Take Me There (21 page)

We eat and drink and bullshit about nothing in particular. I watch the sun set over the Manhattan skyline. Which is so cool since these two final episodes tonight take place between five and seven in the morning, so we’ll be watching the sun rise right after the sun sets. Metaphysical, yo.

And then suddenly there’s yelling from the stairs. We turn to watch.

“Secure the perimeter!”

“Copy that!”

“Send the coordinates to my PDA!”

“Call for backup! We need a chopper!”

Carl kicks open the door. Evan runs onto the roof, pointing his imaginary gun toward us.

“CTU! Do not move!”

Carl comes running over. He’s all, “Drop your weapons!”

“I already used them on your mom,” Danny says. He takes another swig of soda.

“Yeah,” I go. “But just the handcuffs.”

Evan goes, “Tick
boom
! Tick
boom
!”

By the third commercial break, we’re all running around acting like Jack Bauer and reenacting the scenes with cell phones pressed to our ears. And the endless lit-up windows and the street noise and planes flying overhead all blend into the background.

SHEILA AND BRAD
are fighting again. Mr. Inappropriate Alert Guy should really let them know how tacky public fighting is.

And they don’t even care that people can hear. They’re right in the middle of the hall, yelling at each other.

Not that I’m watching or anything. I’m digging a book out of the back of my locker.

Here’s the fight:

Sheila: Just forget it.

Brad: Why are you freaking out about this?

Sheila: I’m not!

Brad: Then why aren’t you coming later?

Sheila: I have to go home.

Brad: But you left!

Sheila: Yeah, but now I’m going back!

Brad: Why?

Sheila: Because I have to!

Brad: What for?

But Sheila doesn’t answer. So Brad grabs her arm and pulls her over to the lockers. Sheila yelps like she just got burned.

Brad says, “Let me see?” Now he’s all quiet.

Sheila pulls up her sleeve. She’s facing away from me, so I can’t see anything.

“I said I was sorry.”

“That’s not good enough, Brad.”

“I told you I didn’t mean to.”

“Too late.”

Brad looks around. I already found my book. But I pretend that I’m still digging for it.

“Did you tell Nicole?” Brad asks.

“No.”

“But you told her something.”

“We were just talking.”

“About what?”

“None of your business!”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Can you just leave me alone?” Sheila says. She walks away from him.

“Sheila!” Brad yells after her.

But she doesn’t come back.

I couldn’t do the whole sitting with Rhiannon while she drools over the dumbass during lunch thing again. So I camped out in the computer lab instead. I wanted to get this English paper out of the way so I could focus on the program for Danny tonight.

But I didn’t really make much progress, due to a persistent combination of exhaustion and distraction. Which is why I’m back here in the lab after school.

Mr. Clements wants us to learn how to do Internet research without plagiarizing everything we find. Which is what everyone always does. Because everyone knows there’s no way teachers read everything we hand in. Especially long reports. Carl once wrote “I sucked your mom’s ass last night” in the middle of his Kierkegaard report just to prove that the teacher never reads anything. He got an A.

So for Mr. Clements’s philosophy class, we’re supposed to Google a few practice concepts and record any sites that look suspicious. This is to prove that not all information on the Web is valid. Just in case we didn’t already know this.

I Google the first entry. It’s Alain de Botton. He’s this contemporary philosopher dude who talks about how relationships are never what we think they are.

Everything looks legit. Even this site called Bookslut belongs to a book reviewer who’s legit.

What’s up with all these sites? Okay, I’m a computer geek. It’s not exactly a secret. But there’s no way I’d spend all my free time creating these unnecessary sites. I’d rather put my energy into something that can change the world.

Suddenly this surge of exhaustion hits me. Almost knocks me off my chair. I stayed up way too late again.

It’s hard to focus on this.

A couple teachers are in the corner of the lab, using the faculty computers. Of course I figured out the faculty password, but I haven’t had the need to use it yet. There’s a bulletin board on the wall above them with all the teachers’ names and their classroom numbers. Teachers’ first names are always so weird. It’s like, someone calls Mr. Clements “Richard” in real life? Far out.

I type
Richard Clements
in the Google box. I find out that he’s a master glassblower, an oncologist, an Australian journalist, and likes to fly planes with wild paint jobs. And the list goes on. It’s draining to even think about searching ahead enough to find the one who teaches here.

After I’m done, I’m passing by Mr. Farrell’s room when I hear someone talking. For some reason, I stop. And listen.

“. . . especially around here.”

Today’s Rhiannon’s tutoring day. Is he talking to her?

“Yeah, same here. Rhiannon lives down the street, so I hang out here a lot.”

That’s Nicole. Except it doesn’t sound like her exactly. Something about her voice sounds different.

“I’m surprised I’ve never seen you around, then. I’m here a lot, too. New York is, like, the smallest town on the planet with—”

“—running into people! I know!”

Now I’ve got it. What’s wrong with her voice. It’s got that high-pitched, bordering on hysterical tone girls get when they’re in hyper mode.

Because they like some guy.

This can’t be real. She can’t seriously like Mr. Farrell.

I lean against the wall, stuck. Do I listen more? Or do I go in and get her out of there? And where’s everyone else? I don’t hear anyone else talking. Maybe the rest of them left early. But then why would Nicole . . . right.

Nicole goes, “Where do you hang out around here?” And he actually tells her.

This can’t be real. Teachers don’t have these kinds of conversations with their students, about their personal lives and where they hang out. Right? That’s just way too much information.

Now he’s actually telling her that he lives in her neighborhood. Which I’m sure breaks one of the top ten rules listed under What Not to Do If You’re a Teacher. And she’s talking to him like . . . like they’re going out or something.

I’m so skeeved with the whole thing that I don’t notice Evan walking toward me until he’s halfway down the hall. I put my hand up like,
Don’t say anything!
but it’s too late.

He goes, “’Sup, James.”

I nod to him. He walks by the room. So now I have to go in.

I stick my head in the doorway. “Hey.” I make up a quick excuse to be there. “Did Rhiannon leave?”

And Mr. Farrell’s like, “Oh. Tutoring was canceled.” Like I need math tutoring.

Slick. The guy is slick. He’s playing it off like he wasn’t just flirting with some underage girl with a crush so huge you can hear it from the hall. And it’s obvious when you see her. Nicole’s all flushed. Her eyes are big and glassy. I’ve never seen her look like this. Even with Danny.

“So, uh . . .” I look at Nicole. “You ready?”

“Huh? Oh! No, yeah, I’m . . . yeah.” Her math book falls on the floor with a loud splat.

“Here.” I walk over and pick it up.

“Thanks,” Nicole says. She takes her book back. She avoids eye contact.

I stand there. Waiting. Trying not to look at Mr. Farrell.

I rub my left temple. I tap my pen against my notebook. It’s infuriating. There’s this whole jumbled mess of stuff I’m feeling, and I don’t know why.

“Whatcha doing?” Brian wants to know.

“Working on a computer program for someone.”

“For who?”

I tap my pen.

Brian hangs over my shoulder. “For
who
?”

“Danny.”

“Is Rhiannon coming over?” Brian loves it when she comes over. Especially when she sits with him on the beanbag chair and reads to him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She’s busy.”

“With what?”

“Okay, Brian? I’m busy right now. I can’t really talk.”

“Everybody’s busy! No one wants to talk to me!”

One of his temper tantrums is definitely brewing. If I don’t intercept this now, it’s going to get ugly. Fast.

“Weren’t you guys reading
Lafcadio
last time?”

His lips are all pouty. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to finish it?”

“I thought you were
busy
.”

I put my pen down. “Not anymore, little man. Let’s move.”

We squish together in the beanbag chair in the corner. I’m too tall for this, but I kind of dig it when Brian presses his cheek against my shoulder, looking at the pictures while I read.

Right when Lafcadio is getting a marshmallow coat, Ma yells, “James! Phone!”

It’s Danny. He wants to meet at Cozy Soup ’n’ Burger, and he’s buying.

When I have so much money I don’t even know what to do with myself, I’m getting a personal chef. And every day she’s going to cook these exotic, elaborate dinners, exactly how I describe them. And I’ll invite over whoever I want. Friends who won’t ask annoying questions. Or a girlfriend who just wants to relax and watch a movie while we eat.

Or maybe I’ll just order in every night. And eat alone.

“So, how’s the speech?”

Danny takes a swig of his egg cream. “Almost done.”

“Nice.”

“How’s the program coming?”

“Almost done,” I tell him. Even though I have a ton more work to do on it. But it shouldn’t take that long.

“Thanks again, man.”

“No sweat.”

“Yeah, so.” Danny picks up his veggie burger. “I’m thinking of asking Nicole to the dance.”

I never know what to say when he brings up Nicole. Neutral is the best approach.

“Yeah?” I go.

He nods and chews. “What do you think?”

“Well, yeah. I mean . . . if you think she’ll go.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

Now’s probably not the best time to remind Danny that she was the one who dumped him. Since he’s apparently developed a severe case of selective amnesia. And me trying to cure him will only piss him off.

“No . . . you should. Go for it.”

“You gotta put it out there to get it back. It’s all about the karma.”

“Exactly.”

“So. What about you?”

“Meaning?”

“Who are you asking?”