Vibes (5 page)

"What about it?"

"I washed it, and I even used conditioner!" he says, all excited. "You're right—it really looks good now, but I think I'm going to get some gel to keep it out of my eyes."

"Uh-huh."

"What do you think about highlights? Is it okay for a guy to get highlights?"

"Jesus, Jacob."

"Hey." Mallory plunks down next to Jacob, who leans away from him.

"Hey," I say, lifting up the potato wrap and letting it fall to my tray with a wet, disgusting
thunk.

"The food here is multifariously nefarious," Mallory says in a gravy-like voice that should be on the radio.

"I like trying new things," Jacob mutters before taking a tiny bite of smoked salmon.

"I'd kill for a Tater Tot," I say.

Jacob widens his white-blue eyes. "Do you know how
fattening
those are?"

"Want to go have a smoke?" Mallory asks, raising his eyebrows at me.

"She doesn't smoke," Jacob says, nodding secretly at me so I'll back him up. His mind whispers,
Stay with me, stay with me.

"Sure," I say to Mallory, and get up from the table. I figure it's about time my rebellion took on more conventional overtones. I follow Mallory toward the door, kind of laughing at the weird leaning way he walks, as though he were moving through very deep water. We're almost out the Bistro door when I feel a hand on my arm. I turn and there's Gusty Peterson, all six feet of him, with his electric eyes and tan skin and golden hair and perfect straight teeth. "Hey," he says, and licks his firm lips. I can feel him thinking,
Totally sick.

"Hi," I say, but I don't smile. Mallory stands just to the side, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for me.

"So I guess we're working together, huh?" Gusty says. His eyes trail slowly down my shredded shirt as he thinks,
God, her outfit is...,
but he seems to catch himself. "Do you want to meet up during free period tomorrow and we can go over our first assignment?"

"Where?"

"How about in here?" He raises his eyebrows, and somehow that makes me notice his perfectly chiseled cheekbones. He turns to look warily at Mallory.

He's beautiful, that's for sure. Dangerous as hell and kind of dumb, but beautiful.

"Okay, I'll see you in here tomorrow," I tell him, careful to keep my voice nice and smooth.

He nods at Mallory without even cracking a grin and goes back to the beautiful-people table to sit with Hildie and Eva Kearns-Tate, who turns to give me a narrow-eyed stare.

"Who's that guy?" Mallory asks as we stride out of the Bistro.

"Gusty Peterson."

"Gusty? As in breezy?"

"As in Gustav. His dad's from Sweden."

"Oh." We walk down the empty hallway in silence. "And that chick Hildie is his sister, huh?"

"Yeah," I say sadly, because I'm remembering. Back when Hildie was fun, we used to walk through the streets of our town pretending she was blind. She could even cross one eye slightly. I'd lead her around, saying, "Step! Step! Okay, red light." And she'd follow me, her hands stuck out in front of her. Sometimes grownups would come up to us and ask if we needed help. A few times Hildie would intentionally bump into them and then pretend she really got hurt, and they'd be horrified and say, "I'm so sorry, honey—are you okay? Oh my God!" And I'd yell at them, "Just go, okay? We're fine!" They'd hurry away feeling like monsters, and Hildie and I would laugh like drunk hyenas.

"What's Hildie short for?" Mallory asks as he guides me out the door with his hand on my waist. I don't like the way he looks, but I like the way he touches me.

"What? Oh, Hildegard." I blink because the bright sun hurts my eyes.

"Holy hell! I thought my name was bad!"

"It is. Aren't you named after the sister on
Family Ties
?"

"I see you like prehistoric sitcoms. That's funny." He kicks at a pile of tiny gravel in the parking lot and it scatters. "I'm named after the poet. You know.
Le Morte d'Arthur
?"

"Oh. You think your name has dignity. I get it."

"And I guess you're working with that Gusty guy on the character education assignment?" Mallory asks me, his voice weirdly careful. I can feel uneasiness in his mind, but I don't understand it.

I don't answer. I don't want to talk about the Petersons anymore.

We sit on the grass behind the thick bushes that line the parking lot. Soon winter will be here and all the leaves will be gone, so we'll have to find another place to smoke.

Mallory shakes two cigarettes out of his pack with a flick of his wrist, lights his first and then mine. I take tiny little puffs, almost as if I'm kissing the filter.

Instantly my lungs shrink to the size of blisters.

"You don't have to smoke the whole thing," Mallory tells me when he sees my face, which is probably purple.

"Okay," I say, and grind it out on a rock. So much for my refurbished rebellion. I'll do something less horrible, like facial scarification.

"So, Kristi Carmichael. What's your story?" He sucks so hard on the cigarette, his cheeks pull inward.

"Which part do you want?"

"The middle."

"Puberty, then. I went from a training bra to a C cup in eleven months."

"Jesus, was anyone injured?"

"I blinded a man."

"Lucky bastard." He smiles shyly at the ground.

I get a flash of him imagining what my ginormous gazungas would feel like against his acne-scarred face, and suddenly I wish I hadn't mentioned them. It makes me nervous, sitting here with Mallory, but not the kind of nervous Gusty makes me. It's the kind of nervous that makes me afraid that the first person I actually want to be friends with in this miserable school has something else in mind.

I scoot away from him a tiny distance and cross one ankle over the other. "Let's see. That was eighth grade, when I was still going to public school. Hildie and I were still friends."

Our conversation drops a beat while Mallory decodes my body language. I moved away from him only two inches, but that's enough. He gets the picture. "You were
friends
with her?" he asks nonchalantly, then pulls in a ton of smoke and blows it out violently. "She doesn't seem like the kind of person you'd hang out with."

"Why not?"

"I don't know." He waves his cigarette over my outfit. "You're so creative and nonconformist. She's so..."

"Popular?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, a lot can happen in a few years."

"That's for damn sure," he says. His mind is suddenly filled with angry vibes. He tamps out his cigarette and leans back on his elbows, staring at his big feet.

"What's your story?" I ask him. "Tell me the middle."

"The middle," he says thoughtfully. "The
mmmm
iddle," he says again, as if he's tasting the word for the very first time and he isn't sure he likes it. He glances at me sideways, and there's so much naked pain in his mind that I have to turn away. Reaching into the rear pocket of his white jeans, he pulls out his wallet. From it he takes a small creased picture of a little redheaded boy with a big smile and creamy smooth skin.

It's Mallory. I don't say anything. I feel jumpy because I want to make him feel better but there isn't any way. He used to be cute; now he's hideous, and he knows it.

I look at the photo again—the sunny smile, the freckles, the scampish glint in his eyes. There's something very familiar about this picture, and I slap my forehead when it hits me. "Oh my God! You were the Wheat Puffs kid!"

"I was the
Honey Nut
Wheat Puffs kid," he corrects me.

"You were a child model?"

"Yeah, for about two years, before—" He doesn't have to continue. I know what happened. Puberty.

How many lives must Puberty destroy before it is finally stopped?

"People used to stop my mom and me in the street to say how adorable I was. Within two years I became the kid people try
not
to stare at. I'm like the Elephant Man."

"Have you tried going to a dermatologist?"

"I've tried everything except for this really nasty pill that has God-awful side effects. My mom doesn't want me to do it."

"What are the side effects?"

"It can make your hair fall out. It can hurt your vision, increase your cholesterol, damage your liver, cause depression and, some say, suicide..." With one hand he pulls his pony-tail holder out of his hair and shakes his thick long hair loose. "My mom has a fear of medications."

I want to ask him if his mom has disfiguring acne, because if she doesn't, she should keep her phobias to herself. But it's not my business. I shift my position, and I catch his thoughts noting the way my breasts move. I should start wearing those super-supportive bras that would make a supermodel feel frumpy. At least then I could be friends with guys without them mentally picturing my breasts bobbing in ocean waves, like Mallory is doing right now.

Christ, my gazungas are such a curse.

If we're going to hang out together, I know I should make things clear, but I don't really know how. It always seemed like Hildie could tell a guy her feelings with a simple turn of her head. This is the first time I've ever had to make my feelings known to a guy, and the only way I know how to do it is to be direct. "Anyway, I'm glad you came here. I needed a friend."

He's quiet for a while, his smile wan as he digests the information I've given him. Finally he takes a quick, deep breath and holds his fist out to me. I touch my knuckles to his and we smile. "Ditto. Friends."
For now,
I hear him think.

We hear the bell ring for next period, and we stroll into the building, both of us quietly thinking.

Him:
Maybe she'll change her mind.

Me:
Poor Mallory.

I'm standing outside the Bistro, hugging my notepad and looking at Gusty through the glass door. He's slumped at the table tapping his fingertips on the edge of his book. He has on a baseball hat today, but the brim is cocked to the side so that I can see only the bottom half of his face. His shoulders are very square, but there's a curve of muscle in his arm. He's wearing unlaced high-tops and jeans that make him look very relaxed and very sexy.

Not that I want him or anything.

Not that I spent an extra hour today choosing the perfect outfit—my super-tight denim skirt that I hand-painted with stars and galaxies and a sequined tank top that hugs my ginormous boobs in just the right way. It wasn't because of him that I gave myself a headache from standing too close to the mirror applying eyeliner and mascara. And the fact that I went to the drugstore last night to find the absolute perfect shade of raisin red lip-gloss is completely coincidental.

I was out. I needed more.

Even if I did put a little extra effort into my appearance, it doesn't matter, because I have the sad privilege of hearing his thoughts about me and he always thinks the same thing: that I'm sick.

So why do I try?

Because deep down in the dark corners of my mind I have to admit that I still have the eensiest-weensiest bit of a crush on him, even if he is a poser moron who is too wrapped up in his looks.

I remember the day my mild interest in Gusty morphed into an evil crush with devil horns and a forked tail. I was over at Hildie's house. She and I were lying on the floor reading her mom's
Glamour
about how to give a guy good oral sex, which we thought was another term for phone sex. So you can imagine our confusion. I heard Gusty's feet on the stairs and whispered to Hildie, "Ugh. Your brother's here." We just had time to flip the magazine over to the horoscopes before Gusty made it to the doorway. He had on a sweaty T-shirt, and he was breathing hard from skateboarding home. He was holding a soda, and I noticed that his hand was big enough to cover almost the whole can. Then I noticed how tan his arms were, and then my eyes traveled up to his, and with a shock I saw that he was looking right at me. His eyes were so intense that the rest of his face, the rest of the room, faded to the background so that all I saw were those green pinpoints. The look he gave me did something to me deep inside, and suddenly I was shivering a little. I still shiver every time I remember it.

"Hey," he said to me. There was something private in the way he said it, as though he was trying to talk in such a way that only I could hear. I knew that one word contained a memory we shared:
the two of us, behind the shed in his backyard.

"Hey," I said.

"Get out of here,
Lusty,
" Hildie spat. "We're busy."

He walked away without once looking at her. His eyes were on me for the longest possible time, until he disappeared behind his bedroom door.

For weeks after, I'd replay that one little word over and over in my mind. I imagined him whispering it just before he kissed me.
Hey.
I imagined him shouting it at me through a rainstorm. I heard him say it just as I was dropping off to sleep, and it would wake me up.
Hey, Kristi. Hey.

That one word tormented me so much that one day I put on my favorite jeans with the unicorns embroidered on the back pockets and my pink tank top with the beading along the neckline, slid on a dozen silver bracelets from Mom's jewelry drawer, and went over to the Petersons' when I knew Hildie was at gymnastics. Ignoring the voice in my mind telling me,
There's no way a guy that hot would ever like you,
I knocked on the door. I concentrated on keeping my feet attached to the front step as I listened to him barrel down the stairs. "Who is it?" he called through the door.

"K-Kristi," I said, and I didn't even care that I'd stammered.

He opened the door and there he was, looking at me, and I looked at him.

"Hey," he said, and swallowed really hard.

"Hi," I said.

When did he get so tall?
I wondered as I took him in: the scab on his arm he'd gotten skateboarding, the twitch in his lip, the curly gold hair that hung in his eyes, the white downy fuzz along his jaw line that was trying, in the most exquisite way, to become a beard.