jeans—and sat down again, his blue eyes on me as I arranged my stuff under my seat.
"Welcome to hell," he said to me when I straightened up.
I flashed him my best smile. The guy on the other side of him saw it, and grabbed his crotch. Rob noticed, looked at him, and said, "You're dead, Wylie."
"Shhh," Miss Clemmings hissed, clapping her hands at us. "If I hear another word back there, you're all getting an extra week."
We shut up. I took out my geometry book and started doing the homework we'd been assigned for the weekend. I tried not to notice that Rob wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting there, watching the play rehearsal. The guy to my left, Hank Wendell, was making one of those paper footballs. He was using spit instead of tape to hold the paper together.
None of the guys in the
W
s seemed particularly impressed—or cowed—by my presence.
Then suddenly Rob leaned over and grabbed my notebook and pen out of my hands. He looked at my homework, nodded, and turned the page. Then he wrote something down, and passed the notebook and the pen back to me. I looked at what he had written. It was:
So did you get caught in the rain yesterday?
I looked down at Miss Clemmings. I'm not sure whether or not you're allowed to pass notes in detention. I'd never heard of anybody trying it before.
But Miss Clemmings wasn't even paying attention. She was watching Claire Lippman perform this really boring monologue from inside a big Rubbermaid trash can.
I wrote,
Yes
, and passed the notebook back to him.
Not exactly scintillating, or anything. But what else was I supposed to say?
He wrote something down and passed the notebook back. He'd written:
Told you so. Why don't you ditch the fat girl and come for a ride with me after this?
Jesus Christ. He was asking me out. Sort of.
And he was also dissing my best friend.
Are you mentally impaired or something?
I wrote.
That fat girl happens to be my best friend
.
He seemed to like that. He wrote for a long time. When I got the notebook back, this is what he'd put down:
Jesus, sorry. I had no idea you were so sensitive. Let me rephrase. Why don't you tell your gravitationally challenged friend to take a hike, and come for a ride with me after this?
I wrote:
It's Friday night, you loser. What do you think, I don't already have plans? I happen to have a boyfriend, you know
.
I thought the boyfriend part might be stretching it a little, but he seemed to eat it up. He wrote:
Yeah? Well, I bet your boyfriend isn't rebuilding a '64 Harley in his barn
.
A '64 Harley? My fingers were trembling so hard I could barely write.
My boyfriend doesn't have a barn. His dad
—as long as I was making up a boyfriend, I figured I'd give him an impressive lineage—
is a lawyer
.
Rob wrote:
So? Dump him. Come for a ride
.
It was right then that Hank Wendell leaned over and went, "Wylie. Wylie?"
On the other side of Rob, Greg Wylie leaned over and went, "Suck on this, Wendell."
"Both of you," I hissed through gritted teeth, "shut the hell up before Clemmings looks over here."
Hank sent his paper football flying in Wylie's direction. But Rob stuck out his hand and caught it before it got to where it was supposed to.
"You heard the lady," he said, in this dangerous voice. "Knock it off."
Both Wylie and Wendell simmered down. Boy. Miss Clemmings had been right. It was amazing what a little estrogen could do.
Okay
, I wrote.
On one condition
.
He wrote,
No conditions
and underlined it heavily.
I wrote, in big block letters,
Then I can't go
.
He'd seen what I was writing before I finished it. He snatched the notebook from me, looking annoyed, and wrote,
All right. What
?
Which was how, an hour later, we were headed for Paoli.
C H A P T E R
7
O kay. Okay, so I'll admit it. Right here, on paper, in my official
statement
. You want a confession? You want me to tell the truth?
Okay. Here it is:
I like to go fast.
I mean,
really
fast.
I don't know what it is. I've just never been scared
"Welcome to hell," he said to me when I straightened up.
I flashed him my best smile. The guy on the other side of him saw it, and grabbed his crotch. Rob noticed, looked at him, and said, "You're dead, Wylie."
"Shhh," Miss Clemmings hissed, clapping her hands at us. "If I hear another word back there, you're all getting an extra week."
We shut up. I took out my geometry book and started doing the homework we'd been assigned for the weekend. I tried not to notice that Rob wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting there, watching the play rehearsal. The guy to my left, Hank Wendell, was making one of those paper footballs. He was using spit instead of tape to hold the paper together.
None of the guys in the
W
s seemed particularly impressed—or cowed—by my presence.
Then suddenly Rob leaned over and grabbed my notebook and pen out of my hands. He looked at my homework, nodded, and turned the page. Then he wrote something down, and passed the notebook and the pen back to me. I looked at what he had written. It was:
So did you get caught in the rain yesterday?
I looked down at Miss Clemmings. I'm not sure whether or not you're allowed to pass notes in detention. I'd never heard of anybody trying it before.
But Miss Clemmings wasn't even paying attention. She was watching Claire Lippman perform this really boring monologue from inside a big Rubbermaid trash can.
I wrote,
Yes
, and passed the notebook back to him.
Not exactly scintillating, or anything. But what else was I supposed to say?
He wrote something down and passed the notebook back. He'd written:
Told you so. Why don't you ditch the fat girl and come for a ride with me after this?
Jesus Christ. He was asking me out. Sort of.
And he was also dissing my best friend.
Are you mentally impaired or something?
I wrote.
That fat girl happens to be my best friend
.
He seemed to like that. He wrote for a long time. When I got the notebook back, this is what he'd put down:
Jesus, sorry. I had no idea you were so sensitive. Let me rephrase. Why don't you tell your gravitationally challenged friend to take a hike, and come for a ride with me after this?
I wrote:
It's Friday night, you loser. What do you think, I don't already have plans? I happen to have a boyfriend, you know
.
I thought the boyfriend part might be stretching it a little, but he seemed to eat it up. He wrote:
Yeah? Well, I bet your boyfriend isn't rebuilding a '64 Harley in his barn
.
A '64 Harley? My fingers were trembling so hard I could barely write.
My boyfriend doesn't have a barn. His dad
—as long as I was making up a boyfriend, I figured I'd give him an impressive lineage—
is a lawyer
.
Rob wrote:
So? Dump him. Come for a ride
.
It was right then that Hank Wendell leaned over and went, "Wylie. Wylie?"
On the other side of Rob, Greg Wylie leaned over and went, "Suck on this, Wendell."
"Both of you," I hissed through gritted teeth, "shut the hell up before Clemmings looks over here."
Hank sent his paper football flying in Wylie's direction. But Rob stuck out his hand and caught it before it got to where it was supposed to.
"You heard the lady," he said, in this dangerous voice. "Knock it off."
Both Wylie and Wendell simmered down. Boy. Miss Clemmings had been right. It was amazing what a little estrogen could do.
Okay
, I wrote.
On one condition
.
He wrote,
No conditions
and underlined it heavily.
I wrote, in big block letters,
Then I can't go
.
He'd seen what I was writing before I finished it. He snatched the notebook from me, looking annoyed, and wrote,
All right. What
?
Which was how, an hour later, we were headed for Paoli.
C H A P T E R
7
O kay. Okay, so I'll admit it. Right here, on paper, in my official
statement
. You want a confession? You want me to tell the truth?
Okay. Here it is:
I like to go fast.
I mean,
really
fast.
I don't know what it is. I've just never been scared
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