Maine Squeeze (39 page)

The roads were covered in icy hail, and I kept sliding all over the road, it was like driving on gumballs or jawbreakers must be. But I had to get out of there. I drove up to see the buffalo herd, to make sure they were okay. And to think about other things for a while. The hail was a couple inches deep on the ground, so I was worried when I didn't see them right off. Then I realized the buffalos were all standing on the downslope, under trees. Their brown hides looked drier and better than my matted hair. “Hi, guys!” I called. They wouldn't come over to the fence, which is cool, they hardly ever do, and their hoofs might slip on the ice anyway. But it made me sad, for some reason. Like I had nothing, and no one.

I drove home going about 5 miles an hour. There was killer rush-hour traffic. As I sat there, waiting to merge, the sun came out, and I realized the hood had dozens of dents. Large ones. The car looks like it has acne pit scars. I told Mom when I got home, but she seemed curiously unconcerned, too busy yelling at a telemarketer who was calling to offer a special deal on hail-damaged car repair. “I won't give him the satisfaction!” she seethed.

“You might,” I said. “I mean, maybe you should take their number—”

“That's it!” She slammed down the phone. “Is there no privacy in American society today? I'm ordering continuous call blocker.”

“But my friends—Mom, you can't do that!” Bryan protested.

“They'll get special codes to punch in,” Mom said. “Their calls will go through. But no one else's!”

I could almost see her not giving Dad the special code for a few weeks. She can be so vindictive.

Mom saw the Bull in direct sunlight. My car privileges have been revoked for the next week. Will have to ride my bike to school, work, etc., and also beg Beth for rides. As if it's my fault that a cold front raced across the foothills. The weather guy on Channel 9 didn't know it was coming—but somehow I was supposed to? “It's hard enough for me to afford two cars,” she said. “And now this?”

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I said, over and over. I did really feel bad about it.

Mom has zero sympathy for the fact I did it all out of love. She said I shouldn't be driving to Boulder to see Dave; he should be driving here to see
me
. He has to make the first move, she said. I pointed out the letter. She said anyone can write a letter; but it's when they show in person that you know they mean it.

She went into this long, detailed story about how one time this guy wanted her back and drove across the country to apologize and beg her to move to DC and marry him. She got this really dreamy look on her face. I thought about the pictures of Mom in college with her friends, dressed up for parties, laughing, and how pretty she was. She's still pretty, don't get me wrong. She just wears all these clothes that work against her; they're all called Princeton Harbor or Sage Garden Grove or something like that. They're her country-club-wanna-be outfits. Actually she looks good in them, I just wish she'd meet some guy who was
in
the club. She could quit worrying about money and I could have a new car.

“So he drove all the way out to Ogallala from Washington—this was right after college, and I was home for the summer. And his car was full of roses,” Mom went on. “It was so romantic. My parents were so shocked, my father told him he could have my hand in marriage before he even
asked
—”

“And … was that Dad?” I said.

“Oh, no. Heavens, no.” Mom's face got all red. It's the first time I've seen her blush in a long time. “This guy was a complete phony. He said he loved me, but.” She shook her head. “He didn't mean it.”

I could practically hear birds singing. It was this magic moment where I realized Mom and I might actually have something in common.

Then the phone rang. I grabbed it. It was Beth, calling to ask how my visit went. She said she'd been waiting to call, that she was on pins and needles. I explained the hailstorm, the Complete disaster.

“Wow. I hate to say this, but in a way it's a relief,” Beth said.

“What is?”

“Well, what happened yesterday … it's like a sign. It means you guys aren't meant for each other,” Beth said. “If you were, the heavens wouldn't have opened and thrown golf balls at you.”

“It's called a weather system,” I said. “It has nothing to do with fate.”

“Oh,
really
. And that's why it happened at the
exact
moment you needed the roads to be clear,” Beth said. “You ran into those guys at the gas station—”

“Because we left school at the same time and traveled at the same speed,” I said. “It's like an algebra word problem. It's not a
sign
.”

“Just accept it, Courtney. Don't fight it,” Beth said. “You have to try giving up on Dave again, and it might feel even harder this time, but it'll be easier, I promise.”

“Beth? I love you to death. But don't talk to me about quitting Dave like it's quitting a really bad nicotine habit,” I said. “Because cigarettes don't write letters begging you to come back.”

“Is that what his letter said?” Beth asked.

I reread the letter. Maybe he didn't beg me, but he was definitely hinting at a reunion. Just … not that strongly, maybe. Because his phone number isn't in the letter.

I called Directory Assistance, but there's no phone in his name. “Do you have a listing for a … Chad?” I said. The operator laughed at me. It's not a sound you want to hear.

I'll write him instead. Just because Beth, Mom, and now the heavens are against me, not to mention the phone company, I'm not giving up.

Maybe I will give up. I cannot write this letter. I've tried 8 times and each time I sound more stupid.

Dear Dave,

I hated you a couple of weeks ago. Actually, it wasn't until a couple of days ago that I stopped.

So why am I writing you now? Am I a complete hypocrite?

Don't I have any self-respect left?

I'm going to just send him something … a message … without a long, sappy letter. I'll tear off a boxtop from his favorite cereal. I'll send him my most prized South Dakota buffalo postcard from the bulletin board over my desk. No, he doesn't deserve that.

Dear Dave,

You don't deserve this postcard. You realize that.

But I just wanted to let you know I miss you, too.

Love,

Courtney

Can't believe I just wrote on the back of this postcard. Now I have to put it back on my bulletin board and I'll have to look at it and remember how stupid I sounded. Must try again. Must wait a few more days, though, so I don't look overly eager. Guys like that.

Have you ever wanted to take a day back and just call a “do over”? Today was Courtney the Candidate Day.

“Do over! Do over! Do over!”

It was like a battle I read about once. Where the army gets beaten down and broken and has to summon every ounce of courage it has just to get out of the foxhole.

My Own Private Waterloo? Saving Private Courtney?

It started out nicely. Mom has this real gift for making theme food when we have big events. Cello-shaped Jell-O the day of Alison's recitals. Sneaker-shaped cookies for Bryan's track meets. So this morning she put this hammer-shaped pastry in front of me. I kept staring at it. I had no idea what it was, but I couldn't tell her that. So I just ate it and said thanks. Then she asked if I wanted another gavel.

“Mom, I'm not going to be a judge!” I laughed.

She laughed, too. “I know, but do you have any idea how hard it is to bake a vice-presidential seal?” She held up this flat, round, semiburned, semifrosted pancake. I tried not to take it as an omen.

First thing at the assembly, we all had to state what we wanted to do for the school and what we were all about. I told everyone that I would be a really good vice president because I'm the middle child and am used to getting along with everyone. (I stole a bunch of psychological-profile lines from Beth.) And I mentioned all the things I wanted to see happen. No more dissecting animals in science class, no more using the leftover animals from science class in the cafeteria, etc. (Okay, just kidding.) Anyway, I think my speech pretty much rocked.

After each of our speeches, we had to take questions from the audience. The first one was asked by Mrs. Martinez—I guess it was supposed to be a warm-up question: “Please state your full name.”

So I stated my name. Courtney Smith. That's full enough, right? I mean, you don't hear Al Gore or George W. Bush running around dishing out
their
middle names. It's just a “W.”

So then we had these questions from the audience; there were mikes set up, like this was a TV talk show. One of the Desaulnier twins stepped up to the mike, and asked: “Courtney, I heard a rumor about you, and I want to verify it.”

“Sure thing,” I said politely. As I recall, I even
smiled
at him. There was no dirt on me. I'd been completely celibate lately. I wasn't worried.

“Okay, um … is it true your middle name is V.D.?”

Everyone started laughing, like it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard. My face got hot, I could feel it. This was so dumb, this was the last thing anyone needed to know or talk about, it was just this attempt to find something to laugh at me about. And how did he know this? Was it from Dave? I could feel this onion ring I ate for lunch expanding into a giant circle in my stomach, strangling me like a big squid. Hanging me out to dry.

“V.D. is not my middle name,” I said.

Oh my God. I sounded like a public service announcement! “Don't identify me by my sexually transmitted disease, I'm a person deep down inside.”

It was
awful
. Everyone started laughing really hard. Mrs. Martinez called for quiet—when it finally happened, it didn't last long.

“Is it true you put the
vice
in vice president?” the other Desaulnier shouted.

All of a sudden the Tom came up behind me, I guess to support me. He put his hand on my back. I was kind of glad, if you want to know the truth, because I felt really stranded out there. Then he put his
other
hand on my back. I waited for him to offer me a backrub. Here we go, I thought. The beginning of the end.

But he didn't do anything except press once and let go. Then he stepped forward and said, “If everyone would just give Courtney a chance to talk, we could wrap this up.”

I was so shocked I nearly fell down. The Tom being nice? With nothing in it for him?

I cleared my throat. “My middle name
is
Von Dragen,” I said. “And I realize these are very unfortunate middle initials. But I can't help it, it's an old family name. And I don't think anyone should be punished for their name, or for anything else they can't control, like their background, or their skin color, or their sexual preference.” Oh my God. I was on quite the tirade.

But somehow it worked. Everyone totally cheered me, and started shouting “Courtney for V.P.,” “Courtney V.P. Smith!” instead of V.D. I was convinced everyone was going to vote for me. A landslide victory, or, more to the point, a rockslide victory. People get killed by rockslides.

Maybe they were just applauding because they felt sorry for me. I mean, I applauded for the other guys, and there's no way I'm voting for them.

Hmmmmm.

Of course when I walked through the halls today, I heard it all. “Hey, it's Courtney STD.” “Look, here comes Courtney the Dragon.” “Yo, Dragon Lady, what's up?”

Like you can rise from the ashes and all, and everyone will applaud that, and everyone pretends to believe in being so open and supportive of people who are middle-name-challenged. But when it comes right down to it? You'll get teased. Humiliated. If anyone can find fault with anything about you, they'll point it out.

Beth and I went to the girls' soccer game with Jane after school to watch her superstar little sister play. Jane kept going on and on about what great hair accessories she found at Miser Mart. Beth and I kept looking at each other in amazement. What is Miser Mart and why in the world is Jane shopping there? She was sort of slipping on her pledge to never be caught dead or alive in anything nondesigner and nonexpensive.

I waited for them to shower me with sympathy. They stole a cup of Gatorade from the team's table for me, but that was about it.

“Von Dragen, huh? Well,
that
sucks,” Jane said, clipping and unclipping her new barrettes.

“Your face was so red,” Beth said. “I've never seen it like that.”

I think I need more supportive friends.

P.S. I'm calling in sick tomorrow. Someone just called and asked if I would be willing to give a health services speech on sexually transmitted diseases, since I'm out of the closet on having one.