Afterparty(10)

He says, “Good save.”

He pats my shoulder. He says, “I’m proud of you, Ems. Don’t disappoint me.”

I am determined not to. Emma the Good. Emma the, all right, considerably less than good. Every cell and eyelash of me is determined not to disappoint.

Meaning: He can’t find out. Anything. Ever.





CHAPTER SIX


ON MONDAY, GOING INTO HISTORY, Dylan wants to know if I had a nice weekend.

“Hey, Bad Seedling,” he says, “what do Canadian ballerinas do in L.A.?”

I say, “It’s just PE ballet, not actual ballet.”

“Hard to picture you doing jumping jacks in toe shoes.”

“Visualize my father taking me to concerts at UCLA. Visualize me listening to three hours of Brahms.”

Chelsea, who just won’t give it up, says, “So that’s where people who don’t get invited to parties go. What do they do for fun, I wonder?”

“How do you know if she goes to parties?” Siobhan says, dropping her notebook on her desk.

“Answer the question,” Chelsea snaps. “Did somebody invite you to a party somewhere in civilization, Emily?” She turns to Siobhan. “Maybe you can get yourself invited if you rub up against everybody on the football team enough—I hear you’re very close to groping all of them—but Miss Thrift Shop here?” She looks me over, and recoils. “I doubt it.”

I say, “It’s Emma.”

Dylan holds up his hand, to no avail.

Chelsea says, “Even Dylan Kahane thinks she’s seedy. And he sleeps in his clothes.” As if he weren’t there to hear her dissing him.

“Seedling,” says Arif. Arif Saad is the English-accented, creased and pressed, Saudi Arabian foil to Dylan’s casual insubordination. They are a matched pair of opposites. “He called her ‘seedling.’ Friends often call each other by terms of endearment. Something you’d know, Chelsea, if you were more endearing.”

Chelsea mutters something about a camel and starts to walk away. Arif puts his hand on her arm. He says, “Repeat that.”

Chelsea just looks at him.

“That thing about the camel. Repeat that.”

Apparently Chelsea can be stared down.

Apparently Arif, once provoked, won’t give it up either.

“A point of clarification,” he says. “Was I the camel or the camel jockey? Or was I having sex with the camel? Or was that you and your maggot of a horse?”

There is a sharp intake of breath from Chelsea and everyone else.

“You aren’t going to repeat it, are you?” he says. “Unfortunate. Because I’d so enjoy a written apology.”

Dylan says, “Don’t pout. Maybe next time.”

Chelsea storms off, but doesn’t open her mouth.

I turn to Arif, who sits behind me. I say, “Thanks. And sorry.”

“My pleasure. His seedling is my seedling.” He looks over at Dylan, who is turning toward his seat in the back, snickering. “Oh no. ‘Seedling’ wasn’t offensive or sexist or degrading, was it?”

Dylan swings around and smacks him on the back of the head. You can tell that they’ve been hanging out together since forever.

Arif says, “I’m going to sic my camel and my falcon on you.”

Dylan flips him off and Arif responds in kind, except Dylan is nowhere near his seat, whereas Arif is sitting down with his notebook open.

“Mr. Kahane,” Mr. Auden, the AP European History teacher says, coming into the room. “Again? And Mr. Saad, not what I’d expect from you.”

Dylan says, “Heading to my seat.”

“Or you could leave now and save us the suspense of wondering when you’re going to disappear.” Mr. Auden sighs. “What I wouldn’t give to have your brother back in my class. You have no idea.”

Dylan flinches. Then he says, “Okay,” and walks out the still-open door. Illustrating the idiocy of Latimer’s policy that skipping out on its magnificent educational offerings is its own punishment, a free pass for constant cutting.

Over my shoulder, I see Arif put his head down on his desk.

Lissi Kallestad, completely oblivious, waves her hand, flashing the bracelet on which her family motto, “Strive, strive, strive,” is engraved in Norwegian. “Mr. Auden! Mr. Auden! Is there extra credit for chapter four?”

Chelsea says, “Extra credit for shutting your mouth.”

I say, “Leave her alone.” Reflexively and without thinking. Oh God.

I feel a buzz in my pocket and check my phone under my desk.

Dylan: Seed. How are your history notes?

Me: I noted your departure.

Dylan: It’s my signature move. Notes?

Me: I take OCD notes. With footnotes. You still want them?

Dylan: Afraid so. Maybe for more than today. I don’t think I’ll be there much.

Me: That was pretty rank.

Dylan: O the horror. I’ve got better things to do.

Me: Who doesn’t?

Dylan: Remain seated. Resist impulse to flee. Take good notes.

When I’m anywhere near him, even by electronic proxy, even when my texting fingers are hovering three quarters of an inch over his words, I have to resist any number of impulses. Fleeing is not one of them.