My Life in Black and White (20 page)

Ms. McCann frowned like she wasn’t sure this was such a great idea.

“It’s just a twenty-four-hour thing,” I babbled on. “The best thing for her is rest…. I already called her parents. They’re on their way to pick us up.”

Either I was an incredible liar, or Ms. McCann was a total pushover. In any case, she must have believed me.

Because she let us go.

“Ruthie? I need you to pick me up…. Because I do …
Because
… Because I rode my bike and I can’t put Taylor on the back…. Because she’s
passed out
, okay? She’s completely wasted…. I’ll explain later…. No …
No
, I am
not
calling Mom…. What could you possibly be doing right now that’s more important than helping your own sister? … Just get here, okay? … Fine. The courtyard by the parking lot.”

After I hung up, I walked back toward the cluster of bushes where I’d left Taylor, curled up in the fetal position on a bench.

Only now she wasn’t alone.

At first, when I saw a pair of horn-rimmed glasses glinting at me, I panicked. I thought it was the computer teacher, Mr. Canto. But then, in the glow of the security light, I saw the camera around his neck. And the same intense expression he’d worn in the darkroom.

“What are
you
—” I started to say before I caught a whiff of something horrible emanating from the bench. “Oh God. Did she throw up?”

Photo Boy nodded. “I won’t be wearing these shoes again.”

I grimaced.

He shrugged. “They’re just shoes.”

Before I could respond, Taylor suddenly revived herself, sitting straight up and squinting at him. “Who are
you
?”

“I’m Theo.”

“You’re cute,” she said. Then she slumped sideways and ralphed all over his jeans.

The smell was so overpowering, for a second I thought that I, too, was going to be sick. But I managed to breathe through my mouth, and the moment passed.

“Well,” Theo deadpanned, “I guess I won’t be wearing these jeans again, either.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to. There was nothing funny about this situation, but still, I laughed.

Theo bent down in front of Taylor’s face. “She’s breathing…. Probably just needed to get it out of her system … How much did she drink? Do you know?”

“No … She’s only been drunk one time before. I’ve never seen her like this.”

Theo nodded, then stood up. “So, is this your superpower?”

“What?”

“Rescuing your inebriated friends.”

I shook my head. “She’s not my friend.” Then, like a moron, I kept going. “She used to be. But she’s not anymore.”

“Rescuing inebriated
ex
-friends?” Theo raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m impressed.”

I thought,
Don’t be.

“I’m Theo,” he said, extending a hand.

“Catwoman,” I said, shaking it.

I was glad again, to be wearing the costume. Relieved that Theo didn’t recognize me from the darkroom.

“So,” I said, “what’s
your
superpower? Taking pictures?”

But before he could respond, my phone rang. It was Ruthie, saying she’d just left the party and was on her way.

“A
band
party?” I said.

“Screw you, Lex,” she snapped, and hung up.

I turned to Theo. “My sister just hung up on me. Can you believe that?”

“I don’t know. Who’s your sister?”

“Ruth Mayer. She’s a senior. You probably don’t know her.”

“Sure I do,” Theo said. “She’s the queen of chocolate chip cookies.”

I gave him a blank look.

“I’m a senior, too. She was my home-ec partner last year.”

I nodded as though this made perfect sense.

“Your sister’s cool,” he added.

I scanned his face to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

“Yeah,” I said, covering my surprise. “She plays a mean trombone.”

When Ruthie pulled up and saw Theo standing next to me she looked confused.

“Clark Kent?” she said through the driver’s side window.

And he said, “Ruth Wakefield?”

“What are you doing here?”

Theo held up his camera.

“You’re covering the dance?”

“I was. Until I ran into Catwoman.”

Ruthie’s forehead crinkled at me. “What’s with the unitard?”

“What’s with the hair?” I retorted.

My sister—who’d never used a styling product in her life—seemed to have busted out the gel tonight. And the weird thing was, it actually looked good. Parted to one side, slicked down and clipped into place by a sparkly barrette.

I stared at her for a second before shaking my head. “Never mind,” I said. “What took you so long? I told you Taylor’s drunk. She’s been throwing up and everything. She could have alcohol poisoning for all we know! What are we going to
do
?”

“First of all,” Ruthie said, “chill. We are going to take Taylor home. Her parents will decide if she needs to go to the hospital. You and Theo get her in the backseat.”

The ride to Taylor’s house was worse than I could have imagined. She threw up twice, both times with me holding her head so she wouldn’t choke. Most of it landed in my lap.

Ruthie didn’t say much. I filled her in on the essentials of what had happened, and Theo interjected once to say “Never trust a grim reaper,” but Ruthie’s responses were minimal. To my sister, our job was to get Taylor home; that was all. Her frowns in the rearview mirror spoke volumes. She was disgusted with the whole thing.

By the time we pulled into the LeFevres’ driveway, Taylor was still too drunk to walk. When Ruthie and I tried to drag her out of the backseat, she opened her eyes and suddenly shrieked with excitement.

“Woofie!” A glob of something flew out of her mouth and onto Ruthie’s chin. “Hiiii!”

“Hi, Taylor,” my sister said grimly, wiping her face with one hand and clasping Taylor’s elbow with the other. “You’re home.”

“Woofiewoofiewoofie,” Taylor chortled. “Where’s Theo?”

“Theo’s in the front seat,” Ruthie said.

“Hey, Taylor,” Theo said, walking around to our side of the car.

“The-ooooo! You’re cute.”

“Thanks. Hey. It’s time to go in now.”

“That’s right,” Ruthie said. “It’s bedtime.”

Taylor tried to yank her arm out of Ruthie’s grasp. “No-nonononono.”

“Yes. It’s late. Everyone’s tired.”

Shaking her head wildly, Taylor finally noticed me standing there and started crooning like an idiot. “Hello, kitty. Kittykittykitty. Niiice kitty.”

I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but for the first time all night, I pulled off my mask.

“It’s me, Tay. Lexi.”

Taylor’s face crumpled and a string of nonsense came out of her mouth—something about me hating her, and Ruthie hating her, and boys hating her, then some rant about high heels, which by that point she’d pulled off her feet and was holding in her hands.

Then she started bawling.

Ruthie turned to me. “Go ring the doorbell.”

She said it in a way that meant
don’t even think about arguing
. But still, I hesitated.

“You too,” Ruthie said to Theo.

“Me?” he said.

“Yeah. Make sure Catwoman doesn’t wimp out.”

Theo shrugged. “Okay, boss.”

The two of us trudged up the brick walkway.

I knew exactly what was going to happen next because Taylor’s mom went out every Saturday night to play bunco. Taylor’s dad would come to the door, take one look at her, and hit the roof. If there was one thing I’d learned about Mr. LeFevre over the years, it was this: he hated surprises. One night when I was over for dinner, Taylor’s mom forgot to turn on the oven for the meat loaf. When she brought it out of the oven, cold, Taylor’s dad got so mad he threw the whole thing against the wall.

My finger hovered in front of the buzzer. I tried to imagine the look on Mr. LeFevre’s face. No way was Taylor going to pull this one past him. He’d already grounded her once, after Jarrod’s party. Now there was puke in her hair. The smell coming off her was flammable.

“Hey,” Theo said as my finger continued to hover, “if you can bust into a darkroom, you can ring a doorbell.”

Only then did I remember that my mask was off. Of course he recognized me. I glanced at him and saw that he was smiling. For a second, I forgot what I was doing. Maybe it was the glasses, but I noticed that his eyes, which I had thought were just green, were actually flecked with gold. His skin, too, looked different in the porch light. Less pale, more—

“They’d rather have her drunk than dead,” Theo said.

“Do it,” Ruthie commanded, suddenly appearing behind us, Taylor slung over her shoulder like Santa’s sack.

When I didn’t move fast enough, my sister grabbed my finger and pressed it to the buzzer, holding it there.

“Shit,” I murmured.

And the door swung open.

Petty Little Problems

“DID YOU SEE the look on his face?” I asked as we backed out of the LeFevres’ driveway. “He’s going to kill her.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Ruthie said.

“What?”

“You wanted payback. Now her dad’s going to kill her. You should be dancing a jig right now.”

I shook my head. Of course I wanted payback. Taylor deserved serious punishment, but still—

“Why are you shaking your head?” Ruthie asked. “You wanted this to happen.
You
called
me
, remember?”

“Yeah, but not to bring her
home.
Her dad is a complete lunatic.”

“In fact,” Ruthie said, ignoring me, “I seem to remember you
begging
me to come.” She made her voice high and squeaky. “
I need you, Ruthie! Tell me what to do, Ruthie!
I left Sasha and Beatrice stranded at the party. For
you
.”

“That’s not…” I spluttered. “It wasn’t like…”

“What did she do?” Theo, who was sitting in the passenger seat, turned around to look at me.

“What?”

“Taylor. What did she do that was so bad?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Ruthie beat me to it.

“She seduced Lexi’s boyfriend.”

“Ouch,” Theo said.

I shot Ruthie a look in the rearview mirror.

“What?” she said innocently. “Am I wrong?”

I thought about jabbing my sister in the back of the head. I would have, if she wasn’t driving.

“Where to, Mr. Kent?” Ruthie said, like this was some kind of TV sitcom, and she was playing the butler.

“Geneseo Lane, Ms. Wakefield,” Theo said. “Number sixty-seven.”

His tone was amused, but I bet he couldn’t wait to get out of the car. And who could blame him? Who likes listening to other people fight, especially people you barely know?

It wasn’t easy, but I managed to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the ride, stewing silently in the backseat.

After Ruthie and I thanked Theo for his help, he disappeared into his house, probably collapsing with relief that he was free.

“What’s this Clark Kent business?” I muttered, climbing into the front and buckling my seat belt.

“Hello,” Ruthie said, like I was a moron. “Superman’s alter ego?”

“I know
that
.”

“Clark Kent is a reporter for the
Daily Planet
.”

“So?”

“So … Theo is editor of the
Millbridge Monitor
. Which, if you ever bothered to read anything besides
Seventeen
, you might know.”

My heart pounded with indignation, but my voice stayed calm. “Well, who’s Ruth Wakefield then?”

Ruthie heaved a sigh. “She invented the Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie.”

“Since when do you
bake
, anyway?”

“Since I needed an elective and I didn’t want to take metal shop. Okay? Are we done with Twenty Questions?”

“Oh my God!” I cried. “Why are you being such a wench?”

Ruthie snorted. “Why am
I
being such a wench?”

“Yeah. Why are
you
being such a wench?”

“Why am
I
being such a wench.” She slowed to a stop in front of a red light and shook her head. “That’s rich.”

“What is your
problem
?” I shouted.

My sister turned to me and said, without a drop of kindness in her voice, “Can you think about anyone but yourself for one minute?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? The whole reason I called you to pick me up was to help Taylor!”

“Uh-huh.” Ruthie pressed on the gas.

I knew what
uh-huh
meant: she didn’t believe me.

“What—” I cried, exasperated, “I was thinking of
myself
when I dragged Taylor out of there? If I was thinking of
her
, I would have left her there, passed out naked while a bunch of guys took pictures of her? That makes absolutely no sense!”

Ruthie shook her head. “I wasn’t talking about Taylor.”

“Well, who
were
you talking about?”

“Me, Lex! … I was talking about me!”

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, my sister started going off: saying how she was having a great time tonight when I called, how she didn’t want to leave, but I goaded her into picking me up.