Girl Wonder (19 page)

“You're going to have to quit hiding out here at some point,” he said.

“Thanks for the mushroom talk,” I said, without lifting my eyes from the page.

“Whatever it is…whatever happened to you…”

“It's really none of your business!” I snapped, this time looking up.

Milton had this funny smile on his face, the kind of smile you get when someone has just hurt your feelings but you're trying not to let on.

“I didn't mean to sound harsh,” I said. “It's just—”

“I'll give you a ride over to school,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the road. “If, when we get there, you don't want to stay, I'll take you home. I promise.”

“Y
ou're a good driver,” I told Milton. “Amanda was terrifying.”

“She's terrifying, all right,” he said, braking for a pedestrian in the crosswalk. “And what's with that hair? It reminds me of Pepto-Bismol.”

“It probably tastes way worse,” I said, “with all those chemicals she uses to get it that color.”

Milton made a face. “Luckily I haven't eaten lunch yet, because that thought really makes me want to puke.”

“Please don't,” I laughed. “I'm a sympathy puker.”

We passed a student driver car. Milton glanced over at me. “James Henry says you don't drive. What's up with that?”

“It's complicated.” Then, because he'd seemed genuinely interested, I answered honestly. “It was always my dad who was teaching me. He places this really high value on achievement and success. I guess I always felt like he was just waiting for me to mess up. With driving. With everything.”

Milton pulled into an empty parking lot.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He grinned. “This car has a super-smooth clutch.”

“Your point?” I asked, chewing on my thumbnail.

“I don't think you should write off driving just yet.” I hesitated for a moment. “What do you have to lose?” he asked gently.

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Give me the damn keys.”

We traded places. I started the car. We lurched forward. I could tell by the way Milton was hanging on to the window that I was worse than he'd been expecting. After a couple of laps around the lot, he said, “That's probably all my car can take for today.”

“You mean—that's all
you
can take for the day.” I pressed down hard on the accelerator just to see what he would do. “Yee haw!”

“Stop!”

“What's the magic word?”

“Please?”

“Say
uncle
.”

“Uncle!” he cried.

Laughing, I brought the car to a stop. “That was fun.”

“We'll do it again sometime. But now we should get you to school.”

I got out of the car and walked back to the passenger side. He got out too. “So we're really doing this?” I asked.

“You're really doing this.”

A few minutes later, we pulled up to the curb in front of Shady Grove. He smiled at me. He needed a haircut. I wanted to brush his hair out of his eyes. “Just remember,” he said. “You're better than they are. Even if they can't see it.”

I gave him a grateful hug and then headed inside.

As I'd suspected, people stared at me as I walked down the hall. They whispered—loud enough for me to hear.

There's that girl.

Weirdo!

Think she'll pull a Columbine?

I held my head high, as if their words had no power to hurt me. Inside, though, I was screaming. But I could do this. What's more—I wanted to. Finally, someone was on my side. Milton. What a difference this made.

My third day back to school, I heard over the morning announcements that Neal and Amanda had qualified for Nationals. The announcer failed to mention the important stuff. Like whether or not Neal and Amanda were getting serious about each other. Like whether or not they missed me.

I tried to tell myself that it just didn't matter. But it
did
matter. Two people whom I had trusted with everything had betrayed me in every way. I suspected that the memory of this time in my life was always going to sting a little. I wouldn't trust anyone who tried to tell me otherwise.

Ironically, what saved me from utter social annihilation was the fact that I was not in GATE. Down in the regular wings, no one really knew me. The ones who'd noticed me in the past thought I was something of an enigma—this quiet girl who'd somehow been tapped to be Girl Wonder's chief lady-in-waiting.

As for the GATE kids, when I saw them (which was less and less frequently now), I discovered that being regarded as something of a loose cannon had its perks. For the most part, people gave me a wide berth. I was
the fish killer
. Who knew what I might do if pushed?

There were no more dead guppies taped to my locker. None of the things that played out in teen movies happened to me. I wasn't slammed into lockers. No one duct taped any part of my anatomy. My head was spared the toilet bowl treatment (a.k.a. a swirly).

The rumors eventually fell away, and I went back to being a nobody. There was a certain peace, however, that went along with being just one of the masses. In the regular classes, I was removed from the insanity of constantly striving for something I couldn't even name.

Sometimes, in Chemistry, I caught Mimi looking at me in this questioning sort of way. I knew that if I apologized to her she'd probably take me back as a friend. Mimi was a rescuer. But I'd already been “saved” once this year. It was time for me to save myself.

To quit the debate team, I had to see the guidance counselor about signing some release forms. I wasn't thrilled about this. She was my nemesis, after all—the gatekeeper who'd kept me from GATE. But when her secretary ushered me into her office, I saw that it was a different woman behind the desk.

She stood when I walked in, and held out her hand. “I'm Alice,” she said, smiling warmly. She was young, pretty, and fashionably dressed. “How can I help you today?”

I explained that I wanted to quit debate.

She glanced over my transcript. “I don't see anything here about your college plans.”

“I didn't turn in my applications,” I said, staring out her window at the rain.

She gestured at a chair. “Why don't you take a seat?”

“You don't have to stress about it,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Oh, but I do.” She smiled. “It's my job. Humor me a minute and allow me to feel like I'm earning my paycheck. Going to college is a big decision. Not going is an even bigger one. I'd like to hear your thoughts.”

“My thoughts,” I repeated.

“Your test scores are okay. Your grades look pretty good. A couple of C's. Not too bad.”

“I'm not going to get into a top-tier school,” I said, lifting my chin and daring her with my eyes to contradict me. “No Ivy Leagues for me. At this point, I'm probably not even second tier.”

“No. You're not,” she said matter-of-factly, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth, which actually made me like her more. “Is that a priority?”

“It is for my parents,” I said.

“Why do you think that is?” she asked.

“They want me to be a success.”

“A success. I see.” She pursed her lips. “I went to a state school for college. I got my master's at another state school. I've got a job that I happen to love. But I didn't get into Harvard. I didn't even get into the University of Washington. Would you say I'm a failure?”

“No. But you're not…” My voice trailed off.

“I'm not what?”

“Not me,” I said, finally sitting down.

“You know,” she said, “parents don't always know what's best for their kids.”

“They want me to be happy,” I said.

“I'm sure they do. The question is—do they want you to be happy on your terms or their terms?” She waited a moment. Then, leaning forward, her eyes fixed on mine, she asked, “What do you want for yourself?”

Staring down at my hands, I studied the pattern of my veins. I'd never really noticed how
blue
they were—the color blue that ice on lakes turns right before it melts. “I don't know,” I finally said. A tear slid down my cheek. “Maybe that's the problem.”

Without making a fuss, Alice handed me a box of tissues. “It takes courage to admit that you don't know what you want. At least now you know where to start.

“Why do you want to quit the debate team?” she asked.

I answered quickly without thinking. “Because I hate it. And the people suck.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It sounds like you
do
know what you want.” She signed the release form and handed it back to me. “From what I've seen, there's a very particular personality type that excels at speech.”

“Not mine,” I muttered.

She drummed her nails on her desk, her expression thoughtful. “Hmm—I'm thinking…Have you heard of the Evergreen State College?”

I shook my head.

“It's a college down in Olympia.” She rustled through her files a moment, then handed me a packet. On the cover was a picture of a tower rising above a bunch of trees. “It's a good place for kids who feel that they don't exactly fit inside the margins. And—they have rolling admissions. There's still time for you to get in for fall.”

“It looks pretty,” I said, thumbing through the information.

“It's beautiful. I should know.” She motioned at the wall behind her, where there was a diploma from Evergreen.

“I'll think about it,” I said, pushing back my chair.

F
rom the school library, I checked out this annoying book called
Surviving Your Parents' Divorce
. The gist of the manual was that the most important thing was to “keep the channels of honest communication open.”

Late nights were the hardest time for me. I craved sleep but couldn't shut off my brain. There was so much to think about. It was going to be a long time before I felt normal. It was going to take a while before I figured out what
normal
even was.

One morning, a few hours before dawn, I grew so agitated that I had to leave the house. It was an easy jump from my window down to the ground. Wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt, I wandered through the neighborhood like a ghost. The movement stilled my thoughts. When walking wasn't enough, I started to run. I ran to the point where the only thing I could hear was the sound of my breath. It was a strangely comforting sound—the sound of me.

As I returned to the house, I observed my mom watching me from the back porch. I grabbed an afghan from the back of our couch and went out there to face her. “I wasn't doing anything wrong,” I said. “Just—running. I couldn't sleep.”

“It's a pity you don't smoke,” she said.

“Mom!”

“I was kidding,” she said. “Where's your sense of humor?”

“I quit,” I finally said. “Smoking causes cancer, don't you know?”

“Tell me you're joking.”

“About me quitting or about the cancer?”

She gazed skyward, as if appealing to a higher power.

I grinned. It was good to see a glimmer of her old self, even if she was a mess. She was wearing a satin bathrobe my dad had given her for Christmas several years ago. It was starting to pill, and the color, once a pale blue, had faded to a dingy gray. One of her curls had broken free of her bun, drawing attention to the contours of her neck. She looked vulnerable. Exposed. Still, in spite of the dark circles under her eyes, in spite of the defeated slump to her shoulders, she seemed more okay than she'd been in weeks.

Command presence. She hadn't lost it yet.

On the far side of her chair sat a vase of roses, barely visible in the darkness. I wouldn't have noticed them except for the fact that Mom was fiddling with a bud. Cupping its base with her hand, she lifted it gently above the others, only to let it slide back down again. She repeated this motion over and over.

“Who are those from?” I asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

“Would you believe me if I told you I sent them to myself?”

“Mom?” It was now or never. “You didn't happen to go to a rave recently? With…some music guy?” She sucked in hard on a cigarette. “Are those from
him
?”

She shook her head, but not in denial. “His name is Ewan. He's a graduate student at Seattle U. He works as a DJ on the weekends.”

I started to speak, but she held up her hand.

“I wasn't…thinking very clearly for a while. After I learned—” She paused and studied me, as if assessing my mental fortitude. A minute later she said, “Your father is having an affair with Meeghan.”

The rain was turning our backyard, which wasn't banked right, into a small pond. The flowerpots—relics from the previous tenants—were spilling water like fountains.

“I've suspected for a while,” I said. “About Dad. But I didn't know what you knew. And with your blood pressure and all, I wasn't sure if I should say anything.”

“Oh dear. Have you been worrying about that?” She reached out and patted my knee. “It's higher than it should be, but it's not that bad. As for the affair—I've known for a while too. But just because you know something doesn't mean that you believe it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Me too.” She readjusted her robe, wrapping it tight around her body.

“So are you…seeing…this guy?” I blurted.

She smiled. “He has a crush on me. But…no. It was a onetime thing. I guess I just wanted to see if I still had it. At my age—”

“TMI!” I shrieked, no doubt rousing the neighborhood.

“Wait a minute,” she said, turning to look at me. “You were at that rave?”

“Long story,” I muttered.

“Do you want to tell me this long story?” she asked.

“Someday,” I said. “Not now.”

“I see.” She brought a rose out of the vase and dabbed it at the air as if it were a dart. Deftly, she lobbed it over the railing. It landed in the backyard with a small splash. “I think I've maybe left you alone too much,” she said. “Your life is a mystery to me.”

I snorted. “That makes two of us. My life is a mystery to
me
!”

“How was the run?”

“Hard. But I liked it. I liked it a lot. It made me hungry, though.” My appetite was back in full force. I was going to have to eat an early breakfast.

She smiled to herself. “I used to run track. In high school.”

“You never told me that.”

“It feels like a lifetime ago. I was pretty good at it, though. Until I got shin splints.”

We sat in silence a while, just listening to the rain.

Finally, I sighed and held out my hand. “Give me one of those.”

“Just what kind of mother do you think I am?” she said.

“Not a cigarette! A flower. I want to see if I can make that pot.”

Mollified, she moved the vase so that it was positioned between us.

One by one, we took turns. I had a hard time factoring in the wind that had suddenly kicked up. Half of my roses didn't make it. Mom, however, possessed a keener knowledge of the laws of physics. Only one of her roses fell short of its mark.

I was sorting the recycling and breaking down boxes when James Henry wandered out into the garage to practice his drums. Lately he'd been working on a series of hard angry solos. Maybe now was as good a time as any to talk to him about our parents.

“So,” I said, not really sure how to proceed, “divorce sure stinks.”

“Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce,” he said, taking a seat. “It's a crapshoot.”

“That doesn't make it any easier,” I said, frowning at a bloated milk carton. I shuddered to think what kind of bacteria was breeding inside.

“Dad says he and Mom grew in different directions.”

Yeah—Dad grew in the asshole direction.
Why couldn't James Henry see it?

“If he wants the truth, your brother will ask,” Mom had said. “In the meantime, just try to be supportive.”

My brother flipped a drumstick into the air and caught it behind his back. “Why do you hate him so much? You never talk to him when he calls.”

I walked over to the driveway so that James Henry couldn't read my emotions. “I don't…hate Dad,” I said, choosing my words very carefully. “It's just hard to talk to him.” This wasn't exactly a lie.

“It's okay to feel confused,” he said, his voice suspiciously nice.

Looking up, I saw that he was smirking. “Stay out of my shit!” I shouted.

“You need to
own up to your anger
,” he said, quoting from chapter two of
Surviving Your Parents' Divorce
.

I started to lunge for him, but just then my phone buzzed.

For some reason that defied logic, ever since that day in the woods, Milton had been sending me texts. They were usually bizarre mushroom quotes or facts, like the current one, which said:
Life is too short to stuff a mushroom.

“Who's it from?” James Henry asked.

“It's no one,” I said, shoving my phone into my pocket.

“Then why is your face so red?”

“Allergies,” I muttered, leaving the garage.

Though Milton's texts baffled me in their randomness, what was even more baffling was that he was sending me texts in the first place. Hadn't his aim in the woods that day been to urge me to go back to school?

Well—I was back.

It wasn't like he needed more friends. I'd underestimated Milton. Though he was a quirky guy, he was also popular. According to James Henry, everyone liked him. But I didn't need James Henry to tell me this. Not anymore. I saw for myself Milton was a good guy. He was comfortable with himself. For this reason, he would always be liked wherever he went.

I was the last person on the planet Milton would ever
like
like. He'd seen me at my very worst, exuding the stink of vomit, sweat, and chemicals—to say nothing of my inner rawness. Besides—he'd admitted point-blank that he had feelings for someone. (In my mind I called her BB—short for
beautiful bitch
. I could see her all too clearly. In addition to being beautiful, BB would be studious and smart. She'd have a classic sense of style—though not so classic that you wouldn't notice her discreet but stunning figure. Without being bookish, she'd be well-read. She'd love Radiohead, and with her family connections, she'd have Thom Yorke's number on speed dial. I seriously hated BB.)

So. The only rational explanation for Milton's texts was that he was trying to take me on as his new mentee. He wanted to help me. Which meant that I needed to let him off the hook. I needed to help myself.

Climbing the stairs to my room, I texted him back.

Me:
You don't have to check up on me anymore. I'm fine.

Milton:
Wanna snowboard this weekend ?

Me:
Things good with the girl?

Milton:
Just say yes.

Me:
Have u asked her out yet?

Milton:
Did u seriously just ask me that?

Me:
She said no?

Milton:
U R a sadist.

Before he signed off, he sent me a picture of one of his favorite mushrooms, complete with its Latin name,
Cortinarius
violaceus
. A rare purple mushroom, it was beautiful in a frail, otherworldly way. Though I wouldn't admit this to Milton, I was starting to think mushrooms were pretty cool. They flourished without light, after all. If only we humans were so lucky.