Thwonk (12 page)

I took a deep, guilty breath. Trish and I told each other everything; I was holding back, breaking the supreme bond of best-friendship. Of course she’d done this once, too, during sophomore year when we both liked Nathan Lawler (who was
my
type, not hers), and she denied it right up to the Saturday night when she went out with him behind my back, and felt so guilty about it that she called me from the movie theater to confess. Nathan’s father got transferred to Baltimore and he moved that semester, which meant we didn’t have to see him in the hall and pretend that a mere male had almost destroyed our friendship. Trish, who was five three, went back to liking short, stocky wrestlers, and I continued my search for the perfect, gangly male. Trish and I have seen the worst in each other and decided to hang out anyway.

The bell rang; Trish looked through me. “
Well?
” she shouted.

I couldn’t tell her anything now. So I made a joke and hid behind it. “When you’re hot, you’re hot,” I said.

Trish felt my forehead.

“He likes me. What can I say?”

Pearly danced into Mr. Zeid’s room at this point, all smiles.

She was holding a poster and a box of folders.

“Hello! Hello!” Pearly chirped out of character.

“Why is she smiling?” Trish demanded, looking nervous. “
What is happening to everyone?
”

“
Attention, everyone, please!
”

Carl Yolanta and Tucker Crawford looked up from their
SAVE THE WORLD
fliers as Pearly Shoemaker stood regally before us and held up a poster-sized blow-up of my soon-to-be award-winning photograph, “Donna Is Confused.” She had chosen the shot without the pigeon.

“Our cover,” she announced proudly. “Courtesy of A. J. McCreary.”

There was silence at first as the
Oracle
staff read of
Donna’s trials with Steve, Gary, Derek, and Nathaniel. Then mouths broke into grins, grins turned to laughs. I smiled proudly. We
were
all Donna—except that now I wasn’t confused anymore.

“I think I can speak for everyone, A.J., when I say that you have truly outdone yourself.”

The group applauded.

“And now,” Pearly continued, “we have confirmation that our Valentine edition is going all the way to the top!”

We looked at each other as Pearly whipped out a folder and took out a full-page ad of a perfect couple running on the beach holding Pepsis and not spilling them.

“
Pepsi
,” she whispered, “has come to Crestport.”

Everyone oohed and aahed except Tucker, who was allergic to hype.

“Pepsi,” Pearly continued, “has caught
my
vision.” She sat down, overcome. “With help from Erin Donner, whose mother is on the Pepsi account team. Thank you, Erin.” Erin smiled and looked embarrassed.

“What exactly does this mean?” asked Tucker, tapping his pen.

Pearly stared at him, appalled. “It
means
, Tucker, that a national advertiser has embraced the concept of love and today’s teen!”

Tucker examined the Pepsi ad. “Let me get this straight, Pearly. If Pepsi hadn’t bought an ad you’re saying we wouldn’t be a success?”

Pearly closed her mascaraed eyes. “I’m
saying
, Tucker, that Pepsi’s sponsorship is impressive.”

“They make sugared water and put it in cans.”

“They are a major force in the world!” Pearly fumed.

Tucker made a sound like a mule. “I get the feeling, Pearly, that we’re all part of your game here. I mean, what’s the point of this Valentine edition? You want to do something on teenage love? Let’s talk
real issues
, not soda pop!”

Tucker was angry most of the time, which would serve him well as an investigative reporter later in life. He said the
Oracle
was becoming a farce and dared her to publish an article he had just written on being alone. “You can’t be with someone else effectively, unless you can stand to be alone with yourself,” he declared. “Being part of a couple isn’t the final answer. It can’t define who you are.”

I thought being part of an enchanted twosome beat the pants off learning to be alone with yourself. Those of us present knew Tucker was not a winner in the love and romance department, since he insisted that his girlfriends be rabid about his latest causes. Trish beamed at him, ready to take up the gauntlet.

“So are you gonna publish my article, Pearly?” Tucker asked. “Put it as the lead story right up front to offset McCreary’s cover?”

Carl Yolanta gave Tucker a friendly punch. “It’s a good cover,” he said.

Pearly said she’d see as I smiled at Carl, the Ultimate Nice Guy. I knew better than to box with Tucker, because he never gave up, especially when he was wrong. He was the perfect one to write about being alone, given his track record. Pearly said we’d all done a boffo job, the Valentine edition was coming out Friday to stun and amaze a needy world. She adjourned the meeting fast.

Tucker walked up to Trish and said, “We’re too busy as a society to take the time to get to know ourselves. We’re running from this to that and not getting anywhere.” Trish looked at him dreamily and said she absolutely agreed. He shot her a thin smile and she melted. Tucker started off in his fast, investigative-reporter gait, then doubled back to walk with Trish. Trish walked slowly when she was in love and it took them half the hall to click into a unified gait.

Peter was waiting for me in deep yearning.

“A.J.,” he said adoringly.

“Peter,” I said breathlessly.

Peter took possession of my hand. We glided through the puke-green halls of Ben Franklin High, basking in softly diffused light. We were enveloped in the Student Center. Lisa Shooty invited us to her post King of Hearts Dance party. Barry Lund, the senior class president, asked if we wanted to double-date. Sara Fizinowski eyed me with consummate covetousness and asked where I got my quilted jacket. Robbie Oldsberg
stared at me with new eyes, realizing what he’d lost.

Hello
, I felt like shouting,
remember me? I’m the one you never noticed before
…

I made my way to the bathroom and was standing at the sink; a small freshman girl stared at me like I was famous. I stood up straight and shook out my hair (she did this too). I flounced my blouse over my belt (so did she). I put on lip gloss (she reached for hers). I put my F2 over my shoulder (she didn’t have one).

I strode confidently out the door, awed by my power.

Jonathan fluttered down from the ceiling vent. “How are the lovebirds?” he asked.

I’d learned my lesson. I wasn’t going to gesture or speak to the air like a moron. I epoxied myself to Peter’s gorgeous side and beamed.

Then suddenly Peter’s face went morbidly pale. He bent over and clutched his heart.

“
Peter!
”

“I just had this…sharp pain…,” he stammered, trying to straighten. He caught his breath. “I’m okay,” he said shakily. “It’s gone.”

I grabbed his hand. Jonathan put his ear on Peter’s chest, listening. I said it was gas, maybe. Heart-burn. I said I was really sorry. I looked at Jonathan who looked at Peter like Dr. Frankenstein looked at his monster.

“We will hope for the best,” Jonathan said gravely, and flew off.

I was hoping for the best, hoping so hard that my hope muscles hurt. Peter and I huddled behind Big Ben, trying to steal a few quiet moments.

Lisa Shooty grinned her Head Cheerleader smile at me and bounced over. Lisa had never given me the time of day. She tossed her mane of flawless raven curls and patted my F2 like it was a stuffed animal.

“A.J.,” she cooed, “I have so wanted a really great photo of myself as Head Cheerleader leading cheers at a game…” She let her hand glide over my camera. “I was hoping that you, who are the greatest photographer any of us knows, would take it.” She smiled extra hard.

I smiled too, the way Mom taught me to when a customer was being a pain.

“I just don’t want a
strange
picture, A.J….”

“You mean like the one I took of the football team growling and caked with mud?”

She nodded.

“You want something, Lisa, that captures passion, school spirit, and that really great backflip you do at halftime when your skirt goes up?”

She grabbed my arm. “You understand, A.J.—cheerleading is very centering for me.”

The plaintive sound of a lone kazoo wailed from the front of the Student Center. All eyes turned to see
Gary Quark, chairman of the King of Hearts Dance Committee, dressed in a purple robe and crown. Katie Broadringer, dressed like a Valentine heart, did a cartwheel in front of Gary, who blew his kazoo again.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Gary cried. “Let it be known that the King of Hearts Dance is only four days away!” A ripple of anxiety gripped the air as dateless girls considered their prospects.

“So if you haven’t asked him yet”—Gary paused here for royal impact as Katie did a series of happy-heart somersaults—“do
it
! I myself was only picked off last week.” He smiled at Becca Loadstrom, who had done the picking.

“
And
”—Gary raised his plastic scepter—“you have only two more days to cast your votes for that macho senior male who will wear this crown as
the
King of Hearts!” Gary took the crown off his head and waved it. I smiled proudly at Peter—his chances of being crowned King were excellent. Only Al Costanzo could possibly beat him. Gary gave a final snort on his kazoo. Katie did a cartwheel and ended in a heartrending split. They exited to polite applause.

I leaned back on Peter’s kingly shoulder. We would knock the world on its ear Saturday night.

Wednesday I was sitting with Peter on his sister’s couch as his destructive two-year-old niece, Marcie, dive-bombed the ottoman with her plastic doll. We were
going to have pizza while he baby-sat Marcie, a task his mother forced upon him to keep the family together. Peter stroked my hand; our hearts beat as one. Marcie stuck her tongue out at me and wiped glop on my supremely expensive cowl-neck sweater that I had bought to impress Peter’s mother, who was grinning at Marcie like she was the most adorable child in the world. I eyed Marcie’s glop and smiled tolerantly just like Mom did when Dad’s aunt Agnes asked her why she spent so much time cooking for other people when she should be at home cooking for
us.
Marcie made a foul noise meant for me. I didn’t kill her. I was trying to make a good impression.

Peter’s sister, Sarah, was dashing about in a violet silk suit while Marcie tried to rub a Hershey’s kiss on as much of her mother as possible. Peter’s mother was tall and stylish and exhibited no further supreme shrew characteristics. She said I must be a very special girl because all Peter had been talking about for the last few days was me. Sarah’s husband, Hector, was a gastroenterologist who carried a clip-on phone and ate Tums.

“Sarah,” Hector barked, “get the seat and let’s go!”

By “the seat” Hector meant Marcie’s new potty chair that was pink and happy and played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” at the vaguest hint of moisture. Sarah plunked the seat down.

“She’s not…trained?” I asked, gulping.

“We’re working on it,” chirped Sarah. “Marcie’s a very big girl and we know she can do it!”

Marcie kicked the seat and toddled away.

Sarah handed Peter a bag of Hershey’s kisses that were Marcie’s rewards when she used the chair. “It’s the learn-by-doing method,” Sarah explained. “Instant rewards, instant gratification. They train themselves. Just have the doll wet first; you’ll be fine.” Sarah beamed at Marcie who was eyeing the candy bag. “Kiss Mommy good-bye, sweetie.”

Marcie lunged for a Hershey’s kiss instead of her mother; Peter tossed the bag to me. I threw it on the stereo as Sarah, Hector, and Mrs. Terris hurried out the door to meet Mr. Terris in the city. Mr. Terris was a personal-injury lawyer and always worked late. I guess you never know when tragedy might strike.

Marcie made a noise like a B-52 and rammed her doll into the stereo cabinet. She stormed up to me and shoved the doll in my face.

“Make dolly wet!” she demanded.

Peter groaned. I took Marcie and the doll into the bathroom, unscrewed the doll’s head, poured water inside the plastic body, and put the head back on. “There,” I said, “you make the dolly wet.” I was going to add “in the next county,” but decided against it.