swear. I haven’t done anything wrong. They just think I did. Or will. Or would.”
“Are we talking about slander, Mary Jane? Is someone spreading rumors about you to these boys?” My dad has turned back into Thomas Ettermeyer, Attorney at Law. I think he smells a lawsuit. “I want names.”
Even if I wanted to supply this information, I can’t. I believed Jackson when he said he hadn’t made up anything to anyone about our four minutes together. Then again, I believed him when he said he and Star were as good as over.
“I don’t have names, Dad,” I plead.
I watch his face collapse. For an instant, he thought he could fix all this with a solid defamation of character suit.
But I think the reality is sinking in that even a class action against my class wouldn’t help.
I’m starting to feel sorry for him.
“What can we do then, honey? Those boys can’t just say things like that, can they? Can you tell your principal? We can’t let them ruin your reputation.” Mom appears to be a mascara-laden eyelash away from tears.
I glance from Mom to Dad and back. And I know it’s up to me. This is my problem.
“Don’t worry about this, okay?” I say, and my voice raises an octave. “I didn’t do anything, and all I have to do now is tell kids the truth. It might take a couple of days. But everything will blow over. The truth will out.” I rack my brain for more clichés. “This too shall pass.” I realize I’m making about as much sense as my rents do when they attempt to advise me in matters of life and love. I feel as if I’m tossing peanuts to starving pigeons. But my rents are starving, and they’re taking the pigeon feed. They’re buying it because they need to. The carved channels in their faces are returning to lines.
“Really?” Mom asks.
I nod as if I’m positive. “Stuff like this happens all the time. Not to me,” I add quickly. “It’s probably over already. But you better let me field the calls this weekend, just in case. Anyway, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“I don’t know, Mary Jane,” Dad says. But he leans back and appears to be breathing normally again. “I could make some calls, file a complaint. . . .”
I manage a smile, an actual smile. “That would make things worse, Dad. Let me handle it, okay? Thanks for the concern. Seriously, I appreciate it. It was good to talk things out and all. And you’ll be the first to know if I need a lawyer. But it’s all going to be okay.”
I get up from the couch and head for the stairs. They don’t stop me. My rents have believed me. True, they’ve believed me because they wanted to, needed to. Rents have an irresistible need to believe that everything is hunky-dory (their words, not mine) with their kids. I don’t believe me. I wish I did, but I don’t. And yet I have just pulled off an amazing thing.
I have bucked up.
Mary Jane Ettermeyer may have gotten the Bucker-Upper gene after all.
15
Midnight Madness
I shower the Diet Coke off of me, put on my comfiest nightie, then lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, fighting off images of Star and Jackson. In my mind, they turn into Barbie and Ken, then back again. I see them in their khakis and matching white shirts on the cover of Teen Idols, their back view on the back of the magazine, his arm around her waist, her thumb hooked in his belt loop.
The voice of M.J. in my head wishes Star’s middle finger would get slammed in Jackson’s car door. It wouldn’t get broken, but Star would definitely have to wear a splint on it. And everyone would see the kind of girl she really is.
I must have fallen asleep, because I jerk myself awake to the national anthem. It’s the tune I picked for my cell. Besides the fact that nobody else has it, I figure if I leave my cell on in class and get a call, the teacher may be less likely to yell at a real patriot.
It’s pitch dark in my room, so I have to grope for the phone. I pick up just as it’s switching to
“Are we talking about slander, Mary Jane? Is someone spreading rumors about you to these boys?” My dad has turned back into Thomas Ettermeyer, Attorney at Law. I think he smells a lawsuit. “I want names.”
Even if I wanted to supply this information, I can’t. I believed Jackson when he said he hadn’t made up anything to anyone about our four minutes together. Then again, I believed him when he said he and Star were as good as over.
“I don’t have names, Dad,” I plead.
I watch his face collapse. For an instant, he thought he could fix all this with a solid defamation of character suit.
But I think the reality is sinking in that even a class action against my class wouldn’t help.
I’m starting to feel sorry for him.
“What can we do then, honey? Those boys can’t just say things like that, can they? Can you tell your principal? We can’t let them ruin your reputation.” Mom appears to be a mascara-laden eyelash away from tears.
I glance from Mom to Dad and back. And I know it’s up to me. This is my problem.
“Don’t worry about this, okay?” I say, and my voice raises an octave. “I didn’t do anything, and all I have to do now is tell kids the truth. It might take a couple of days. But everything will blow over. The truth will out.” I rack my brain for more clichés. “This too shall pass.” I realize I’m making about as much sense as my rents do when they attempt to advise me in matters of life and love. I feel as if I’m tossing peanuts to starving pigeons. But my rents are starving, and they’re taking the pigeon feed. They’re buying it because they need to. The carved channels in their faces are returning to lines.
“Really?” Mom asks.
I nod as if I’m positive. “Stuff like this happens all the time. Not to me,” I add quickly. “It’s probably over already. But you better let me field the calls this weekend, just in case. Anyway, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“I don’t know, Mary Jane,” Dad says. But he leans back and appears to be breathing normally again. “I could make some calls, file a complaint. . . .”
I manage a smile, an actual smile. “That would make things worse, Dad. Let me handle it, okay? Thanks for the concern. Seriously, I appreciate it. It was good to talk things out and all. And you’ll be the first to know if I need a lawyer. But it’s all going to be okay.”
I get up from the couch and head for the stairs. They don’t stop me. My rents have believed me. True, they’ve believed me because they wanted to, needed to. Rents have an irresistible need to believe that everything is hunky-dory (their words, not mine) with their kids. I don’t believe me. I wish I did, but I don’t. And yet I have just pulled off an amazing thing.
I have bucked up.
Mary Jane Ettermeyer may have gotten the Bucker-Upper gene after all.
15
Midnight Madness
I shower the Diet Coke off of me, put on my comfiest nightie, then lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, fighting off images of Star and Jackson. In my mind, they turn into Barbie and Ken, then back again. I see them in their khakis and matching white shirts on the cover of Teen Idols, their back view on the back of the magazine, his arm around her waist, her thumb hooked in his belt loop.
The voice of M.J. in my head wishes Star’s middle finger would get slammed in Jackson’s car door. It wouldn’t get broken, but Star would definitely have to wear a splint on it. And everyone would see the kind of girl she really is.
I must have fallen asleep, because I jerk myself awake to the national anthem. It’s the tune I picked for my cell. Besides the fact that nobody else has it, I figure if I leave my cell on in class and get a call, the teacher may be less likely to yell at a real patriot.
It’s pitch dark in my room, so I have to grope for the phone. I pick up just as it’s switching to
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