Friday, February 6

SAMMIE

I push through the girls’ bathroom door, and almost right into a gang of them crowded around Sarah Canavan, who’s leaning over the sink and studying herself in the mirror.

“Do you think this color lip gloss makes me look washed out?” she says.

“Not at all,” Mackenzie says. “I love it! It’s sexy but sweet.”

“Very you,” Marissa says. “Perfect.”

Sarah, still looking at herself in the mirror, says, “Hi, Sammie.”

I think her lip gloss looks like she smeared shiny bubble gum across her mouth, but before I can say anything, Raven weighs in, agreeing that it definitely does not make her look washed out, and is, in fact, perfect.

Just then, the door pushes open and I’m almost knocked down by Carli Martin.

“I just said ‘hey’ to Luke Sullivan,” Carli announces. “He is so cute.”

All the girls look at me. Even Sarah turns away from the mirror and raises one eyebrow, a trick she perfected when we were in third grade. She used to practice in front of my bedroom mirror when she slept over.

They’re waiting, expecting me to say something. I stare at them. They stare at me. I stare at them.

“Well?” Sarah says. “What’s he like?”

“Luke?”

“Duh!”

I flash to the Fort, the way he pulled me off-balance. What I mostly think about Luke is that I don’t like him. I don’t like how he stuck himself between me and David, and I really don’t like the way he makes me feel uncomfortable and unsure all the time. I don’t like how every day at lunch I get stuck sitting next to him. But I can’t put any of that into words. And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to tell this group, so instead I say, “He’s okay.”

“Okaayyy?” Carli screeches, the “kay” part of the word drawn out and three octaves higher than the “oh.” “That’s all you can say? He’s ‘okay’? The hottest guy in seventh grade is okay? What’s he like? What do you guys talk about?”

“He’s okay,” I say, remembering exactly what it is I hate about girls. “I mean, he’s just a guy. He talks about the same stuff we all talk about—”

“Does he talk about girls?” Marissa interrupts. “Does he like anyone yet?”

“We don’t talk about girls,” I say impatiently. But then I wonder: Do my friends—David’s friends—talk about girls when I’m not there? Are they sitting around our table in the cafeteria before I get there talking about girls?

“You,” Sarah says, pointing at me. “He likes you. I see you two in math class.”

“He sits next to me,” I protest. “He was assigned that seat.”

“Oh puhleeze,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes and tossing her blond hair. “He so flirts with you. All the time.”

“No,” I say. “He’s not flirting.”

“He’s got a thing for you,” Sarah says, like she really knows.

I flash on his hand holding mine in the tunnel yesterday, the way he pulled me on top of him. My face grows hot. “It’s not like that.”

“The real question,” Sarah says slowly, looking right into my eyes, “is whether you like him.”

“No,” I say, loudly. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”

I want to get out of here, even though I still really have to pee. But before I can make my escape, the door opens and I’m shoved from behind. I stumble forward, right into Sarah, who steps back but is caught by the crush of girls around her.

“I need the mirror,” says a voice that I recognize as Amanda Archer’s. “Hair emergency.”

Amanda doesn’t even notice that she’s pushed me, or that the mirror is already in full use. But apparently an Amanda Archer hair emergency is pretty serious because the other girls back out of her way. Even Sarah and Carli. I stand there, amazed, as they all grab their backpacks and disappear, silently, out of the bathroom.

“What is with my hair?” Amanda says to herself, looking in the mirror. “I hate frizz.” She turns to me. “Got any Bed Head?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I shake my head no. “Sorry,” I say. Then, before she can ask me anything else, I slip into a stall.

After school, when I get on the bus, Luke’s in my seat, and David’s across the aisle in the seat they usually share. I walk back slowly, trying to figure out what to do.

“Hey,” I say to Luke. He smiles a wide, white smile, like he’s going to eat me. I turn to David. “Can I sit next to you?” He starts to move over, so I quickly add, “By the window.” I want a whole person between me and Luke’s grabby hands.

“Sure,” he says.

I crawl over him and plop my backpack down at my feet. “I love Fridays.”

David laughs. “Me too. They’re the best. I don’t have to think about homework or school for forty-eight hours.”

“You’re nuts,” I say. “The weekend is the best time to get ahead on work. I can’t wait to start reading Tangerine. And do the first vocabulary assignment too, and maybe the first set of reading comprehension questions.”

“Tangerine? When did you guys start reading that? We’re still working on our essays for The Giver.” He turns to Luke. “We didn’t get Tangerine yet, did we?”

Luke shakes his head no, and leans forward, trying to be part of the conversation, but I ignore him.

DAVID

When Sammie asks to sit next to me instead of Luke, I know it’s a sign, because if she really liked Luke she would sit next to him, but she doesn’t. She asks to sit next to me. I look up at the bus ceiling and say, silently, “Thank you, God.” She crawls over me to sit on the inside, by the window, and shoves her backpack down between her feet. Then she launches into a typical Sammie story about how she has homework due in a month that she’s going to do this weekend.

“You’re nuts,” I say.

Luke’s leaning into the aisle, trying to be part of our conversation. I want to keep him away from her, and out of whatever’s happening in our seat, so I turn to him and say, “You watching the Knicks game tonight?”

“Maybe,” Luke says. “If there’s someone to watch it with. It’s no fun watching alone. I used to go over to my friend Ty’s house.”

“I would love to watch a game alone,” I say. “But Pop is the hugest Knicks fan in the entire world. Every game, we have to put on our Knicks jerseys, and we have special Knicks cups that we drink out of. On school nights, I have to have my homework done before game time. Sometimes, he practically does it for me so I can finish before the tip-off.”

While I’m talking to Luke, I put my hand down on the seat, next to Sammie, curl my fingers into a loose fist, to make it smaller, and really casually, slide it over until I’m just touching her leg. She pulls her leg away. I wait a beat, then turn toward her. “How about you? You watching the Knicks game?” I slide my hand over and make contact again.

“You know I don’t watch until the playoffs,” she says. “Besides, they stink right now.” She looks down at my hand, but doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t tell me to move it. I leave the hand there, knuckles brushing her thigh, and turn back to Luke, who’s leaning forward to try and be part of the conversation.

The hand that’s touching her leg feels tingly and hot, like it’s charged with electricity, like it’s sending off sparks, or maybe smoke, and I’m afraid to look at it or to look at her, so I ask Luke what he thinks will happen in the game, who will score the most points, who will maybe get into a fight.

We’re almost to Sammie’s stop when Luke says, “The three of us should watch the game together tonight.”

The three of us together? I shake my head. “Sorry. It’s a father-son thing. Pop gets all mopey if I invite friends.”

“Okay,” Luke says to Sammie. “You and me, then.” He holds his arms out wide, like he wants to hug her.

My hand is still hot against her leg. She shakes her head no, turning down Luke’s offer, and I’m sure she’s giving me a sign, a green light.

So when the bus starts slowing for her stop, I know I have to do something, now. I stand up and turn so my back’s toward Luke. Sammie grabs her backpack and steps out into the aisle, but then, weirdly, Luke stands up too, behind her.

“How about a good-bye hug?” he asks her teasingly. She looks over her shoulder at him. I take a couple of steps backward, toward the front of the bus, to put some distance between the two of us and Luke. Then I stop. I’m shaking and I kind of feel like I might puke.

“I need to get off now,” Sammie says, looking past me. “What are you doing?”

Right then, I pucker up and lean in, like I hope she wants me to, like Luke would, aiming my lips for her cheek, and that’s when it goes all wrong. Because Luke moves in super close from behind, so he’s pressed against her. And she turns toward me, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open like she’s about to say something. Then the bus jerks, and I lose my balance and kind of fall into her. With one hand I grab the back of the nearest seat, but I’m off-balance and my mouth ends up half on hers and somehow my other hand lands right where it shouldn’t, right where it’s not supposed to be, on her chest.

The bus monitor hollers from the front of the bus, “What’s going on back there?” and Sammie pushes me, with both hands, hard, her eyes wide and scared.

I stumble back and she takes off past me. I watch her run off the bus, and down her walk, then stand on her doorstep, shoulders hunched, and even though I’m just looking at the back of her, I know she’s upset.

“Man, she’s so adorable,” Luke says. “That was so funny. Hey, you make a good wingman.”

I turn and look right into his big, stupid blue eyes. Luke grins and holds up his hand to high-five me.

I push past him and his raised hand, and sit back down in my seat, feeling sick and dizzy.

SAMMIE

“Please, God,” I say, “just let me get inside.”

I imagine David and Luke laughing and high-fiving each other as they watch me, stuck outside on my front steps, my hands shaking too much to get the key in.

Finally, as the bus pulls away, the key slides in, I push the door open, shrug off my winter coat, and head straight upstairs, through my bedroom and into my bathroom. I can hear my mother in the kitchen, talking on her cell, but I don’t call hello or say anything. Dump my backpack in my bedroom and just make it to the toilet to heave up everything in my stomach. I’m shaking and can’t seem to catch my breath.

I flush, strip off my clothes, turn the shower on, hot, and get in. I soap up my washcloth and scrub and scrub. I scrub where they touched me, as hard as I can, trying to erase the feel of their hands on me. “Shake it off,” I tell myself, just like when I’m at bat and I swing and miss. “Shake it off. Get back in the game.”

I make the water a little hotter, stand still under the shower, trying to concentrate on the heat, but I can still feel Luke behind me, pressed against me. I shut my eyes and see David’s face, my best friend’s face, coming toward me, too close. I’m trapped between them. I open my eyes. The shower is filled with steam and the water’s plenty hot, but I’m shivering.

“It’s all right,” I say out loud in the shower. “It’s over. It was nothing.”

I’m still in my bathroom, wrapped in a towel, when my mother knocks on my bedroom door.

“Just a minute,” I say. The clothes I wore to school are lying in a heap on the floor. I grab a wad of toilet paper, pick them up, and dump them into the hamper. In my bedroom, I pull on clean underpants and my pj’s.

“Come in,” I say.

She pushes the door open, sees me in pj’s with my hair wet, and frowns. “Is everything okay?”

Before I can answer, her cell phone dings with a text message. She looks down at her phone.

“Fine,” I say.

She types a response, then presses send and looks up at me.

“What’s with the shower in the middle of the day?”

“David—” I blurt out. “And Luke—”

Her phone dings again. “Luke,” she says, looking down at the screen and frowning. “The new boy?”

“Yes,” I say, but it’s obvious that she doesn’t really care why I’m in pj’s at two thirty in the afternoon. I can’t talk to her about any of this.

She looks up from her phone. “What happened with Luke and David?”

“They . . . they were fooling around on the bus, and spilled a bottle of Snapple all over me. I was all sticky.”

“That stinks, but I’m glad everything’s all right. I’ve got to scooch. Showing a house at four.”

“Great,” I say. “Hope it goes well.”

She pulls the door shut and is gone. I sit down on my bed and listen to the sounds of her leaving—car starting, garage door opening, then closing. She gives a little toot of her horn as she drives off.

Time to start homework, I tell myself. I usually like working in the kitchen because I can lay out all my binders and see everything I have to do. Plus, I’ll know as soon as anyone else comes home, which won’t be for hours now.

I pick up my phone, hoping for a text from David. An apology, maybe, or an explanation. But the screen is blank. I slide under the covers, trying to get warm, and scroll through my contacts, looking for someone I can talk to. They’re all boys—David, Jefferson, Andrew, Kai, Max, Spencer. No one who would understand. Of course, I do have Carli’s number, and Sarah’s, from before, when we were friends, but what would I say? And what would they say? I flash on Sarah, in the girls’ bathroom. He’s got a thing for you. Do you like him? She wouldn’t get it either.

I grab my purple squishy pillow and my stuffed bunny, and curl up under the covers.

“It was nothing,” I say out loud. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Then I do the stupidest thing ever: I bury my face in Bunny and start crying.

DAVID

I drop my backpack by the kitchen table and go right to the refrigerator. Sometimes, Inez makes Brazilian desserts, like brigadeiros, which are these yummy chocolate fudge balls rolled in chocolate sprinkles, or quindim, which are little coconut-topped custards. They’re my favorite. I open the fridge and there’s nothing sweet and delicious, but I keep standing there like I’m looking for something, and what I see is me, leaning in toward Sammie and—

I slam the fridge door shut. “Inez?” I call. “Inezzz!”

In the basement, the dryer clangs shut, which means she’s doing laundry. I know she can hear me but she doesn’t respond because she doesn’t like it when I holler for her. It’s disrespectful, she says. I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I also don’t want to be alone. I want her to stay with me, to talk to me, to take care of me.

I wait, listening as the dryer hums to life and Inez clomps back upstairs.

“You’re waiting on me to get you a snack?” she asks.

“Please?” I say. “I know I can get it myself, but I want something you make.”

“What?”

I want something special, something that will taste really good, something I can’t even name. I think and think about all the great things Inez cooks, and I finally decide. “A broiled banana. Please.” Inez makes the most awesome broiled bananas, with butter and brown sugar.

“All right,” she says, and then in a singsong voice, adds, “since you asked so nice.”

While the banana cooks, I turn on the little TV that my parents installed in the kitchen for Inez, so she can watch her favorite Brazilian shows on Netflix. She clomps over and turns it off. “No TV on school days. You know that.”

The “no TV on school days” rule is one of my parents’ stupidest rules.

“It’s Friday,” I plead. “The weekend. I’ve spent the entire week doing schoolwork. I need a break.”

“Then go outside and run around, get some fresh air.”

First, I am a person who likes stale, indoor air, preferably breathed in while watching TV. Second, yesterday’s warm spell was followed by a cold front so everything that melted has refrozen, including my entire backyard, and playing outside could lead to a broken arm or even frostbite. But when Inez decides something, even reason and fact won’t sway her.

I sigh, and yank my binder out of my backpack, slamming it down on the kitchen table maybe a little too hard because Inez, who’s been preparing my broiled banana, stops and turns slowly and looks at me with her special warning look. I take a breath and very gently, I open my binder.

But I can’t concentrate. I think about telling Inez what happened on the bus, asking for her advice, but I can’t imagine saying the words I would need to say out loud, to Inez. Instead, I pull out a stack of drawing paper. I don’t plan on it, but my pencil just goes, and I’m drawing a little boy, his father’s hand gripped tightly onto to his shoulder, and a ball rolling toward him. I fill the paper with the scene, then take a clean sheet and draw the girl, running, a cloud of hair streaming out behind her. I draw her from the boy’s perspective. I draw the boy and a baseball tee, swinging and missing, the ball flying right past his bat. I draw and draw and draw, turning the memories in my head into scenes on paper. The drawings feel stronger and truer than what happened on the bus. They’re the real story, the story I want to remember. I’m so caught up in them that I don’t even notice when Inez sets my snack down next to me. When I finally look up, I’ve got half a dozen sheets of paper strewn over the table, and the melted brown sugar on my banana has hardened into a shiny coating.