Maine Squeeze (37 page)

Love, Alison

Dear Alison,

No! God, no. Do you think that's my whole life or something? Dave?

Wonder what Dave's new e-mail address is. I wonder if I could find him on Yahoo?

“Phase three,” Beth told me when I was reminiscing about Dave at work today. “Acceptance.”

“Phase four,” I said. “You quit observing my phases. I feel like the moon.”

“Interesting metaphor, Courtney.” Gerry nodded. “You feel like the moon. You see yourself as a celestial body. Out there in your own private world, in outer space.”

“She could be feeling independent,” Beth said. “That would be good. Because she broke the chain, she completed the cycle.”

Excuse me while I go into the ladies' room and get my period. All this stupid talk about moons and cycles. It sort of made me want to forget about being a lawyer and sign up for the NASA shuttle. Just to get away from the psychological profiles.

Talk about having a bad weekend. I disgust myself sometimes.

I was giving Oscar his pill tonight—phenobarbital in a budget value hot dog, delish—and all of a sudden I wanted a hot dog.

I cooked 2 in the toaster oven and ate them right away.

I melted
cheese
on top of them. Not even good cheese, but those watery American slices Mom buys in 5 pound blocks. Then I put on ketchup, mustard, relish, and even some Frank's Hot Sauce.

I feel so gross now. I should have eaten Oscar's pills instead of his hot dogs. They're not even good hot dogs, they're the kind you buy 40 at a time because they're for a dog. Dogs for a dog. I wish I was one of those people who could make herself throw up.

I called Beth and told her I'd slipped up. “You mean, you broke your dumb no-dating law? You went
out
with someone?” She sounded really excited.

“
No
, of course not,” I said. “I ate a hot dog. Okay, two.”

“Ewww,” she said. “Courtney, are you all right? Do you want me to come over? You know, that reminds me of the time that I was really upset about not getting into the arts school and I chain-smoked all night. Which wasn't that long after you didn't get the summer internship at that law firm and I took you out for dinner and you had a big fat steak and a crème brulée—remember?”

At this rate we might as well have eating disorders, except we lack the discipline. Maybe Beth and I need to be hospitalized, though. We should be. Maybe instead of going to college. Could save a lot of money on red meat, fat, and cigarettes.

“Courtney Smith.
You're
running?”

Suzanne Stupemeier stopped me in the hallway this morning.

I hate when people my age talk to me like that. It's like, get out of your minivan, take off your soccer-mom sunglasses and your cardigan sweater, put down your Tupperware container and just
talk
to me.

This student council vice-president thing wasn't my idea, okay? My friends made me do it because I'm the only one who can stand up to the Tom's hormones, or hormone, actually—testosterone. The one element I can remember from Health Issues, the junior year class to teach you things you don't learn in school but that you take at school.

And I wasn't sure I was
going
to do it until I had a precollege-application meeting with my guidance counselor yesterday and she pointed out although my grades were excellent, except for that incident in Driver's Ed, the extracurricular section of my college apps was a little blank.

“You might want to add a few things here,” she said. “They like … active applicants.”

Sexually active? I thought. Really? Because right now I don't have a shot in hell—

Mrs. Greene must have seen me blushing. “You know, well-rounded people, who get involved at school, play sports, and have interests outside of school.”

“Oh. Right.” I sighed. That kind of active. “Well, I do have a job,” I said.

“Yes.” Mrs. Greene nodded. “You do have that.” She made it sound like a disease. What's so bad about working at Truth or Dairy?

“And I adopted that highway,” I reminded her.

“You and a group of a hundred others,” Mrs. Greene reminded
me
.

When it came to sports, I had nothing to say. I was just sort of average at everything. But hey, not everyone can be on varsity teams. Especially not Jane, because she hates uniforms, though we talked about it once and both agreed it would be cool to have a number.

Okay, back to my campaign.

“Well, what
are
your ideas?” Suzanne asked me.

“I'm working on my platform,” I said. Does anyone in student council do anything but organize parties anyway? Is it that important?

“I heard you were antigay. Is that true?” She picked a pill off her sweater. “Because that's really wrong. I guess.”

“Not anti
gay
, anti
guy
,” I said.

That sort of stumped her. “Well, how do you differ from your opponents?”

“Uh … they're all guys?” I said. Because Tom's gone out with too many girls and been too mean to them for any other girl to run. Talk about a gender gap.

How he got elected in the first place, I have no idea. Maybe we were all voting for the couple, Jennifer and Tom. They would have been prom king and queen, if they'd lasted.

“But anyway, Suzanne, I'm really devoted to the cause,” I went on. “Our school's the best. We need to leave a legacy.” Of truth, justice, and the American way, I should have said next. Family values! Suzanne was a bit of a Primster.

“Exactly,” she said. “And our legacy is …?”

“Growing every day,” I told her. Like a freaking houseplant. “Like our … futures.” Or maybe our waistlines. Or maybe the waiting lists at the colleges we want to get into but don't have a chance at.

“Exactly!” she said. “That's exactly how I look at it, Courtney. You have my vote. But I don't have to hate guys. Or gays. Right?”

“Of course not. Freedom of choice,” I said. “That's what it's all about. Being … you know. Free and clear.”

“God.” She gazed at me for a second. “You're so
smart
.”

Okay, this is really bizarre. You know how I've been seeing Grant everywhere lately? A few times when I leave work, and at Walgreens, etc. Like, everywhere I turn? Mind you, it's not a bad
view
. When you get right down to it, I probably think he's the most underrated senior guy in terms of looks, but he's always hiding in these standard plaid shirts and nondescript jeans, half the time he blends into the crowd. But not today.

I got off of work and he was
right
behind me in the parking lot when I went to get my car. I felt like I was on the Monday night TV movie,
The Acquaintance Beside Her, Constantly, Dogging Her Heels
. There was
his
car. Next to mine.

“Hi, Grant.” I waved, all friendly-like. (It's supposed to be the best way to throw off intruders.) He waved back. “So, um, Grant,” I said, trying to be casual. I was glad to see he wasn't parking in the disabled zone anymore. “Why do you keep following me?”

He gave me this weird look. Well, sure, who wouldn't after they'd been busted.
Get over me
, I wanted to say. You talked to me—don't you know? I'm unavailable this year. For dating, for fun, for like … life.

“What? Oh, no. I wasn't following you, Courtney,” he said. “I was—”

“Look, never mind,” I said. “I'm in a hurry.”

“So am I!” He made this face at me, as if I was being a real jerk. And suddenly I realized what was going on.

“Are you keeping tabs on me or something? For Dave?” I asked.

His face got all red. “Are you serious?” he scoffed.

“Well,
are
you?” I asked.

“
No
,” he said. “You know, not everything's about you and Dave!”

Oh, how I wish that were true. “Look, Grant, you're nice and all, and I appreciate you talking to me the other day. But you can't go around following people just because your friends ask you to—it's not cool.”

“You're going to tell me about cool?” He stared at my black-and-white cow apron. I was in such a hurry to get home that I'd forgotten to take it off.

“I have a job, okay?” I muttered.

“So do I,” Grant said. He was about to go on when I jumped into my car and slammed the door. I know it was rude, but he was acting so weird, I had to get out of there. He was practically picking a fight with me.

Lighten up, Lake Superior. I think I'll copy my class and work schedules and put them in his locker just to make this easier for him. Like he doesn't know my work schedule already. I mean, how much shopping can one person do at the Canyon Boulevard stores? You've got your pet shop, your dry cleaner's, your pizza place, a fabric store, some tax place that's only open from January to April, and an insurance office. And Truth or Dairy. The only original place in the bunch.

Can't believe I've been working there over a year already. Time flies when you're separating frozen banana chunks.

The Over-the-Hill-and-through-the-Woods-to-Grandma's-House Campaign continued at dinner tonight.

“We'll leave at twelve that Wednesday,” Mom said. “It's a five-hour drive, so we'll get there just in time to help with the pies.” She had a stack of index cards in front of her. Turkey leftover recipes she's already excited about making and storing in plastic bags.

“Mom, it's two months
away
,” Bryan said. “And it's not five hours, it's four. And what's the big deal?”

“The big deal is that this is a long trip, and we need to plan ahead, and we need to factor in an extra hour in case of bad weather,” Mom said. She started her lecture on the virtues of planning.

Bryan took another helping of pasta. Oscar gazed up at him with intense love in his eyes, dying to get a mouthful of rotini.

I tuned them out and started thinking about the reasons I need to stay here. Index cards, please.

1—Don't want to spend multiple hours in a car with family
.

2—Hate turkey. Grandpa won't even consider free range. Grandma won't even consider me not eating everything on my plate, which will be approx. 2 lbs of turkey
.

3—Don't want to spend multiple days at Grandma and Grandpa's with family.

4—Could see Dave, back in town to visit his family for weekend, could get together, share a passionate night of romance, rediscover lost love for each other—

“Courtney, you and Grandma are sharing the guest room,” Mom said. “You can both sleep in the queen bed—”

“What?” I asked. Was she joking? “She and Grandpa—”

“Are not getting along that well these days,” Mom said.

“They don't share the same room?” I asked.

“Oh, not for a while.”

Whoa. The secrets this family is hiding. What next?

“In fact, they have what you might call an ‘open' relationship,” Mom said.

“What? Mom, what are you saying?” I demanded.

“Your grandmother's gone on a few dates lately. Nothing serious, but—”

“Are they getting a divorce?” Bryan asked. “They're like … seventy. Can't they sort of stick it out at this point?”

“They might. But they have some … problems. You know.”

Bryan and I looked at each other. I think we both knew what she was getting at, but I shut up right then. I didn't want to know what the “you know” was referring to.

My parents are divorced … my grandparents are having sex problems … my grandparents are having affairs.... Doesn't
anyone
in this family know how to have a relationship?

It's good to have something else to focus on, but not something that makes me this nervous. I have to give a speech for my vice-president gig, in front of the entire school. So here goes. I'll use the rest of this page—make it short but sweet. I'll write it
now
, get it out of the way, no procrastinating.

“Hi. My name is Courtney Smith. I see a lot of familiar faces out there.”

And they're all scowling at me. Laughing hysterically. I've probably got a scrap of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. And my face is as red as my hair, the way my skin gets when I'm nervous, all the blood rushing to the surface in fight-or-flight mode. But I must go on. This is for … history. This is for … my entrance applications.

I have to get in somewhere really good. Dave and I were going to both go to CU, but that plan is definitely off. The school might have over 20,000 students, but that's not enough. Besides, he'd probably think I was following him there, chasing him, refusing to believe it's over.