ask them.

“Is that your call waiting?” Luke asks.

“No,” I say. “Why?”

“Because it sounds like it’s your call waiting. Your
voice keeps cutting out.”

Beep. Call waiting beeps again. I check the ID. Dr. Lucy Meyerson. My mom and dad’s counselor. Crap, crap, crap. “Luke, can you hold on for one second?” I ask sweetly.