Ruby Unscripted (7 page)

It's always funny to me when Aunt Jenna says things like “You'll think he's hot.”

But then suddenly I think of the guy I saw coming out of the kitchen. The one with the dark eyes and serious expression.

“What does this Kaden look like?”

It's nearly midnight before we get back to the house. It feels like the week I went to Mexico with the youth mission trip. Well, actually, it's not like that at all, except for how long it feels since I've been home, since I've talked to my friends. My head is spinning from exhaustion, but I have to see who wrote me.

My phone sits on the windowsill, partly plugged into the wall. Beneath it is a white sheet of paper that says, “Ruby, I am very very sorry I messed up your texts. I cleaned your room and made you a snack. Love, Mac.”

There's a plate of Wheat Thins with orange cheese melted on top, and even though it's hours old, I try one. Not bad.

Even with what Mac deleted, I have fifteen new texts. From Kate, Isabelle, Randy, Felicity, and Nikki. And to think I felt alone today. But I am surprised to find nothing from Nick or Carson. Maybe those were ones that Mac erased.

KATE:
What was that halt message you sent lake about
forgetting your phone.

KATE:
Hello??!

KATE:
Should I call for search and rescue?

KATE:
You MUST call me ASAP!

ISABELLE:
I hate Nikki. How could she think what she did
would be okay?

RANDY:
Now that you're gone, I might as well tell you that I was the one who sent you the rose-a-gram last year on Valentine's. But don't tell Angie. She always thought I had a thing for you and now that we're going out. .. .

I decide to read the rest of that bizarre text later.

FELICITY:
Josh asked me to the dance. You always give me
the best advice. What should I do? Josh is really
cute, but you know how I feel about Harlen...

I skip this one too and move on.

NIKKI:
Hey girl. How's the big dry' So I need to know. Do you like Nick or what? I'll back oft if you do, you know I will. Everyone says you've got this great new life down there so I didnt think you'd mind that I asked him to prom. Tell me if you do.

NIKKI:
Uh-oh. Kate said you'd want to go to prom with Nick, that you'd come home for it. I suck! I can tell him that you want to go with him instead. He said yes when I asked. I know it's pretty bold of a girl, but I thought why not?

I've been gone a few days, Nick finally likes me, but now he's going to the prom with Nikki? So is that au revoir to the lime green dress with the twirly skirt?

chapter seven

Have I ever been this tired?

I've hardly slept the last few nights, and after working over twelve hours, the last thing I want is to get up at eight for a counseling appointment at my new school. But that's exactly what I'm doing.

My friends arc all in class-Carson too-and most of my morning responses to last night have consisted of: Sorry, I left my phone at home, but I can't talk now. I have nothing to wear. I'm late already.

And to Isabcllc: I don't even know what to say about Nikki.

And to Randy: Thanks for the rose-a-gram I won't tell.

Before sending them, I deleted the words 1 wrote to Nikki. Silly junior high things like: Nick likes me now. Nick was supposed to ask me to the dance.

And to Nick 1 wrote: Hey, how's Spanish today? I have another day oft from school, lealous?

That isn't what I wanted to write, but my dad always says don't burn your bridges unless you like swimming in freezing cold water with river eels, so I decide to wait till after my counseling appointment to decide what to say to that wimp, jerk . . .

“Wow,” Mom says as we pull into the parking lot, and as I see the view before me, my mouth literally drops open.

The landscaped walkways and smooth stucco buildings with tall palm trees wave a welcome to us. Or they may be laughing at us, saying, “Who do you think you are to come here? This isn't for people like you.”

“Are you sure this is the high school and not a university?” I ask.

“It's like no high school I've ever seen,” Mom says in a tone that sounds nervous for me.

And then we notice the cars.

In Cottonwood you'd see every variety, from clunkers, minivans, and work trucks to sports cars. But here the student parking lot looks like a new car dealership. The glimmer of perfectly waxed paint is probably visible to orbiting satellites. When I get out of our Honda Accord (unwashed and with boxes in the backseat), I'm beside a silver BMW that I spontaneously want to put handprints all over.

We're going to my counselor's appointment, the one that Carson and I would have attended without our mommy in tow. But with Carson gone, I'll put aside my pride. I want my mommy with me.

At least I'm never embarrassed by my mom like some kids are. She's smart, pretty, confident, and young compared to a lot of mothers. She could pass for an older sister, almost.

The students, thankfully, are in class, except for one or two.

“You look nice,” Mom says, which makes me even more self-conscious.

Is she saying that because I
don't
look nice? Because she thinks I need a boost to the ego, since I'm the third-class citizen here? I'd be in the lower deck of the
Titanic
. The ones who weren't given a life raft or vest . . .

“I see the office,” Mom says, bringing me back from the icy waters of the North Sea.

I tell myself that there is no one better than me, that I will be myself and no one else, and a bunch of other stuff that just runs together in my head and keeps my feet going forward.

We find the office and secretary and sit down to await the counselor. There is a smallness about me. My clothes feel itchy and uncomfortable, and I wonder how my hair looks and if any dark hairs have frizzed out of my sleek ponytail.

A few people glance at me curiously as they pass, and I want to say, as Mac might, “Take a picture!”

Mr. James, my school counselor, greets us enthusiastically and ushers us into his office. His walls are covered with certificates, diplomas, awards, and photographs. He has stacks of catalogs from colleges and papers in unorganized piles on his desk around his flat-screen computer monitor.

“And your son, will he be coming?”

Mom shakes her head and doesn't hide her disappointment as she says, “No, he'll be remaining at his school in Cottonwood.”

Carson and Mom talked last night while I was at the Underground. He feels bad, Mom said, but he still wants to stay with Dad. He's going to hear about it from me, that's for sure.

The counselor nods with a sympathetic knowing look that's more annoying than anything else.

After having us sit, Mr. James talks. And boy, can he talk. Mom and I glance at each other about three minutes into it.

“Oh, you'll really enjoy our school. I've been here two years now, and it's the best school I've worked at. We have excellent programs, excellent opportunities, a student body that excels in academics, art, athletics, and even politics. According to your file, you're a moderately academic student, Ruby, though your state test scores are impressive and your teacher comments are very complimentary.”

Ever since I was in sixth grade, teachers have talked about pushing us. “This year will not be easy—it's to prepare you for high school . . . The college prep classes will get you ready for college . . .” Everything is about preparing for something in the future. For college, for your job, for your kids, for your retirement, for your death. When does anyone get to enjoy the moment?

I like enjoying the moment. And my grades sometimes reflect that, much to the consternation of Mom and my teachers. Dad doesn't care so much, as long as I pass.

“Yes, if she applied herself, she'd have a high grade point average. We've had a rough few years—” Mom sees my look that says,
Please don't bring up the divorce again.
And then says, “So, uh, I think this change will be a great opportunity for her.”

“Oh, it will indeed, indeed. I see that you take a lot of art courses, Miss Madden.”

“Yes.”

“Let's see what we can find that interests you. I believe a happy student is one who excels. We have 450 sophomores, and over 80 percent are involved in some club or activity.”

“Four hundred fifty?”

“And our cafeteria isn't like most schools. We offer homemade soups, locally grown organic vegetables, whole grains for the breads and pizza dough. Everything is as natural and healthy as possible. Our programs are . . .”

My mind sort of zones out as I imagine describing all of this to Kate and my friends back home, telling how Mr. James turns red in his excited description of the high school.

“I love this school,” Mr. James says. “We've had a few movies shot on the school grounds as well.”

This interests me, until he starts naming movies that are long before my time, a few even before Mom's, and then a bunch of short indie films that no normal person would know.

“Cool,” I say.

“That's interesting. I'll have to put those on my iMovie list.” Mom is ever so polite.

I unzip my purse and search for my phone. Even though I keep telling myself to put it in the little interior pocket, I never do, and I have to dig around the bottom to find it. There it is. I view it inside my purse and see a new message from Kate.

You r not going to believe this!

I think this is Kate's new replacement for “Hello.”

I talked to Meg who has chemwith Nkck. She said Nkck told her...

Mom nudges me with her elbow and frowns.

The words
Nikki
and
prom
are the last ones I see before dropping the phone back into my purse.

Mr. James is still talking. “Look for the daily bulletin . . . sports teams . . . AP and honors classes . . . What are some of your other interests, Ruby?”

Questions always bring me back to focus. “Um, well . . .” My mind is blank. Strangely blank. Mine. I'm usually so full of ideas and interests and things I want to pursue that I can't pick one.

But right now, while sitting in the school that feels as foreign as one in Japan, I can't think of anything I want to do, except go home to Cottonwood and have my normal life back. I'm interested in that. I'm interested in what dress I'd wear to prom if Nick dumped Nikki, and interested in whether he'd like lime green and black—he could get a lime green shirt with black tie, or would it look better the opposite? Yes, the opposite. I really want that lime green dress at that dress shop near the Underground. On the drive home, I saw it again with a light shining down like a promise of dances to come.

Mom says, “She likes different kinds of arts. And foreign languages. She wanted to take several classes that aren't offered anymore at her old school.”

“That's happening more and more in small, rural communities. But not here. We have a lot to offer in our arts programs. And you'll be surprised at the variety of languages. We certainly have French. We even offer Mandarin.”

“Mandarin?”
What would I do with Chinese?
I wonder, though maybe I'll tell Kate I'm taking that since she teases me so often about my ever-fluctuating interests.

We set up my schedule, and I pick French 1 and International Cooking for my electives.

Then Mr. James asks, “Do you know anyone who attends here?”

“I met a guy . . . Frankie something, maybe Clark, or Conklin?”

“Oh yes, Franklin Klarken is a wonderful young man. He's a little overly enthusiastic at times, and unfocused in his studies . . . but what a character. He's a junior this year, I believe. I try to know all of the students by name, but that goal keeps me on my toes. Anyway, I assigned a member of student council to show you around on Monday. She will be stopping by to meet you any minute now.” He looks at a Marin High clock on the wall.

Mr. James and my mom talk away about the school programs and college opportunities while he types in my new schedule. A strange sort of panic washes over me, like a wave of sadness or fear or hysteria—maybe all three. My feet want to run from this place.

“Hi, Mr. James.” A pretty face peeks into the room. Short brown hair and brown eyes. She's one of those natural beauties and wears only a subtle hint of makeup.

Mr. James stands up eagerly. “Come in, come in. Lucinda is the sophomore class treasurer, the head of debate club, and a track-and-field star.”

“Wow,” I say.

Lucinda motions like she's brushing away the compliment. “And I still won't get into Princeton unless I get my act together.”

While Mom finishes with Mr. James, I follow Lucinda outside. She's my first real hope for useful information. And she might offer my first possibility of friendship.

“So where are you from again?”

“Near Redding. It's about three or four hours north.”