twenty-one

The rest of the weekend was like a stopwatch that wouldn’t stop ticking.

DiDi and I barely spoke. On Saturday, she began mentioning that we were supposed to work on the Gala ideas, but I quickly grabbed my backpack and headed for the door, mumbling I was doing extra volunteering at the library.

The next day at home, I stayed in my room and buried myself in my books. I studied. I studied. And I studied. Mostly, I studied the paint on the walls that was peeling like a summer’s sunburn, but DiDi didn’t have to know that.

Monday at school, I think I was more nervous than the first day.

Even though The Honeycomb was filled with people bustling around, bumping into each other, busy getting where they needed to go, I felt like I was alone. Walking down one of those big empty hallways like you have in a dream. Trip ran up beside me.

I grabbed his arm. “What did your mom say? Did she tell you what happened?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you in English class.” I didn’t mention that we’d see Mace there, too. “I have to stop at my locker first. Will you wait for me outside the door?”

“Okay,” he said. “DiDi won’t get fired. Don’t be scared.”

I didn’t bother telling him that, except for those zombie movies he loves, I’ve just never been the type to be scared. Of anything. There used to be a story about Dead Drunk Donna and the long-suffering manager of the trailer park where she lived and how he was scared out of his skull on Package Day. There weren’t a lot of people getting special deliveries to that trailer park—except for her—and the box was always the same. Plainly wrapped in brown paper and not much to look at. Now, that manager admitted he didn’t know a lot about guns and ammo and such, but it only took one peek through her window for him to learn fast. And why Dead Drunk Donna was getting a regular supply of golden bullets delivered to her, no one knew or wanted to guess. But they say that poor man shook like a baby when he had to walk past the dead bear tied to her tree, knock on her door, and have her sign for that box.

On the way to class, I heard Mace’s name murmured here and there down the hallways. I tried to close my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear more, and just kept looking out for Trip. He’d said he’d meet me outside the door, but as I walked toward it, I could see he wasn’t there.

I figured he had probably done the math and realized that being friends with the sister of the hairdresser who messed up Mace’s hair was probably not doing him any good. I started thinking about what it would be like to find a table by myself at lunch and get extra-credit work done. I still had perfect grades. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t just focus on working harder. Maybe I could skip a grade. Or three. Graduate a few years early. Move out of town. Maybe even out of the country. Or off the planet.

It was still early and Mr. McGuire hadn’t settled everyone down yet. I quickly looked around for Trip. I spotted him in the back row talking and—my heart did a little bumpity-bump—my seat was still free and waiting for me. Maybe it would be okay. I started rushing toward him.

Then froze.

The person talking to Trip.

Was Mace.

Laughing and swinging her hair all around. It was short and choppy, higher on one side than the other, with long swishy bangs and all these cute little pieces pointing around her face. A single streak of icy blue fell across one cheek. She looked like a rock star.

We locked eyes a second; then Mace looked away.

Trip was talking on and on like it was all a big joke. It was practically the most I’d ever seen him speak. To anyone. “… And then, my mom is on the phone with yours and her voice starts doing—you know, the—”

“Not the Squirrel!”

“Yes—it was just like that time with the tomatoes—”

“Which was so your idea, by the way!”

“It was not!”

“But you started the other thing—”

“What thing?”

“The Thing.”

“You did—”

“Actually, yeah. That was me—and it was awesome!” They were leaning away from me, and laughing and laughing.

Trip watched her for a second, then looked down, and his smile faded. His hair fell over his eyes and his voice went low and mumbly. “I’m sorry ab—”

Mace’s smile faded, too. “It’s okay.”

“It was stupid—”

“Forget it.”

I looked back and forth between them. What was happening?

“Cool.” Billy was standing there. “Does this mean we can start having playdates in the Cave again?”

Mace laughed. “Ha! You wish. You so got kicked out.”

“C’mon, I was, like, six. Your mom can’t still be mad. The smell’s gotta be gone by now.”

Mace and Trip looked at each other and burst out laughing again.

I just stood there, staring. Trip and Mace bonding about tomatoes and squirrels and a cave? They probably had a whole life of memories and jokes together I didn’t know about. I thought about the photos on Trip’s wall. How many were Mace in? I knew how many had me. Big fat zero.

Mr. McGuire was clearing his throat and trying to get everyone quiet.

“Miss Galileo, if you could take your seat, you can start us off by saying something Truthful about yourself—nothing too personal, now. No confessions. Just one small thing. Something to spark your Truth-in-poetry assignment. For example, I’ll start: My vinyl record problem—ahem—collection is now up to a staggering eighty-one albums.”

I turned and looked at him blankly.

All I could think about was this salad DiDi used to make for potluck dinners. It’s covered with this blanket of mayonnaise on top, so you assume it’s all bland and mayo through and through. What you don’t see is that right under that blanket of bland, there’s all this stuff just hiding there. Waiting. Waiting for someone to realize there’s more to it than just mayo. I used to feel sorry for that salad whenever I saw it sitting there on the table with no one digging in. But now I think it was lying in wait. All mayo and innocence on the outside, not letting us know what it really was on the inside.

“Miss Galileo?”

I looked up at Mr. McGuire. The Truth?

“May I be excused? I—I think I just lost something.”

Secret Layered Salad

Salad

• 1 head of iceberg lettuce, chopped

• Salt and pepper to taste

• 8 hard-boiled eggs, chopped

• 1 pound bacon, cooked and chopped

• 4 whole tomatoes, chopped

• 1 cup of carrots, thinly sliced

• 1 bunch of green onions, thinly sliced

• 2 cups cheddar cheese, grated

• 1 bag (14 ounces) of frozen sweet peas, partially thawed

Dressing

• ½ cup real mayonnaise

• ½ cup sour cream

• 1 tablespoon lemon juice

Now, I’ll just tell you that this was not always called Secret Layered Salad. It used to be just good old Layered Salad because I always made it in my favorite glass bowl so you could see all the pretty layers. Then Mary Elizabeth Clark broke it during a potluck last summer. Yes, I wrote your name right here plain as day, Mary Elizabeth, so don’t you dare scratch it out next time you borrow this! Anyway, I just started using my big white Pyrex bowl.

Start with half the iceberg lettuce and then add the rest of the ingredients in the order listed, adding salt and pepper to each layer, till the bowl is full. Top with the rest of the lettuce. Mix the mayo, sour cream, and lemon juice in another bowl, and cover the whole salad, sealing it around the edges. It may look like a whole lot of nothing, but it’s delicious!

And so what if you can’t see the layers anymore? I say the most interesting things have more to them than just what you see on the outside. And that’s a fact.

Serves 12–14 as a side salad at a potluck.