Waiting for You Page 8

  Maybe he’ll ask me out in art. He has to assume that I know they broke up, because everyone’s talking about it. Only, I’ve been waiting for him to say something all week and he hasn’t.

  After another grueling art class in which Derek doesn’t ask me out, I’m ready to give up. I’m so stupid to think he would like me. It’s not like I haven’t seen Sierra. It’s not like I can compete with her.

  I walk out with him anyway.

  Derek goes, “See ya.”

  I go, “Okay.”

  And that’s it.

  “He likes you,” Andrea says in orchestra. She saw him walking out with me after art. “I can totally tell.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Because I thought so, but—”

  “Do you like him?”

  “I guess.” I can admit this to Andrea because she’s my friend. And we’ve been getting closer this year, dealing with the stress of the looming winter concert and the relentless scrutiny of Mr. Silverstein.

  “Are you gonna tell him?” Andrea says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . didn’t they just break up like a week ago?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So isn’t it too soon?”

  “Not from what I’ve heard.” And then Andrea tells me all this stuff about how Derek and Sierra were always fighting and how it was obvious that they were way wrong for each other. “They were so incompatible.”

  “Then why were they going out?”

  “Have you seen her at the beach?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s your reason.”

  Would I really want to be with someone who goes out with girls just because of how they look? Or was there more to their relationship than Andrea knows? Probably. Or else why would he be interested in me? I’m not as pretty as Sierra. I don’t think I’m that pretty in general. I mean, some people say I am, but I don’t really believe them.

  Eileen is this girl in our violin section who sometimes acts strange. Andrea and I have to concentrate really hard not to let Eileen distract us. Whenever we’re playing an intense part of a piece, Eileen gets this majorly focused look and sways back and forth with the music. I admire her soul, but it’s a bit much. And she’s always so serious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile. She keeps her eyes glued to either her sheet music or Mr. Silverstein the whole time. Nothing can distract this person. She’s a laser.

  It’s a full orchestra day and I’m already getting a headache. I peek at the girl who plays the triangle. It’s so weird that you can actually play the triangle. Like, other than just dinging it now and then. But she’s actually pretty good.

  There’s a piccolo solo for a bunch of measures in this piece we’re practicing today. During the solo, this superhigh note comes out like a scream. Eileen jumps a mile off her chair. She knocks the rosin off her music stand and it shatters on the floor.

  I sneak a look at Andrea. She’s cracking up. It always makes us laugh when Eileen gets so jumpy over nothing.

  We’re still laughing in the hall after orchestra. Sterling comes over to us.

  She’s like, “Hey.”

  We calm down enough to say hey back. But then we look at each other and crack up all over again.

  “What’s so funny?” Sterling says.

  “Nothing,” Andrea says.

  “No, what?” Sterling presses.

  “It’s just something that happened in orchestra,” I explain. “You had to be there.”

  “Yeah,” Andrea adds. “You had to be there.”

  Sterling looks annoyed. I’m not trying to make her feel left out, but I know it’s coming off that way. I try again.

  “Something happened with Eileen, is all,” I say. “It was funny.”

  “So why can’t you tell me?”

  Andrea and I glance at each other. How does Eileen jumping out of her chair because a piccolo squeaked equal funny if you weren’t there to see the nuances of it all?

  “Whatever,” Sterling goes. “Laters.” All we can do is watch her leave.

  “What’s her problem?” Andrea goes.

  I don’t know what her problem is. She’s acting like a totally different person.

  Thought: Maybe she hates Andrea? Did Andrea do something to her that I don’t know about? Sterling definitely holds grudges.

  So that night, I IM Sterling.

  f-stop: why did you walk away like that?

  frappegrl: i didn’t walk away.

  f-stop: yes, you did.

  frappegrl: no . . . that was called i had to go.

  f-stop: why were you acting all weird?

  frappegrl: why were you laughing at me?

  f-stop: what? when?

  frappegrl: uh, today? in the hall? with andrea?

  f-stop: i told you. we were laughing at this stupid thing. it was nothing.

  frappegrl: yeah, yeah, from orchestra, i know.

  f-stop: it’s true!

  frappegrl: then why wouldn’t you tell me what happened?

  f-stop: it was one of those you-had-to-be-there things. you know how those are.

  frappegrl: yeah, i do. i also know you can totally tell someone about them. the other person might not laugh as hard as you, but they can still get it.

  f-stop: i’m sorry we didn’t tell you. it was stupid.

  f-stop: you still there?

  frappegrl: ☹

  f-stop: now what’s wrong?

  frappegrl: since when are you & andrea so tight?

  f-stop: since last year. you know we have orchestra together.

  frappegrl: just because you have a class with someone doesn’t mean you have to be best friends with them.

  f-stop: we’re not best friends. you’re my best friend. do you not like andrea anymore or something?

  frappegrl: i just felt left out.

  f-stop: okay . . .

  This is so lame. Sterling’s in a tizzy and I didn’t even do anything. So what if Andrea and I are getting to be better friends this year? Sterling has tons of other friends. Why should she care who I’m friends with? I mean, she’s always needed a lot of attention from me, but she’s always there when I need her so it’s a two-way street with us. Except today it feels more like a dead end.

  19

  I always thought my sweet sixteen party would be a rager. I used to have all these fantasies about what my life would be like when I was in high school. Sterling and I liked to imagine how our junior prom would be, exactly how our dresses would look and everything. I thought I’d be doing all the fun stuff I’ve always heard I should be doing by now, like having a boyfriend and going to lots of parties. But now that I’m here, I have to say that I’m less than thrilled with reality.

  I told my parents that I don’t want a party this year. It just seems so elementary school. Not that it stopped them from doing a family thing. Because when I come down for dinner, the dining room is all decorated with crooked streamers and balloons. The table is set with paper birthday plates and cups and napkins. There are party hats on the plates.

  “Happy birthday!” everyone yells together. Aunt Katie is here and even Sandra looks tame.

  “Hey,” I go. “You guys didn’t have to do this.”

  “We wanted to,” Dad says. He comes over and hugs me. “You only turn sixteen once, kid.”

  I sit down. The grown-ups beam at me. I put my party hat on. I am too old for this.

  I’m also bummed, because it’s obvious that Derek doesn’t like me and he’s never going to ask me out. It’s been two whole weeks since the breakup and still nothing’s happening. And then there’s how weird everything is with Nash. And Sterling spazzing out over nothing. Let’s just say life has been better.

  Now that I’m sixteen, I have to get my working papers. Sandra and I get an allowance, but Mom and Dad insisted that we have to work part-time to save for college. As thrilling as the prospect of dishing fro yo is,
I am so not looking forward to working.

  Everyone knows that the most important part of a birthday is the cake. So when Mom brings out a carrot cake, I’m crushed. People are waiting for me to blow out the sixteen candles, but I just look at their glowing, wavering tips like I’m unfamiliar with this ritual.

  “What’s wrong?” Aunt Katie says.

  “Is this carrot cake?” I go.

  “I thought you liked carrot cake,” Mom says.

  “No,” I say. “I hate carrot cake.”

  “I love carrot cake!” Sandra yells. Then, all quiet: “Not like I’m having any.”

  How could Mom mix up our favorite cakes? Mine is chocolate with vanilla icing. Mom knows that. Or at least she used to.

  Mom goes, “I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t know where my mind is these days.”

  “Whatev,” I say. “It’s no big deal.” I know I’m being a brat. I know it shouldn’t matter. But one little thing can set me off like that.

  Dad tells one of his rambling jokes that takes like twenty minutes to get to the punch line, and usually by then you forget why it’s supposed to be funny. I get that he’s trying to make it all better, the way he always does. He’s like the only person I can count on these days.

  No one lets me help clean up, which is fine by me. I collapse on the couch and click through some channels. Nothing’s ever on. I’m half watching TV and half watching Mom give Dad a bag of garbage to take out. He takes the bag and then reaches for her hand, but she pulls away from him. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything like that happen. I was so preoccupied with feeling sorry for myself all through dinner that it didn’t register how they weren’t touching then, either. That never happens.

  Dad leaves to take out the garbage. Aunt Katie goes outside after him. How many people does it take to put a bag of garbage in the garbage can? And what the hell is going on around here?

  As if all that’s not weird enough, the next day in global is just as strange. I’m expecting Darius to do all of our group work, as usual. If I were him, I’d be mad that I did everything and everyone else got credit for it. But Darius doesn’t think like that. He thinks like this: If I want the work done right, I have to do it myself. It’s better than having everyone do some of the work and getting a lower grade. So usually we’re all set.

  Except we’re not. Because Darius isn’t even pretending to do the work, like some other groups are. He’s staring off into space.

  I look at him while he’s still staring. He’s completely changed. He’s wearing those dangerously low-riding baggy jeans that all the hard-core slackers wear. He has earbuds hanging around his neck, which you’re not supposed to have out in class. His eyes are all glazed over, like he doesn’t even care.

  My life is so Twilight Zone. When did all of this happen?

  20

  I got this job at Claire’s about two weeks ago right after Thanksgiving, which was so lame. I mean Thanksgiving was lame, not the job. Actually, my job is lame, too. But Thanksgiving was tense. There’s definitely something going on with my parents. They hardly even looked at each other all night. And Sandra refusing to eat half of what Mom cooked didn’t help.

  Claire’s is at the Notch, so I can walk here from school. I work two days a week after school, plus weekends. I get a discount on everything, which is sweet because I love their rings and glitter eyeshadow.

  Today’s one of those days when I don’t feel like talking to anyone, but I have to because it’s part of my job. When you’re in retail, you don’t exactly have a choice about social interaction. And I’ve always told myself that I would never turn into one of those snarly cashiers who bites your head off for breathing. People at least deserve to buy their ultra-trendy jewelry that will go out of style next month in peace.

  I’m not even paying attention when the next customer comes up to the counter. “Did you find everything okay today?” I ask without looking up. It’s an automatic reply to someone coming up to the counter. We’re required to say that, just like we’re required to say, “Hi! Welcome to Claire’s!” when someone walks in.

  This time, the customer doesn’t say anything back. So I look up from the book I’m reading (which we’re totally not supposed to do, but it’s slow) and there’s Nash.

  “Not yet,” he says.

  “Hey! I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Reading under the counter again?”

  It’s this thing I do when no one else is around. There’s a guy up front watching the door and someone else is stocking the racks with new bracelets. But there are no customers. I always sneak a book and read when it’s quiet. If I sat here and did nothing, I’d fall asleep.

  I’m psyched that Nash came to visit me. He came in one other time. It was my second day here and Nash was passing by with Jordan, on their way to Shake Shack.

  “Of course,” I admit. “Do you want me to die of boredom?”

  “Not especially.”

  And then we’re just kind of looking at each other with nothing to say. I’m beginning to think that this weird vibe will always be there between us, no matter how hard I try to make it go away.

  “Um . . . I can’t stay long,” Nash goes.

  “Okay . . .”

  “I just came by to pick something up for someone.”

  “Oh. This someone person wouldn’t happen to be a girl, would she?”

  “How’d you guess?” He smiles a little.

  “I’m skilled like that. If you could be more specific about the something part, I might be able to suggest something the someone might like.”

  “Well, I was thinking earrings.”

  “Not a necklace? Because there’s this really nice one I can show you. That, you know. This someone might like.” I do a big-eyes thing like, Hmmm! Who can this someone be?

  Nash says, “It’s for Rachel.”

  Which wipes the smile right off my face. “Oh.” I see Rachel every day at school. We’re in the same geometry class. I had no idea Nash liked her.

  “You know we’re going out, right?”

  “Um . . . no. I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, well . . . she wears a lot of earrings, so I just thought . . .”

  “No, yeah, earrings sound like a better idea.”

  “Do you like the earrings here?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Which ones are your favorite?”

  “Um . . .” I move out from behind the counter and go over to the earring displays. “I like these.” I hold up a pair of silver swirly ones. “But I guess it more depends on what she likes.”

  “Yeah . . . I really don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t she wear a lot of big earrings? Like these.” I pick a pair of big gold hoops off the wall. “They make a certain statement.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I’m a loud extrovert who wants everyone in the room to notice me.” I can’t believe I just said that. I sound like a total bitch. And for some reason, I’m having a problem with saying the name Rachel. Why can’t I just be happy for my friend? Why do I have to be such a freak about everything?

  “Rachel isn’t exactly like that,” Nash says.

  He’s right. Which is the suckiest part of this whole thing. She’s pretty and really nice and rocks an awesome style.

  I pick out another pair. “How about these?”

  “She’s more . . .” Nash scans the earrings. “Like this.” He lifts a pair of dangly ones off the rack.

  “Oh. She’s complicated.”

  “Yeah.” Nash smiles. “Exactly.”

  “So . . . you like complicated?”

  “Apparently.” Nash drills me with his intense eyes. But in a good way. In this way that’s like, You know what I mean. You were there. And I know he’s thinking that I’m complicated.

  Not that he still likes me. Because if he did, then why would he be going out with Rachel? And how could I not have known they were going out?

  When I get home, Dad’s like, “Hey, kid.
How was work?”

  “A real thrill.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Better, even.” I know that I shouldn’t take out my bad mood on Dad. But when I get like this, no one who dares to approach me is safe.

  “Mom’s working late,” Dad says.

  “Again?” It’s like the third time this week.

  “What do you think about breakfast for dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “I’ll eat later.”

  “But I’m about to whip up some excellent frozen waffles.”

  “That’s okay.”

  See, here’s an example of when I get anxious about something totally random and it ruins everything. Why do I have to get all twarked up over Nash going out with Rachel, when who even cares if they’re going out?

  21

  When I shot my first roll of film and Mom took it to get developed, she had no idea what she’d be getting back.

  My photos were good. Like, really good.

  I know that sounds conceited, but it’s not. I’m just saying. Everyone loves my photos. The yearbook and newspaper editors even tried to recruit me, except I like doing my own thing. Which kind of goes against how I’m trying to be more social, but I can’t compromise my art. I’m all about taking pictures that have a certain edge to them, and taking lame shots of cheesy pep rallies isn’t exactly the most profound.