Ruby Unscripted (10 page)

Or the one that would work without fail, but I'd feel too guilty to use it: “I keep thinking about the divorce and how our life was before . . .” Nix that one.

I have cramps, really bad ones.

I'm having anxieties.

Someone told me there's going to be a school shooting.

The last one is the best, but then I imagine Mom freaking out, calling the police, the school going into lockdown, me interviewed in a cold interrogation room for ten hours without food or water until I finally confess that I just didn't want to go to school. I wonder if you can get prison time for that.

I could be homeschooled. There're only four months left of this year anyway.

Or I could go back to Cottonwood . . .

The bell rings and I leave the bathroom stall, glancing both ways outside the door for Super Jock, then onward to fifth-period English. I'm late even with my trusty and humiliating map.

I sit down, and someone behind me says, “Isn't that the girl from the Underground?”

It's better than New Girl.

I turn in my seat and meet Frankie's wide smile, a smile that makes me smile too. And I ask myself the perennial question—why are the cutest guys gay?

“Ruby, right?” he says.

“Yes. Frankie, right?”

The teacher tells the class to turn to a section of
Julius Caesar
and asks me to come forward to get a book and study guide.

After class, Frankie sets his gray bag on my desk. “So how's assimilation?”

“Huh?”

“Adjusting to Marin High?”

“Uh, well, about as good as adjusting to Marin in general.”

“It can be a rough crowd.”

I nod slowly. “Yes, but not rough as in if I moved to Chino.” I say Chino because it's the only ganglike town I've heard of . . . from watching
The OC
.

“Oh, it's just as rough. Surviving the Paris and Nicole types can be as treacherous as surviving an African war zone. There are rich kids who will never need to work a day in their lives, and also brilliant people already working toward their Nobel Prizes. But a normal girl like you, you stick out like . . . like something that really sticks out.”

“Normal, huh? I've become normal.” In Cottonwood I was artistic, intelligent, unique—someone who didn't fit with the athletes or ranchers. I've descended into normality.

“Bad choice of words. I reserve the right to withdraw. What I meant is that you're the all-American girl. No airs of pretension. You're like a brunette Reese Witherspoon. A girl bands write songs about. Not hip-hop, R&B, metal, or rap songs, mind you. But something Bryan Adams, Springsteen, Tom Petty—”

“I'm the type of girl that old, outdated guys would sing about?”

This guy is digging a hole.

“No, no. And even if they're older, they aren't outdated—never say that. The young ones sing about girls like you. Justin Timberlake, and I'm sure a lot of others. I tend to like older music. You work at a coffeehouse, with that wide smile on your face, happy as can be. You probably go to church—a Christian church—and I bet your parents aren't even divorced.”

“Got the divorce part wrong. And I'm not always happy.”

“Well, don't let this crazy smattering of people get you down, American girl. You're what men go off to war over, what makes this country great, what people cheer for at the Olympics.”

“Oh my word!”

“Exactly. Who says, ‘Oh my word!'”

I laugh at that.

“We should go for coffee. I'll buy. And maybe I should make it too.” He makes a face.

“I've greatly improved my espresso-making skills.”

His exaggerated expression of disbelief makes me laugh again.

“It was that bad, huh?” I ask.

“Girlfriend, that was the worst coffee I've ever tasted.”

And just like that, I have a friend.

Mom picks me up after school—we're unsure how I'll get home now that Carson isn't coming, and I'm praying I won't have to ride the bus. And then, gift of all gifts, Mom drives me to the phone store. Instead of a new battery, she uses her free upgrade to get me a new phone, and I'm so happy that I tell Mom I love her and kiss her cheek.

I don't tell her any of my excuses or how miserable I was at school. Frankie did improve the day, but I still don't want to return.

My phone is lime green—it would match that dress—with all the features.

A text comes in. The first on my cute new phone.

KATE:
What was it like?

ME:
The school is amazing. They have an espresso bar. They have nearly every art class you can think of.

KATE:
Pottery?

ME:
Funny.

Kate never lets me forget my many art forays and foibles. She particularly loves to remind me that I was nearly kicked out of pottery class. Let's just say that wheel can be very dangerous.

KATE:
Serious. It lakes real skill to launch a clay cannonball
through a window and just miss the principal.

ME:
Enough already.

KATE:
I forgot to tell youl this was in one of my super
important texts you missed.

ME:
Nick news again?

KATE:
No, Kate news.

ME:
Tell me!

KATE:
I'm coming down in two weeks.

ME:
Two weeks? REALLY!!!!

KATE:
Yeah, cool huh' My mom is visiting my aunt in Santa Rosa for the weekend. She already talked to your mom about it.

ME:
I'm so happy. We'll have so much fun.

KATE:
Are there tons of cute guys

ME:
Yeah. I have seen a lot And I made a friend.

KATE:
Girl or guy'

ME:
Guy

KATE:
Reeeealllry?

ME:
Yeah, but it's not like that

KATE:
Recceealllry, so what's it like then?

ME:
He's gay.

KATE:
Oh. Bummer. I suppose he's totally hot too.

ME:
Of course.

KATE:
Well, you'll have someone to go shopping with.
That is, till I get there.

ME:
He'll be my substitute Kate.

KATE:
Don't make me jealous now. Hey I saw your brother today.

ME:
Did you tell him I'm mad at him?

KATE:
Yes. He said Oh.

ME:
Sounds like Carson.

A different beep sounds from the one that identifies Kate's texts. I open, and it's Frankie.

FRANKIE:
Are you working tonight, little working girl?

RUBY TO KATE:
Hang on sec Kate, it's Frankie.

KATE:
It's happening already.

ME TO FRANKIE:
Normal Girl has today oft. not working till Thurs.

FRANKIE:
Ouch, normal girl eh? I didn't mean it like that.

ME:
Uh-huh.

FRANKIE:
Subject change. Tell me impressions of Marin.

ME:
I thought I did.

FRANKIE:
No. no. no. girl. Impressions. What does it give
off to you. It's the artEEst in me to know these
things. Give it a title?

ME:
Explain title.

FRANKIE:
Every place, every person has a title. What's Marin's title. Wealth and Culture by the Sea?

ME:
That's good. Or maybe . .. Liberal Politics and Green by the Bay?

FRANKIE:
There you go.

These are not words I would have used last week in Cottonwood. Liberal politics meant nothing to me. Politics in general was of little interest to me. My entire family and most of the people I know are conservative Republicans or conservative Democrats or nonpolitical. Here the political climate is alive and discussed around steaming cups of chai and organic hot chocolate.

ME:
A customer asked what I thought of some issue. I said I'm not political and he said I shouldn't have the freedom to live here. That I'm irresponsible.

FRANKIE:
Ouch.

ME:
His wife reminded him I'm a teenager. He said that's the best time to become informed.

FRANKIE:
I'm about as political as Hannah Montana.

ME:
Hannah Montana?

FRANKIE:
Yeah. I love that show! That girl's got it going on. So what is your title?

ME:
Mine?

FRANKIE:
Yep.

ME:
Uh .. .

Kate pops in here, and I think I should get online and make this all easier on myself, though I'm quickly getting adjusted to the keypad on my new phone.

KATE:
HELLO????

ME TO FRANKIE:
Guess I'd have to think on it.

ME TO KATE:
Sorry. What were we talking about?

KATE:
Uh-huh.

FRANKIE:
Go with the first thing that comes to your head. Some things you are or feel. Go.

For a moment, I think to tease him again about calling me Normal Girl, or I could bring up New Girl or the many nicknames my family and friends have created. But then I just try this little self-exploration.

ME:
Wanderer, seeker, lover of an, new arrival-yeah. that
was dumb.

FRANKIE:
What else? Whatever comes to mind, nothing is
dumb.

ME:
Um, bridges, joyful, lonely, lost, missing my brother
and dad. confused, sadness, truth. God, real, missing
something, wanting home and wanting adventure, or
greatness, not greatness, but something like that.

FRANKIE:
Girl, if I were straight, I'd date you.

ME:
0-kay.

FRANKIE:
Hey now, that's a compliment.

ME:
Yeah, but it's like my mom saying I'm the prettiest
girl in the world.

FRANKIE:
LOL Wide-Eyed Innocence Steps Out into the
Great Big World.

ME:
Hmm, I can live with that. What's your title?

FRANKIE:
Sexiest Man Alive.

ME:
Perfect.

FRANKIE:
Don't I know that. If only the world did.

Frankie has to go at the same time I'm called down to dinner.

I walk down the stairs to the sound of classical music and the scent of garlic and pasta sauce with a hint of fresh paint in the background.

Mac calls through the archway that leads to the dining room, “Austin cooked pasta and a bunch of stuff. We're having dinner at the table tonight.”

“I have tons of homework.”

Dinner at the table together is sometimes annoying, even though I understand why everyone else enjoys it. I like eating in my room or standing up in the kitchen or sitting behind the coffee table watching TV.

Austin usually goes all out when it's his turn to cook. With Mom it might be pizza, or bacon and eggs, or some gourmet experiment—that sometimes goes wrong. But Austin's meals are right-on dependable and delicious. We'd be fat and poor if he cooked regularly.

Mac's wearing the “man apron,” as he calls it, and setting linen napkins around the set table. Boxes line the walls of the dining room, but the table looks like we're having a holiday with candles lit and garden flowers laid along the center.

“Austin said it didn't matter what everyone was doing, that we could all take a half hour to be together. We all get to tell two things about our day.”

“Gee, great.”

He says with the seriousness of a ten-year-old, “So go wash up; it's almost ready.”

“Don't tell me what to do.” But I head up the stairs toward the upstairs bathroom after seeing the downstairs one barricaded with house stuff.

“Be careful using the bathroom,” Mom says from her room.

“The walls are still wet. And I want to work on decorating your room this weekend and getting your bathroom fixed up. So don't make too many plans.”

“Oh, you don't need to worry about that,” I say under my breath. My bathroom is a box-encased maze, so I wash my hands in the hall bathroom.

“We should do a theme in your room,” Mom calls. “Maybe black and white, with a Paris theme.”

“How about Croatian?” I say, thinking of Natasha.

Mom peers out her bedroom door, and I see that she's changed her clothes, put on makeup, and added some curl to her shoulder-length brown hair for this, our special dinner event. Honestly, I just want to get online and talk to my friends, or ignore them and talk to Frankie all night. No one else makes me think of such odd but interesting things.

Mom gives me a strange expression. “You want your room Croatian? Like Croatia, the country that was part of former Yugoslavia?”

“Yeah, or someplace exotic like that.”

“Uh, okay. Sure, we'll go for exotic. We're going to paint Carson's room too.”

“I want Carson's room!”

“You can have his room when you go to college. It's not a good idea for you to be outside like that.”

“It's a good idea to me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So why are you working on Carson's room?”

“He might change his mind someday, and I want him to feel comfortable when he comes down. He could bring friends.”