What Happened to Lani Garver (3 page)

When I started my job at Sydney's Café, at the beginning of sophomore year, Macy took a picture and called it "Claire Decides to Ruin Every Saturday Night for Two Hours Over 25 Bucks." It's me with my acoustic guitar, singing cheery old folk songs into the mike. You would think my brain was a flower shop.

We actually had that photo album in the cafeteria during lunch on the day Lani Garver first showed up. Macy was cursing a blue streak because none of the pictures from my surprise party had turned out.

"We finally get you a boyfriend in the fish frat, and there's no evidence of 'Macy Performs a Miracle.'
Shit...
" A photo landed in front of me that was supposed to be me and Scott, but above our noses was only white and flash.

"Smiles are good." I handed it back, and she glared at my usual calm like a cat in the dark.

"That
was
a miracle"—she started smacking overexposures down on the table, and I couldn't argue—"being that you couldn't seduce a tree trunk."

I laced my fingers across my stomach, stretching out in the chair and pondering on that. "Seduce somebody. Like, how do you
seduce
somebody? Like, why should I have to
seduce
somebody? Can't we just be chilling and some guy likes me for that?"

Eli raised her head from copying Geneva Graham's Spanish homework, and they both giggled.

Macy threw her head down on the table in a shock fest. "Help this woman before she loses what I just helped her catch. She's deeply disturbed."

"Watch this, Claire." Eli nudged Geneva, who could catch just about anybody, at least for a night or two. "Do your peanut-butter thing."

I watched, mildly amused, as Geneva upset half the cafeteria, sucking peanut-butter glops off her pinky, her eyes burning a hole into one dying bastard after another.

"You try." She pushed her mutilated PB&J at me.

I blinked at it long enough to make them think I might. "I don't eat peanut butter."

"Claire, Little Miss Chronic Diet," Geneva groaned. "Use your salad dressing!"

"It's watery, low-fat Italian. I'll end up feeding my shirt." My grin slid a little wider, because they knew there was no chance of this thing happening.

"Hey, she already caught herself a hottie, without any peanut butter, cigarette lighter, Vaseline lip, dangly earring, tongue piercing, pedicure wiggling, sassy butt, helpless routine." Myra stopped for air and her collie-dog eyes glowed. She was sweet. Always on my side. "You know, maybe you should be asking
her
for lessons. Claire, how'd you catch Scott Dern?"

I looked down at my laced fingers, sniffing to break the silence. "I don't know. I don't think he likes me very much. He's not exactly ... talkative."

"He's fish frat! They're too cool to be motormouths." Eli waved me down. "You have to get him
alone.
"

"She's had him
alone.
At least, she had him
alone with me and Phil,
" Macy snapped, and started tossing ruined photos over her back into the aisle in frustration. "I don't have any evidence of that night at Phil's house, or the party night. Four rolls down the toilet! What gives with this goddamn camera—"

Eli, Myra, and Geneva were still stuck on the
alone
business, boring holes through me like three Cheshire cats. I just let my grin wander higher, so they could think what they wanted, because this conversation was moving dangerously close to some garbage I didn't want to spew about Scott.

Albert Fein saved me by picking up one of the overexposed pictures as he came past with his tray. "Somebody's pictures are on the floor."

"It's a picture of Claire McKenzie in her underwear. If you want, she'll autograph it." Macy glared dead into his eyes, and Albert Fein was just dorky enough to try to stare through the overexposure.

The girls cracked up until Albert's ears turned red, and I held out my hand for it. "I'm not in my underwear, Albert. Give it here."

"You can still autograph it." He pulled it away, and I flopped my arm back down in frustration because I knew what was coming, and I knew it would start a fight with my friends.

Macy said it for him in this nasty, screechy twang. "
Aren't you that famous guitar player from Sydney's?
Don't you know anything, Albert? 'Famous' and 'Sydney's' do not go in the same sentence. This is an island. The only famous people are tourists."

I nodded hard in agreement, hoping that would end it, but it didn't.

"She's breaking up our Saturday nights! For what, Albert?"

He grinned from ear to ear just because she was talking to him; the fact that she was telling him off didn't seem to matter. "Well,
I
think it's cool—"

"Good, then you can go chuck money at her with all the fishwives while we're waiting to go party. Now, give me that picture and get out of here..." She trailed off from her dork attack, staring over my shoulder, down the aisle. Her hawk eye was working itself big-time on somebody, which was not unusual. But I was facing Myra, Geneva, and Eli, and their eyebrows were lowering, too.

I tilted my head backward over my chair, and that was how I recognized Lani Garver from homeroom. Upside down. He had just stood up from a table over in the corner and was putting trash on a lunch tray. I brought my head back up and yawned. I probably could have ignored this whole thing nicely, if it wasn't for Albert.

"Is that
thing
a boy or a girl?"

My head snapped up to his braces smile, and thank god I was yawning, because I might have actually hollered at him. I could never forget what eighth grade felt like. And I didn't get how some overweight, underbuilt bucktoothed kid finds room to goof on somebody else who looks funny.
Is it because we're talking to you? Get your power somewhere else, hypocrite...

"It's a boy." I kept yawning to keep from snapping the news. "The teacher asked how to spell his name. It's L-A-N-I, but he said you pronounce it
Lonny.
"

"Looks like a damn girl." Albert kept up. "Except that would be one very tall girl. Jesus, maybe it's one of those ... those ...
hermaphrodisiacs—
"

I rubbed my eyes in annoyance, knowing Macy would handle it, which she did. "Who asked you! The only thing I remember anyone asking you is to leave, mean face. Can the kid help it if he has long eyelashes and pink cheeks? What are you—jealous? Roll on out of here before somebody starts in on
your
looks."

I gave her the time-out sign because Albert was moving away from us, grinning to hide the redness on his ear tips.

She turned her gaze to Myra and Eli and Geneva. "Cut it out! No stare fests. Claire said it was a boy."

I sat there blinking as she kept rolling her neck to get the kinks out. Every roll gave her another opportunity to check out Lani Garver over my shoulder.

And she didn't lecture again when Geneva piped up.
"Claire, I think that
guy
is wearing blush and eyeliner. The teacher actually asked, '
Are you a guy?
'"

Eli and Myra turned to watch me suspiciously. I had noticed only two things in homeroom—his height and the drumsticks shoved into his jeans' back pocket. I'm five ten but would have only come up to this kid's cheekbones. I had seen the sticks and thought,
Hmm, a drummer. Way cool.

"You know what? I don't think the teacher ever did ask—"

"Claire, you are so dense." Macy surrendered and stared. This boy-girl was now coming up the aisle, which gave me a chance to look without being too obvious.

The first challenge was the combination of shoulders and face. I wouldn't say there were muscles, just larger bones that made the shoulders broad. And yet, you would look at this face and think,
Girl. No question.
Geneva had a point, because the face looked to be done over with really subtle makeup—until it got within about six feet of you. Then you realize,
That's not makeup.
It's just really peachy skin, overly thick eyelashes, natural pipeline lips. The dark hair was to Lani Garver's shoulders—with the top layers kind of bobbed under and going behind the ears. Guys don't plan their hair.
Girl,
I thought.

Lani passed by us, and I looked at the back view. Most girls had hips.
Guy?

I tried to look at this person as a butch girl, which would have worked, except for the big shoulder bones. I decided it looked slightly more like a gay guy. I waited as this Lani Garver turned left at the front and gave us a profile. Macy could always see into my head along with everybody else's.

"You're waiting to see if there are bumps in the front. Nope, no triangles." Her tone was curious and not mean, because if this turned out to be a girl, the haircut was cute, and no one can fault a girl for being over six foot and flat-chested. "God almighty. I
hope
it's a girl."

Without her head moving, her eyes wandered sideways until they caught the table where the fish frat were sitting. I let my own eyes wander past the cluster of big muscles, anchor tattoos, and sunburnt noses even in chilly November. Fortunately, they were just talking among themselves and eating. The fish frat didn't notice people easily. They waited for everyone to notice them.

Lani Garver's dark-chocolate brown eyes caught on this and that thing on the tray, like there was no real thought, and all the staring didn't register.

My eyes couldn't help falling to you-know-where. I'm not saying it was a huge bump. But girls' jeans zippers tend to lean almost backward, when they're skinny and their jeans are tight. This zipper came out—at least more than it went in.
Guy.

Lani placed a tray in the holder above the trash can, then the hands smacked together in a dainty way, like to get the garbage-can dirt off them.
Girl?
Then the eyes met mine. With a couple hundred kids in the cafeteria, there were a lot of different directions those eyes could have gone. It felt a little eerie. I met the gaze as evenly as I could, feeling weirdly challenged by it, like I had to prove I wasn't intimidated.

I ended up breaking this brief looking-match because Macy nudged me hard in the arm. A picture landed in front of me.

"The only one. In four rolls. What is
up
with that?"

Lani Garver's stare was forgotten for the moment. I gazed at the picture and tried not to move at all. That was my trick when I became completely nervous.
If I don't move, nobody will notice me; nobody will see me freaking on the inside. I'll be invisible.

My internal freaking had to do with two things in this picture: the great smile on my face and the horrible thoughts that had been running through my brain at that time.

"Must have something to do with your flash," I managed to mutter, because Macy was six inches away, looking right at my face.

"If you'd get rid of your Barbie camera and buy something decent—" Geneva giggled.

Macy turned to her. "It's just pink; it's not Barbie. Shut up."

I could not get over my smile in the picture. Macy snapped it about fifteen seconds after I came out of my house yesterday morning. I had not seen her at first. I was counting the number of days I had been extremely tired, and the number of times I'd gotten dizzy. I was trying to decide whether I was having a cancer relapse. I remember deciding that it had surely returned. Then I looked up and saw Macy with the camera to her face. Without even thinking, I made peace signs with both hands and smiled.

In this picture I was smiling the most peaceful smile I had ever seen in my life.

"Claire, Jesus Christ!" Macy snatched a plastic salad fork from my hand. I realized I had picked it up and raked my thumb over it. It had snapped. I glanced at the few drops of blood on the blank page of the photo album and stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked.

"You got blood all over the page!"

I mumbled around my thumb, "Three drops. Chill out."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"You're a klutz!"

"Part of my charm."

"You stuck your thumb right down on that! What is wrong with you? Let me see." I let her pull my thumb out of my mouth, before she raised a loud enough stink that everyone would be looking. It was a deep cut, but small.

She sighed in relief, casting a final look at the three drops on the page. "Don't be giving me heart attacks. I
hate
blood."

I sat stock-still after putting my thumb back up to my teeth. I didn't know which thought was making me freeze worse—that I might have a blood disease, or that my Lisacuts-herself-with-razor-blades nightmares might be invading my real life.

Macy hawkeyed my face, and I knew I hadn't managed to completely wipe off my horrified look. She followed my eyes, which happened to be laying into Lani Garver, who had retreated to the semidarkness of the alcove between the cafeteria and the B corridor. Macy never misses a trick, but her imagination was only as big as her world.

"Are we about to have another Lyda Barone adventure? Are you going to have ants in your pants until you can be nice to that new kid? I guess ... you remember what it felt like to be the new, huh?"

I let out an absent laugh. Talking about my return to eighth grade was the closest we usually came to talking about my leukemia. It's not that I didn't trust my friends to be nice and sympathetic. It's just that fun-loving kids don't hear that sort of stuff very well. I never wanted to think about junior high, let alone talk about it, and it's probably one of the reasons I adored my friends so much. I loved their carefree outlooks on life more than anything under the sun.

Macy groaned. "Fine. If you really must go say hello and sing, like, 'The Happy Welcome Song,' I'll come along for the ride. Just ... please don't bring any more strange people over to our table. I end up being the one doing the that-seat's-taken routine after a week of dork overload, and I've got a heart, too, Claire."

I laughed, removing my thumb. "Don't make me out to be some saint. That's so not true—"

"Girl Scout, then."

"Fuck you."

"Don't curse. It makes you blush. Look. Perfect chance. See where he-perhaps-she is?" She sized up Lani. A paperback book was open in the long, graceful fingers. "It's a girl. Guys don't read books. At least, not in public."