8 
Spring Fling
8 It’s seven fifteen, and Ira, Nomura, and I are hovering around a bowl of lime-green punch. It’s like Rocky predicted—I haven’t talked to anybody but my two best friends for the forty-five minutes I’ve been at St. Cathopher’s Spring Fling. But it’s early yet, and I’m still optimistic. Tonight just might be my night.
The punch doesn’t taste like lime; it doesn’t taste like anything at all, but it’s so sweet that undissolved sugar crystals coat my tongue. After each sip, I swish the liquid around in my mouth, not letting it settle too long; I don’t want my tongue to be the color of a shamrock when I finally get my chance to talk to Bijou. She’ll think she’s getting hit on by a leprechaun.
I’m starting to get jumpy. The DJ is playing “Umbrella,” “Rock Your Body,” and other oldies-but-baddies guaranteed to keep us—well, me, anyway—off the dance floor, so there’s nothing to do but stand around and wait. Every single guy in our class is here except for Rocky and Trevor, but the boy-girl ratio is way out of whack. At least half the St. Cat’s girls aren’t here yet, and the ones who are, huddled in a corner by the bleachers at the far end of the gym, aren’t the cool, popular ones. They’re the shy, superawkward girls, like Elana Brooks and Meredith Chan, who can’t even make eye contact without erupting into fits of giggles. Nomura, Ira, and I stay far enough away that eye contact, especially in this room’s dim lighting, isn’t even a possibility.
Bijou, of course, is the only girl I care about seeing, but she’s not here yet. Somehow I think I’d feel whether she’d arrived already without even laying eyes on her, but believe me, I didn’t leave it up to my sixth sense. The first thing I did when we got here was circle the entire perimeter of the gym, and I’ve had my eyes locked on the only entrance ever since. Bijou is not here.
“Maricel definitely talked to her?” I ask Ira. I look down and see that I’m wringing my hands, so I give them one good shake and put them in my pockets, where nobody can see them. “You’re sure?”
“How many times can I say it? Mari did the job. I promise.”
“But what did she say?”
“Look, I didn’t follow her around and listen in on their private conversation, but I’m sure she told Bijou exactly what you guys told me to tell her to say.”
I turn to Nomura. “Are you sure this is a good plan?”
“Yes,” he says. “As good as we can come up with, anyway.”
“It seemed good when you suggested it. But now it sounds pathetic and desperate.”
“Or just plain direct, maybe?” Nomura says. “You need to chill, man. You’re making me nervous, and I don’t even have anything at stake here.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“And … you’re welcome for helping you.”
“Sorry … thanks to both of you for helping me out. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You haven’t done anything yet,” Ira reminds me.
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “Thanks for your support.”
“You bring the cards?” Nomura asks.
I pat my right front pocket. “Got ’em,” I say.
He nods in approval.
Some of the other guys are shoving and horsing around with one another, trying to create a spectacle. We pay as little attention to them as possible, sidestepping them when they get too close. They’re a nuisance, like mosquitoes, but not a threat. Hands in pockets, we bide our time.
Ira tells Nomura and me about Rise Again, a movie about a female Iraq War veteran who saves the world from an army of flesh-eating zombies. Nomura and I nod, pretending to follow the absurdly complicated synopsis, but Ira makes no sense whatsoever. He couldn’t care less that there are a dozen girls in the room, and twenty more on the way; he’s as into the Syfy Channel as he was when we were eleven.
Then the doors swing open.
“Dude!” Nomura whispers, punching me in the bicep. “They’re here.”
I turn around to see Rocky and Trevor overlooking the dance from the threshold like little lords. “Ick,” I say to Nomura. “Who cares about them?”
“Not those idiots. Look behind them.”
My heart leaps as I see Mary Agnes, Maricel, and, last but definitely not least, Bijou sidestep Rocky and Trevor to circle the edges of the room. Mary Agnes is a couple of strides in front, pointing up to the streamers and other decorations along the walls, the balloons floating toward the ceiling. Maricel looks up, politely admiring, but Bijou is checking out all the kids clustered to the right of the DJ. It’s her first dance, in America at least, so maybe she’s nervous (although there’s no way she’s as edgy as I am, is there?). I pat my pocket again, checking for the tenth time that the index cards are still there, and amazingly enough, they haven’t disappeared since Nomura asked about them three minutes ago.
Mary Agnes, Maricel, and Bijou have put their coats down near where the dorky girls are sitting. Mary Agnes waves at a couple of them and seems to still be pointing out the finer elements of the decor. She’s probably running the dance committee single-handedly; that’d be her style.
I notice for the first time that Bijou is at least two inches taller than any other girl in the room. God, I hope she’s not wearing heels. That would probably make her taller than me.
Suddenly, a tap on my shoulder. When I see Trevor and Rocky, who even by his standards has a scary amount of product in his hair, my stomach churns. These two are the last thing I need to deal with right now. Even worse, Rocky points in Bijou’s direction.
“You weren’t writing any report, were you, Schrader?” he says. “You were studying up on that extremely cute new girl. What’s her name again?”
“Bijou,” says Trevor. Ick. I hate to hear her pretty name come out of Trevor’s greasy mouth. I saw her first, I want to say. But don’t, of course.
“I like it,” says Rocky. “Very French-sounding.”
Did Maricel tell Jenna or Angela, and one of them told Rocky or Trevor? Or did Rocky simply hear that Bijou is Haitian and put two and two together? Either way, I’m screwed now. Rocky’s bound to sabotage me; it’s his favorite extracurricular activity. He really excels at it.
“I give you props for trying to do some research on her. It’s a smart move, seriously,” he says. “But I think you might have picked the wrong letter in that encyclopedia. You don’t want ‘H.’ You want ‘V.’ For ‘vodou.’”
“What?” I say, bracing for an argument. One I’ll probably lose.
“Breathe, Alex, breathe.” Rocky laughs. “Don’t have a fit. You’re so nervous all the time. Just chill.”
The fact that he’s right makes him that much more annoying. Every time I get into one of these face-offs with Rocky, my heart goes a million miles an hour and I have to breathe through my mouth not to show it (which probably makes me look like the biggest nerd on the planet).
“Dolls, zombies, animal sacrifices—that’s creepy stuff,” Trevor says. “You’d better watch yourself, Schrader. If you make her mad, she could put a curse on you and mess you up bad.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Of course, I’ve seen the same dumb horror movies on cable that everyone else has. I’ve seen old witch ladies drive pins into the soft fabric of a doll’s heart; I’ve seen their victims clutching at their chests and falling dead to the floor. But just because Bijou’s Haitian doesn’t mean she’s into that spooky stuff.
Rocky jabs Trevor and nods in my direction. “Look at Schrader, trying to figure it all out. Taxing that tiny brain of his to come up with all the answers. But he’s in way over his head.”
“So when it comes to girls, you two have all the answers, right?” I ask. I want it to come out edgy and sarcastic, but instead it actually sounds like a sincere question. I need to improve at this face-off stuff.
“Not answers, Alex. Questions,” Rocky says. “Like, how is a geek like you ever going to have a girlfriend at all, much less a gorgeous girl like that? I mean, she’s frickin’ hot. That, my friend, is an unsolvable mystery.”
“Maybe I’ll just be myself, and you guys will keep being yourselves,” I say, calmer now. “And eventually Bijou will see that I’m a nice, normal guy, right about the same time that Angela and Jenna figure out that the two of you are complete losers.”
For a second, Trevor looks almost impressed that I’m capable of talking back to them without tripping over my own words. But then he looks me up and down and says, “Alex, are those pants pleated? You are rocking it old-school tonight, grandpa. You should have stuck with the cords.”
“Nice one,” Rocky tells his friend. “But cords or pleats aren’t going to make a difference, are they? The bottom line is, the two of us own this school. Every girl here wants to be with us; every guy here wants to be us. And that’s never gonna change.”
Suddenly, there’s an enormous pounding on the doors, like a small bomb exploding. We all turn to look as Angela Gudrun and Jenna Minaya stumble into the gym, cackling like maniacs. Angela and Jenna aren’t only the most popular girls in St. Cat’s seventh grade, they’re also the loudest. Never satisfied with simply walking into a room where every guy would be instantly staring at them anyway, they have to scream, slam doors, stamp their feet.
“Speak of the devil,” Rocky says. “Or devils, I should say. Our devils.” He slaps Trevor’s bicep with the back of his hand. “That’s our cue, man.”
Rocky jogs off without giving us another look, like a puppy whose owner has given him a swift jerk of the leash.
“Slow down, fool.” Trevor smirks, and follows his friend, but slowly. “Boys run. Men walk.”
No more than fifteen seconds after they’ve left, I look up to see Mary Agnes headed straight for the punch bowl.
This is exactly what I want, right? Mary Agnes is laser-locked on us, with Bijou and Maricel right behind her. I suddenly wish I had a few more minutes to prepare, or maybe run and hide. No such luck. Mary Agnes trots up, gives the three of us a brisk nod, then picks up the ladle and pours two cups of the syrupy liquid for Bijou and Maricel before serving one for herself. Bijou eyes it suspiciously and then takes a cautious sip.
“Hi, Alex,” Mary Agnes says, looking directly at me. She’s right down to business, her eyes burning with purpose. Definitely not subtle, but I’ve known Mary Agnes since kindergarten, and “subtle” is not a word in her vocabulary.
When Mary Agnes decides she’s going to do something—whether it’s running for student council (she’s been class president for three years running), organizing a bake sale to benefit the homeless, or in this case, playing matchmaker with a girl she’s known for about five minutes—she just rolls up her sleeves and does it. Mostly, the girl scares me. She’s a little intense. But now, her aggressive approach to life stands to benefit me (I hope so, anyway), so I suppose I shouldn’t be too critical.
“Hey, Mary Agnes,” I say. “Hi, Maricel.” I don’t know whether to shake hands, or hug, or what. I wind up waving, which feels weird, since the three of them are no more than three feet away from us.
“And this”—does Mary Agnes pause for a split second here, drawing the moment out, or am I crazy?—“is Bijou Doucet.”
I repeat it silently to myself, trying to memorize the name. Doucet, Doucet, Doucet.
“Do you want to maybe … introduce Bijou to your friends?” Mary Agnes asks.
“Sure. Of course.” Wow, am I screwing this up already? Everything is moving too fast. I turn to Bijou. “This is John Nomura. And this is Ira.”
“That’s my brother.” Maricel nods toward Ira, who has pulled out his video cam. “Try to ignore him.”
“Put that thing away,” I order, a little too forcefully. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Ira not to film the evening’s events.
“What?” he asks. “This is good stuff. We’re making memories.”
“Not appropriate, Ira,” Maricel says. “Come on.”
Finally, Ira, shaking his head, turns off the camera and puts it in his pocket.
“Anyway, good to see you, boys,” Mary Agnes says. I half expect her to start shaking hands with everyone in sight. She’s a little too formal, maybe, but I wish I were as sure of myself as she is. It’s like she’s never had a doubt or a second thought in her entire life.
Mary Agnes and Maricel are wearing almost identical outfits: skirts of different colors yet the exact same style and length, white T-shirts, and bracelets from their forearms to their wrists. But Bijou is wearing a full-on dress, very girlie; she’s the only girl in the entire room, in fact, who’s wearing one. It’s blue with white polka dots, ends a little below the knees, and isn’t even remotely trendy. But she could be wearing a brown paper bag and still look amazing. I make eye contact with her, say hi, and smile, but not for too long. I don’t want her to think I’m weird. Or that I’m too into her. Bijou’s got on the same patent-leather shoes as before, shiny as glass, and black tights.
“Hello,” Bijou says, although her accent makes it sound more like “hallo.” Very French-sounding, I hear Rocky echo in my head. Her voice is lower than I would have thought, but in a good way: throaty and velvety.
Mary Agnes is paying close attention, silently cheering us on, maybe, but I can’t tell who knows what. Does Bijou know I’m into her? Does Mary Agnes? They came right up to us, which means they must know something. But whatever knowledge they have isn’t driving them away; it’s bringing them closer. For now, anyway.
I’m in a daze, unsure of what to do next, and everything is out of focus, blurry. I have my cards ready, but I can’t bring them out into the open. Not now.
No one has said anything for ten or fifteen seconds, which seems a lot longer when you’re surrounded by girls waiting for you to talk. I wish Nomura would somehow rescue us, but Ira beats him to it, which means that instead of a life preserver, he might be throwing out a three-hundred-pound barbell.
“Have you guys seen Rise Again?” he asks.
“What’s that?” Mary Agnes asks.
“It’s a movie,” Ira says.
Why is he bringing up, of all things, a zombie movie, in front of a Haitian girl?
“Ah,” says Mary Agnes, giving Ira a pitying look. “Haven’t seen it.”
“Enough, already. You’ve been talking about it nonstop for the last forty-eight hours,” Maricel says.
“Because it rocks,” Ira says.
“Zombies.” Mary Agnes shrugs. “They never do anything. They just walk around grunting. Where’s the drama?”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d actually seen Rise Again.”
“Ira, they’re interested,” I say, pointing to the dork area. “Go tell the geeks about it. You can film their reactions.”
Ira’s mouth hangs open, like he’s five years old and I’ve stolen his ice-cream cone. “Relax, Ira, I was only kidding,” I say.
I meant it as a joke; maybe it didn’t quite come out that way?
I turn to Bijou. “You look … very nice,” I say. It’s the only thing I can think of.
“All of us?” Mary Agnes asks, the hint of a smile on her lips. “Or just Bijou?”
I feel a glow of warmth spread out across my face. Can they see I’m blushing like a tomato, or is it dark enough in here for me to hide it?
“All of you,” I say. “You all look really nice.”
“Thank you,” Bijou says, but she’s not really smiling. She turns and looks toward the dance floor, where Rocky, Trevor, Angela, and Jenna are prancing around, fully pleased with themselves.
“Great,” says Maricel.
“I was hoping they wouldn’t show,” says Mary Agnes, shaking her head at the two most popular girls in her class.
Did I say “most popular” again? Just like with Rocky and Trevor, “most feared/despised” is more like it. But if anything, they play it bigger and bolder than their boyfriends. Angela has on heels that make her tower over almost every guy in the room, and Jenna’s wearing a black skirt three inches above the knee, and she’s dyed her bangs an outrageous electric blue. Angela and Jenna already have Rocky and Trevor, so they haven’t come to the dance to meet guys. They’re here to do what Angela and Jenna do best, which is to suck up all the attention in the room.
And it’s working: we’re all staring at them. Angela and Jenna, ignoring their boyfriends, have gone to the dance floor alone and are currently gyrating to Usher’s “Hot Tottie.” I see Mr. Price, one of the dance chaperones, on the other side of the gym. He’s noticing the two crazy-hot girls dancing provocatively close to each other—you’d have to be blind to miss it—and probably trying to figure out whether, and how, to stop them. Rocky and Trevor have joined them now, but the girls are still dancing more with each other than with the guys, leaving the two boys looking awkward and out of place. I notice with pleasure that Rocky doesn’t look too relaxed himself right now.
“I’m sorry,” Mary Agnes says, folding her arms across her chest and aiming a death stare at the dance floor. “I don’t see what’s so great about them.”
“Jenna’s extremely, extremely attractive,” Ira says. “They both are.”
“Gross, Ira,” Maricel says, shaking her head at her brother.
“Well, she is,” Ira says.
Oh, Ira. I mean, of course Angela and Jenna are both ridiculously cute. Angela is blond, with perfect porcelain skin, and Jenna, Dominican with a deep tan that offsets her green-gold eyes, may be even prettier. But you don’t share that information with other girls! That’s just common sense, isn’t it?
“She’s good-looking, yeah, but she and Angela are totally evil. I mean, really, really cruel, for real,” Maricel says. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Of course,” I say. “If Angela and Jenna are anything like their boyfriends, I wouldn’t go near them.”
“That’s not what you said about Angela the other—” Ira said.
Nomura cuts him off, thankfully. “I’d go near Jenna Minaya, but only if she asked me really, really nicely.”
“As much as we hate them, they did get people out onto the dance floor,” Maricel says. “At Fall Ball, we all kind of stood around and stared at each other.” It’s true—Angela and Jenna have made it instantly cool to head to the dance floor. Ninety seconds ago it was empty, and now it’s half-full.
“Well, I say if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” says Mary Agnes. “Anybody want to dance?”
“I’m in,” says Nomura. Then he looks toward Maricel. “You?”
Maricel’s looking cute. Golden-brown skin. Black hair cut into a bob. Does Nomura like Ira’s sister, or is he being an awesome wingman? Mary Agnes takes a big breath, as if about to jump off a steep cliff, and asks Ira if he wants to dance, too.
“Yeah, right,” Ira says.
“Ira …,” I whisper. “Be cool.”
He looks confused, but he eventually follows Nomura to the dance floor. He hasn’t waited for Mary Agnes, though, and as he passes her, he almost knocks her over.
I’m about to follow, too, until Mary Agnes whispers, “I’m doing this for you, you know. Stay here. Don’t dance, talk.”
Bijou and I watch them move onto the floor, now almost completely full. I smile at her, and she smiles back. But we’re not talking yet, and the idea, the horrible thought that occurs to me, is that we might never talk, that I might stand here twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the dance out of pure, animal fear while this beautiful girl stands awkwardly next to me, hoping that she could talk to someone cooler, someone who at least has a clue.
So I take a deep breath, pull out my cards, and go for it.