18

Tyrone makes an unexpected appearance — in math class of all places. There he is, long legs sticking out in the aisle. He’s wearing socks with marijuana leaves on them and army boots spray-painted gold. But he’s jotting down notes from the board.

I corner him in the hall while the lunch buzzer is droning through the speakers.

I have an appointment at a glassblower’s studio, I tell him. To look at bottles for our potion. It’s somewhere on Bond, and I’m not going there by myself. Even though the guy seems pretty nice in his texts, he is, after all, a complete stranger.

It’s been a week since Mercy Hanrahan attacked me behind the school, and I’m still constantly looking over my shoulder. I haven’t let my guard down for one second until now. I’m standing there trying to convince Tyrone he has to come with me when Mercy Hanrahan walks by with Jessica Kelloway. I don’t see them until they’re practically on top of me.

Mercy fakes this dart-jolt toward me, her sneakers squeaking on the floor, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. Her face so close to mine I can feel her breath on my cheeks.

She whispers, Boo!

Of course I nearly jump out of my skin and that sends her into a fit of giggles. She’s jabbing Jessica Kelloway in the ribs with her elbow and the two of them are laughing hard, crossing their legs so they don’t pee in their pants and staggering forward like the laughing might make them keel over.

Hey, Malone, Mercy says. Did you give your friend our message? Tell her she’s next.

What was that all about? asks Tyrone. I haven’t told anyone about the attack, not even Miranda. I feel ashamed for being stupid enough to cross the dark parking lot in the first place and I feel ashamed about feeling ashamed. Of course it wasn’t my fault. But I can’t help it. I feel so stupid. And the condom was so disgusting. I can’t bring myself to speak about it.

What did that mean, “She’s next”? asks Tyrone. What have I been missing around here?

Look, I say. I did the whole interview thing on my own and signed your name to it. Twenty percent of your grade. And I did the initial proposal on my own. And the rewrite. All I’m asking is you come with me to check out this glassblower’s perfume bottles. It’s the perfect packaging for the love potion. It’ll just take an hour. The thing is, I’m depending on you, Tyrone. I mean it. We’re already behind with this. Jordan and Brittany already have their prototype in. They’re making wallets out of duct tape. They’re really cool. And David and Chad are recycling old tires to make sandals. Lori McCurdy and Allie Jones are selling herb gardens. The things are already sprouting.

Tyrone ducks his head a little and scratches the back of his neck. It feels so good to be near him. Those blazing brown eyes. When he looks at me — giving me his full attention like this — I feel like one of Miranda’s neon sculptures, brilliant green light zipping all through me. I’m lit up.

Can we do it tomorrow? he asks.

No, we can’t do it tomorrow, I say. Everybody is supposed to have a sample of their packaging for tomorrow.

I absolutely can’t go today, Tyrone says.

You sound ambivalent, I say. I reach up and pull the little thread on his Santa Claus pin and the nose lights up and there’s a little tinny voice inside there that says, Ho, ho, ho.

And suddenly I find that I am flirting with Tyrone O’Rourke. Out and out full-blown hair-tossing flirtation. What’s to lose, right? My days are probably numbered, when you consider Mercy Hanrahan. Desperation has made me brave.

Aw, come on, Tyrone, I say in a kind of baby-talk. Maybe we could get a cappuccino after? I feel exhilarated and unrecognizable to myself. And I can see Tyrone is taken off guard. He straightens the shoulder strap of my knapsack, though it doesn’t need straightening. His finger smooths down a wrinkle in the fabric, kind of lingering there.

I am so sure I can’t go today, he sighs. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.

But you have to admit there’s a chance, right? There’s always a chance? I mean, the guy is an artist. It could be fun.

I show him the glassblower’s texts. I found him in the crafts section of Newfoundland Buy and Sell. He says he has a hundred handblown perfume bottles for sale, each one a unique work of art. I texted him as soon as I saw the ad. And the guy says he’ll let them go for cheap because it sounds like an interesting project. Also, he’s closing up shop. Moving to Italy.

Newfoundlanders don’t understand glass, he texted. They aren’t ready for it. In fact nobody in North America gets glass. What I do is art.

I could tell he must be in his fifties because he kept texting big long paragraphs.

Just then Amber walks down the corridor. She doesn’t even look at me. She’s talking to Melody Martin.

So you’ll come? I say it loud enough for Amber to hear. And I get up the picture of the bottles on my phone.

See, aren’t they pretty?

They do look sort of perfect for a love potion, Tyrone says. He takes the phone from me and flicks through the pictures.

Don’t make me go there alone, I say.

This time I’m not flirting. I’m dead serious.

He’s also selling swan ashtrays, Tyrone says.

I only want the perfume bottles.

They are cool.

So meet me by the front doors and we’ll walk there after school?

I guess so, Tyrone says. Yeah, I’ll see you there, Flan. And thanks, you know, for doing the interview and stuff and signing my name.

I feel intensely relieved. The truth is, I’ve been kind of afraid to walk home from school even while it’s still light out. But with Tyrone I’ll be safe.

And then I’m beaming. I can feel all the muscles in my face involuntarily align themselves into a beam. I’m humming to myself through Madame Lapointe’s class on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I get to read Titania.

I’m still full of relief as I jam my books in my locker and hurry down the stairs and wait in the front porch of the school while all the students pour out of there.

I watch as the basketball team comes out of the boys’ change room and heads into the gym for practice.

I’m not smiling quite so much at 3:45 when Amber and Melody get out of Amber’s father’s car with armloads of the costumes Amber and I picked out at the Arts and Culture Centre three weeks ago.

Flannery, still waiting for Tyrone? she asks.

Amber, I say. Can I talk to you a minute?

I don’t know, Flannery, she says. I’m kind of busy.

I have something to tell you, I say.

My arms are full, Flannery. Gary is upstairs waiting to get to work on our project.

I’m worried about you, I say. I want to tell her about Mercy.

Oh, I know, she says. You’re worried about me. You want to protect me from my boyfriend. Thanks a lot, but it all seems to be working out fine. I don’t think we need your help. Maybe you should worry about yourself, Flannery.

Sean, Amber’s dad, sees me at the door and waves and toot-toots the horn before driving off. Amber breezes past. The school is emptying out now, and I really have to get going. I guess I’ll be going to the glassblower’s alone.

Just then Kyle Keating comes up to me and thrusts a brown paper bag into my hands.

Here, he says. I’ve been carrying this thing around for a week. Now it’s your turn. You and I are partners in Healthy Living. Mr. Follett put us together while you were supposedly sick, as I’m sure you know, since I’ve been texting you all week.

You know something, Flannery? he says. I didn’t ask to be partners with you. But I was glad when Mr. Follett put us together because I thought you were cool. I didn’t think you were the kind of person who would let somebody else do all the work on a project.

I didn’t get your texts, I say. (That’s a lie, of course. I did get them, but I didn’t pay attention to them.)

Sure you didn’t, Kyle says.

I’m sorry, Kyle, I say. God, I’m really sorry.

I take my hand away from the bottom of the bag of eggs and there’s slimy egg white webbing my fingers together.

Oh great, he says. Let me tell you something. They didn’t break on my watch. You’ve had them for all of five seconds and now look. You can write the essay on unwanted teenage pregnancy all by yourself.

It suddenly occurs to me that Kyle Keating likes me. Like, like likes me. I mean, that’s why he’s so mad about the broken egg. I mean, he’s not mad about the egg at all. He’s mad that I have been ignoring him. I haven’t been thoughtful. In fact, I’ve been thoughtless. I suddenly remember him asking me to walk to the Oxfam office after the Bursting Boils concert. I’m totally flabbergasted! I mean, I’m flattered and confused. I don’t really know how I feel about Kyle. But I feel terrible about not being thoughtful.

I’ve been having a bad week, I say. I hope you can forgive me. I really am sorry. I had this really terrible thing happen.

And suddenly I’m telling him all about Mercy Hanrahan. I can’t stop myself. I tell him about kicking and biting and even the condom. I cry a little bit. And I laugh too. And when I’m done I see that he has walked me home. I still have the bag of eggs in my hand.

And I’m sorry about our metaphorical baby, I say.

I hold up the bag. The bottom is completely soaked through now, and it tears apart and all the eggs fall out on the sidewalk.

Some of them break and some roll away.