Vegan Virgin Valentine (8 page)

“Dad must love keeping constant tabs on everyone,” Aimee said. “I bet it’s making my daughter crazy. Are Mom and Dad driving her insane?”

“She actually seems okay,” I said. I was thinking about how V has been lying lower at school recently. There’s been no new graffiti, although the old stuff is still on the bathroom walls. But Ash hasn’t stopped me all week, which is a good sign. And V has definitely been
looking
better now that she’s officially growing out her bangs. She’s been pinning them off to one side with a few barrettes. It looks cute, like from another era.

“Really?” Aimee asked. “She’s doing okay?”

“Did Dad tell you she’s taking an SAT prep course? She scored the highest of everyone on the English diagnostic yesterday.”

“An SAT course? Are you serious?” Aimee laughed. “Before you know it, you’ll
both
be going to Yale.”

The way Aimee said it, it sounded like a bad thing. I decided to change the subject.

“How’s Costa Rica?” I asked. “Are you learning to cook Central American cuisine?”

“I got a job at a restaurant but, you know … work’s work. Doesn’t matter what country you’re in.” Aimee paused. “I have some good news. Can you keep a secret?”

“I guess.”

“I’m in love! His name is Campbell.”

“Why’s it a secret?”

“I don’t want Mom and Dad getting all judgmental. Campbell’s a full-time surfer. There’s a whole group of them. They say they’re going to Bali next and he wants me to come. Can you imagine?
Bali!
I don’t know what—”

Suddenly there was so much static on the phone I could hardly hear her.

“I think our connection is breaking up!” Aimee shouted. “Tell V I’ll call her soon.”

I was about to ask again whether she wanted V’s cell-phone number, but Aimee had already hung up.

I found myself thinking about James a lot those first two weeks in February. How his hands had felt when he’d touched my cheeks on the sidewalk, how his voice had sounded when he’d said, “Stay warm, Mara.” He’d pop into my head at random times, like when I was sitting in government, listening to our teacher drone on about the presidential cabinet. Or when I was drinking a glass of water. Or when I was sleeping.

I’d been having dreams about James. For a few nights in a row, I had this one where we were behind the counter in Common Grounds, just the two of us, and then he’d walk into the supply room and I’d try to follow him, but the door was locked.

One evening—in real life, not in dreamland—I told Claudia we were low on paper towels and casually walked over to the supply room. On my way in, I quickly checked the door. I was surprised to learn that it didn’t actually have a lock.

I found myself wishing Claudia weren’t there. I know that’s a terrible thought, so I didn’t let myself linger on it.

Despite Claudia’s proclamation that she was going to give up on James, she totally wasn’t. She’d been wearing tight jeans and low-cut blouses to every shift in the hopes that he’d cash in that beer rain check.

That’s what she was telling me on the night before Valentine’s Day. I was in a grouchy mood because two people in school had made dumb comments about how tomorrow is my big day. Around ten, James headed into the supply room to get the beans ready for roasting. With James out of earshot, Claudia cornered me and explained how she’d discussed the whole beer thing with her roommate, Pauline, who said that since he’d promised to take her out to a bar, he was definitely interested back.

“He didn’t exactly promise,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Claudia asked.

“He just said that maybe you guys should grab a beer.”

“He did not!” Claudia flipped her hair over her shoulder. “He said, ‘How about we grab a beer after work? You can order.’ Pauline is a psych major and she told me that the fact that he said ‘You can order’ is an obvious clue that he was anticipating
being
there with me. It wasn’t just hypothetical.”

I restrained myself from telling Claudia that her roommate
must
be right because I’m only taking intro psychology and we haven’t yet gotten to the unit where we psychoanalyze bar invitations.

“‘You can order,’” Claudia said, punctuating each word. “Get it? ‘You. Can. Order.’”

No, I didn’t get it.

Nor did I get the fact that I’d been constantly dreaming about grilled-cheese sandwiches. I’d dreamed about them maybe once a month since I gave them up when I became a vegan. But these past few weeks, it was happening every night.

It was always the same. I was sitting at our dining-room table with a golden-brown grilled-cheese sandwich in front of me. Cheddar cheese, white bread, lots of butter so it was extra crispy. It was cut diagonally down the center and when I lifted up one half, the melted cheese stretched like rubber bands to the other side.

Every morning when I woke up, my lips tasted salty.

On Valentine’s Day, the Spirit Club plastered the school with red streamers and pink balloons, and red and pink hearts. It looked like Clifford the Big Red Dog ate a flock of flamingos and then barfed his guts up. Four people made remarks about my last name, which actually wasn’t as bad as previous years. It helped that I left school before noon. And it helped that I was in charge of the candygram volunteers. It gave me a distraction from all the smooching couples and girls carrying teddy bears and teachers handing out sugary hearts that said “Be mine” and “E-mail me.”

V didn’t seem as annoyed as I was by Valentine’s Day. In fact, she got dressed up in her funky black pants and the
I’M JUST A GIRL WHO CAIN’T SAY NO
tank top. This time, she didn’t hide it from my parents. They surprised me by laughing when they saw her in the kitchen. When I asked what the big joke was about, my mom told me that that’s a song Ado Annie sings in
Oklahoma!

“That was my song,” V said. And then she belted out,
“I’m just a girl who cain’t say no. I’m in a turr-able fiiiiiix.”

“V!” my dad exclaimed. “You have an amazing voice. You really have to—”

“I know, I know,” V said. “I’m still thinking about it.”

The following week, after a landslide of grandparental pressure, V tried out for
Damn Yankees.
My parents drove her to the audition on Monday evening and waited in the car outside. I was in the kitchen attempting to figure out what to eat for dinner when they got home.

“That was quick,” I said as they came through the back door. “How did it go?”

“I fucked it up, so don’t even ask,” V said before stomping upstairs.

I glanced at my parents. My mom looked defeated. My dad said, “At least we tried.”

But the next morning, right after Mr. B said the Pledge of Allegiance, Ms. Green got on the announcements.

“As many of you know,” she said, “the drama club had auditions last night for the spring musical. The complete cast list is posted outside the main office, but I wanted to highlight our talented students who’ve been selected as leads.”

I listened as T.J. Zuckerman, like every year, got the male lead. And Brian Monroe, like every year, got the other male lead. I was waiting to hear that Andrea Kimball, like every year, got the female lead, when Ms. Green said, “I’m pleased to announce that the role of Lola has gone to a new student at BHS. Congratulations, V Valentine! We’re happy to have you here.”

I got goose bumps on my arms. I knew from catching enough glimpses of the
Damn Yankees
movie that Lola is the seductress who works for the devil. She’s also the best part in the play.

Mindy Vance tapped my shoulder. “Isn’t she, like, your niece or something?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

When the bell rang, I darted into the nearest bathroom. We’re not supposed to use our cell phones in school, but I speed-dialed my dad.

“Did you hear?”

“Mom and I have both heard! V called us from her cell phone when she saw the cast list. She was crying.”

V crying?
Wow.

“It’s a wonderful day for the Valentines,” my dad said.

The day got even more wonderful when Mr. B summoned me into his office on my way out of school.

“I heard about your … errr … about Vivienne,” he said.

I set my bag down next to my chair. “You mean V?”

“Ms. Green told me that she was highly impressed with her stage presence. I’m glad that Vivi … V was able to turn things around from her initial bumpy start. That’s what we’re about at Brockport High School. Second chances.”

I glanced at the bowl of Jelly Bellies on his desk.

“I bet you’re wondering why I called you in here,” he said after a moment.

I nodded.

Mr. B raised his unibrow like a levitating caterpillar. “I wanted to talk to you about your grade-point average.”

“My GPA? Everything’s okay, right?”

Mr. B laughed. “Of course, Mara. We wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Phew.

“I imagine you know that third-quarter report cards are coming out this Friday.”

I nodded.

“And I imagine you know that I already have those scores in my computer.”

I hadn’t known that, but I nodded anyway, just to hurry him to the finish line.

“And I imagine you know how close your GPA is to Travis Hart’s.”

Oh, yeah, maybe I knew something about that.

“You two have been neck and neck all year,” he said. “In all my years as vice principal, I’ve never seen such a close race for the number-one class ranking.”

Come on, come on!

“But I just wanted to say—and I’m going to speak with Travis about this, too—that there are no winners or losers…”

Yeah, right.

“And whoever gets that second-place title has to remember that they are still number
two
in the entire class and they’ve still…”

I could barely stand it. I squeezed my hands into fists and bit down on my tongue.

“ … made Brockport High School proud and they still are—”

“What’s my GPA this quarter?”

Mr. B laughed. As he did, his long strands covering the bald spot slid precariously forward. “I can’t reveal your exact grades, but as I said, I’m going to discuss all of this with Travis as well. I want you both to know how the next few months will play out. Toward the end of May, we’ll get the remainder of your grades from your teachers, calculate everything, and determine valedictorian and salutatorian.”

“So finals don’t count?”

“Don’t take this as carte blanche to blow off your final exams,” Mr. B said, smiling. “But, no, we don’t count seniors’ finals in the GPA tally. We need to determine class ranking sooner, so we can print up graduation programs and so the valedictorian has time to prepare his”—Mr. B caught my eye—“or
her
speech.”

I crossed my legs and started kicking my heel back and forth. “May I ask one thing?”

“Of course, Mara. Anything.”

“Can I just ask how my new GPA stands in relation to Travis’s?”

Mr. B took a deep breath before saying, “You inched ahead this quarter. Not by a lot, but if you continue to exhibit the same high-caliber work for the next three months, you will be our valedictorian.”

I LOVE YOU, RON BONAVOGLIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I clapped my hands together. Mr. B held the bowl of Jelly Bellies in my direction. I helped myself to a green apple and two tangerines.

*   *   *

That night, my parents took us out to dinner in Rochester. We went to Aladdin’s, which has falafel for me and red meat for V. V talked and laughed all throughout dinner, almost like a normal person. And she never once double-dipped her pita wedge into the hummus, as she’s been known to do. At one point, while she was telling a story to my mom, I studied her face. With her hair pinned off to the side, I realized for the first time that our eyes are exactly the same shape.

On the ride home, my dad turned on some soft jazz. V leaned her head against the back seat. My mom put her hand on my dad’s knee. I looked out my window at the snowflakes swirling around the side of the road. I had this bittersweet sad–happy feeling in my throat as I thought about how for once in a long time things actually felt okay.

Everything went to hell the last week in February.

My family always goes away that week. My dad has a five-day dental convention in Tampa that coincides with my school break, so my mom and I join him. We hang out by the pool and take a shuttle to the mall and invent names for all the shades of gray hair that we see on old people, such as
more-salt-than-pepper white
and
I-bet-you-can-guess-I’m-legally-blind blue.

But I couldn’t go this year. Even though high school was out for the week, I still had my college classes. Also, the yearbook pages were shipping to the printers in early March and I’d committed to proofreading all the text, an undertaking that was keeping me up past midnight every night. My parents had invited V to join them and it looked like she was going to go, especially since her SAT course was canceled over the school vacation. But then she got into the play and Ms. Green scheduled rehearsals for every day of break.

At first, my mom was going to stay home with us, but then my dad said that since he’s probably retiring from dentistry in a few years, this may be one of their last chances to go. That’s when they floated the idea of flying in my cousin Baxter Valentine from Portland. Baxter is in his thirties, still single, and a freelance cartoonist. All those hours alone with pen and ink have made him Extremely Weird. He visited us a few years ago and was perfectly normal in front of my parents, but as soon as they walked into the other room, he would make this screwy face at me and then bark like a dog or squawk like a chicken.

“No way!” I shouted when my parents called a Family Meeting and suggested inviting Baxter to Brockport. “Baxter is a freak!”

“No, he’s not,” my mom said. “He’s a very successful—”

“Freak,” V said. “When Aimee and I lived in Eugene, he drove down and stayed with us on the farm a few times. Maybe it was the Old MacDonald setting, but he was like quack-quack here, quack-quack there, here a quack—”