You and Me and Him (25 page)

Quinn chooses another record: the Smiths telling me shyness can stop me from doing what I want in life. The guy shopping in the Classical section keeps giving us dirty looks, clearly not appreciating the fact that we keep changing out the song every ten seconds.

“Racking wrestlers in their privates is all well and good, but now it’s time, Maggie. Time to tame your fear monkeys and make them stop throwing their feces all over your life. Whatever her intentions, Kayla screwed up in a big, bad way. You have to tell her.”

On top of the RTP pile I see a way to end this conversation. Donna Summer: “Enough Is Enough.” I place the needle, watching Quinn for his inevitable reaction. Quinn hates Donna Summer, and the quaver of her voice causes Quinn to close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He grabs the needle, scraping it across the record. Both customers look up in alarm.

“Enough
is
enough. At the end of all this, the only person you know for sure will still be there for you is you. So find a way to be true to yourself, Maggie. Follow your bliss and all that.” He waves me away and turns back to his accounting. “It’s time to do this thing.”

“Thanks, Quinn.” I grab my backpack. “Love your guts. Gotta go.” And as I leave, I know he’s right. It’s time for badass Maggie to step up to the plate. At this point I’ve got nothing to lose.

With that I’m out the door, but I don’t want to go home yet. I wander through town and find myself at the swing set. I’m not in the mood to swing, but I move myself back and forth a little. The sun is shining, but it’s cold enough to see my breath. The lake shimmers and the deep green of the firs looks nearly black against the clear sky. Snow has dusted the trees farther up the hillsides. Leaning back in the swing, I close my eyes and soak in the feel of the sun on my face. I know Quinn’s right: I can’t make any of these other people happy with me. But I can do something that makes me happy with myself. Suddenly that kernel of idea that’s been rattling around my brain takes root.

I stop at the store for supplies, then settle into the kitchen for a marathon baking session. I make dozens of cookies, all my best inventions: chocolate cherry coconut, pecan butterscotch chip, dark chocolate snickerdoodles.

Dad comes into the kitchen around dinnertime. He starts to say something but thinks better of it. I think he can tell I’m not going to make room for anyone else to cook, so he orders pizza and leaves me alone.

Later my mom comes in. “That’s a lot of cookies,” she says.

“Yep,” I say.

“Any idea when we’ll have our kitchen back?”

“Soon-ish.” I expect Mom to flee in the face of all these baked goods, but she surprises me by tying on an apron.

“Can I help?”

“I didn’t know you could bake.” Grandma used to let me help her with Christmas cookies, but Mom never baked a single thing that I can remember. I didn’t think she knew how.

“There are still a few things you don’t know about me, honey.”

“True.” I point to the mixing bowl in the sink. “That bowl needs to be washed. I was going to start the peanut butter chocolate chunk next.” I hand her the recipe, and we work side by side for a while before she speaks again.

“Can I ask what you’re going to do with all these cookies?”

“Bake sale.”

“Oh? What are you raising money for?”

“Food bank. They always need extra donations around the holidays.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble selling these cookies,” Mom says. “They look amazing, honey. Besides, I’m sure Nash will help eat whatever’s left over.” She’s joking, but the Nash-shaped hole in my heart gets a little bigger.

“Not so much lately. I’m not his favorite right now.”

“Ahhh, I wondered if there wasn’t something,” she says. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” I pull a pan out of the oven. “But thanks.” We finish the cookies, and Mom helps me wrap them after they cool. I go upstairs to make signs and finalize my plans. I’ve been hiding too long, waiting for the storm to pass. It’s time to get out there, even if I get drenched.

That night my mind whirs with all the disparate, crazy revelations I’ve had in the last couple of weeks. But what, if anything, does it all mean? These unfamiliar versions of people I thought I knew leave me wondering how my perceptions of them could be so convincing, and still so wrong. I think about how people see me. Nash is obviously convinced I’m some sort of backstabbing closet nymphomaniac. Kayla thinks I’m a loser who should be grateful for whatever attention she tosses my way. Tom thinks I’m an immature idiot who runs away from a little fun. None of these things are entirely true, but people are convinced of these truths and act accordingly.

I roll over; the clock glows 1:30. I have to be up in about four hours, but I can’t stop thinking. I know this bake sale is a long shot. But I don’t really care. I need Kayla to see she hasn’t beaten me. And I need Nash to see I’m still the same person I always was. More than that, I need to prove it to myself. I shove my fist into the pillow and look at the clock again: 1:34.

Rolling over on my back, I stare at the sparkles on the ceiling reflecting the light from the streetlamp. I think back through the catalog of my favorite Billie Holiday songs, the songs that have gotten me through the last couple weeks. I know what Billie would say about all this: she’d say it’s nobody’s business what I do. Then I remember that Lady Day’s life wasn’t a joy ride; in fact, it was more like a train wreck. But she kept singing. That’s what I’m trying to do. I look at the clock again: 1:42 a.m.

Sleep comes at some point. When my alarm goes off, getting my eyes open takes some effort. But I realize I feel sort of okay, I guess. Feeling okay is such significant progress over the way I’ve been feeling that I pop out of bed and get ready with a new sense of purpose.

By the time I get to school, I’m ready for action. I set up my bake sale table in the hallway before school. A few of the skaters buy cookies, and one girl stops by to ask if I’ve used all organic ingredients. Mostly people pretend I’m not there.

The one bright spot is when Cece buys five cookies.

“Are you going to eat all those?” I ask.

“You know I can’t resist your cookies!” she says. “But no, I’m only eating one. The rest I’m using as bait. Like those drug dealers who give out free samples to get people hooked.”

“You’re an evil mastermind, Cece.”

I pack up just before the first bell. I haven’t seen Nash, Tom, or Kayla. But the day has just begun.

Back at my locker I find an envelope scrunched into the vents. I have to open the locker and pull the letter through on the inside. I feel a little jolt of excitement, thinking that Nash has finally made contact. Then I recognize Tom’s handwriting on the envelope. I rip it open and scan the letter inside.

Dear Maggie: After the other night, you probably don’t want to talk to me, but to paraphrase the lovely Ms. Holiday, who I know you admire: Ain’t nobody’s business if you do! —Tom

I grab the books I need and shove them, along with the note, into my backpack. It doesn’t seem fair, Tom using Billie against me that way. But the message hits me in the gut and gives me some hope. I dig the note back out of my pack, smoothing it out, and put it in my pocket.

I set up for the bake sale again at noon. More people buy, and fewer people ignore me. Halfway through lunch, I put samples out like Cece suggested. This pushes the final holdouts over the edge. One taste of homemade goodies and all that feeble resistance goes out the window. I even get a few people to sign up to volunteer at the food bank. I’ve sold about two-thirds of my stock when I hear Kayla’s voice.

“Hey, Maggie!” she says.

The hallway is crowded, and I don’t see right away where the voice is coming from. I hand some change back to a skater, a guy who’s bought several cookies today, and Kayla and her friends move to the front of the crowd standing around the table.

“How’d you like Tara’s party? Crazy night. I can’t believe you went; I told Tom you never go to parties!” She looks like she’s waiting for something, and I wonder if there’s a question in there that I missed.

“Anyway, it’s so great that you’re helping the food bank. I totally want to support you. Which kind is your best seller?”

“I think we’re all sold out,” I say, smiling.

“What do you mean?” She looks at the table, her forehead wrinkling. “There are plenty of cookies left. I only want to buy a couple. They’re for Tom.”

“Sorry, these are all spoken for.”

“You okay, Maggie?” Kayla asks. “What’s going on?”

My stomach clenches in anger, and the red that’s been creeping up my neck reaches the top and explodes like some Saturday morning cartoon character.

“Am I okay?” I ask, leaning forward. “Really? You have no idea what the answer to that question might be? Are you really that self-absorbed?”

Kayla’s posse stares, and Kayla gapes like a trout on a hook, but only for a few seconds. Then she gathers her wits. Grabbing my elbow, she pulls me up and leads me to a corner where we can talk in private.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she hisses. “I just want to buy some of your stupid cookies. What’s your problem, Maggie?”

“My problem is you ran your mouth about things that weren’t yours to talk about.”

“And?” Kayla is right in my face now.

“And it hurt people I care about, and it was a shitty thing to do. And I think you owe me an apology.”

“An apology? All I said was that you liked Tom and that the two of you got together. All true, by the way.”

“Really? That’s all you said?”

“I’m not responsible if someone takes the story and runs with it.” She glances back at her friends, who are straining to hear the conversation. “Maggie, why are you doing this?”

“Are you really going to stand there and pretend you didn’t spread the rumors about Tom and me? According to the guys who tried to maul me at the party, I’m the girl who will do it anytime with anyone, and should be grateful for the attention.”

“Well, I didn’t tell them that.”

“Maybe not, but you were the source of the information.”

“Not my fault.”

“Jesus! Really?” My voice is getting louder now. “Is any of this sounding familiar to you, Kayla? Aren’t you having just the tiniest bit of déjà vu?”

Kayla grabs me again and pulls me into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind us.

“What are you talking about, Maggie?”

“I never said a word to you when you sucker punched me in middle school. But you’re pulling the same shit now that you did then.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kayla says. “This is about something I did to you in middle school?”

“God, Kayla, no. This isn’t about middle school. This is about you still acting like you’re in middle school!”

“Look who’s talking!”

“You’re right. Here we are, cozy and close and sharing girl talk again four years later, and I let you suck me right back in. I’m an idiot, just like I was then. That part is my fault.”

“Oh, and I suppose the rest of the stuff in your sad little life is my fault?”

“Kayla, look, I get it. You’re so scared people are going to leave you or ditch you or whatever that you’ll do anything to feel like you belong. But half the time you’re faking it. So you seek me out because your minions bore you.”

Kayla crosses her arms. “My minions?”

I just wave her words away. “But you spend so much time pretending that you don’t even know what’s true anymore.”

“It’s not like the fact that you like Tom was a secret.”

“Maybe not, but in your hands a little piece of information like that gets passed through some twisted game of telephone, where everyone playing knows deep down they’ve screwed up the original message, but they keep passing it on anyway. And now you’re trying to act like none of it matters. But it does.”

“I didn’t have to fake anything to get Tom.” Kayla looks me up and down like I’m a banana slug she stepped on and got stuck to her shoes. But she’s spinning her pearl ring, working it around and around her finger. “I think we both know who a guy like Tom would choose.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I still wouldn’t want your life. You scramble twenty-four seven, pretending to be someone you’re not, and for what? So you’ll be popular? It must be exhausting. And it seems like a crazy way to get people to like you.”

Kayla lets out a bitter burst of laughter. “You think being popular means people like you?”

“I liked you.”

Kayla stops spinning the ring and looks at me. “I know.”

“Then why—Never mind.” I take a deep breath and let it out. “Listen, Kayla. I gave you another chance to be my friend. You blew it, again. You’re not getting any more chances from me. Now leave. Me. Alone.”

I pull open the classroom door and wade through the crowd gathered outside listening. Throwing the rest of the baked goods in a box, I grab my backpack and walk away. My cheeks feel hot, and I’m shaking head to toe. I see Nash’s green combat boots out of the corner of my eye, but I head right for the side exit and into the cool air. It takes an hour of walking the bluff to get my heart to stop racing.

When the adrenaline wears off, my mood deflates. I told Kayla off, but I spent all that energy on someone who’s really just a minor character in my life. The people I care about most are still in doubt. My heart sags as I think of Nash. I miss him so much. Even if we can forgive each other, I’m not convinced things between us will ever be like they were. And the stuff with Tom is so tangled, I have no idea how to pick all the strands apart again. I stand on the bluff, waiting for some idea of what to do next.

I don’t want to go to Square Peg, and I don’t want to go home. I don’t really want to be anywhere, so I go to the swings. Pumping my legs hard, I launch myself as high as I can into the air, looking for that split second when the swing reaches the end of the arc and starts to fall before I do—weightless and free. The lake and the trees clump together in one dark mass, making it hard to tell where I am in space and how close I am to hitting the ground. After a couple big swings, I have a few moments where the fog lifts, but then I let the chains slow and soon I’m only moving a few inches in each direction, my feet dragging in the gravel trench carved out by hundreds of feet over the years.