of busy.”
Busy. Since getting Evie to elaborate is impossible, all kinds of meanings for “busy” fill my mind. Busy trying to find his luggage at baggage claim. Busy signing autographs. Busy having sex with a cheerleader behind the Auntie Anne’s pretzel stand. I realize I’ve gnawed the inside of my lower lip to a bloody pulp, so I start working on the upper.
“He had to get home early, too,” she continues. “He was kind of in a rush. Only stayed a few minutes.”
“Oh?” I ask, my mood brightening.
“Can I pee now?” she asks, waving me aside.
“Freely,” I sigh.
I walk to the living room and peer out the blinds. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe I’m hoping he’ll pull a Romeo and appear beneath me. He used to do that before, when we were kids, just show up and throw pebbles at my window, at all hours of the day, because the rickety staircase to our door sways pretty badly and always freaked him out. When all I see is a circle of the empty sidewalk below, illuminated by one buzzing streetlamp, and my queer, confused expression reflected in the glass, I finally trudge off to bed.
12
T HE NEXT DAY , when the alarm goes off, I feel like there’s a fifty-pound weight on my chest. It’s not easy to pull myself up. Finally, I do, then turn on the light and rifle through my drawers until I find my only pair of semi-cool jeans and a frilly white blouse my mother bought me to wear “only for special occasions.” I figure meeting my boyfriend for the first time counts as a special occasion. I spent all night mentally going through my closet and drawers, and this is what I decided on. I’m hoping against hope that if I wear it unbuttoned at the neck, with jeans and flip-flops, it will look very peasanty and flattering. Either that or I will look like a tool in a frilly church-lady blouse.
When I’ve dressed and sufficiently tamed my hair (this time it’s more of a trapezoid), I stuff an Eggo into my mouth and find Evie peering out the living room blinds. “Hey,” she says. “I forgot to tell you. I asked Rick, and he said it would be cool if you came with us.”
Just what I needed. Charity from my little sister. I give her a small snarl. “I’d rather walk.”
She gives me a “suit yourself” shrug. “He’s trying to be nice.”
“Ev, I think the terminology he used was ‘lard.’ You were there.”
“He didn’t mean to,” she says.
“I’m sure it was just a slip of the tongue. He probably meant to say ‘sex goddess’ instead.”
She exhales. “I think he’s trying to change. He’s being nice.”
“Because he wants to get into my sister’s pants.”
She gives me a confused look and begins to launch into a protest but then turns to the window. “Your ride is here.”
Holding my chin up as high as I can, I grab my bag and walk out the door. I might as well be riding to school in a giant inflatable hot dog. Still, as I climb aboard, I’m just happy the bus driver doesn’t close the doors on me. Though I’m the only passenger on the bus, I’m glad. Nobody can see my nervous breakdown. Except, of course, the bus driver. She keeps staring over the gold rims of her Top Gun sunglasses, into the rearview mirror, at me. Probably thinking, Is it any wonder she’s the only person on the island who doesn’t have an alternative method of transportation? She can barely breathe, much less carry on a social life.
The end of the trip comes too quickly for my liking. Out the grimy window, I see the normal tight circles of students everywhere on the green, waiting to be let in. I scan the crowd quickly, hoping to find Wish’s head, to see him before he sees me. I don’t. I see Terra there, talking to a bunch of jocks, and throngs of other people I’m not friends with. But no Wish.
Maybe he isn’t here. Maybe he decided to take the day off, to recover from the jet lag. That’s possible, right?
Then I realize I’m hyperventilating. The obnoxious bus driver clears
Busy. Since getting Evie to elaborate is impossible, all kinds of meanings for “busy” fill my mind. Busy trying to find his luggage at baggage claim. Busy signing autographs. Busy having sex with a cheerleader behind the Auntie Anne’s pretzel stand. I realize I’ve gnawed the inside of my lower lip to a bloody pulp, so I start working on the upper.
“He had to get home early, too,” she continues. “He was kind of in a rush. Only stayed a few minutes.”
“Oh?” I ask, my mood brightening.
“Can I pee now?” she asks, waving me aside.
“Freely,” I sigh.
I walk to the living room and peer out the blinds. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe I’m hoping he’ll pull a Romeo and appear beneath me. He used to do that before, when we were kids, just show up and throw pebbles at my window, at all hours of the day, because the rickety staircase to our door sways pretty badly and always freaked him out. When all I see is a circle of the empty sidewalk below, illuminated by one buzzing streetlamp, and my queer, confused expression reflected in the glass, I finally trudge off to bed.
12
T HE NEXT DAY , when the alarm goes off, I feel like there’s a fifty-pound weight on my chest. It’s not easy to pull myself up. Finally, I do, then turn on the light and rifle through my drawers until I find my only pair of semi-cool jeans and a frilly white blouse my mother bought me to wear “only for special occasions.” I figure meeting my boyfriend for the first time counts as a special occasion. I spent all night mentally going through my closet and drawers, and this is what I decided on. I’m hoping against hope that if I wear it unbuttoned at the neck, with jeans and flip-flops, it will look very peasanty and flattering. Either that or I will look like a tool in a frilly church-lady blouse.
When I’ve dressed and sufficiently tamed my hair (this time it’s more of a trapezoid), I stuff an Eggo into my mouth and find Evie peering out the living room blinds. “Hey,” she says. “I forgot to tell you. I asked Rick, and he said it would be cool if you came with us.”
Just what I needed. Charity from my little sister. I give her a small snarl. “I’d rather walk.”
She gives me a “suit yourself” shrug. “He’s trying to be nice.”
“Ev, I think the terminology he used was ‘lard.’ You were there.”
“He didn’t mean to,” she says.
“I’m sure it was just a slip of the tongue. He probably meant to say ‘sex goddess’ instead.”
She exhales. “I think he’s trying to change. He’s being nice.”
“Because he wants to get into my sister’s pants.”
She gives me a confused look and begins to launch into a protest but then turns to the window. “Your ride is here.”
Holding my chin up as high as I can, I grab my bag and walk out the door. I might as well be riding to school in a giant inflatable hot dog. Still, as I climb aboard, I’m just happy the bus driver doesn’t close the doors on me. Though I’m the only passenger on the bus, I’m glad. Nobody can see my nervous breakdown. Except, of course, the bus driver. She keeps staring over the gold rims of her Top Gun sunglasses, into the rearview mirror, at me. Probably thinking, Is it any wonder she’s the only person on the island who doesn’t have an alternative method of transportation? She can barely breathe, much less carry on a social life.
The end of the trip comes too quickly for my liking. Out the grimy window, I see the normal tight circles of students everywhere on the green, waiting to be let in. I scan the crowd quickly, hoping to find Wish’s head, to see him before he sees me. I don’t. I see Terra there, talking to a bunch of jocks, and throngs of other people I’m not friends with. But no Wish.
Maybe he isn’t here. Maybe he decided to take the day off, to recover from the jet lag. That’s possible, right?
Then I realize I’m hyperventilating. The obnoxious bus driver clears
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