Tell Me Three Things(14)

CHAPTER 7


Day 15: better and worse and maybe better. Sun still shines with relentless aim and glare. My classmates are still fancy-pants, and the girls still somehow look more mature than me, more confident. As if sixteen years adds up to more out west than it does where I come from.

The humiliation begins early, in class. Good, I think. Bring it on. Let’s get this over with. Maybe I am my dad’s daughter after all. An optimist.

“The Gap is so pleb, don’t you think?” Gem asks her wonder twin, of course in reference to my jeans, though I have no idea what she means. Pleb, short for “plebian”? As in my pants are those of the common folk? Well, yes, yes they are. As are my Costco undies, which I’m tempted to pull down so she can kiss my ass.

The anger sharpens my wits, makes me want to advance rather than retreat. I will not engage with these girls. I’m not strong enough for that. But I will turn to Adrianna, who is sitting next to me, because, screw it, no time like the present to make an ally. I ignore my burning face, refuse to turn to see if the Batman overheard anything, and pretend I don’t notice that anyone was talking about me.

“I like your glasses,” I say, just a tad above a whisper. Adrianna blinks a few times, as if deciding about me, and then smiles.

“Thanks. I ordered them online, so I was a little nervous.” There is something about her tone, quiet, like mine, that’s inviting. Not overly loud, not that teenage-girl voice that everyone else seems to use to demand notice. She has brown hair tied back in a bun that looks purposely messy, big charcoal-lined brown eyes, and bright red lipsticked lips. Pretty in the aggregate, the sum somehow adding up to much more than each individual part. “You really like them?”

“Yeah. They’re Warby Parker, right? They make neat stuff.” I hear Gem and Crystal giggle in front of me, maybe because I used the word “neat.” Whatever.

“Yup.” She smiles and gives me an ignore them look. Bitches, she mouths.

I smile and mouth back, I know.

—

After class, I gather the courage to tell the Batman that we’re going to have to de-partner, that I’m not willing to risk breaking Wood Valley’s honor code just because he doesn’t know how to play well with others. I am feeling brave today, empowered by having introduced myself to Adrianna and by not cowering before the blond-bimbo squad. Or maybe it’s that for the first time since I moved to LA, I ate something other than peanut butter on toast for breakfast. Regardless, I will be immune to the Batman’s cute-boy voodoo.

Not my type, I tell myself just before I march up to his usual spot by the Koffee Kart.

Not my type, I tell myself when I see him in all his black-and-blue glory, as tender as a bruise.

Not my type, for real, I tell myself when it turns out I have to wait in line behind a group of girls who are traveling five strong, like lionesses, one the obvious leader, the rest her similarly dressed minions. All the type to skin you alive and suck on your bones.

“E, tell me you’re coming on Saturday,” the leader, a girl named Heather, says, not at all dismayed by the Batman’s dismissive hug or the fact that he keeps glancing down at his book. Not Sartre today. Dracula, actually, which is both awesome and seasonally appropriate reading, considering we are nearing Halloween.

Not my type, not my type, not my type.

“Maybe,” he says. “You know how it is.”

Generic words arranged in such a way as to say absolutely nothing. Impressive in their nothingness. I’m not sure I could say less in as many words, even if I tried.

“For sure, Ethan,” one of the other girls says. Her name is Rain or Storm. Maybe Sky. Definitely something meteorologically related. “So, like, yeah, we’ll see you then, then.”

“Yeah,” he says, and this time he just gives up the act completely. Starts reading right in front of them. His energy sapped.

“Okay, well, bye!” Heather smiles her best smile—perfect teeth, of course, since LA is the land of the porcelain veneer. I Googled “veneers” last night and found out they cost at least a thousand dollars a tooth, which means her mouth cost five times more than my car.

“Bye-ee,” the other girls say, and finally walk away. The Batman looks relieved that they’re gone.

“Can I help you?” he asks, like I’m the next customer at a drive-through. I remember our English project, and how he just assumed I could be railroaded like everyone else.

“So ‘The Waste Land’…,” I say, and tuck my hands into my back pockets, trying to look casual. “If you don’t want to work together, that’s fine. But then I need to tell Mrs. Pollack and find another partner. I’m not just going to let you do the work.”

There, I said it. That wasn’t so hard. I breathe out. I feel lightheaded and shaky, but nothing that can be seen from the outside, I hope. My mask firmly still in place. Now I wish he could just hand me my Happy Meal and end this thing.

“What’s the problem? I told you I’ll get an A,” he says, and leans farther back. He owns that chair even more than I own my lunch bench. He stares at me again. His blue eyes look almost gray today: a Chicago winter sky. Why does he always look so tired? Even his hair looks tired, the way it sticks up in random little peaks and then folds down, as if bowing in defeat.

“That’s not the point. I can get an A on my own. I don’t need to hand in your work,” I say, and cross my arms. “And anyway, it’s against the honor code.”