Split Just Right (7 page)

Parents have swarmed in from their seats to collect girls and towels and sports bags, and I’m disappointed Mom’s not here; she’s usually around to see my games. She would rehash the details, revising key moments to her own Mom-vision, so that my mistakes wouldn’t be all my fault, and part of me wouldn’t believe her and part of me would be able to listen and laugh and maybe relax a little.

“Danny!” Portia waves from across the court and races over. “Guess who’s here?” she hisses loudly and wetly in my ear. “Your very own potential mutual Spring Flinger?”

I check out of the corner of my eye. Ty must have hit the vending machines; with one hand he’s glugging down raisins from the box straight into his mouth while the other holds a can of Sprite. “You want me to go over there with you?”

“Look, I was just going to call him tonight,” I protest weakly. Portia squishes up her nose, irritated with me.

“Dummy, why would you want to call him if he’s standing twenty feet away from you? We’ll both go. It’s not like we don’t know those guys; you’re being so insecure, especially since I’ve already asked Jess.”

“I am not being insecure, just because I don’t want to follow your plan.”

“But the conversation will go much better in a group, especially since you’re BNT-cubed.”

Which stands for Bringing Nothing to the Table, acting like deadweight. Right now, this is probably true. Portia scoops her hair high up in her hands and lets it fall—whoosh—over her jacket. Jess Bosack looks over.

“But I’m all sweaty … and I just lost the game.” I rub my nose and then suddenly flash Portia a big fake smile in case anyone’s watching and sees me looking insecure. “And by the way, if you grab my arm and start dragging me over there like a spaz,” I speak quietly behind my tightly locked teeth, “I will kill you and that’s a promise.”

“Like I would really do that?” Portia shakes back her hair.

“Calling’s better for me, anyway. If I go now, Ty won’t know that I’ve seen him. The late bus is going to be leaving any minute.”

Then I dash away from Portia, out of the gym, into the cold air. The empty bus is waiting at the curb, and I thump down into my favorite seat, the one with the bump that the tire fits under. I press my face against the window; my skin feels stiff with salt and my ponytail elastic hugs a tangled mat of brown.

Thu-thu-thunk.
My eyes fly open to see Ty knocking against the glass with the heel of his hand. He jerks his thumb to the bus door and I nod, trying not to let myself seem too energized by his presence.

“Hey, you.” He smiles as he walks down the aisle. His cheeks have blossomed pink from the cold and his school tie dangles out of his camel’s hair overcoat. I brush my hair in front of my chest in case of a hive attack. “Good game.”

“Not really. Where were you? I didn’t see you.” I lift my eyebrows and pretend to stifle a yawn. Ty slides into the seat in front of me, kneeling on it backward to face me and resting his arms across the seat back.

“I was watching you from the door. We didn’t get there till fourth quarter. I came to see Hannah. Hannah Wilder, you know. She’s my cousin.”

“On your mom’s side?”

“Huh?” Ty reaches up and unlatches his window and squeaks it down, allowing a shot of cold air to blow inside.

“Cousin on your mom’s—like, is your mom sisters with her mom or something?” At first Ty just stares at me and I can’t tell if he doesn’t get it or he’s just bored by my awful BNT-cubed conversation skills.

“Hannah’s dad is my uncle Craig,” he says quickly, and then, thankfully, he slides on the Smile, probably to let me know that I haven’t totally blown it with him yet. “So what’s going on with you, Danny? Besides hoops?” Ty pulls a pack of gum out of his pocket; it’s the weird no-name brand of another Bradshaw vending machine purchase. He offers me a stick, which I accept.

“Not much.” I swallow. “Same old same old.” I hope I don’t look like I’m shivering. And then I realize how idiotic I am to feel so jumpy. Ty Amblin is probably sitting here waiting for me to ask him to the dance. He knows I’m going to, and he wants to go. I don’t have to be nervous at all. My asking rushes out all at once, words clear and simple as bubbles. He nods, and flashes the Smile at me again.

“When is it?” he asks. As if he doesn’t know.

“Next Saturday. And I’m pretty sure Jess and Portia are going.”

“Well, yeah, sure. Sounds cool.” He brushes his fingers through his soft yellow hair and nods. “Cool,” he says again.

“And Jess’s older brother might be able to give us all a lift, if you guys want to meet up with us at Portia’s before the dance.” The plan behind this casual sentence actually involved hours of phone conversation with Portia, since Mr. Paulson’s so strict about putting his personal stamp of approval on our dates. Ty nods, satisfied, and lifts himself up from the seat, his two thumbs whipping at the seat back in a little drumroll. After all this anticipation, it’s turned out to be a snap. Well, maybe a couple snaps.

“Great. Look forward to it. See you later then,” he says. “I gotta go. My friends are waiting.” He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the gym.

“See ya.” And I’m glad to see him go, glad to get back to the business of breathing normally again. A few other girls are pushing onto the late bus just as Ty gets off, and their impressed glances over at me fill me with a happy smugness inside. At least I can count one victory tonight.

“I did it,” I tell Mom the next morning as we’re eating breakfast at the Taste of the Town diner. “I asked Ty and he said yes.”

“Fantastic.” Her eyes rest soft over me. “Your dad and I went to my senior spring formal together, in high school. He wore this beautiful paisley silk tie and cummerbund; no one at Slater had seen anything so sharp. I was hugely impressed with him, so proud he was my date.”

“Yeah, Ty’s got cool clothes. He’d look cool in anything, though.”

“Well, we’ll have to get you a dress. I bet we could find something pretty at Nyheim’s.” She catches my wrist and holds it. “Sound good?”

“Mom, if we need the money—”

“Don’t be a goon. This is important.”

The waitress comes over and fills Mom’s and my coffee cups. I open my mouth. Just ask her about the Greenhouse, I think. Now. Do it, do it. I’ve put this off for almost a week. I’m going to tell her I know where she was last night, and I’m going to ask her what the deal is, keeping this stupid secret from me. What comes out of my mouth is, “How was rehearsal last night?”

“Oh, Louis is having his last-minute panic attacks, of course.” Mom shakes her head and grins like she’s thinking back on something funny that happened.

Every day, the not-tell that has sprung up between us gathers a strange shape, growing thicker and more resistant to the truth.

The weekend blows by and Mom still won’t tell me about her job, and since she’s always out when I’m home and vice versa, I never find the right opportunity to talk with her. Everyone at Bradshaw knows she’s working at the Greenhouse, though, mostly because Esther Zeller, a junior I don’t know very well, buses tables there on weekends.

“Your Mom and I made a killing at the restaurant, Danny,” Esther shouts and gives me a wink Monday afternoon, as I’m leaving the locker room. “You should’ve seen us move.” A cluster of girls stand nearby, but no one speaks or looks at me, yet I sense a shifting, a quieting down of the noise level. They think I’m ashamed, I realize. Bunch of snobs. Then I think, Am I ashamed? And I know that I am, but part of the problem is that it’s all mixed up with feeling angry and defensive and protective of Mom. Another part of the problem is that the person I want to talk with most about my feelings has decided not to talk to me about hers.

“It’s not for a play, is it?” Portia asks later that same day

“No, it’s because Kahani’s is closing down.”

“We knew it.” She snaps her fingers in my face.

“That’s what my dad had guessed, anyway. Look, you don’t have to feel insecure about it with me, you know. Everyone totally loves your mom, Danny. We think she’s so great, and everyone feels really bad that she’s got to work that bummer job.”

Really bad. Bummer job. Insecure. I hate feeling like Mom’s and my finances are up for discussion. What goes on with people moneywise should be private, not discussed over mashed potatoes in the Paulsons’ dining room or in the locker room at school. The whole situation feels like it’s spinning way out of control. I write a note and stick it in the fridge.

Mom,

Please tell me what’s going on with the Greenhouse. I don’t know why you’re feeling so private about it and I’d really like to talk to you.

Love, Danny

Just as I’m going to bed, though, I rip the note into confetti.

Late that night, I call the Greenhouse again, and listen to Mom shout, “Hello hello, who the hell is this?” I stare at the receiver and hang up.

On Tuesday, I make a very dumb fashion decision which, when I mull it over later, ends up adding a big fat worm to my unopened worm can. In a way it’s my own stupid fault, but the boots had been hanging out in my closet for so long that their ugliness shock value was gone for me. So when I put them on Tuesday morning, while they didn’t look stylish, they at least seemed like they were mine. Big mistake.

The curse of the ugly boots happened a couple years ago, when Mom and I went to a church rummage sale. Since we don’t belong to any church, Mom was nervous, and she kept looking around like she thought the church sheriff was going to rush over any minute and kick us out.

“Mom, you don’t have to be a member of a church to rummage here,” I whispered.

“I’m not so sure about that, Danny,” she said darkly. “But if they ask, say you belong to Saint Thomas.” We couldn’t find anything we liked, but Mom felt like she had to get something, so she impulsively bought a pair of cordovan, knee-high, cork-heeled, jangly zip-up boots. Aside from being out of style, they were way too big for her, so she chucked them into my closet, where they remained, slouched against the back wall like two old drunks in the park. But whenever I’ve tried to throw the boots away, Mom makes me keep them. I swear she thinks it would be a sacrilege to throw away church-fair boots. She can be very superstitious like that.

Tuesdays are Bradshaw’s weekly “casual day,” which means, as long as you don’t wear pants, you don’t have to wear your uniform. I’m not a fan of shopping, and most Tuesdays I’ll usually wear my uniform skirt with a sweatshirt on top. But this week, probably because Spring Fling is coming up, I’m thinking of different outfit possibilities for Saturday. So I dust off the boots and zip them up, pairing them with my short tan dress that doesn’t match any of my other shoes.

“You need panty hose,” Mom says, handing me a packet. “Otherwise, you look adorable.” That should have been warning enough. But no bells go off in my head.

As soon as I walk into homeroom, Portia claps her hands over her cheeks and starts laughing. She runs over to me. “Eww, Danny Those boots are just so, so icky, so
Welcome Back, Kotter.
” She sticks out her tongue at me. “Although I have to say—I admire your nerve.”

“They’re ironic,” I say “I wore them sort of as a joke.” But then I double-check my locker just in case my basketball sneakers followed me to school. They didn’t.

All morning, I feel girls’ eyes staring down at my boots. To make matters worse, the panty hose almost immediately snag a run (I have no business wearing Mom’s size petite anyway). After lunch, I have a double free period, so I use it to go hide in the library until the end of the day. No one bothers me, and I’m almost home free until Hannah Wilder and Lacy Finn show up.

I can sense Hannah and Lacy’s presence in the library before I actually see them. Hannah and Lacy know how to make other girls aware of them—not nervous, exactly—just very conscious that they’re in the room. Maybe it’s their clinky bracelets, or their barely stifled giggles, or the perfumy smell of their hair and book bags, but as soon as they walk through the library’s double doors, I’m very aware of them.

“No,
you
shut up, you
loser
,” Hannah hisses to Lacy

“You’re
the loser,” Lacy whispers back. Hannah and Lacy always crack themselves up, calling each other names like loser, since they and everyone else in the class know how cool they are. It makes me feel uncomfortable, because it gets me wondering who they think the
real
losers are.

I don’t look up from the table until their minty breath practically curls into my face.

“Hey, Danny, doll face. Want one?” Lacy holds out a roll of breath mints.

“Thanks. What are you guys up to?”

“We were shortcutting to go hang out in the upstairs lounge, then we saw you and thought we’d say hi.”

“Hi.”

“You’re going to the Fling with my cousin.” Hannah slides up on the table and crosses her legs Indian style, yanking her miniskirt down between them to cover her underwear. “I talked to him last night.”

“So, what’re you wearing?” Lacy asks abruptly.

“I haven’t thought about it. What’re you guys wearing?” I counter.

“Je ne sais pas,”
Hannah says in a dumb-sounding southern drawl, rolling through all her vowels. “That’s me being Dr. Sonenshine,” she says, laughing. It’s just the kind of Hannah joke I don’t like, but I smile. Hannah has a way of making you join in on unfunny jokes.

“I don’t know what I’m wearing,” Lacy says, and then she looks at me in a friendly, thoughtful way. She rubs a finger over her chin. “But I bet you and I are about the same size. Hey, you know what, Danny?” She leans against the table and tilts her head as she studies me. “If you want, you can come over sometime tomorrow and look through my stuff. Most of my semiformal dresses I’ve only worn once; you know how my mom’s such a shopaholic. Maybe you could borrow?”

“My mom’s taking me shopping,” I tell her. My voice feels glue thick. A setup. They’ve been talking about me, maybe even to Ty. About how I might not have the right dress for the Spring Fling.

“Too bad Portia’s so teeny-tiny,” Hannah says with a little giggle. “She has great clothes.”

“Portia doesn’t need to lend me an outfit. My mom and I are going shopping. For something new,” I explain.