Текст книги "He's So Not Worth It"

Автор книги: Kieran Scott

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“In theess classss weee weeeeel deeetermeeen who are . . . theee consummate authors of theee . . . twenteeee-ith ceentureee.”I pressed my lips together. I couldn’t laugh. I would not laugh. Because if I started laughing, it would be all over. Then Chloe, who was barely holding it together, would laugh, and we would not stop. Ever.But this dude was making it so effing hard! Not only did he have the weirdest accent I’d ever heard, but he looked, no joke, like a frog-human hybrid. His lips were flat and protruding, and he licked them about once every five seconds. His face was wide, sitting on his neck like a watermelon. And he was balding. With only a little hair above his ears and then one, black curl right in the center of his forehead. His eyes bulged so much it was like when he turned sideways, you could see the outline of the whole ball under his eyelids. Plus, he was wearing green.“Does aneewonnn have anee . . . authors they think should beeee added to theees lissst?”A few hands shot up. He turned toward the board and lifted his arm. There was a huge circle of sweat staining his shirt. I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Chloe looked at me wide-eyed, and slapped her hand over her mouth. I shook my head and shifted in my seat.The thing was, this was so not Chloe. Usually, especially in class, she was a total prude. She followed the rules. She listened to every word our teachers said. She wrote most of those words down. And she shot dirty looks at anyone who stepped out of line.Kind of like that dude in the front row with the striped shirt was doing to us now. I turned my attention to the board. The professor was writing down names as people called them out. Names like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Forster. Names I’d heard, but had no interest in knowing more about.“Goot. Goot.”Chloe and I looked at each other. “What the hell does goot mean?” she whispered, ducking her head and turning it sideways. When she did this, her hair covered her face, which I thought was lucky. Guys don’t have a built-in defense like that.“I think he’s trying to say ‘good,’” I replied.Chloe pulled a face. “What kind of accent is that? Franish? Polczech? What?”Another snort escaped my nose. Now three people turned around to stare. Chloe blushed and slumped down in her seat slightly. Something else I’d never seen her do.“Now weee weeel deestreebuooot thee seeleebusss . . .”A fly zoomed in through the open window and banged itself against the fluorescent light over his head. The teacher stopped abruptly. His eyes darted around the room, following every single movement of the fly. I thought my cheeks would explode, trying to hold in the laugh. But when he licked his lips, I couldn’t do it anymore. I doubled over and so did Chloe.Everyone in the room now looked at us, but we couldn’t stop. Chloe was completely red and her eyes were filled with tears. I’d never seen her laugh like that ever.“Eees theeere a probleeem?” the teacher asked, walking our way.Chloe faced forward, breathing hard, but couldn’t seem to look at him. I covered my mouth with my hand for a second and got myself together. When I looked up at him, I convulsed silently once, but that was it.“No,” I said. “We’re goot.”After that, Chloe had to excuse herself to the bathroom.

Daily Field Journal of Annie Johnston Wednesday, July 14Position: Aisle two at the Apothecary.Cover: Looking through after-sun creams. (I somehow got a sunburn on my right arm. It’s roughly the shape of Argentina. How did I miss that spot?)Observations:3:05 p.m.: Subject Mrs. Appleby and Subject Mrs. Graydon walk in together. They are each talking on their cell phone.Mrs. Graydon: No you may not drive down to Seaside Heights. (Pause.) I don’t care who else is going! I—Mrs. Appleby: . . . because it’s a cesspool. (Pause to roll eyes at Mrs. Appleby.) Chloe, I’ve told you a hundred times. If you’d like to go down to the Island, I will have Marissa go over and open up the house. (Pause.) Well that’s not my problem, now, is it?Mrs. Graydon: How many times do I have to tell you you’re grounded?Mrs. Appleby: . . . may not hang out on that boardwalk without adult supervision!They both snap their phones closed, huff identical sighs, then laugh.Mrs. Appleby: Kids. We had them why?Mrs. Graydon: I know! What were we thinking?Subject Mrs. Appleby and Subject Mrs. Graydon dissolve into giggles. (Personal Note: I’m going to go home and hug my mom now.)

“Hold it like this,” I instructed, showing Quinn the basic, and I thought obvious, positioning for her hands on the basketball. “You shoot with your right, but guide it with your left.”Quinn tucked her blond hair behind her ears, squinted from behind her designer sunglasses, and shot the ball. It arced perfectly, swiped against the underside of the basket, and slammed into the pole.“Ugh!” She slumped her whole body dramatically. “Why are we doing this? It’s, like, ten thousand degrees out here!”“Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted to hang out,” I said as I retrieved the ball.She trudged, arms hanging like a simian, to the metal bench at the edge of the bayside court. A few yards away was a sand-bottomed playground where a troop of toddlers shrieked and chased each other down slides, their parents reapplying sunscreen every so often and checking their BlackBerrys.“Yeah, but I thought we would go shopping or something,” Quinn said, checking her arms for sunburn. “Isn’t it, like, dangerous to exercise in weather like this?”I gave a sarcastic laugh and joined her on the bench, letting the ball slam against it with a clang. I took a long swig from my water bottle and dragged my arm across my lips. “If you wanna go home, go home. No one’s stopping you.”Quinn gave me an incredulous look, then shook her head. She pulled a bottle of water out of her Kate Spade bag and popped the top. “What happened to you?” she asked suddenly.The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “What do you mean what happened to me?”“You used to be semi-cool, but ever since we got down here, you’ve been acting like a complete bitch.” She sipped her water then closed the top. “No offense.”My already warm face burned. “None taken,” I said facetiously. I got up, dribbled toward the basket, and slammed the ball against the backboard. It didn’t go through the net.“You’ve really hurt my dad’s feelings, you know,” she said, undeterred. “Not to mention your mom’s.”“What do you know about my mom?” I demanded, whirling on her.Quinn blinked. For a second I thought she was going to back off, but instead she stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know that she doesn’t get why you can be so mad at her, and not even the littlest bit pissed at your dad when he’s the one who left you guys,” she shouted. “Which I don’t get either, by the way. If my dad did that to me, I’d hate him.”I do hate him, I thought. Or I did. Do I still?“He’s my dad, okay? Wouldn’t you want your parents to get back together if you could?” I blurted.Quinn pressed her lips together. If I could have seen her eyes behind those ridiculously huge sunglasses, I was sure I would have seen tears. “That’s different.”“Why?” I asked.“Because my mom is dead, you idiot! She didn’t leave me by choice!”Now tears streamed down her face and I did feel like a total idiot. She was right, of course. The two situations weren’t comparable at all. I took a step toward her.“Quinn, I’m—”“You know what? Forget it.” She shakily shouldered her bag and turned away. “I don’t know why I even bothered.” Then she looked up at the parking lot. “Looks like you’ve got company anyway.”She jogged across the court to her bike and took off. I wanted to yell after her—to say something that would make her come back so I could apologize, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Then a car door popped and I glanced over at the lot. Shannen Moore was just unfolding her long legs from her mom’s car.Great. Just what I needed. More confrontation. Wasn’t this exactly the thing I wanted to avoid this summer?Shannen was dressed to play ball. Nike shorts, battered kicks, white T-shirt. Her long bangs were held back with a slim headband and the rest of her hair was pulled into a high ponytail. I was surprised to see her out of her usual uniform of a tank top and worn pajama pants. Since arriving at Gray’s house, Shannen had rarely been seen off the couch. Unless she was out secretly meeting with Charlie, she was watching reality TV. Everything from 16 and Pregnant to The Next Food Network Star to Dangerous Jobs. Her slovenly habit of leaving crinkled-up junk-food bags stuffed between couch cushions had sent Gray into an apoplectic fit last night. It was kind of funny to watch, actually.Shannen strode over to the court and tossed her keys on their lanyard in the grass. “You up for some one on one?” she asked me.“Why are you here?” I demanded.“Why are you being such a bitch?” she shot back.I choked a laugh. If one more person called me that . . . “You can’t be serious.”I slammed the ball into the ground so hard that she only had enough time to throw her arms up defensively before it hit her chest. I was still residually upset about the episode with Quinn, but I was even more pissed at Shannen. If she wanted to bury the hatchet, she’d picked a bad time to show up.“What the hell?”“Go away, Shannen.” I turned and grabbed my water bottle off the bench.“Will you just chill?” she said. “I know you hate me, but you don’t have to try to kill me.”She popped the ball off the ground with her toe and grabbed it out of the air.“It sucked, okay?” she said tersely. “What I did at my party. It sucked. I don’t know what I was thinking.”I almost choked on a mouthful of water. She started to dribble the ball from hand to hand in a perfect V, watching its rhythmic path.“That’s crap. I knew what I was thinking.” She shook her head at the basketball. “I thought I was losing Jake. I was trying to get rid of you.”I felt like an air-conditioning vent had just snapped on at full blast directly above my head. My skin tingled and my hair stood on end. There was a loud car horn and a bunch of male voices shouted in our direction. All I could make out were the words “hot” and “baby.”“I thought you and Jake were just friends,” I said, my mouth dry.“We are.” She stopped dribbling and crooked her arms behind her head, holding the ball against her neck. “We were. I don’t know. He might never talk to me again.”She hurtled the ball at me. I dropped my water bottle, which bounced on the grass and rolled under the bench, and caught the ball.“So, you wanted to be . . . with Jake.”“Kind of.” She hooked her thumbs into the back of her elastic waistband and looked out at the glittering water of the bay.“So you were torturing me because he wanted to be with me,” I said.“I guess.”“Are you kidding me?” I pulled the ball back with one hand and let it fly as hard as I possibly could, flinging it toward the backboard. It slammed against the metal with a resounding clang and bounced away. Shannen flinched. “Why didn’t you just tell me you liked him? Why can’t you ever just talk to anyone?”“I’m talking to you now!” she blurted.“Right. Like, a month too late!”I walked over to retrieve the ball, biting down on my bottom lip as I turned my back on her. I thought of that night, how I’d stood there in front of all those people after that video of my father had played. How I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach repeatedly. How alone and exposed I’d felt. Everyone seeing my family’s dirty laundry, our faults, our weaknesses, our secrets. All so she could have Jake.“You shouldn’t have attacked my family,” I said, my voice wet. I picked up the ball and pressed it between my palms as hard as I possibly could.“I know. I get it.”“No, you don’t get it,” I said, whirling on her. “When we were little, the pranks you used to pull . . . they were funny sometimes and we all went along with them because we all thought you were so cool. But somewhere in there, you started crossing the line. This kind of crap? It’s not funny. Do you even realize what you did to me? To my mom? Not to mention Chloe and Hammond and Jake and my dad and even Gray. I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”“I’m sorry! I don’t know!” She turned her palms up. “If it makes you feel any better, my mom’s making me go see some shrink about it. She thinks I’m deranged, apparently. Like staying with some asshole who treats you and your kids like shit for twenty years isn’t deranged. If only she would’ve—”“Shannen!” I shouted, cutting her off. Anger radiated off of me in tight, jagged waves. “This isn’t about you right now.”She scowled, but then sort of deflated. “I know. You’re right. I . . . I stepped over a line. I’m sorry.” She covered her face with both hands, ran them up into her hair, and took the headband off so that her bangs fell into her eyes. Then she tipped her head back and groaned at the sky. “God! I hate this. Look, according to my mom, we’re gonna be here the rest of the summer, so I just thought . . . if we could maybe call a truce . . .”I exhaled a laugh. I’d heard that one before. Shakily, I dribbled the ball toward the net and hit an easy layup. Considering how pissed off I was, I was shocked it went in, but pleased. Let her think this conversation wasn’t affecting me.“That’s not gonna happen.”Her face fell. She looked suddenly like her waify kindergarten self, standing outside the school waiting for her mother to pick her up—late, as always, because there was some issue with her father. “Okay. Well, I just want you to know that . . . if Jake comes down to visit you, I won’t bother you guys. I swear. I won’t even—”“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen either,” I said, shooting another basket.“Why not?”“Jake and I are not together,” I said blithely. I turned around and tried a hook shot, but it missed. “You can have him if you want him so badly. We’re done.”Shannen’s mouth screwed up on one side. A look I’d known since we were kids. A look that said, You’re a moron.“He doesn’t want me,” she said. “He wants you.”My heart flipped inside out, but I ignored it. I picked up the ball and tossed it at the net. “Then he shouldn’t have lied.”Shannen considered this. She sighed and sat down on the bench, her shoulders curled forward.“Is it just me, or does everything suck?” she said.I jogged for the ball and picked it up. All of a sudden, I felt the blistering heat. I walked slowly toward the bench and sat down on the end, ball between my feet, forearms on my thighs. Squinting against the sun, I looked at her over my shoulder.“It’s not just you.”

Daily Field Journal of Annie Johnston Saturday, July 17Position: Corner table at Jump, Java, and Wail!Cover: Reading Beautiful Creatures with my headphones on (no music, natch).Observations:12:59 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon walks in. Uniform: wrinkled cargo shorts, black T-shirt, battered sneakers. (Assessment: He looks more disheveled at work than anywhere else.) He sees me and stops dead in his tracks. Looks like he’s going to say something . (Personal Note: I’m kind of dying to know what it is.) Then he ducks his head and goes to the back room. (Personal Note: Damn.)1:01 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon is behind the counter, ready to work. I’m the only one here other than that weird old dude on his laptop who’s apparently writing either a slasher film or a heated political blog, considering how intense he is.1:05 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon looks in my direction, looks away.1:06 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon looks in my direction, looks away.1:08 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon looks in my direction, looks away.1:09 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon looks in my direction, looks away.(Personal Note: I’m trying really hard to keep a straight face at this point.)1:10 p.m.: Subject Jake Graydon looks in my direction. I briefly consider flashing him just to see what he does. I don’t. He looks away.(Assessment: Somebody wants to know what Ally Ryan is up to.)

“Pretty dead around here, for a Saturday.”Mr. Ryan leaned in to the counter next to where I was already leaning. I stood up straight, feeling like I’d been caught snoozing. One of his favorite things to say was that there was always something to be done, even when it looked like there was nothing to be done. I looked around. There were exactly two people in the store. One was the gray-haired dude who was always here during the day, pounding on his laptop keys like they’d offended him somehow. The other was Ally’s friend Annie. She sat in the far corner reading some book with a black cover and drinking her coffee. I kept waiting for her to come over and talk to me. Tell me something about how Ally was doing, or whether she’d said anything about me. Maybe I should go talk to her. But I didn’t want to look desperate. And besides, I was pretty sure that wasn’t something I should be doing, even when it looked like there was nothing to be done.Mr. Ryan was looking at me and I realized I hadn’t said anything.“Yeah.” I pushed one hand into my back pocket. Lifted my shoulder. “Everyone’s down the shore.”Also, it was, like, one hundred degrees outside. Who wants coffee in that weather? Even iced? Mr. Ryan nodded absently and looked into space. Guess he wasn’t in much of a do something mood either.“Including my family,” he said.Uncomfortable.“Did you see them? When you were down there.”I went over to the cappuccino maker and hit some buttons. “Um . . . yeah.”“I figured. She said you didn’t, but . . .”He paused and shook his head. My hands froze on the steam lever. Wait. Ally and her dad had talked about me? When? Why? What had she said?“How’d they . . . I mean, how was Ally?” he asked.Like always, I immediately saw Ally on top of that beach bum jackass. This was so not right. Was this guy really grilling me, a kid, for details about his wife and his daughter? I hit another button, and steam shot out the side of the machine. Mr. Ryan jumped forward and made it stop. I took a shaky step back.“She was good.” I paused. “I think she has a boyfriend down there.”As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Because why? Why did I feel the need to tell him that? From the corner of my eye, I saw Annie shift. There was no way she could hear me from all the way over there, right? She had her earbuds in.“Really? She hasn’t mentioned anyone.”Which I guess was good. But then she hadn’t mentioned me to him either, which made me and beach bum jackass kind of even. Which didn’t sit well. I leaned back against the counter.“Do you talk to her a lot?” I asked, fishing for info. Blatantly.“Yeah, of course.” He looked at me sideways, then shook his head and leaned in to the counter again. “No. Not really.” He took off his visor and ran a hand over his hair. He stared out the front window, where Orchard Avenue was deader than the campus of Orchard Hill High right now. “She’s angry. They both are. And they have every right to be.”He had no idea how much right. Or did he? Had Ally or her mom told him what happened at Shannen’s party?“You like her, don’t you?” he asked suddenly. “My daughter.”I looked at Annie. She was staring right at me, but looked away. I turned sideways so she couldn’t read my lips or something. “Yeah. Yes, sir. I do.”“So what’s the deal?” he asked. “She doesn’t like you?”“Um . . . no. Not at the moment,” I said.“Oh. Why?”I shoved both hands into my back pockets. “It’s a long story. Kind of a misunderstanding, I guess.”He nodded. “I’ve got a lot of experience with those. Especially when it comes to women.”“Yeah? So what do you do about them?” I said. “The misunderstandings? I mean, if you have so much experience.”Mr. Ryan shook his head slowly, his eyes sort of unfocused and staring. “If I knew that, believe me kid, I wouldn’t be here talking to you right now.”

Daily Field Journal of Annie Johnston Monday, July 19Position: Across the street from Shannen Moore’s house.Cover: Tying my “walking shoes.” I’m pretending to be a power walker, although every old lady with a Pomeranian has lapped me.Observations:12:05 p.m.: There’s a moving truck in the driveway. Subject Mr. Moore is arguing with two guys wheeling a standing piano through the front door. All I can make out is “told you jerk-offs” and “back inside!”12:07 p.m.: The movers wheel the piano back inside. They take out a big chunk of the door frame in the process.12:08 p.m.: Subject Mr. Moore turns a color of purple formerly unknown in this quadrant of the universe. The screaming that ensues is frightening in pitch and chock-full of tasty expletives.12:15 p.m.: The movers have unloaded a whole mess of furniture onto the front lawn.12:17 p.m.: The moving truck speeds off.12:28 p.m.: Subject Mr. Moore slams the front door, sits down on the front step, and hangs his head between his knees.(Assessment One: Mr. Moore is moving out. Assessment Two: Not today, though.)