Maine Squeeze (44 page)

Turned out he was trying to invent a new line of organic hair coloring. He's so stressed because he doesn't want to be a doctor, he wants to be a stylist. His parents won't accept that he wants to be a hair doctor, not a surgeon.

“Does CU offer a cosmetology degree? Or is he going to drop out?” I asked. And did you have to laugh so hard with her, when I was standing in the hallway? We used to be able to
sense
each other's presence.

“Come up tomorrow,” Dave said.

“I can't,” I said. I told him about the Smoothie Seminar I'm attending tomorrow night. Then we laughed again.

It's 7:30
P.M.
and I'm sitting in the Matterhorn Conference Room at the Rockies Swiss Alps Inn (does that strike anyone else as redundant?). There are about 26 other people here for the smoothie management course. We're going around the room bonding over questions like: “If you could be one additive, what would you be and why?”

I tried really hard not to laugh. One guy said he'd be creatine. I said I'd be ginseng—no, wait—bee pollen. Because more people are allergic to that.

“If you had to classify yourself as a drink, are you milky, tart, smooth, or citrus?”

“I'm a milky tart,” I said. Because you know. I can't really be
defined
by these
limited
terms.

Claude (a/k/a Clod), the director of this panel (a/k/a Claude the Fraud) is giving me these looks, like I'm dissing the juicing phenomenon and ought to be run through the blender myself.

We're moving on to motivational skills now. I'd better pay attention. I can't even motivate myself, much less someone else.

We all went out to eat tonight—student council “we,” I mean. The Tom insisted on going to this place near Golden because they serve Rocky Mountain Oysters, i.e., bull you-know-whats. He probably thinks they'll make him more virile, like he needs help in that department.

Maybe he does. Maybe that's what all this is about. A desperate attempt to—

Nah.

Anyway, it was sort of fun. I told him it was a horrible thing to eat. Did he know how tortured a bull had to feel when he had them cut off? Did he think that was right? I asked how he'd feel if someone cut off
his
major organ.

The menu consisted of things that turned my stomach. Chicken fingers. I always picture a poor chicken's pathetic little claw being fried up. Who wants to order fingers, anyway? Are we all cannibals at heart? At least they call a wing a wing, except for Buffalo Wings. I bet buffaloes wish they had wings. They could fly away and not become burgers.

I ordered a salad. Oil and vinegar. Very boring, shredded carrots and a radish the only saving graces. “You've got to loosen up,” Tom said as he glanced over at my meal. “Live a little.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you suggest?” I asked.

He held his plate toward me.

“No. Thanks. Really,” I said.

We made final arrangements for Homecoming and Tom said not to worry about cost. This should be the biggest, best ever. There's plenty of money in the budget, so we can go ahead and have a parade, a rally, a dance, etc.

“The theme will be … coming home,” Laura actually said. She needs a brain infusion.

I wonder if Dave is coming home for it. I want to know, but I don't want to ask. Of course he
should
. He's close by. But it might be too much of a commitment for him, making that long drive.

Grant asked if I wanted to eat lunch today. Of course I did. I mean, why wouldn't I eat lunch, I practically live for the meal. But with him? Just us? The concept sort of freaked me out, so I ended up saying something really stupid. “What section would we sit in?” I asked.

“Do you really care?” He sort of laughed at me.

“No.
No
,” I said.

“We'll sit outside,” Grant said. All cool about it, like it was no big deal. So it wasn't, I told myself. It's not a date or anything—just a sort of calorie-sharing plan. “I'll go get some sandwiches and then meet you by the fountain, okay?” he said. “Ham and cheese okay?”

Not okay! The fountain is where Dave and I used to eat lunch. I know where every bird dropping is. But what could I do? I went outside and waited. Looking pathetic. All the still-together couples stared at me like I was clinging to the past like bird crap to granite.

Grant came out with our lunch. I took out the cheese and then the ham. I basically had a mustard sandwich going. On white. I tried not to let him see me toss the ham and cheese part, but he noticed.

“Oh, I forgot,” Grant said. “Dave told me you don't eat that. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” I told him. “Don't worry about it.”

“So when did you quit eating meat and cheese?” Grant asked. He kept looking at his sandwich like he shouldn't eat it. “After a really bad sub?”

“
No
,” I said, laughing. I loved the way he made a joke out of it.

We talked about Oscar. Grant asked how we named him, and if it was from my intense love of the Academy Awards.

“I don't love any awards show,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

“And the Oscar goes to …” he kept saying in this really deep fake announcer voice, and we both kept laughing really hard.

Every time he lifted up his straw to use as a microphone, and did this silly pose, the muscle in his dog-food-lifting arm rippled.

Did I just use the word rippled to describe something other than a potato chip?

What is happening to me? Maybe I need to get out more.

Afterward he told me he has a golden retriever and two cats and one of them belongs to his grandmother who lives with them now and the two cats don't get along blah blah blah. It wasn't boring, it was just that I stopped listening at some point because I had to focus on myself. I was starting to feel like (a) I was on a date, and (b) I really wanted to be on this date and (c) I was attracted to Grant and (d) I would be breaking my rule really soon if I kept this up.

Wrong! No pledge broken. This wasn't a date. This was a lunch that didn't taste very good. This was a discussion about pets. Animals, my real passion. And I'm not interested in Grant.

But then why did the phrase “Pet Me” keep going through my head?

Stupid Question of the Day:

“There's this long-distance company that offers free ice cream when you sign up. Are you guys in on that deal?”

Beth and I looked at each other and then back at the guy asking. “No. But there's a pay phone outside the fabric store over there.”

He went outside and nearly got run over by one of the Guccheez Pizza (they were Gucci's but they got sued) delivery guys. He leapt to the sidewalk, fell, and scraped up his hands. I went out to see if he was okay, and I saw Grant in the parking lot, so I waved to him. He smiled and waved back. I started thinking how I feel about Grant. (Pet me! Pet me!)

But there's no point. I'll go away to college. He won't. Or maybe he will, but not to the same place. And then what? Forget it. I'd probably just end up blowing him off like Beth did, and he doesn't need to get rejected by both best friends.

“Could I get a Band-Aid or something from you people?” the guy yelled up at me. “Or does your store offer nothing to the public?”

Whoa. Talk about an unhappy customer. I brought him back to the store, made him a Mind Soother (with antianxiety herb additives), put extra ice on his hands, and let him use Beth's cell phone. And stopped thinking about Grant.

Those stupid kids at Goat Mtn. read all the books by November 15. Now I have to sleep on the roof with the Tom. All night.

We were supposed to do it on Friday night, but this Friday is Homecoming (duh) and next Friday is Thanksgiving (duh). So much for using a calendar. They said we could do it now, or wait for a Friday in December, which sounds like a really bad idea. So we're camping on the Goat Mountain school roof tomorrow night, and we'll get to miss our early Wednesday morning classes and our teachers will supposedly understand.

But will they understand the hell I've gone through, sleeping outside with the Tom? I can't imagine. I don't want to imagine.

“I have one of those sleeping bags that wraps around you like a burrito,” he said to Laura, our social committee director, after our meeting broke up today. (Still need to fire her, by the way.) “It's big enough for two.”

“Really?” Laura asked. “What do you mean? It's a tortilla? That's kind of gross.”

“No, it's just that style. We can roll up together,” he said.

“Oh.” She shrugged. “We can?”

Yeah, and then we can all vomit over the edge of the roof.

There's going to be Mrs. Martinez, Principal LeDucque, and the rest of the student council up there. Does he seriously think he's going to score, on a roof, surrounded by people, as part of an “increased literacy” program?

Sexual literacy,
maybe
.

“Up on the roof …”

Someone keeps singing that annoying tune. I'm going to kill him, whoever he is, even though he has a good voice and can pull it off.

The Tom is pretending we're camping. He's telling ghost stories. The scariest part of the story is how bad he is at telling it.

It's so cold out here. And the air has that smell, like snow is coming. Bitter and sort of damp. Whose idea was this, anyway?

Oh. Right.

From this school high atop Goat Mountain (which is in reality a small hill, on top of which is this rectangular building and a bronze goat sculpture), I am looking down at a billion identical subdivision houses. A sea of lights. They're not very attractive, but the fact they have lights makes them look really warm and inviting on a night like this.

I just looked at my watch. It's only seven o'clock.

I think I should have worn more clothes. Why was I trying to look good? Should have worn 3 pairs of long underwear.

Have to stop writing. Hand is becoming frostbitten.

The first snowflakes just started falling.

“So Courtney. This was
your
idea.” That's how Principal LeDucque greeted me. She was wearing a big knit Avalanche hat. While she was glaring at me, snowflakes started hitting her eyelashes. She had a megamug of coffee in her mittened hands.

“At least we're getting good publicity,” I said. A few reporters had shown up. We'd been photographed earlier, when it was still light out. Cars full of Goat Mtn. Canyon students kept pulling up to check on us—and laugh. Their parents even laughed.

“Yes, I guess so,” she said. Then she smiled. “And it is a good cause.” She put down her mug and started rubbing her hands together as she gazed up at the snowy night sky. “I'm afraid we won't get much sleep tonight.”

“No, probably not.” So I suggested we go ahead and have our next student council meeting now—after all, the entire student council was up there. We huddled by the big square heater vent and talked about how not to dare the middle school again.

“So I suppose it's time to turn in,” Mrs. Martinez said. “If anyone is too chilly, let me know. We can call for additional supplies.”

Everyone seemed okay. I couldn't admit to her that
I
was the unprepared one. I looked around for my sleeping bag. Turned out that it was right next to Tom's. He had me on one side and Laura on the other. He was explaining his sleeping bag to her. Actually she needed some help with her own. She's a bit slow on the uptake. On any uptake.

“You guys might want to, you know,
move
,” I suggested. Because I didn't want to be around when they wrapped their burrito.

“We have a great spot,” Tom said. “What's the problem?”

“N—nothing,” I said. My teeth were already chattering. I got into my sleeping bag and zipped it up. They were talking for a while, but then they both drifted off to sleep.

Snow was still coming down. I pulled my hat tighter on my head and scrunched into a ball. That didn't help. Mom bought budget sleeping bags for us, and I swear, this one was only rated to 60 degrees. It was designed for sleeping on the floor of a well-heated family room. In front of a roaring fire in the fireplace.

I heard snoring and looked over at the Tom. I didn't have a choice. I told myself that if he woke up, I'd have to deal with whatever happened. And maybe it wouldn't be so awful. If anything happened, it would be meaningless and vapid, not like anything real.

I really slowly and carefully (hands frozen, didn't work very well) unzipped my sleeping bag. Then I unzipped his. Sleeping bag, that is. Then I tried to zip them together but my shirt sleeve got caught in the zipper and I couldn't get it out. I must have spent half an hour struggling with that cheap icy zipper. I was muttering and swearing and Tom still didn't wake up. So I moved a little closer to him.