When It Happens Read online

  “Dude.” Mike puts his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Chill. What’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with me, baby? What’s the matter with you?” Josh jokes in his best Danny Zuko voice. The school play last year was Grease, and Josh played John Travolta’s character. And he was actually really good. His goal is to be an actor. My goal is to be a musician. A lot of our conversations involve complaining about how the world keeps telling us to give up now while we still have a chance to make something of ourselves.

  Mike ignores him.“Have you seen her yet?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say.

  Subtle is not part of Josh’s vocabulary. He’s all, "Woohoo! Tobey’s in love. He’s in lust! Tobe’s got—”

  “Hey. Dude? Chill.” Something in Mike’s voice makes Josh actually shut up and eat his lunch.

  Mike knows all about the Sara thing. Josh knows, too, but it’s different with him. Josh lives for relationship drama. He’s notorious for public displays of mortification with ex-girlfriends in random hallways. But like me, Mike’s also looking for something real. I just don’t think he knows it yet. He loves the chase. He’s never satisfied with what he gets.

  “Let’s see your schedule,” Mike says to Josh.

  We all get our schedules out and determine that the only things the three of us have in common are lunch and gym. The only other thing I have with Mike is history.

  “Did you get that new bass?” Josh asks Mike.

  They’re talking, but I tune them out.

  I finally see her.

  She just walked in with Laila. She’s hugging her notebook and looking different, but the same. Better, if that’s even possible. I mean, she was hot before, but now she’s . . . I almost have an apoplexy when she turns around and looks toward my table. Every fantasy I’ve had this summer comes back to me. Every scenario from all those sweaty nights in bed, listening to my iPod.

  Mike feels the vibe and follows my stare. “Whoa. What did she do?”

  Josh takes one look and says, “That’s what’s up.”

  CHAPTER 5

  staring at me

  september 2, english

  When I see Scott in AP English, I completely forget what it was about him that made me be his girlfriend last year. Before I realized I wanted more and dumped him.

  He looks at me. I quickly look away. I lucked out. Laila is saving a seat for me in the front. So I can avoid Scott, who’s in the back wrestling with his bag, which I’m sure is already overpacked with books. I’ve had enough guy trauma for one day.

  “Good morning, genius prototypes,” Mr. Carver booms. “Welcome to the most demanding class of your entire high-school career.”

  Um, yeah. That seems a bit pretentious. I swear, the guy is on such an ego trip about English. I had him last year for honors. He thinks whatever he teaches is all that and a bag of Munchos. As if they even give us good stuff to read. It’s like the reading list was established in 1927 and hasn’t been updated. Ever.

  Laila slips me a note. We started passing notes about the Caitlin situation in calculus. Right before she had to restrain me from strangling Joe Zedepski. He already had his calculator out. His huge graphing calculator that we don’t need yet because it’s only the first day. The one he just had to put right at the edge of his desk, teetering precariously, just waiting to fall off. Anyway, it’s most excellent that I have two classes with Laila. Plus we have lunch with Maggie next.

  I unfold the note in my lap. It says:

  I write back:

  Laila’s right. Caitlin’s not worth it. And if Dave doesn’t even like me, then it doesn’t matter, anyway.

  On our way to lunch, the hall is beyond clogged. While we’re inching toward the cafeteria, I practice a visualization exercise. I picture myself with my ideal boyfriend. Then I put the image in a pink bubble and let it float out into the universe. True love is in my immediate future.

  We get pushed through the doorway.

  “There,” Laila says. She points to a half-empty table.

  We put our stuff down and get in line. I grab a tray and utensils and a bunch of napkins. I slide my tray toward a culinary destination of . . . what the frig is that? Fried turtle? I decide to pass and get a sandwich instead. And there’s fries, so it’s not a total disaster.

  “Where’s Maggie?” Laila says.

  “I don’t know.”

  We sit down. Laila is all hyper about filling me in on the details of her upcoming dissections in AP Bio. That nervous-stomach-first-day-of-school feeling is competing with my hunger.

  Maggie throws her bag down on our table.

  “Where were you?” I ask. “I was getting scared that you weren’t in this lunch anymore.”

  “I was working on my goal,” Maggie says.

  Laila goes, “Huh?”

  “You know. To be smarter.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Laila says. “I just don’t get how you could instantaneously become smarter between fifth period and now.”

  “I tried to get into your history class,” Maggie tells me.

  I’m like, “Are you still on that? Don’t worry about—”

  “They wouldn’t let me in. See? I told you. It’s all planned according to brain size.”

  “Excuse me,” Laila retorts. “But if you weren’t smart, would we be hanging out with you?”

  “Heck no,” I add. “Then I’d have more time to spend with my boyfriend.”

  “And what boyfriend would that be?” Maggie asks me.

  “You know. Jake.”

  “Okay.” Laila says. “For the last and final time? Jake Gyllenhaal? Is not your boyfriend. He’s a movie star. And sorry to tell you this, but last I heard he was dating someone who’s not you.”

  “Yeah, well . . . my brain’s bigger than hers.”

  “And I’m sure that’s what he’s interested in,” Maggie says. “A girl with really big brains.”

  “Can we please just focus on real people?” Laila begs.

  “Hi,” Dave says.

  Who is suddenly standing right next to me.

  I gag on a fry and have this uncontrollable coughing fit that lasts for about a year.

  “Oh, hi,” I squeak. I gulp my iced tea. I try to wipe grease off my fingers, but I can’t get the napkin to work right. I look at Maggie. She’s just drinking her juice, unfazed. But if there were a thought bubble over her head, it would be screaming, I told you so!

  “Is this seat taken?” Dave says. He’s referring to the space next to me. Which is empty.

  “Uh, no,” I stammer.

  Laila starts eating her meat loaf, enraptured with the nutritional information on her milk carton. I know that if she looks up at me, she will explode.

  Dave puts his tray down. He sits next to me. Really close on the bench. Which is unnecessary, since no one is sitting on the whole rest of the bench.

  I try to breathe normally.

  Dave goes, “So, how was your summer?”

  “Good,” I say. “Um. This is Maggie.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “And, um . . . do you know Laila?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of her.” He looks over at Laila and smiles.

  “Oh?” Laila is skeptical. “What did you hear?”

  “Just that you’re brilliant.” Dave turns to me. “Both of you.” He stares right at me. His eyes look like he’s trying to show me how much he likes me without saying anything.

  “Maggie’s also brilliant,” Laila says.

  Maggie snorts.

  Dave is just, like, staring at me.

  I can’t believe that the cutest boy ever is talking to me. To me. Maybe he really did want my number when he asked for it.

  I feel myself turning red and stand up. “I’m, um— do you want anything? I need juice.” I leave without waiting for an answer, because now my face is bright red and it’s just too embarrassing.

  I get back in line to buy juice that I don’t want. I’m dying
to know what Dave is saying to them. I can’t believe I’m such a freak. I give myself instructions like Do not turn red and Just relax. Remember, he came over to you. Chill. Be in the moment. Be Zen.

  While I’m digging change out of my pocket, I drop a dime. I bend down to pick it up and bang my head against someone who went to pick it up at the same time.

  I rub my head and stand up. I’m looking at Tobey Beller.

  He holds my dime out.

  “Oh—sorry! Sorry!” he stammers. “Are you okay?” He looks mortified.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Thanks.” I take my dime back.

  “You have to watch these things every second,” Tobey says. “They’re always trying to get away.”

  I laugh. “Totally! These dimes just don’t know how to act.”

  The thing about Tobey is he has these amazing blue eyes. You could stare at his eyes for days and still want more. I used to talk to him in art last year. It was the only class I’ve ever had with him since junior high. I kind of got the feeling he liked me, but he never did anything about it so I wasn’t sure. It was probably just those eyes that got in the way of my typical logical thinking patterns. Anyway, slacker rock-star wannabes aren’t my type.

  I pay for my juice and get ready to go back to my possible future boyfriend. I’m so nervous that my heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of my chest and run down the street the second I see Dave. Obviously, my path to inner peace is a long, complicated one.

  I creep back to the table and sit down. Maggie is laughing at something Dave just said.

  He turns to me. “Did you hear the one about the three guys driving through the desert?”

  “No, I missed that one.” I glance at Laila for signs of what Dave said while I was gone. But she just smiles at me. She’s obviously loving every minute of this.

  Dave goes, “These three guys are driving through the desert, and their car breaks down. So they decide to get out and walk. The first guy says, ‘I’m taking these Doritos in case we get hungry.’ And the second guy says, ‘I’ll carry our water bottles.’ But the third guy starts taking off one of the car doors. So the first guy goes, ‘What are you doing?’ And the third guy says, ‘I’m taking the door with us.’ The second guy’s like, ‘Why?’ And the third guy says, ‘In case it gets really hot. So I can roll down the window.’ ”

  The joke is so corny that it’s hilarious. I laugh until my face hurts.

  Suddenly Maggie’s like, “I have to go to the bathroom, ” and she gets up. “And so do you.” She grabs Laila’s arm and pulls her away. I know that Laila just went before lunch.

  “So, what do you like to do on weekends?” Dave says.

  “Um . . . I like to read,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he says like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard in his life. “Me, too! What are you reading right now?”

  “Besides the five books for AP that are due tomorrow? ” I say. “I’m reading It.”

  “What?”

  “It.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, no, that’s the name of the book. It. By Stephen King.”

  “He rules. Did you read The Shining?”

  “Oh my god! I love that book. I’ve read it a million times.”

  “Really?” Dave smiles at me.

  “No. Just three. And the movie rocked.”

  “Yeah, it was cool. So, you like movies?”

  Who doesn’t like movies? “Of course.”

  “Do you want to see one this weekend?” Dave asks.

  He did it.

  He actually asked me out.

  I start to turn red.

  I tell myself: Do not turn red! Stop it!

  But it’s too late.

  Dave notices. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . ”

  “No, it’s okay.” I try to hide my face behind my juice bottle. “It’s just really hot in here.” It’s just really hot in here? Please tell me I didn’t just say that.

  “So,” he says. “What do you think?”

  He can’t possibly still want to go out with me. “About what?”

  “About going out with me Saturday.”

  It takes every bit of my willpower to remain sitting on the bench instead of jumping up and dancing on the table. This unbelievably gorgeous guy likes me! Apparently, spending the summer visualizing that a Greek god is into you really does work.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “That sounds convincing!” Dave says. But I can tell he’s teasing me.

  “No! I really want to.”

  This makes him smile. “So do I.” He’s looking at me again with that look.

  It is at this precise moment that Laila arrives back at the table.

  “Hellooo!” she trumpets. “Lunch is over. That’s why everyone’s leaving, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  CHAPTER 6

  looking at juice

  september 2, 12:50 p.m.

  “You should go,” Mike tells me.

  “Where?”

  “What do you mean where? Go get in line!”

  “But she’s—”

  Mike shoves me over. "Go!”

  I’m stuck to the bench.This is not the way I imagined it would happen.

  “What’s good, yo?” Josh says. “Move!”

  I get up. I walk toward the line. I’ve just spent the last five minutes watching that jock clone Dave and his over-inflated ego sit next to Sara. Talking to her. Talking to her friends.

  Where the hell did he come from?

  I get in line. She’s ahead of me. Looking at juice.

  I have no idea what to say to her.

  The next thing I know, she’s bending down to pick something up. Here’s my chance. I run to her, almost knocking over the girl in front of me. I see a dime on the floor. I bend down to get it. Our heads smack together. Well, to be more accurate, I smack my head against Sara’s like a socially inept moron. Smooth move.

  I hold out her dime. She’s rubbing her head.

  “Sorry!” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Thanks.”

  I can’t even remember what I say three seconds after I say it, but apparently it’s funny. She laughs.

  I said something funny and made Sara laugh.

  I rule.

  “See ya,” she says.

  “Okay,” is all I can think to say. No wonder she practically runs back to Dave.

  I go back to my table. Josh is gone.

  “Well?” Mike says.

  I just sit there.

  “Dude! What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How can that be possible? This was your chance to make a move.”

  “I know.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Man,” Mike says. "That’s messed up.”

  Now Dave’s making everyone laugh. Dave just moved here. He shouldn’t be allowed to go over there and make everyone laugh. I’ve known Sara and Laila and Maggie since third grade. I’ve watched them grow up. I know their histories. Dave doesn’t know anything about them.

  “We need strategy is all,” Mike says. "No problemo.”

  When Laila and Maggie leave, I panic. What’s he saying to her? What’s she thinking? Is there a worse form of agony than this?

  She smiled at me. But then she was gone. How did life move ahead without me?

  CHAPTER 7

  the idea of him

  september 4, drafting

  “This sketch is so not happening,” I say.

  Mr. Slater watches how I’m struggling with the T-SQUARE. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. He goes, “What’s up?”

  “My brain is on strike. I’ve had to start over, like, ten times already.” We’re starting the year with mechanical drawings, and each one is a fresh slice of torture. Today we’re doing these Escher-type sketches of shapes that have no beginning or end.

  “Take it easy,” Mr. Slater says. “You’ll get there.” Which is o
f course what he would say. He’s like this mid-life non-crisis hippie dude who never gets upset about anything. He has long black hair with gray streaks that he wears pulled back in a ponytail. This is a drastic fashion statement, considering we live in upscale rural-slash-suburbia where you’re not allowed to wear your hair like that. Unless you’re a girl. There’s actually a magazine called Weird New Jersey that did an article on Mr. Slater a while ago. Apparently, he was supposed to be like the next Frank Lloyd Wright or something. But then his college roommate stole his big design plan and became this totally famous architect in New York. And Mr. Slater got stuck with us. Somehow, I don’t think his life plan worked out.

  “I’m nervous,” I tell him. I almost rip up my paper in a fit of frantic erasing.

  “About what?”

  “A guy.” I tell Mr. Slater everything. All of us love him. He’s totally supportive and gives great advice. Which is the antithesis of my mom.

  “Oh?”

  “This guy Dave.”

  “Who’s Dave?” Mr. Slater says. “The new kid?”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly.

  Mr. Slater sits down on the stool next to me. “Why’s he making you nervous? Did something happen?”

  “No . . . it’s just . . . it’s not really him, it’s more like . . . the idea of him.”

  He waits.

  “Like, I want him to be who I imagine he is.” I reposition my T-square. “But what if he’s not really like that? What if he’s just some guy?”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It’s not what I’m looking for.”

  Mr. Slater scratches his chin. “Tell me again what happened with your dad?”

  I’m used to Mr. Slater’s non sequiturs by now. I’ve had art classes with him every year. He has this special talent for remembering the most mundane details of our lives and then showing them to us when we least expect it in this way that makes us understand our lives better.

  “I don’t really know,” I say. “I think they were too young. My mom was only sixteen when she had me. Remember?” He nods. “My dad was a senior, but his parents took him out of school, and they moved away before I was born. I don’t remember ever seeing him.”