Saving Montgomery Sole (12 page)

“You don't say,” I whispered.

Apparently, the Reverend White was spreading the word about the “plague.”

“My mom said, if there's a plague, it's probably in California,” Madison continued. “My mom says it's nice to have a little spirit back in the state.”

Also, Madison thought Kenneth was an albino.

“Totally.” Miffy nodded. “He has that albino look, you know?”

Wow
, I thought,
so much insight in English class today
. It was a little hard to take in all at once.

Still. I made a mental note of two new possible topics.

 
Albinos: characteristics or special powers?

 
Head shape and personality

“Can I help you, Montgomery?” Madison snapped, narrowing her gaze, making me I wonder if her mascara-gooped eyelashes would connect and fuse her eyes shut.

“You could cut someone with that gaze,” I wanted to tell her.

“Oh I'm just sitting here,” I said instead, randomly flipping through the pages of my book. “You know, looking up stuff about
darkness
, in my cool rock T-shirt.”

I did get a look at Kenneth on my way to chemistry. I couldn't tell from the back if he was an albino or just really blond. It was hard to get a close look at him generally because he was usually up and out of class before I even got a chance to look at his face.

At lunch, we laid Naoki's onyx necklace and my mystery stone out on the lawn.

“It doesn't look like the onyx,” Naoki said. “It's weird, because they're both black, but the Eye looks darker.”

“I know,” I breathed.

Thomas leaned over and peered at the two necklaces. “Naoki's will go better with a blazer,” he said finally, “mostly because it doesn't have a
string
for a strap.”

“Yeah, it said it would have an adjustable strap,” I said. “I think it said it would be leather.”

Thomas sniffed. “I'm all for mystery but I have to say, that's what you get for buying something from one of your weird sites. Next thing you know it will be tinfoil hats.”

“Hey, if you're in for the mystery, you're open to any and all possibilities,” I countered.

Honestly, for someone obsessed with superheroes and astrology, Thomas could be such a cynic sometimes. “I'm just offering my aesthetic opinion,” Thomas said, pressing his fingers into his chest in a very
moi?
pose. “I leave the science of this to you two.”

“It's a cool name,” Naoki added. “The Eye of Know.”

“Well,” I said, sinking just a tiny bit, “it's not really letting me know anything yet.”

Naoki picked up her necklace and strung it back around her neck. “Well, even if it isn't onyx, and even if nothing has happened
yet
, you should wear it,” she said. “See what you can see.”

Then she popped up off the blanket and raced to fit in flute practice before class.

“Did you even know she played the flute?” Thomas marveled, watching Naoki as she skipped back to school.

“She's a mystery,” I said, folding what was left of my French fry lunch into my mouth.

“Oh.” Thomas turned and pressed his hand onto mine. “Speaking of which, I don't think I can come to your soccer game adventure. I've got a date.”

I raised an eyebrow. “With The Butcher?”

“With The Soprano,” Thomas said, straightening his shirtsleeves, which I noticed were looking especially ruffled today.

“Mob?” I asked.

“Puh-lease,” Thomas scoffed, lying back with a dramatic harrumph. “As if we date
mobsters
.”

“We?”

“He's an opera singer,” Thomas said, rolling onto his side and patting the grass next to him. “Now, let's enjoy some sun before we go back into your version of the lion's den.”

“Okay.”

We lay back on the grass and discussed how the date might go depending on how good-looking and old the guy turned out to be. The sky was that pulsing electric blue that it is here. It's this unforgettable, I'm-so-blue-it-hurts blue that I've always found kind of ridiculous. It's blue like nail polish for club kids. Anyway, today I wasn't really minding it.

You could hear kids blasting music from their rides in the parking lot.

Bump, bump, waaaaahhhhh.

“
Hey!
” a voice called.

I tipped my head up. Somewhere in the glare of the sun stood Matt, twirling a football on one finger. “Nice pants, Thomasssss.”

“Thanks.” Thomas kept his head tilted back into the sun. We could hear the crunch of many feet on the crispy grass. It was Matt plus posse. I sat up.

Matt tossed a football backward over his shoulder, and some kid dove to catch it. “Where did you get them? Oh my gosh. Was it H&M?” Matt pressed the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. In this sort of girlie pose, I guess. The boys behind him snickered.

“Why do you ask?” Thomas sat up and popped his sunglasses up on top of his head.

“Oh,” Matt lisped, “I'm just soooo curioussss. The fabric is fabulous. Ssssso luxurious…”

Thomas's face was like a mannequin's. He has this expression he can hold—it's like a supermodel's face when they walk down the runway. Like an
I'm fabulous, what are you?
face.

Matt's lips were twitching with glee.

“You know … I think my
sister
has the
same pair
,” he said, the words sliding thick off his tongue. “What a
stunning
coincidence.”

One of the boys behind Matt slapped his knee and jogged in a little circle, like it was so funny he needed to run it out. Thomas shrugged.

“I see,” he said. “Well, your sister has great taste, then.”

I looked up at Matt, just standing there. Smiling. He winked at Thomas, turned on his heel. Started walking away.

Matt. Somehow the Matt Truits are not the people we're being saved from, but the people we're supposed to, like, aspire to be. Maybe only because it means you won't have to get crapped on.

“Your sister's fat ass would never fit into these pants,” I said.

“I heard that, Sole,” Matt shouted over his shoulder.

Thomas turned and raised an eyebrow. “Does he have a sister?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, “I thought…”

“I only hung out with him for, like, a week, Thomas.”

Thomas gave me a conciliatory pat on the back. “That's what happens when your best friends get strep throat, huh?”

“Sucked all around. Make sure it doesn't happen again.”

He stood and brushed the grass off his actually-really-nice velvet pants.

“That guy is such a prick,” I said, grabbing a handful of grass and throwing it in Matt's direction. “I hate him.”

“Doesn't mean you should say crap about his potentially fictional sister.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed another handful and tossed it softly at Thomas.

“Okay, well, I love you, babe,” he smooched into my ear, and trotted off to class.

I picked up the Eye of Know and put it around my neck. It slid down my chest with what felt like a little pulse.

See what I see
, I thought. I scooped up my bio notes and tromped off to class.

*   *   *

By 4:15 p.m., the parking lot and bleachers at Honora Park Soccer Field were packed. The stands were a sea of soccer moms, with their matching coolers of snacks and their yelling faces. They sported fleece vests and hiking shoes, California outdoor gear for all seasons, especially when paired with lightweight baseball caps and sunglasses.

My moms always wear matching vests and shoes to games: red for Momma, lavender for Mama. It's kind of embarrassing, but I kind of like it, too.

The players sprinted up and down the field. Little girls in soccer jerseys—orange for the Cubs, baby blue for the Crows—all pinging around like icons on those old video games people used to play before they had Xbox. Like the
Space Invaders
game I saw this one time at a truck shop that Momma Jo beat me at (four games to one).

The Crows looked mean and determined. And huge.

Tesla sat on the bench, perched next to Mama Kate. At some point she stood up and waved to me in the bleachers. I realized it had been a while since I'd been to one of these things. Hating sports makes supporting your family's obsession a little awkward at times. Or, you know, that's what I've told myself.

As the opening whistle blew, the woman on my left, in Cub orange, pulled out her knitting and thermos, clearly in it for the long haul.

Somewhere downwind, though, another woman was already on her feet, yelling obscenities at the ref. Like, these women called the ref things like the
C
word. Stuff like that. Bizarre.

You gotta love a yoga-loving hippie mom who lets loose and carnivores out when she hits the soccer field.

I didn't really notice the rest of the people sitting on the other side of me until five minutes into the game, when someone kicked my boots squeezing past. It was a girl in a blue jacket carrying a blue pom-pom.

“Uh, 'scuse me.” A girl with her hair in a high top bun gave me a quick up-and-down glance as she stepped over my boots.

There is a way to say “excuse me” that makes it very clear you assume it's the other person's job to move. It was invented by teenagers who hang out in clumps.

I looked over to confirm my suspicions. There they were, two more of them, dressed in minidresses and bejeweled flip-flops, the other California uniform for all seasons. They were all drinking (shudder) giant bottles of kombucha, a drink actually made to taste exactly like vinegar that people drink because they think vinegar is good for you.

“Oh my
God
,” High Bun droned as she plopped down next to her friends, “It took me, like, eight hours to find this place!
Whatever!
”

“Oh my
God
, I know,” her friend Ponytail drawled. “This town is, like, so backward. It's like ‘Hi, it's called legible street signs. Get a
clue
.'”

“Oh my
God
, I know,” a girl with her hair in two long braids—Braids—groaned.

They were like a bubble gum–snapping, flip-flopping three-headed monster. As soon as the game started, they whipped out their phones and started scrolling through whatever girls like that scroll through on their phones. Probably pictures of each other.

High Bun held out her phone and smiled at it.

CLICK!

What kind of person keeps that sound on their phone?

The same person who starts off a soccer game taking a picture of herself.

CLICK! CLICK!

“Which one is your sister?” Braids asked.

“She's number sixty-two. She's all, like, forward. Like offense,” Ponytail explained.

“Oh my
God
, she's so cute,” Braids squealed.

“She's, like, the only person playing today who doesn't need braces and plastic surgery. She's totally cute.” High Bun squinted and aimed her phone at the field.

CLICK!

“Crows versus
dogs
,” Braids cackled.

“Look at this!” High Bun passed her phone to Ponytail. “It's like ‘Hi, I don't care about my overbite.'”

On the field, a skirmish broke out as a bunch of kids lunged for the ball and landed in a pile. I pictured the three-headed monster on the field, at the bottom of the pile, me on the top, my cleats—

Braids yawned. “This team sucks.”

“I think a couple of these kids are, like, Mexican. They're probably not even legal,” High Bun added, thumbing through her photos.

I fumed, my vision blurring so their little stupid heads were swimming in soupy sunlight. I tried to focus on my hands pressed into my lap.

“That girl needs an eating disorder,” one of them said.