Fancy White Trash (8 page)

I nod. Kait and the Guitar Player, who else?

“But then that jerk dumps her and goes for her older sister. Next, he moves on to her mom. It's pretty outrageous, but the upside is that the girl, the first one that I liked so much—suddenly she's always at my house. Watching TV with my brother, staying for dinner. Even spending the night. She's everywhere I go—home, school—and the more I get to know her, the crazier I am about her.”

I have to admit that I'm liking this story more and more. Smiling, I wait for him to continue.

“And then I start to panic because months have gone by. Sometimes I think I don't have a shot. Sometimes I think what a rotten thing it would be to steal her away from my own brother. But even though I try, I can't stop thinking about her.

“So I talk to my brother and I say dude, if you love this girl, go for it. What're you waiting for? And get this, he says, ‘She's my best friend. I don't love her like that.' I'm like, whoa, maybe I do have a chance. But I better move fast because graduation's less than a month away and then I'm going to Nicaragua for the summer.”

As he talks, I'm drawn closer to him. I'm sitting on the floor. My leg brushes his chair.

Jackson swings forward so his knees are outside of mine and he's staring down at me. “Do you remember that night? When I talked you into studying for our finals together?”

I swallow. I remember, too well, his lips against mine, his hand in my hair. Our first kiss. We never did make flash cards.

“A week. That's what's bothering me, Abby. A week wasn't enough for us.”

I want to agree with him. I want to lunge into his arms and let him hold me until my sister is okay. Kiss me until I forget we're in the hospital. But that is what a soap-opera heroine would do. She would let the passion of the moment sweep away her judgment, plunge her back into a relationship that can never work. It's a good thing that I have my Plan. The Rules will save me.

“Jackson,” I stall. “Shelby says you're the father of this baby. Is it possible?”

His big hand reaches down and cups my chin. “Did we have sex? Yes. But I'm not this baby's dad.”

It's almost enough, that certainty in his voice. His face leans closer to me. We are inches apart, and I can feel the warm exhale of his breath against my lips. But the idea that for even one second I might end up with my niece's father makes me feel like I've sucked down one too many sourballs.

“Jackson,” my voice comes out as scratchy as the carpet I'm sitting on, “I'm sorry. I can't do this.”

Our eyes meet. He is about to say something else, something that will maybe change my mind because it is hard to fight my
want
when he is so close.

But Cody opens the door and says, “Guess what?”

I jump to my feet. “Is it over? They're okay?”

“They're both fine. It's a girl, five pounds and eleven ounces. We're all invited to meet her right now.”

“The vending machine told you?” I ask, glancing pointedly at the two sodas in his hand.

“I ran into your mom on the way back. Do you want to give me a hard time or are you coming already?” Cody takes my hand, and we run down the hallway.

We stand outside the baby room, at the big picture window, and look at my niece in one of the tiny beds. She is red and wrinkly, but at least they've cleaned her off so I have a better first impression of her than I did of Hannah. She is perfectly beautiful, and I already love her so much my heart hurts.

Then I see the name card. “She didn't.”

“What?” Jackson comes up behind us. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I fight not to lean into him.

“Look at the name.”

“Stephanie? That's a nice name,” Cody says.

“Stephanie?” I repeat. “As in the feminine of Stephen, as in Steve the Guitar Player, who is both this child's father and stepgrandfather?”

Cody laughs. “Oh my gosh, Abs, your family is better than any show on TV.”

“Shut up.” I punch him in the arm. “We are not.”

Cody hums the tune to “I'm My Own Grandpa.” And I have to admit it. He's right. My family belongs on
Jerry Springer
.

Chapter
7

Wednesday morning, and even though my sister has just given birth, Mom decides it's better for me to go to school than hang out at the hospital all day. I shuffle into Bio II, decked out in my new sundress, only to find a note instructing us to go to the lab instead. That Mr. Kimball, always trying to keep us on our toes.

“Welcome to Bio Lab!” Mr. Kimball chants as we file in and take seats on the stools at each station. Because Cody's not in this class, I don't look for anyone, don't save a spot.

Once we're all settled, Mr. Kimball pulls on his seriously chartreuse tie and says, “Today, we'll be playing an exciting game called ‘Who's My Buddy?' If you win, you get an interesting, serious-minded lab partner who understands the assignments and helps you pass this class. If you lose, well, sorry folks, you'll get one of those lab partners who never does their share of the work and attempts to cheat off you during quizzes.”

“Mr. Kimball?” Shauna Moore asks from her seat in the back. “Can't we choose our own partners? That's how Ms. Tatum does it in U.S. History.”

“Ms. Tatum has her ways, I have mine.” Mr. Kimball twists his tie, wrinkling it and showing its raspberry-colored back side. “Listen up, fellow scientists. I'll read out the lab-partner assignments, and you smile or groan accordingly. Not that it matters. There will be no trading, no switching, no complaining. Got it?”

He doesn't wait for an answer, just plows on through the list. As a Savage, I'm used to being near the end of most alphabetical arrangements, so I tune out and study my newly painted-just-for-school Purple with a Purpose nails. I'm picking at a tiny bubble on my thumbnail when Mr. Kimball calls my name.

“Yes?” I answer, forgetting that he's assigning partners and no response is necessary. There is snickering from certain people in the class. I definitely recognize Carolyn Schmitz's gurgly laugh. You'd think she'd get surgery for that or something.

“You and Mr. Fielding,” Mr. Kimball is kind enough to repeat.

Lucas Fielding? He was in my Bio I class last year and asked a million questions. I guess that's not a bad quality in a lab partner.

When Mr. Kimball's done, we have to shuffle around so we're sitting with our partner. I stay on my stool, cute new metallic baby-blue flip-flops dangling in the air, and wait for Lucas to find me. He's a total brain so it doesn't take him long.

“Hey, Abby,” Veronica Ortega, who is also in my computer class, says as she passes me on the way to the front row. “Guess you're a winner, huh?”

Meaning Lucas Fielding is definitely someone you want to cheat off. She got Andy Nichols for her partner. Hot
and
smart—lucky girl.

“You, too,” I say to her, and turn to my lab partner. “Hi.”

“Hi.” His one eye looks at me. The other one does . . . not. It appears to find my right cheek quite fascinating. I'm not sure where to look so I focus on his nose.

“I'm taking all AP classes this year, but I haven't seen you in any others,” Lucas says, his nostrils flaring as he speaks.

I try meeting the eye that's looking at me. “After I took regular Bio I with Mr. Kimball last year, he asked me to move up to this class. I like science.” Lame-o answer, but there it is. I've never had a teacher specifically request that I keep taking classes with them. I couldn't say no.

“Cool.” He folds his hands on top of his camouflage binder.

The lab is buzzing with noise, but Lucas and I have apparently run out of things to say. Thankfully, Mr. Kimball thumps a book on the front table to get our attention.

“Now that you're all acquainted, let's go over some lab basics. The school district, in its unrelenting quest to avoid law-suits, has declared that simply giving you a handout on safety procedures is not enough.” He passes out a sheet with guidelines on it about what to do if you splash chemicals in your eyes or accidentally set something on fire. Maybe the school-district powers that be were onto something. I'd never actually read the rules before.

“Instead of my traditional fifteen-minute lecture on common sense, we'll be spending all of this period on how to not kill yourself during an experiment. After today, we'll meet here in the lab every Wednesday. Okay, if everyone would open the cabinet under your table and pull out the safety goggles . . .”

I let Lucas rummage through our cabinet as I keep reading. In case of explosion? Flying glass? Toxic gas? I never knew science class could be so exciting.

“Is Kait home? Is the baby healthy?” Gustavo, Kait's manager at Blockbuster, sounds a little frantic. When I'd met him at the store a few times, he'd always seemed pretty mellow. You wouldn't think Kait having a baby would cause major problems, especially since it's not like he couldn't see it coming.

“She's fine,” I say, holding the kitchen phone between my ear and shoulder as I stir the SpaghettiOs I'm making for Hannah's dinner. “The baby, too.”

“Oh, thank God,” he says, and I hear him let out a long breath. This is not an employer worried over a missed shift. This is someone who cares.

I supply more info. “Kait and the baby will be home sometime tomorrow. The day in the hospital was just a formality, since she went into labor so early.”
If
it was early, but I don't say that to him.

“Thank God,” he says again.

Gustavo is in his mid-twenties and was one of the first employees at our local Blockbuster when it opened ten years ago. He's a little on the nerdy side, with his hair perpetually pulled back in a ponytail and glasses always slipping off his face. He's not someone new and I don't know what kind of baggage he might have, but he's not bad-looking. He doesn't fit my Rules, but it occurs to me he might be perfect for Kait.

“Come by Friday night,” I say. “I'm sure Kait would love to see you.”

“She would? I mean, sure, I'll stop by. What time?”

I tell him to come by after dinner and to bring a movie. It's the first time I've thought about applying my One True Love Plan to someone else. Would it work for my sisters? For Cody? I'm worried about him. What's with the hickey and the mysterious freshman girl?

“Abby!” Mom hollers from her bedroom.

“What?” I holler back, turning down the heat and setting aside the wooden spoon. I take a sip of water and watch the Os bubble.

“Abby!” she yells again, and I realize she's not going to let it go.

In her bedroom, the last one down the hall, the blinds are closed. Mom lies diagonally across the unmade bed. One arm is flung over her face. The other rests on her belly. At a little over three months pregnant, the only sign that my little sister is in there is the slightest rise that's only visible if you knew how flat Mom's stomach was before.

Despite Mom's assurances to the contrary, I'm sure the baby's a girl. I wonder if she'll look like Hannah or more like the Guitar Player. Will she have musical talent? Be a great dancer? It's too bad the only gift my dad seems to have passed on is his high tolerance for alcohol.

“Will you get me my migraine pills?” Mom whispers.

“No.”

She moves her arm from over her eyes. “What did you say to me?”

“You can't take those things when you're pregnant. I don't want an eleven-toed sister.” I put on my I'm-serious face. The one she should use with me, not the other way around. But I'm used to her abdicating the Momness guise in favor of her more popular role as just-one-of-the-girls.

“Abby! You can't expect me to go through a migraine without my pills. The pain!” She curls into a ball.

“I'll bring you a Tylenol.”

“You know those don't work.”

I suspect that Mom's migraines are actually hangovers. I've been able to add two plus two for a long time, and I don't think it's a coincidence that she often gets the headaches after the partying.

Mom moans and curls herself up tighter. I bring her a Tylenol and a glass of water and help her sit up so she can swallow.

“Will you call Steve for me? Will you tell him I need him to come home?”

Need him. It's the kiss of death for Mom's relationships, but she's hurting so I agree. He doesn't answer. I leave a message on his voice mail. I wonder if I will have to be Mom's breathing coach and if so, can I get PE credit for it?

I'm on my way to Computers on Thursday afternoon, cutting through the herd of other students rushing to beat the bell, when I see Cody up ahead. He's walking with a girl I've never seen before. I wonder if she's The Freshman.

“Cody!” I hurry to catch up.

He says something to the girl and she keeps walking.

“Is that her?”

“What? No! Are you kidding me?” He moves his backpack from one shoulder to the other.

Today, two days after the Big Hickey Incident, the mark is nearly gone. Is he planning to get a new one? “You can't hold out forever.”

His eyes narrow. “There's nothing to tell. Drop it, Abby. It was a stupid mistake.”

I'm trying to decide if it was a stupid mistake to make out with a
girl
, or if the stupid part was telling me it was a girl when it wasn't.

“That reminds me,” he says, even though we haven't been talking, just walking toward the lockers. “There's a new guy in my speech class. Transfer student.”

Speech is a requirement that you can take any year. Most people put if off until they're seniors. I took it last year to get it out of the way.