A La Carte (8 page)

7

I'm so inspired by my cheesecake idea that I make mini-cheesecakes for the entire group in Vocal Jazz. Since I'm making so many, I cheat and use store-bought mini–graham cracker crusts, which isn't what I normally do, but it's worth it to be able to bring them to class and pass them around. Ms. Dunston says she'll take the extras to the faculty lounge and tell everyone that I made them, which means I'd better get an A+ on every single paper I turn in today.

I'm in such a great mood that I don't even mind that one of those weird nonword jazz songs, “Oo-Shoo-Be-Doo-Be,” is playing, and Ms. Dunston is going to make us work on “Java Jive” for the spring concert. Not even goofy songs about coffee addicts can ruin things for me. As Ms. Dunston talks about diction before warming us up, I overhear Ben whispering to Tracey.

“So, Keller's this weekend. You going?”

“I just heard about it.”

Did he say “Keller's”? I lean forward slightly.

“So, is it his brother's birthday or something?”

“Uh…” Ben leans back. “Just a party, I think. First one in the new place and all.”

A party? In someone's new place? Is Sim having a party? Why hasn't he mentioned it?

“Let's take it from the top, please,” Ms. Dunston is saying, and I stand automatically and open my music.

I guess I'm not going to be his first guest.

Not that it matters, if it's true. Not really. I mean, it's no big deal, right? He obviously has other friends; I've always known that. So, I'll be his second guest. Anyway, I don't know the details. I can always ask him in physics.

For once, Vocal Jazz seems to go on forever, and I'm hurrying toward physics class instead of dragging my feet.

“Hey, what's up?” Cheryl asks, rattling her bag of sunflower seeds in my direction.

“Not much,” I reply, looking toward Sim's place. I glance at the door and see other students coming in. The warning bell hasn't even rung yet. He has lots of time.

“So, did you see the box on Wilcox's desk?” Cheryl asks.

“Oh no. Are those springs? Today is lab again already?”

“Yep. How much you wanna bet we're going to have to measure the springs and then write down any ‘lingering questions' we have about them?” Cheryl laughs.

The warning bell rings, and Mr. Wilcox comes into the room. Sim only has two minutes left, and I'll barely have a chance to talk to him.

“If you're looking for Sim,” Cheryl offers, “I saw him on the steps of the ad building, on his way to the parking lot with Levi Pressman.”

“Oh.” I turn from the door reluctantly. Sim is cutting again.

Cheryl leans forward to catch my eye. “So, partners again?”

I look at her and smile weakly. “What? Oh yeah. Sure.”

It is a long, slow hour. Even Mr. Wilcox telling me at the end of class that he appreciated tasting my cheesecake doesn't do much for my mood. Then at lunch I run into Christopher Haines, and the first words out of his mouth are:

“Did you hear about Simeon Keller's party?”

“Why do you want to know?” I realize how close to a snarl I am. I try to soften up with an insincere smile. “Are you going?”

Christopher shrugs, scrunching his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Everybody is,” he says lamely.

Right. Everybody. I heave a huge sigh. “Whatever, Chris. Look, I've really got to study.” I bury myself in my reading for English lit the rest of the meal.

By the time school's over, it seems like the whole student body knows about Sim and Carrigan Keller's party, even outside the people I know from junior high. And it seems like the entire student body is invited, even Christopher Haines, who is a complete wannabe and isn't even all that close friends with either Carrigan or Sim. I don't get any of this. Yeah, Sim has the right to hang with his loser brother, have a party, and ask anyone he wants. But would it have killed him to mention it, maybe say, “Hey, Laine, I'm throwing a bash at the house, maybe stop by”? Is something wrong with me? Why didn't he ask?

Is it stupid to be upset about this? Yes. Am I upset anyway? Yes.

I go straight into the restaurant kitchen after school, and instead of helping Gene wash radishes for salad prep, I go straight for the onions and chop for thirty minutes before I get to my homework. That way, when tears blur my eyes and I have to keep stopping to wipe my face, it's just the onions making me weep. As I chop, the heavy, balanced blade thudding against the butcher block, I try to think of nothing at all. I simply move my knife over and over. I chop until the onions are minced.

“My goodness, Laine, that's fine enough.” Mom leans over my shoulder. “One of these days you're going to cut yourself. Your eyes are so red, I don't know how you can see.”

“I'm okay, Mom,” I reply automatically. “Anyway, I'm done…and I have homework.”

“Well, I appreciate your help. Looks like we're going to be busy tonight.”

“Really?” I wipe my eyes on my apron and tug it over my head. “That's good. Holler if you need me.”

“We'll be fine.” Mom brushes a hand over my forehead. “Are you okay, Laine? You seem a little tired.”

I give a dry laugh. “Physics and trigonometry, Mom.”

My mother smiles and pulls me close. “Don't let the books get you down,” she says warmly. “You're a natural scientist; I just know it.”

“I hope so,” I mutter as I head down the stairs to my mother's office.

Once I have the door to Mom's office open, I sit and play sudoku on her computer. The squares of numbers alternately frustrate and soothe me. When I hear someone coming, I blank the screen and open a book.

“What's up, Laine?”

I glance up, startled, as Sim bounds into the room. “I can't believe you're here” is the first thing out of my mouth. I wish I'd bitten my tongue.

“Got a makeup lab in physics,” Sim says, and shrugs. “You kept your notes, right?”

Un
believable.
I glare at him, but he doesn't catch on. Did he only come here for that?

“Sim…” I make a disgusted noise and pick up my backpack. “Would it kill you to show up and take your
own
notes?”

“Probably,” Sim replies.

“Wish it would,” I mutter. I slap the notebook on the desk between us and go back to my sudoku.

“Thanks, Laine, I owe you one,” Sim says, as he always does.

Actually, he owes me
two
, but who's counting? What's a little homework-sharing between friends? I glare at the computer screen, safely directing my irritation toward its blind, glassy eye. This is stupid. I know I shouldn't just let him treat me like this. I should say something. I should just open my mouth and say,
Simeon Keller, you can't have a party without inviting me
. Right. Like that would make me look cool and fun to hang out with and invite-able.

Never mind.

For once, Sim actually seems to be working…seriously. Every time he puts down his pen or turns a page, I expect for him to say something, something like, “Hey, Laine, I'm having this party.” But he doesn't. He doesn't say a word.

A tangible silence crouches between us. I don't think I've ever seen him this quiet.

It's after five when Mom comes downstairs, and I think she's startled to find that I'm not alone. Sim and I haven't said a word to each other in over an hour.

“My goodness, this physics thing must be serious. Did you guys want any gazpacho? It's not a hot item on the service tonight, but it's tasty.”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

Sim yawns. “Hey, Mrs. Seifert,” he says. He glances at me, flicker-quick. “I'm done with your notes, Laine. Guess I'd better get going.”

My mother immediately sits down on the corner of her desk. “Simeon. Wait a moment, if you would. I feel I owe you an apology—about the other day.”

I shoot her a startled glance. Oh, Lord.
Not now, Mom.

Simeon looks blank for a split second, and then that easy smile warms up his face. He pats my mother on the arm. “Mrs. Seifert, my mother always says that I trespass on your hospitality, so…”

Mom looks upset. “Simeon, you and Lainey have been
bosom buddies
for so long—”

“Mom!”

“—that we feel like you're practically family, but I just feel more comfortable with—”

“Mrs. Seifert. Really. There's nothing to apologize for. About. For which to apologize.”

Sim's grinning now, and I suddenly just
itch
to slap him and remove that smug I-just-scored-here look from his face. He thinks he can always finesse himself out of anything, that he'll always have lackeys like me to take his notes for him and people like Mom totally fooled into believing he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. But I know how he really is. The words tumble out before I can stop them.

“Yeah, Mom, Sim's fine. He's feeling great. He's giving a little housewarming party at his new apartment this weekend, even.”

Thunk.
Bull's-eye. Sim shoots me a dirty look.

Mom looks floored. “A new apartment? Simeon, you have your own place?”

“Well, not
really
,” Sim hedges, glaring at me. “It's just a little something I'm setting up, uh, since I'm turning eighteen pretty soon.”

Pretty soon? Sim has another two months just like I do.

“Your parents are brave souls.” Mom smiles uncertainly. “A place all your own. Wow. And you're going to pay your own bills and keep food on the table by yourself?”

“Well…” Sim stalls. “It's just, um, halfway my own place. Just sort of a trial thing.”

Mom nods thoughtfully. “Well, I hope you make your mom and dad proud.” I make a derisive noise as my mother continues. “So I guess congratulations are in order. Is your party a potluck, or are you just having junk food? What did you want Lainey to bring?”

“Lainey's not invited,” I say flatly. “So, Mom, who made the gazpacho? Is it an actual gazpacho with bread in it?”

My mother opens her mouth, then closes it, her deep brown eyes flicking to my face, then Simeon's. Sim's mouth tightens and he stands up and gathers his books.

“Lainey, walk me out.” He picks up his backpack and heads for the door.

Not likely.
I turn back toward my sudoku game. Sim comes back, grabs my arm, and drags me outside. My turncoat mother doesn't even bat an eye. Maybe she's remembering all the fights we had when we were little—“No girls allowed in my tree house!” “Stay away with your
cooties
!”—but this is a little different. Sim didn't used to be able to haul me around so easily.

We're toe to toe in the hallway outside my mother's office. “What?”

“Don't be…so…
feeble,
” Sim snarls, practically inarticulate now that he's out of Mom's spotlight. “You know if you really want to come, you can come.”

“‘If' I really want to come? Whatever.” I jerk away from him. This isn't what I want. What I want is a real invitation. What I
wanted
was not to have felt like an idiot all day, like the last person to know what was going on with my former best friend.

“Whatever, nothing. Show up if you want to.”

“Why should I want to? Since when do I want to hang out with Carrigan?”

“Elaine!” Simeon throws up his hands. “I'm not hanging out with Carrigan. He invited himself and his friends, okay? I invited my friends. It's a party, and it's a free country. End of story. What's up with you?”

Yeah, Lainey, what's the matter with you? “Nothing, Sim. Just getting a good idea of where I stand in the ‘friend' category lately.”

“Ah, jeez, Laine. You know you don't party.”

“Yeah. That's because I've been invited so many times….”

Sim leans in, effectively silencing me with his louder voice. “Laine, look, I'm not going to apologize. I knew you wouldn't want to come, so I didn't say anything. Yeah, Carrigan's going to be there, and some of my other friends, and”—he lowers his voice—“you know you don't like parties when some of my other friends are invited. Okay?”

“Whatever, Sim.” I don't think he could be more condescending.

“Elaine, what's your problem?”

I stare off at a point just above his shoulder, willing away tears of frustration. If this were even last year, we might have planned this party together. Even if I wasn't going, I would have known about everything. Now I want to say, “I was supposed to be your first guest,” but I know he'll laugh at me or, worse, he'll be all condescending and “poor little Lainey.” I'm feeling sorry for myself, stupid, and angry.

“Whatever.” Sim's tired of waiting for an answer. “I'm done.”

“Fine,” I shoot back, and turn on my heel. Mom's talking to me before the reverberations of the slamming door have stopped.

“Lainey, what's going on?”

“Nothing. Sim's just being his usual stupid self.”

Wisely, my mother leaves that alone. “Well, I meant it about the gazpacho,” she begins.

“Thanks, Mom, but I'm not hungry.”

 

I make a point of spending a lot of time on how I look the rest of the week, applying makeup for the first time in days and flat-ironing my hair instead of throwing it back in a ponytail. I wear a choker. I wear a skirt. Lip gloss. Mascara. War paint. Sim and I don't “see” each other in physics, but I'm pretty sure we both notice that I am trying to put a good face on the fact that he's having a party by proving to myself that I can have a good time without him. Every day at second period I chat with Cheryl and the other people around me, making an effort to be visible. I'm not making a scene, but I'm making a point: for a supposed-to-be best friend, it's wrong to issue a lame pseudo-invitation to a party; that's just the bottom line.