lenses with it. “It’s not her fault. Pranks aren’t her thing. She comes from a totally different social echelon. Her mother’s family has old money. Made it from one of the original Chicago stockyards. I don’t know how much is left, but Mrs. Beaufort still taught Marcie to sit up 58 Kristin Walker
straight, use the right fork, write thank-you notes. Manners. You know.”
“Oh,” he said, squinting up at one of the multicolored light units hanging from the basketball net.
I slipped my glasses back on. “Not that I don’t have manners. I do. But my parents aren’t nuts about them like Marcie’s mom. When I’m at her house, you know, I have to be so careful not to drink out of the toilet.” Johnny laughed. I said, “Her mom is nice, but she can be pretty snobby. This one time, Marcie’s parents took us into Chicago for dinner at Alinea, this molecular gastronomy restaurant.”
Johnny looked at me and scrunched up his face. “Is that food? It sounds gross.”
“Oh no, it’s a crazy-good restaurant. Won all these awards. And it’s nice—I mean linen napkins, real art on the walls, the whole nine yards. And men have to wear a jacket, right? So this one guy walks in, and not only does he not have a jacket, he’s wearing a baseball cap. When Marcie’s mom sees him over at the door, she gets all huffy and whispers, ‘NOCD,’ to Mar.”
“What’s NOCD?”
“Not Our Class, Dear. Marcie explained later. Anyone NOCD is clearly below the Beaufort family social station, according to her mom. She said her mom uses NOCD as a kind of code. Like a secret snob spy or something.”
Johnny scratched his sideburn and ran his fingers through his hair. He tried to get a cowlick over his right eye to stay back, but it kept falling forward. “I don’t get it,” he said. “If the guy can’t hear her, why use a code?”
I leaned back on the bench behind us and stretched my
CHAPTER 7
59
feet out in front of me. “According to Marcie’s mom, only people with no class actually use the word class . If you have it, then you never talk about it.”
“Oh.” Johnny nodded slowly. “Just like herpes.”
I cracked up. I mean I really cracked up. I laughed so hard I got a cramp in my side and had to roll over. Then I sat up and smacked Johnny’s arm with the back of my hand. “I’ve gotta remember that one.”
Johnny smiled at the floor. He tapped the toes of his black boots up and down.
“Are those Doc Martens?” I asked.
“Yup.” He reached down to retie the right one. I nodded. “Nice.”
We sat without talking while a seemingly endless techno dance song pulsed through the gym. I picked at a fingernail. Johnny crossed and uncrossed his arms. Tapped his foot some more to the beat.
He said, “So . . . do you like music?”
It was a pretty stupid question. I mean, who doesn’t like music? Okay, maybe some puritanical zealot out in Hicksville. But really. It was kind of like asking, “Do you like food?” “Isn’t oxygen great?” “Have you got skin? I do.” I knew what he meant, though.
“Yeah. But this kind . . . not so much,” I said. “You like it?”
“Nah,” he said. Then tipped his head back and forth. “It’s okay. Some people like it.”
“I guess your friend Noah does.”
Johnny shook his head. “Oh, he doesn’t pick the music. He just operates the equipment.”
60 Kristin Walker
“Huh,” I said. I tried to blink my eyes fast enough to counter the strobe light. “Makes you wonder who picks the music.”
“Well, actually . . .” Johnny straightened up and cleared his throat, “since you mentioned it—it’s me. I do it.”
I gaped at Johnny. “What? No way!”
“Yeah, I’ve been putting the playlists together for every dance since freshman year.” He hitched his chin toward my hoodie. “You like The Connells?”
I shoved his shoulder. “Oh my God, you know The Connells? I love them.”
“Know them?” Johnny said. “Personally, I think they’re
straight, use the right fork, write thank-you notes. Manners. You know.”
“Oh,” he said, squinting up at one of the multicolored light units hanging from the basketball net.
I slipped my glasses back on. “Not that I don’t have manners. I do. But my parents aren’t nuts about them like Marcie’s mom. When I’m at her house, you know, I have to be so careful not to drink out of the toilet.” Johnny laughed. I said, “Her mom is nice, but she can be pretty snobby. This one time, Marcie’s parents took us into Chicago for dinner at Alinea, this molecular gastronomy restaurant.”
Johnny looked at me and scrunched up his face. “Is that food? It sounds gross.”
“Oh no, it’s a crazy-good restaurant. Won all these awards. And it’s nice—I mean linen napkins, real art on the walls, the whole nine yards. And men have to wear a jacket, right? So this one guy walks in, and not only does he not have a jacket, he’s wearing a baseball cap. When Marcie’s mom sees him over at the door, she gets all huffy and whispers, ‘NOCD,’ to Mar.”
“What’s NOCD?”
“Not Our Class, Dear. Marcie explained later. Anyone NOCD is clearly below the Beaufort family social station, according to her mom. She said her mom uses NOCD as a kind of code. Like a secret snob spy or something.”
Johnny scratched his sideburn and ran his fingers through his hair. He tried to get a cowlick over his right eye to stay back, but it kept falling forward. “I don’t get it,” he said. “If the guy can’t hear her, why use a code?”
I leaned back on the bench behind us and stretched my
CHAPTER 7
59
feet out in front of me. “According to Marcie’s mom, only people with no class actually use the word class . If you have it, then you never talk about it.”
“Oh.” Johnny nodded slowly. “Just like herpes.”
I cracked up. I mean I really cracked up. I laughed so hard I got a cramp in my side and had to roll over. Then I sat up and smacked Johnny’s arm with the back of my hand. “I’ve gotta remember that one.”
Johnny smiled at the floor. He tapped the toes of his black boots up and down.
“Are those Doc Martens?” I asked.
“Yup.” He reached down to retie the right one. I nodded. “Nice.”
We sat without talking while a seemingly endless techno dance song pulsed through the gym. I picked at a fingernail. Johnny crossed and uncrossed his arms. Tapped his foot some more to the beat.
He said, “So . . . do you like music?”
It was a pretty stupid question. I mean, who doesn’t like music? Okay, maybe some puritanical zealot out in Hicksville. But really. It was kind of like asking, “Do you like food?” “Isn’t oxygen great?” “Have you got skin? I do.” I knew what he meant, though.
“Yeah. But this kind . . . not so much,” I said. “You like it?”
“Nah,” he said. Then tipped his head back and forth. “It’s okay. Some people like it.”
“I guess your friend Noah does.”
Johnny shook his head. “Oh, he doesn’t pick the music. He just operates the equipment.”
60 Kristin Walker
“Huh,” I said. I tried to blink my eyes fast enough to counter the strobe light. “Makes you wonder who picks the music.”
“Well, actually . . .” Johnny straightened up and cleared his throat, “since you mentioned it—it’s me. I do it.”
I gaped at Johnny. “What? No way!”
“Yeah, I’ve been putting the playlists together for every dance since freshman year.” He hitched his chin toward my hoodie. “You like The Connells?”
I shoved his shoulder. “Oh my God, you know The Connells? I love them.”
“Know them?” Johnny said. “Personally, I think they’re
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