Fancy White Trash (17 page)

“Welcome to the family,” Dad says. “I'm Kait's father.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Gustavo says, extending his hand.

They shake and Dad says, “Now, you need anything, just let me know. I'll be staying here for a few days.”

“You're not sleeping on my couch,” the Guitar Player repeats. His couch is comfortable if a little saggy, but it's his. It sounds reasonable to me that he can decide who can and can't use it.

“He's staying,” Mom insists.

“Not on my couch.” The Guitar Player doesn't budge.

And just like that, I've got a new roommate. My dad.

It's hard to miss the six-foot-long HOMECOMING IS HERE banner hanging between two eucalyptus trees in the school's main quad. I hitch my worn-out green backpack from last year over one shoulder as Cody steers me toward the table under the banner. I let him, because I've never been so relieved to be at school in my whole life. Sunday dragged on, with Kait making umpteen trips for the move, and Dad taking up residence on her side of the room. I even woke up before my alarm clock— unheard of for me, especially on a Monday morning.

Now, Cody and I stroll toward the science building, crossing the busy square of grass like two geckos dodging their way across a city sidewalk, while I fill him in on the horrors of listening to my dad snore all night. Sawing logs doesn't even begin to cover it.

“Come on.” Cody tugs me to a halt in front of the table with two student-council reps selling tickets. The eternally perky Becca Waters and her ultra-perfect boyfriend Kent Something are smiling matching too-bright smiles. I have never seen them apart. I have never seen them not smiling.

“Hey, Abby!” Becca calls. We—Becca-Kent and me—had Freshman English together last year, but this is the first time she's talked to me since then. “Don't you want to buy your tickets now?”

No, I do not. I lower my eyes and move forward, but Cody blocks me with a strategic elbow.

“We should buy our tickets early. At the door, they're almost twice as much.”

I guess he listened to my pep talk after all, but I just wanted to show up at the dance all last-minute. Like,
Oh, the dance? We were supposed to buy tickets? Well, since it's so late anyway, couldn't you just let us in? Thank you so, so much Becca-Kent. You're the best!
Hey, it worked for the Spring Fling last year.

“Cash poor,” I say. “Maybe next week.” It's always better to ask for money after a payday.

“I got it. Two for you, two for me.” Cody pulls out his wallet and a wad of cash. Then he buys six tickets.

“Six?” I question. “Your parents coming, too?” Hard to believe, but they'd once been Union Coyotes themselves.

Cody pockets the tickets without answering and walks ahead. I'm forced into a half-jog to catch up. He doesn't stop until we are in front of the admin building. Other students stream past us, the heavy double doors banging behind them.

“Look.” He points to the giant bulletin board mounted on the outside wall. It's inside a hanging glass case. The words MAKE OUR NEW STUDENTS WELCOME! march across the top of the board in cutout letters. Underneath are pictures of all the transfer students, with names and former hometowns typed underneath.

“Six tickets?” I say again. “That's hardly enough for all these people.”

“Pick one,” he says. “Any one.”

I hold up my hand. “This is your idea of matchmaking? Choose someone off the new-student bulletin board?”

“Or you could ask a freshman.” He tilts his head to indicate a trio of frosh boys coming our way, all lanky and freckly and much too short.

I laugh at this. “Yeah, right.”

“There's nothing against freshmen in your Rules. Some of them are very tall.”

“Everyone knows girls mature faster than boys. I'm not trading down.”

“Urban myth. Besides, you're not trading anything. This would be a first-time purchase, yes?”

I ignore the last. “I'm pretty sure it's been scientifically proven. Girls are definitely more mature than boys. For example, I'm mature enough to know you don't pick a boyfriend out from a picture lineup.”

“It says to make them feel welcome.”

I shove him. “Seriously, Cody. Even if I chose someone to ask out, we don't need six tickets. What gives?”

“Two for you, two for me, two for Jackson.”

Jackson? He must see the next question coming because he adds, “Homecoming, remember? They actually send the alumni invitations to this thing.”

And he needs two tickets because he's going to ask someone to go with him. Someone who's not me, thanks to the mutual-avoidance pact that's been in place since Sunday morning. My sisters are former Coyotes. I pray to God it's not one of them.

“What about you?” I say, not looking at the board and not asking who Jackson's taking. Because it doesn't matter, right? This is how I wanted it.

Two teachers come out of the building, balancing coffee mugs and stacks of papers. One is on her cell phone, which seems unfair since we're not allowed to have them in school.

“You gonna pick someone off this thing?” I ask.

A slow smile takes over his face. “Nope, I've already got a date.”

“Oh my gosh!” I jump up and down. “Is it Brian?”

Scuffing his shoe on the pavement, he says, “No. I asked that freshman. The one I told you about.”

“Hickey Girl? That freshman?” I'm stunned. Now that he's out, I thought things would change. Like he'd stop hiding the fact that he's gay.

“Actually, her name's Jenna.”

“She's a girl,” I needlessly point out.

“So? Doesn't mean we can't have a good time.”

“Cody, what's going on?”

He shoots me a stubborn glare. “I'm taking my driver's-license test in three days. I want to drive. Is that so wrong?”

“No.” Doesn't explain what Jenna has to do with this. I wait.

“Abby, it's not like I'm gonna find the perfect guy
here.
I told my parents I was confused, not gay.”

It takes a moment for the words to penetrate my brain. “What? How could you?”

“We're talking about my
car
. My freedom. My chance to get out of here every once in a while. They said they'd take back the car if I didn't ‘get my head on straight.' Now that I'm so close to driving, I can't live without that car.”

“But you lied.”

“Not really. I mean, it's not like I've ever been with a guy, so I'm not technically gay yet. Maybe I'm wrong. And if I'm right, well, I can always be gay in college.”

“You'll be gay
in college
?” My voice raises. I hear an echo of my sisters' hysteria, so I tone it down. “How can you say that?”

“Why does this one thing have to define me? I'm a lot more than gay, you know that. But it's like once I say the g-word, that's all anyone sees. It's all so stupid.” His jaw is set at the stubborn angle. The no-backing-down angle. “Besides, it's my decision. And I've decided that I don't want to be tormented for the next three years just because no one can see past the gay thing. You don't want me to be miserable, do you?”

New York is looking better and better. There, he could be who he is and not worry about what anyone else thought. “Okay, Cody. I get it. I want you to be happy.”

He smiles and throws an arm over my shoulders. “So I decided to help you find your perfect guy.”

“I can find my own guy,” I say, although truthfully, I haven't been trying very hard. Or at all.

“Trust me,” he says with a grin. He reaches into his navy backpack and pulls out his gigantic binder with all the tabs and color-coded labels. Opening it, he extracts two sheets of paper and hands them to me. “Here's everything I found out about the transfers.” He gestures at the bulletin board. “You'll have to judge for yourself which ones are ugly enough to make your cut.”

“Shut up.” I smack his arm. “I'm not looking for ugly, just unremarkable.”

“Same diff.” He studies the pictures.

I look at his spreadsheet. A list of names runs down the side of the page. Boxes extend to the right. Rules #2, No Baggage from Past Relationships Allowed, and #5, Get Out of Town, are labeled across the top. Notations fill most of the boxes. “Has a cat,” “Plans to be a marine,” “College-bound,” “Ex-girlfriend in CA.”

“Wow,” I say. “How'd you find all this out?”

“I have my ways.” He smiles, proud. “So, who's it going to be?”

My eyes roam the bulletin board, scan the spreadsheet. But all I can think about is that Jackson has two tickets. Closing my eyes, I wave my finger over the bulletin board and point. “That one.” I hope it's not a girl.

“Guess again,” he says. “Here, I'll spin you.”

I open my eyes. My finger is on Brian's picture. I think it's fate.

“One more time,” Cody urges, but I shake my head.

“Nope.” I tap the glass. “He's perfect.”

Chapter
15

It's weird to even think it, but although it's only been one day since they moved out, I miss Kait and Stephanie. And not just because Kait took most of the clothes, including a few pieces that were mine, from the closet when she left.

I suppose if I wanted to, I could dip into Dad's side of the closet, do the cross-dressing, gender-blender thing. He has a couple of shirts and a suit neatly lined up on the far left. His jeans are folded over wooden hangers, and his polos and button-downs take up a foot of space. My clothes are on the right, and there's a great rift in between, a stretch of empty space between hangers that was never there before.

Stranger yet, there's men's shaving cream by the side of the bathroom sink and the toilet seat is up. I used to wish Kait was a brother, but now I miss her predictable bad moods. With Dad as a roommate, I can't quite relax.

Case in point. I walk into the room and he is on my bed reading. My bed. Even Kait, selfish roommate that she was, knew to stay on her side of the room. I am about to make some comment about personal space when I notice what he's reading. My journal.

More specifically, my very private poetry-filled, hidden-under-my-bed journal. Which means he's also found Mr. Manly, so I'm not so sure I should say anything.

He looks up and says, “Some of these are good.”

A lie. I know my poetry pretty much sucks. That's why it's personal and private and hidden under my bed.

“That's mine.” I snatch the book out of his hands. Then I don't know what to do with it. Or him. “How could you?”

“I'm not kidding. Have you shown those to someone, like an English teacher or something?” He actually looks proud, tucking his hands behind his head and beaming at me like I'm gifted.

“You had no right”—I shake the journal at him—“to read this. To go through my stuff.”

“I know, I know.” He sits up and plants his feet on the floor. “I was moving the furniture around, trying to make some room for my desk, when I found that box. I was worried it might be drugs.”

“Drugs? Are you crazy?” My body trembles, like the beginning of an earthquake. I pace to the window and back. “How could you read my journal?” I knew I should've gotten one with a lock, but those had all been so pink and sixth-grade-looking.

“Sorry,” he says, although he's clearly not. He leans forward, wrists on his knees, hands dangling in the air, and smiles at me like everything is made okay by an insincere apology. “But about my desk? I think we can fit it there under the window.” He points to where Stephanie's crib used to be. Kait picked it up on one of her many trips back to get stuff. It is the only three feet of wall with no furniture pushed against it.

“No,” I say, still pacing. I make a quick turn on my heel whenever I get to the window, pivot again when I reach my bed. Back and forth, back and forth, like a coyote waiting for a deliciously plump pocket mouse to reemerge from its underground burrow.

“Oh, it'll fit.” He acts like measurements are the problem.

“No,” I say again. “No desk.”

“I need somewhere to work.”

“You have a house.”

He blows out a breath. “Shevon wants the house. You know that.”

“It's your house. Tell her leaving you means leaving. Period. Put your foot down, for God's sake.” I stomp my own foot to help make the point.

“Don't take that tone with me, Abby.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I'm the parent here.”

“Since when?” The earthquake inside me intensifies. I fling my journal across the room. It hits the wall, spine breaking, pages falling out in clumps. I can't take this, him, anymore. I pull a Shelby, slamming the door behind me and then yelling through it, “This is my room!”

I don't know where I'm going when I leave the house, but fifty-eight steps aren't enough. I walk the neighborhood until sweat plasters my T-shirt to my skin. When I get back, my room is empty and Mr. Manly sits on my pillow. Whatever. I shove him back under the bed, rescue my journal, and carefully tape the pages back together.

“Abby, help me with this, will you?” Dad pushes a desk down the hallway. As he turns it into our room, it jams against the doorframe and sticks. He motions at me with his hand to grab one end of the desk, clearly forgetting our argument of just a few short hours ago and the fact that I'm completely pissed at him.

I don't get up from my bed. “It won't fit.” It's not the desk from his house but some IKEA reject that's seen better days. “Where'd you get that thing?”