manicpixiedreamgirl (16 page)

“Um … whenever,” I said.

“You want to come by my place?”

I thought the sidewalk had dropped out from under me.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“My house,” she said. “Do you. Want to. Come over. After school today.”

Shocked, suspicious, scared, grateful, I said, “Yeah, okay.”

“Cool. Meet me by the drama department after sixth hour.”

“Yeah … okay.”

“Great. See ya there.”

She walked off down the hall.

That simple?
I thought as I floated to class. Really that simple? This whole time?

I wasn’t under any misconceptions, like we were going to hook up or anything; this was strictly a platonic hangout. But damn, if I’d known it was so easy, I would’ve asked her to hang out a long time ago!

And if I had … where might we be by now? What if I’d talked to her earlier, before Sydney had asked me out?

What
if
?

I failed a chem quiz, heard nothing anyone talked about
at lunch, and took no notes in American history. I was, to put it mildly, preoccupied. I wrote a thousand stories in my mind about what could and should happen at Becky’s house.

But by the time school was out, I’d started running through a number of worst-case scenarios: she wouldn’t be waiting for me; Sydney would intercept me on the way; Matthew would be coming along too …

None of which happened. After sixth hour, I practically ran to the drama department, and I found Becky leaning against a wall, her black leather backpack dangling from one hand.

“Ready?” she asked as I approached.

“Um … yeah!” I said.

“Well then, we’re off.” She led the way through the escaping student body to her car.

The Jeep smelled of vanilla, though I didn’t see a car freshener anywhere. It wasn’t overpowering, but it still made me dizzy. I don’t think it had anything to do with the scent itself, of course.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Thanks. Mom got it for me.”

“Damn! Rough gig.”

Becky paused before turning the ignition.

“Sometimes,” she said.

I left it alone.

“You got a car?” she asked.

“Nope. Permit, though. I might be able to borrow my
mom’s car after Christmas. I’m hoping to start driving to school next year.”

“Do it. There’s nothing better.”

“Are you, um … I mean, you’re fifteen, right?”

“Yeah?”

“So how did you get a license?”

Becky smirked and shifted into drive. “Who says I have a license?”

And she stomped on the gas, barreling out of the parking lot and onto the street, narrowly avoiding a school bus. She giggled at the near miss.

Becky turned on her stereo. A prehistoric U2 song came on the radio, something soft and mellow. Good choice; it helped my heart slow down. It was still thudding from the peel-out, and from being in her car. On the way to her
house
.

Based on the house Becky drove us to, and remembering her parents’ clothing at the play, it was clear her family was—well, I wouldn’t say filthy rich, but they did pretty well for themselves. Her house wasn’t a mansion, but it was in an older part of town with bigger property lots.

The white exterior blinded me as we pulled up. The yard, landscaped in precise detail, had no leaf out of place. Sterile. The driveway didn’t have a single oil spot or crack; I couldn’t imagine how that was even possible. Gabby and my dad parked in the gravel along one side of the garage because there was only room for Mom’s car inside.

“Okeydoke,” Becky said. “Welcome to Casa de Webb.
The den of iniquity!
Come on in.”

I left my bag in her car and followed her to a pair of front doors inlaid with glass and crystal prisms. We went in, and I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at the chandelier in the foyer. The hall, floored with dazzling white tile, opened on the left into a huge sitting room, sporting a tan leather couch and dark wood furniture. But no TV, just a liquor cabinet and some weird-ass art on the walls.

Becky led me past this room, and I caught a glimpse of a very modern kitchen, also to the left, all blacks and whites and chromes. I didn’t think anyone ever actually prepared food in it; nothing was out of place, no cereal boxes lined up on any counters or smudges on the stainless steel fridge. Straight ahead lay another living area, showing off a high-def TV about as wide as Becky’s car was long.

“Holy …,” I said, walking into the TV room. It was dark and plush, with room enough for a small party. I stood by the black suede couch, taking in the details. A redbrick fireplace was recessed in one wall. Several framed photos lined the mantelpiece.

“It’s no big,” Becky said behind me.

“Clearly, you’re not referring to the TV,” I told her.

She snickered, which made me feel good. I’d almost forgotten I was there to talk to her about the Matthew thing.

But talk about what, exactly? I couldn’t decide. Mostly I wanted to find a way to be able to talk to her again like we used to. I couldn’t figure out how to do that without
bringing up how it felt to have caught them the way I did. Which would by necessity include telling her how much I cared about her, which could end up getting back to Sydney, who, I assumed, believed my days of crushing on Becky Webb were over.

I moved toward the fireplace to look at the photos. Becky as a baby. Some young guy with her color hair. Becky in a soccer uniform, early grade school. The same young guy in a high school baseball uniform.

“Who’s this?” I asked, pointing to the guy. He looked like an all-star something or other.

“Ugh. William. My brother. He’s a cocksucker.”

“Literally?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. He’s a jerk.”

I almost snapped my fingers when I realized where I recognized him from. This was the guy who’d sat beside her last year in the cafeteria. Not a boyfriend, not even a student—her big brother.

“I saw him at school once last year, right?”

I thought I saw Becky’s shoulders tense. “Yeah,” she said in a sharp bark. “Like I said. Jerk.”

I fell back into step behind her as she walked down a long, tiled hall toward her room. “Why’s that?”

“Because he told me the truth.”

“Doesn’t the truth set you free?”

Becky stopped cold and whirled on me. “No, it doesn’t,” she snapped. “It just makes you go ass-over-elbows crazy in the head.”

I am so dumb.

“Sorry,” I said.

Becky rubbed her eyes. “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not you. He told me Mom and Dad were planning on getting a divorce because of me, but because of work they had to stay together, and that as soon as I graduate, they’ll finish the job. That’s all.”

That’s all?
I thought.
What a messed-up thing to tell someone
.

“What do you mean, ‘because of you’?”

“He’s my
half
brother,” Becky said.

“Your mom was married bef— Oh.” Call me Captain Obvious.

“Yeah,” Becky said. “
Oh
. See, according to William, Mom had a little romp with the pool boy, or the tennis pro, or the mailman … whatever porn cliché you want to choose. And a few
wakachicka wakachickas
later, enter little old me.”

“Did you ask them if it’s true, though?” I said carefully. “I mean, if he’s a jerk, maybe—”

Becky spit out a laugh void of any trace of merriment. “Ask them?” she repeated. “I don’t have to. They have separate goddamn bedrooms. When they’re both here at the same time, that is. Which is, oh, once every
never
.”

“Why do they stay together? I mean, if they have separate rooms, that sounds serious. People get divorced all the time with kids involved.”

Becky pursed her lips. “Ready for this?” she said. She
lowered her voice, as if imparting a great secret. “It might cause a scene at the club.”

“What club?”

“The country club,” Becky said. “Golf, tennis, that kind of thing. Dad plays the former, Mom plays the latter. If they got a divorce now, people would
talk
, don’tcha know. Can’t have that. Not yet, anyway. See, it’ll be easier on their precious professional and social lives to pretend like everything’s fine until I get out of here. That way they can be seen as brave and caring for sticking together for the sake of their younger child. You know, the one with the
problems
.”

I had no idea what to say after that.
What problems?
I screamed in my head. You can’t have any problems—you drive a new car at fifteen without a license, you live in a swank part of town, you’re talented, you’re beautiful …

The Matthew thing, that was a mistake, a—an error in judgment, that’s all. We all made mistakes, right? Didn’t we?

“They’ve both got clients there,” Becky said, probably in response to the confused expression I wore. “Lots of clients, lots of money. A divorce could ruin all that, at least at the moment.”

“What do they do?” I ask as we continued down the hall.

“Hell if I know. Insurance or something.”

We reached her bedroom door. She opened it and went in.

She opened her
bedroom
door. For me. I could barely breathe.

Becky tossed her backpack on the floor and paused to yawn and stretch. When she did, her midnight-blue shirt lifted up an inch or two, and the small ribbon of skin I saw made my eyeballs spin. I’d have given anything to touch her there. My god, it was just her
waist
, but it was killing me.

Not wanting to get myself into any more trouble than I already was, I began studying her room, which mine would have probably neatly fit into, memorizing its every texture, its every essence. The walls were off-white, with a black-bladed ceiling fan above. A smooth, polished desk sat pushed into one corner, with a row of books neatly lined above it. One was the old copy of
Night Shift
I’d seen her reading that first day in the cafeteria. The desk matched a bureau and vanity along the opposite wall. She had an attached bathroom off one corner. Her bed—a queen, I thought—was covered with a floral-patterned comforter.

Becky flopped onto her bed and began massaging her scalp. “So, this is it,” she said. “We have
arriven
. What’s on your mind?”

Not daring to sit beside her, I chose her black leather swivel desk chair instead. “Huh?” I said.

“You wanted to talk about something?”

“Oh!” I said. “Yeah. Right. Well. I guess …”

She pulled her legs up and crossed them on her mattress, turning to face me more squarely. I swear, the look on her face … she had no idea what I was going to say.

Which made two of us.

“Are your parents home?” I blurted out.

“Nah. Dad’ll be by in a bit, probably. Maybe.”

“He sells insurance, huh?” Quite suddenly, I did not want to bring up Matthew at all.

“Sells it, buys it, trades it, embezzles it, takes it out for drinks … I dunno, couldn’t tell ya.”

“How about you, you any good at math?”

“Probably.”

I laughed, but she didn’t.

“Hey, you’re in Honors English, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to conceal my surprise that she knew this about me. “Are you?”

“Heh. No,” Becky said, rolling her eyes. “I’m an
exceptional student
.”

I knew what she meant: she was in the Exceptional Student Program, which, despite its name, was basically for all the burnouts, idiots, and losers of the school. Dumbed-down classes. I’m just calling it what it is, okay? Ask Justin; he’d been in those classes since freshman year, and he’ll be the first to admit it’s where all the dumb kids—who aren’t dumb enough to drop out—end up.

And she didn’t belong there. How could a student perform the lead role in a play as well as she did and yet be thought of as stupid?

“Really,” I said. I didn’t want to sound as shocked as I was. Fictional Becky wasn’t dumb, and I didn’t think Real Becky was either.

“That’s what they tell me,” Becky said. “Kind of a misnomer, don’t you think? ‘Exceptional’?”

See, that’s what I meant. A dumb kid wouldn’t use a word like “misnomer.”

“I’ve always thought so,” I said.

“It’s a
hoot
,” she said.

“I don’t think you belong there,” I said.

“You don’t? How’s that?”

“You’re not stupid.”

“Stupid has little if anything to do with it, Sparky,” she said. “It has everything to do with …”

She stopped herself and bit her lip. Damn. Shoot me. If I was a tenth as debonair as my fictional characters, I would have eased her down on the bed right then and there. Alas, I was only me.

“With?” I asked, praying my jeans were concealing where my mind was headed.

“With what you can get away with when no one’s looking.”

The phrase was loaded, I could feel it, but I couldn’t tell how. Then it hit me.

“Like getting high.”

“Sure,” she said. “For example.”

I don’t know what my expression revealed, but Becky squinted at me and added, “Does that bother you?”

“Not— I mean, it just surprised me, is all.”

“Why?”

Because you’re perfect
, I thought.

“Because you’re different,” I said.

“Am I, now!”

I shrugged.

“Don’t you ever want to just forget about everything for a while?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I only do it on very specific days, okay?”

“What days?”

“Days that they’re looking for it.”

I started to push the question, but Becky laughed—whether it was to herself or at me, I couldn’t say—and spoke again before I could.

“So how do you do it?” she said.

“Do what?”

“Forget about everything for a while.”

“Oh. Write, I guess.”

“One-act plays?” she asked, wriggling her eyebrows.

“That was my first,” I said. “Mostly I write … stories.…”

Uh-oh. Didn’t mean to say that. What if she asked me—

“What do you write about?”

Danger! Retreat! What the hell had I gotten myself into?

“All sorts of things, I guess.”

“That’s cool,” Becky said. “You never said anything about that before. Can I read some of it?”