Read Between the Lines (24 page)

And all I can think is my mother was right.

This costume doesn’t suit me at all.

In the parking lot back at school, Sammy grabs my shoulders. “Are you OK?” she asks.

I don’t know how to answer.

“I’ll handle this,” she says. She hugs me, but then runs after Jacob and gets in his car, and they drive away.

Those of us who don’t drive yet wait under the parking lot lights for our rides.

Grace and Ben go off in Grace’s car.

Neither of them look happy.

Megan comes to stand next to me. “Do you need a ride?” she asks softly. “I’m sure my mom could give you one.”

Maybe she will be my new friend. Or does she just want to be one of the Girls?

“Thanks,” I say. I text my parents to tell them Ben and I don’t need rides.

As we stand there, I notice Megan isn’t chewing gum anymore. I wonder if there is a new piece on the back of that seat on the bus.

She smiles sadly at me and looks away. Me, away. Me, away. Over and over. Finally, she reaches over and takes my hand.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “Jacob is so disgusting. I don’t see what Sammy likes about him.”

Her hand feels warm and sure in mine. But small. And weak. And temporary. And foreign.

I don’t answer.

The bus pulls away and goes wherever buses go when they are done for the day. I watch it disappear into the night and know I will never get on it again.

At home, I tell my parents I’m tired and don’t feel like eating the food they left out for me and Ben. My mom never objects to me skipping a meal. “No worries,” she says happily. “I’m sure Ben will gladly eat your share.” My dad looks worried but doesn’t speak up. He never contradicts my mom.

“Ben got a ride with Grace,” I tell them.

My mom and dad exchange relieved smiles.

“They are such a cute couple,” my mother says.

“She seems like a nice girl,” my dad agrees.

I go to my room and shut the door.

I undress in the dark. I fold my costume neatly. I put on my baggy pajama pants and my T-shirt that comes down to my knees. I sit on my bed and wait for my parents to go to their room, where they’ll watch TV in bed. I wait to hear the familiar sound of the lady from
House Hunters
coming down the hall.

Quietly I pick up my costume and walk down the hallway to the kitchen. I open the trash compactor and lift out the evening’s trash. Two Lean Cuisine containers. An empty bag of spinach. Crumpled paper napkins. I hold my breath as I lift things out, then slowly place my costume inside. I cover it up carefully with the Lean Cuisine containers. The plastic spinach bag. The napkins. I rip off some paper towel pieces from the roll on the counter and put those on top, just to make sure the red and white don’t show.

Then I slide it closed and press Compact.

I listen as the machine does its magic, squishing the insides down, down, down into a small flat box. Squishing my costume flat as a skinny pancake. Flat as a chewed-up piece of gum on the sidewalk that’s been stepped on a thousand times. Into nothing.

I stare at the red dot on the button and listen to the quiet motor inside, pressing, pressing, pressing.

That costume wasn’t right for me. It isn’t me.

So why can’t I breathe?

Why
. . .

Can’t I breathe?

I press the button again and wait for the light to turn green.

I fish out the stained paper towels. The flattened spinach bag. The Lean Cuisine packaging. The napkins. And then my costume. I leave the trash on the counter, the compactor drawer open, and go back to my room.

I pull off my baggy sweatpants and T-shirt and put my costume back on. No, not my costume. My uniform.

It is wrinkled but not ruined. Stained but not a lost cause.

I take a deep breath.

Let it out.

Deep breath.

Let it out.

In my mirror, I stare at the girl Sammy said is beautiful.

I step closer to her.

I turn one way, then the other. I plant my feet as if I am going to hold up my teammates.

We need strong girls like you.

I smile the way Grace taught me.

For a moment, I see a glimpse of beauty in mirror me. A glimpse of strength.

When I step back, my thighs rub together and sting where Jacob hurt me. Tried. Tried to hurt me.

I spread my feet apart so my thighs don’t touch. I make the A position, hands on hips.

Ready
,
girl?

Hit it.

I stretch my arms to the ceiling in a
V
for victory.

Mirror me mouths,
Go, team!

And I whisper back,
Go, me!

Then, I find my phone in my backpack and text Stephen.

I miss you
, I type.

Can we talk?

BEN’S HAND IN MIND IS LIKE A CLAMMY, DEAD
eel. I squeeze it, and it doesn’t squeeze back. I look at him, and he doesn’t look back. I love him, and he doesn’t love back.

We used to be an
us.
A
we.
One. But the secret, his secret, cut us back in two.

The bus is crowded and loud. There’s a mixture of strong cologne, perfume, and sweat in the air. I used to like this smell. It made me feel alive and excited. It’s the smell of the after-game rush. Ben and I used to sit in this seat, riding home from a great game and performance, and I would feel like we were king and queen. Like we were on top of it all. Now I feel like we’re being squished under
it all
’s weight.

I let go of his hand and smooth my skirt over my thighs. No one talks to us. No one cares. We lost the game and everyone thinks it’s Ben’s fault, and that means it’s my fault too. Isn’t it my job to make him happy? To cheer him up? To be his number-one fan?

I’m glad it’s dark so no one can see that I’m crying. I don’t want anyone to see the mascara running down my cheeks, giving me a sad-clown face.

Everything has turned out to be pretend. Even my expression.

This morning my little sister, Beth, told me that I didn’t look right. She said my armor was tarnished. When I asked her what she meant, she shrugged and stuffed her face with a chocolate Pop-Tart.

“Do you know how many calories those have?” I asked. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

“Who cares?” she asked through a mouthful. Her teeth were covered with wet brown crumbs, making them look rotten.

“Gross,” I said.

She chugged down a glass of milk and smiled. Her teeth were still coated.

“I think you’re bossy because you’re sad and it makes you feel empowered to tell people what to do.”

“Thanks, Dear Abby,” I said. “But I don’t remember asking for advice.” Beth is eleven and reads advice columns for fun. She’s always quoting her words of wisdom at me. My parents think it’s cute. They think everything Beth does is brilliant and quirky and special, and everything I do is cold and calculated and unoriginal. Having a cheerleader for a daughter seems to be their ultimate shame.

Actually I don’t know if that’s true. But that’s how they make me feel. “Surprise us, Grace!” they’re always saying. “Stop being so
predictable.
”

Beth is always telling me I’m like a cutout from a teen romance novel. Head cheerleader. Blond. Perfect body. Hot jock boyfriend who is captain of the basketball team. Popular. Smart. She tells me there has to be something more to me than the stereotype I try to emulate, but I don’t let anyone see what the “more thing” is. I hate that she uses words like
emulate.

I never
tried
to create my image. It’s just who I am. I
like
being head cheerleader. I
like
being fit. I
lik
e my silky hair. I
like
having the cutest boyfriend in school.

What’s so wrong with that?

Only, I’m about to lose that last one. I bet my family will be ecstatic.

When I left Beth in the kitchen this morning, she was opening another silver Pop-Tart packet. “Have a good day!” she yelled. “I’m sorry you’re feeling sad!”

“I’m not sad!” I yelled back.

But we both knew it was a lie.

I squeeze Ben’s eel hand again. Nothing. Maybe what’s wrong with wanting to be perfect is that there’s no such thing.

Out of nowhere, someone screams.

I squint in the dark and see Jacob doing something with his middle finger. I can’t see what’s going on.

“I think that was Lacy,” I say to Ben.

“Oh, God,” he mutters.

“Do you think she’s OK?” I whisper.

“She’s just a freak,” he says.

I cringe. Before Lacy and I became friends, I might have laughed and agreed, even though she’s his sister. Now I want to punch him. I take my hand out of his and wipe the cold sweat from it on my skirt.

“She’s nice,” I say.

“Whatever.”

“What is
wrong
with you?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He leans his head against the window.

I lean my head against the back of the seat. I try to remember what it was about Ben that I thought I loved so much. Has he always been such a jerk and I’m just seeing it now?

No.

No, I know he was different before. He was sweet and funny. And
hot
and
sexy
and definitely the best-looking guy our school has ever seen. He was . . . perfect.

What’s wrong with that?

Oh, yeah.

Beth calls him Ken. As in Barbie’s boyfriend. The first time she said it, my parents laughed so hard that my dad started coughing and my mom had to pound him on the back to make him stop, and wine came out his nose and at first we all thought he’d given himself a nosebleed. I secretly wished he had.

“You’re all so mean!” I yelled.

“Oh, Grace, relax,” my mom said.

She’s always telling me to relax. “You’re so serious. So motivated. You need to learn how to chill out, honey. You’re going to give yourself ulcers.”

When my mother tells me stuff like this, it’s hard not to hate her. What kind of parent doesn’t want their daughter to be popular and get good grades and be head of the cheerleading squad and have a cute boyfriend? I swear, I think they’d be happier if I was a stoner or something like they were when
they
were in high school. God.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve stayed with Ben as long as I have just to annoy my family. There aren’t a whole lot of other good reasons at the moment. Especially now that I know that . . .

Now that I know . . .

That it’s over.

If my parents found out the truth about Ben, they would probably both die laughing. They would find the whole story so funny and tell it to all their friends. I think that’s the worst thing of all. Knowing for sure that this is what they would do. They wouldn’t be sad for me. They wouldn’t see that I’m hurt. They would just think how hysterical it is that the boy I picked just because he’s supposed to be Mr. Perfect turned out to . . .

Like boys.

I look at Ben, not looking at me, probably daydreaming about
him.
Stephen.

He can deny it but I know. I saw.

I know! I saw!

I’m not perfect. I’m so far from perfect that my boyfriend prefers being with a boy to being with me.