stuck deep in the middle of sadness.
I really thought Jackson liked me. I was so sure he and Star were history, an ugly blot on the timeline of the past. But there he was, hugging Star and barely glancing at me.
I hope he chokes on his pretzels.
The rents are waiting for me when I walk in. Mom’s pixie nose turns up, and I know it’s because I smell like the shaggy dog they’d never let me have for a pet when I was a kid.
She takes a step back. “Your brown sweater! What—? How—? I loved that sweater. Mary Jane, what happened to you?”
“Diet Coke,” I answer.
"But . . . how . . . ?”
All I want to do is take a hot shower. And never come out. “Long story, and I’m beat. I’m just going to turn in early.” I start to walk past them.
“Now? Tonight?” Dad asks. “Isn’t there a game tonight?”
I’m surprised he’s in tune enough to know this, but I nod. I find that it takes all my energy reserves to move my head up and down.
Mom takes over the interrogation. “So why are you staying home?”
I’m thinking I can’t win. They were crazy when I came in late, and they’re crazy when I’m early. Rents. “I have homework ?” This is not a lie. It also has nothing to do with why I’m staying home.
I start to push past them again, but they’re not done.
“Mary Jane,” Mom says without looking at me, “we need to talk.”
I’m getting the distinct feeling that there’s more going on here than my cola-soaked sweater and an early Saturday night appearance. I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s been the kind of day that could bring anything. I realize that I need to brace myself, to buck up. But there’s nothing left in me but wet fuzz. I may be the daughter of the Queen of the Bucker-Uppers, but I’m no princess. She didn’t pass me that particular DNA. I wait.
“The phone’s been ringing all day,” Mom says.
Then I get it. The calls didn’t stop just because I wasn’t home. Stupid as it was, I guess I’d hoped it would all go away, that the rumor would be as dead as my relationship with Jackson House. “Sorry?” I say weakly.
“Living room,” orders my dad, a man of few words, except when he’s in court, which is what this is starting to feel like. “Now.”
The three of us sit together in the living room, and I try to remember the last time we gathered like this. I think it was right after Alicia and I made crank calls to our neighbors accusing them of shoplifting, only they all recognized my voice and told my mother.
Dad begins for the prosecution. “Your mother says you’ve been receiving a large number of phone calls, all of them from boys. What do you know about this, Mary Jane?”
I don’t know what to say, so I repeat. “A large number of phone calls? From boys?”
“A very large number of calls,” Mom confirms. “All of them from boys.”
I nod, taking in this information and buying time. I could make up something. I’m pretty sure I could get Dad to believe me. It’s a science experiment. It’s our communications assignment.
“Well?” My dad can say more in that one word than most people can in entire speeches.
Mom’s sitting on the edge of her chair. “Something is very, very wrong here. I can feel it. Is there something you need to tell us, Mary Jane? Why are these boys calling you?”
This is beyond embarrassing. How do you tell your rents that every guy in the school is calling you to have sex? Probably. Or at least some form thereof. And if you do tell them, how do you convince them that the only reason guys think this is because of a measly missing four minutes?
Dad comes over and sits beside me on the couch. “Mary Jane, what is it? You can tell us.” His voice is calm. It makes me want to confess, but there’s nothing to confess. He should be a priest.
“I didn’t do anything.” But I can’t look at them, so I doubt I’m believable. I stare at my hands as my fingers nervously pick brown fuzz from my sweater. “I
I really thought Jackson liked me. I was so sure he and Star were history, an ugly blot on the timeline of the past. But there he was, hugging Star and barely glancing at me.
I hope he chokes on his pretzels.
The rents are waiting for me when I walk in. Mom’s pixie nose turns up, and I know it’s because I smell like the shaggy dog they’d never let me have for a pet when I was a kid.
She takes a step back. “Your brown sweater! What—? How—? I loved that sweater. Mary Jane, what happened to you?”
“Diet Coke,” I answer.
"But . . . how . . . ?”
All I want to do is take a hot shower. And never come out. “Long story, and I’m beat. I’m just going to turn in early.” I start to walk past them.
“Now? Tonight?” Dad asks. “Isn’t there a game tonight?”
I’m surprised he’s in tune enough to know this, but I nod. I find that it takes all my energy reserves to move my head up and down.
Mom takes over the interrogation. “So why are you staying home?”
I’m thinking I can’t win. They were crazy when I came in late, and they’re crazy when I’m early. Rents. “I have homework ?” This is not a lie. It also has nothing to do with why I’m staying home.
I start to push past them again, but they’re not done.
“Mary Jane,” Mom says without looking at me, “we need to talk.”
I’m getting the distinct feeling that there’s more going on here than my cola-soaked sweater and an early Saturday night appearance. I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s been the kind of day that could bring anything. I realize that I need to brace myself, to buck up. But there’s nothing left in me but wet fuzz. I may be the daughter of the Queen of the Bucker-Uppers, but I’m no princess. She didn’t pass me that particular DNA. I wait.
“The phone’s been ringing all day,” Mom says.
Then I get it. The calls didn’t stop just because I wasn’t home. Stupid as it was, I guess I’d hoped it would all go away, that the rumor would be as dead as my relationship with Jackson House. “Sorry?” I say weakly.
“Living room,” orders my dad, a man of few words, except when he’s in court, which is what this is starting to feel like. “Now.”
The three of us sit together in the living room, and I try to remember the last time we gathered like this. I think it was right after Alicia and I made crank calls to our neighbors accusing them of shoplifting, only they all recognized my voice and told my mother.
Dad begins for the prosecution. “Your mother says you’ve been receiving a large number of phone calls, all of them from boys. What do you know about this, Mary Jane?”
I don’t know what to say, so I repeat. “A large number of phone calls? From boys?”
“A very large number of calls,” Mom confirms. “All of them from boys.”
I nod, taking in this information and buying time. I could make up something. I’m pretty sure I could get Dad to believe me. It’s a science experiment. It’s our communications assignment.
“Well?” My dad can say more in that one word than most people can in entire speeches.
Mom’s sitting on the edge of her chair. “Something is very, very wrong here. I can feel it. Is there something you need to tell us, Mary Jane? Why are these boys calling you?”
This is beyond embarrassing. How do you tell your rents that every guy in the school is calling you to have sex? Probably. Or at least some form thereof. And if you do tell them, how do you convince them that the only reason guys think this is because of a measly missing four minutes?
Dad comes over and sits beside me on the couch. “Mary Jane, what is it? You can tell us.” His voice is calm. It makes me want to confess, but there’s nothing to confess. He should be a priest.
“I didn’t do anything.” But I can’t look at them, so I doubt I’m believable. I stare at my hands as my fingers nervously pick brown fuzz from my sweater. “I
Similar Books
