I know Oliver doesn’t want me going around Israel, but I need to know what his plans are for his art. I knock hard on the She-Shed door. I get no answer. I hear his music. I should get Israel’s number so I can text him. I enter the She-Shed and call his name extra loud, so he won’t be caught unaware. I think I hear a response. I walk farther inside. He sits at the kitchen table, looking all sad and depressed and holding a bottle of Jack Daniels. I can’t take it.
I run back to my mom’s and pile up a plate of Italian food with dessert, and hurry back to Israel. I come back in the kitchen and present the perfect supper plate to him. He shakes his head and tries to shove it away. “Come on,” I say. “Just smell it. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Katie. I’m heartbroken. I can’t eat.” I ignore his protest. I warm the food in the microwave and place it back on the table. I plop down. “Now. Tell me what’s bothering you, I’ve got big shoulders.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just slides a newspaper over to me. I look through it. I’m not seeing anything. Then I see a picture. It’s of the carnage girl. So she’s not dead. Based on the one conversation we had about her, I thought she was. It looks like she’s engaged to be married. Hmmm. Approach with caution, Katie, I tell myself.
“Want to talk about this, Israel?”
He shakes his head and throws up his hands. “What is there to say? She’s marrying him for money, not love. Look at the guy! He’s like twice her age. What can she possibly see in him, besides a paycheck? That’s not love. We had love. We had passion. We couldn’t get enough of each other and she threw that all away. She said she needed space so I let her go. How could I be so stupid?”
“Israel! Stop!” I shout. “Eat.” Surprisingly, he shovels in some food. He’s an emotional eater. Okay. I can work with that. “Listen to what you just said. Do you really want a girl to love you for your paycheck? I mean, if that’s the kind of girl she is, then she’s no good for you.” He looks like he wants to cry.
As shallow as this broken man may seem at times, he’s still my friend and I feel terrible for him.
“I know, Katie. I know she was all these things but I loved her. I loved her,” he mourns.
I sit down across from him and look him in the eye. I take his hand. “Israel. I know you loved her. I can see that. But she’s no good for you. You need someone who will be good to you. You need someone who loves you for who you are. You need someone who will treat you right. She’s out there. I believe that. You just have to keep looking.”
He looks at me like I asked him to murder his pet. “I’m not ready to start looking.”
I pat his hand. “That’s fine. That’s fine. You will be someday. For right now, you have your friends, and your family, and you have your art. You are an amazing artist! Speaking of which, what are you going to do with your latest paintings?”
He looks all around the room like the walls are closing in on him. “I don’t know. I don’t know much about marketing.”
I look at him, taking his hand. “Well, we do. And the plan’s pretty much made. We’re going to have a showing at your dad’s shoppe. It will be good for his business and good for you. It’s going to work. You’ll see.”
I leave him with his Italian food to go back to my house and barge into my mom’s bedroom. She sits in bed, reading her book. “Mom! Israel’s awful ex is getting married. We’ve got to pull him out of his funk. We need to have an art show for him at the cupcake shoppe. Will you talk to Esmerelda?”
My mom drops her book. “Definitely. It’ll be clash!” I fight the urge to cover my ears. JuneBug’s lingo has officially made a home invasion.
“Goodnight, Mom. I’m out.”
I rush upstairs to my room. I’m so ready for bed.
The next day, I wake up and prepare for another day of school. I so hope Rico Tomas has gone back to Florida. I mean, thanks to Ms. Dante, I feel pretty confident that he won’t show up in my school again. I race around and get ready. I drive by JuneBug’s house and get her. We go to school together. I spy Oliver, standing by his Scout as I pull into the parking lot. He’s so beautiful.
We hold hands as we walk in together. He drops me at my first hour class. Livvy, the Red Spitfire, sits at her desk, smirking in my direction. I’m not in the mood to put up with her crap today. I completely ignore her, which just makes her more upset. Good. We get through yearbook, and I’m ready for the bell to ring, when I remember my “fake proofs”. Sure enough, I open them up. There’s red writing all over them.
I hold them up and wave them around. “Really, Livvy? Is this the best you can do?” I toss them in her direction. They land all over the floor. Her face blanches. What’s that about? I look closer at them. How in the world did so many pictures get in the envelope, and why did someone draw a target sign on every picture? Is this a Lifetime movie? Ho-ly Crap.
“Get a grip, Livvy. Why would I throw these at you if I drew those targets myself?” I ask.
She’s all stricken and white-faced. Unless she’s a really good actress or just plain loony tunes, there’s a good chance she didn’t draw on these with a red marker. Hmmm. Nope. I just can’t tell. I mean, she is a good actor…or she’s just crazy. I don’t know.
I should go pick them up since I flung them across the room in her general direction, but I’m not doing that. Whoever drew on them should pick them up.
I stare her down. “Whatever.”
I head for the door as the bell rings. I seek out Oliver, the fastest way to get to Livvy. I know it’s childish and could get me detention, but when I see Livvy out of the corner of my eye, coming down the hallway with her entourage, I grab on to Oliver and knock him into the lockers to make a show of kissing him. I lean my head on his shoulder for a good full minute, as Livvy walks by.
He holds on to me. “Um, hello?”
I smile big at him. “I just wanted to say hi.”
He smiles down at me knowingly. “Red’s gone now. I think she got your point.” He knows me too well. I want to throw him off a little, so I kiss him thoroughly and quickly all over again.
I lower my voice, hoping that I sound all sexy. “That show wasn’t just for her. I missed your lips.”
He laughs. “Brat.” He smacks my butt.
We go to French class. The French teacher starts talking about Extra Credit, because she thinks we could all benefit from it. I’m pulling a struggling A, but I wouldn’t mind making it more solid.
“Just go eat at a French restaurant, make a video of yourself ordering in French, and then bring me the receipt. Got it?” Her instructions keep me focused.
I can do that! I haven’t eaten at a French restaurant, and now I have an excuse. Road trip. I turn to Oliver with excitement, raising my eyebrows! “Veux-tu danser avec moi?” I say to Oliver.
He laughs. “I’m pretty sure you just asked me to dance with you.”
I slap his hand. “Excusez-moi!” I put my hand on my chest. I grab my phone and type something in. I turn around again. “Veux-tu manger avec moi?” I’m holding my phone up where I can read it better. Someone removes it from my hand!
“C’est a’ moi” my teacher says, triumphantly, before waltzing back to her desk with my umbilical cord. Blimey!
Oliver leans up. “Oui,” he whispers in my ear all sneaky like. I’m blushing, I can feel it. Why does he have to sound so sexy? It’s one little word.
I turn around and palm his forehead and shove him backwards. “Get yo’ face out my business.” I spend the rest of the hour with my face in my French book, trying to calm down because my teacher took my phone.
My French teacher is kind of an invasive snarky brat. She’s only been teaching like two years. She’s kind of got the hot librarian look going. I’m not a lesbian, but I ain’t deaf either. It’s no secret why so many senior guys decided to take French this year, when they can sometimes barely speak proper English…
She has done this before; gone through someone’s phone and announced things out loud. At the time, I found it funny; to know how many times Pierre/Greg googled monster truck rallies or how many times Esmee’/Kelsey googled pictures of Orlando Bloom…but now she has my phone and she’s scrolling through it. That’s so not cool.
I scan my brain and try in vain to remember what I’ve been googling/following lately. I don’t even know. I pray it’s not how to bury a body (Rico Tomas) in a way so hidden and unknown that no one would ever find it…she’s scrolling, not saying anything. Her face is so unreadable!
Dang! The girl could play some serious poker. I mean, I can usually get some kind of read on people, but I’m getting nothing. I sneak looks and try not to look concerned, like I’m not freaking out and going to need a straitjacket and padded walls soon if I don’t get my phone back because it’s like the height of my personal life and she’s got no business going through it, despite the fact I broke her cardinal rule of not looking up phrases on my phone for translation because that’s lazy and not the way learning is done…
I’m so trying not to burn a hole through her with my eyes, even though I’m becoming more afraid by the second by the way she’s looking at me. She’s not just looking, she’s staring. Oh, holy moly guacamole. What in the name of sweet heaven’s angels with tarnished halos did I leave on my phone now? I mean, it can’t be a bad picture because I’m never been one for sexting… I’m not brain dead. There is such a thing as modesty and I wholeheartedly support it. And I don’t have any inappropriate pictures of my golden Adonis Mudpie Mojo... and I erased my embarrassing love poem I wrote about him for myself just last week, because even I was grossed out at the mush after I wrote it and read it out loud. To myself. So, why is she staring at me? I can’t take it any longer!
I get out of my seat and walk up to her desk. I peek at my phone in her hand, even though she’s trying to hold it out of my reach and sight. What? Are we like a couple of five-year-olds? I see it. It’s my portrait that Israel painted.
A lightbulb blinds my brain. Israel needs a girlfriend. My French teacher is young and hot! This could totally work. I glance at her ring finger. No ring! I’m going for it.
“Do you like art, Miss..” (Sizzle britches, twizzler glitches, oh what the heck is her name.) I clear my throat, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. She sees my struggle. She leans back and scrolls through my phone. She’s thoroughly enjoying my discomfort. What a sadist. That’s it—Ms. Madiss. Seconds and silence ensue. I clear my throat again. “I said, do you like art, Ms. Madiss?” I try so hard to sound all cool and nonchalant. “I like, know the artist. He’s local. He’s having an art show later on this month. It might be fun.”
My voice drifts off. It grows quieter the longer I talk. I’m so not chill. Why do I even try? There’s interest in her eyes, but she shuts it down. I’m on thin ice. I snatch my phone from her grip and pull up Israel’s FaceBook page. I must admit, he has a very hot picture of himself. “See. There he is, the artist.” Eye candy never hurt anyone, and it might be the bait she needs. I surrender my phone and try to look sorry.
“Sure.” She tries to act like it’s the last place she’d go, but I saw when she got an eyeful of his picture. She’s totally going. “Why not? It might be fun.”
The hour bell rings. Oh, thank goodness. I stand patiently (impatiently) at her desk to wait for my phone. She motions me back to my seat.
So, we’re playing the ‘stand behind the yellow line game because I will abuse what little power I have over you as a smokin’ hot French teacher’.
Fine. I go back to my desk and sit. I gather up my things. Everyone leaves the room. I humbly approach her desk, using my sweet-and-thick-as-sap-dripping-straight-from-the-maple-tree voice. “Ms. Madiss, may I please have my phone back?”
Her quick and immediate reply is to open the very bottom drawer of her desk and drop my phone! “You may have it back when the school day is over. Read your student handbook. Policy 11, paragraph 5.” Ugh. Stick a thousand forks in my eye. So she’s a stickler for the rules. Fine. Fine. Fine.
I stalk out to the hallway where my Oliver stands. “Remind me never to lose my phone in that classroom again. What a beast.” I go the rest of my day, without my phone, which I hate. Before I know it, the day is over.
I race back to French class in my sweaty gym class clothes, but I don’t care. No way in sweet Hades am I going overnight without my umbilical cord/phone. Her door is locked! I jiggle her doorknob and rattle the door like I’m about to bust it down as I peer through the narrow window into a dark classroom.
I scan the hallway for an answer. Her swaying hips and colorful pencil skirt catch my eye. I race after her like a raging gorilla, waving my hands and crap, like she can see me coming up behind her. My teacher is the Queen of Cool. She doesn’t even turn to acknowledge the sound of my size 12’s running through the hallways, my obnoxious loud breathing, as I’m hauling Arse with my 30 lbs. of books in my backpack. I finally catch up. I’m huffing and puffing. “Ms. Madiss…my phone?...Please.” She looks annoyed, like she’s in a hurry to get somewhere. This makes no difference to me.
I read the student handbook, all the way through lunch and gym class when I was supposed to be reading about STI’s. Thank you, no thank you. STI’s are yet another thing my parents saw fit to put me through, slide shows and all. I think I’m the only teenage girl in my high school who can spot the difference between genital herpes and gonorrhea without having gone to medical school..
Snap out of it, Katie! “Katie? Do you really need your phone today?” Ms. Madiss scolds as she’s sighs at me.
“Yes! I really, really do.” I raise my pointer finger. “And, as per policy #21, paragraph 7, said student who loses said phone privileges in a classroom by not adhering to the rules of said teacher, must be given back their property, i.e., phone, at end of said school day upon which the punishment was divvied out.”
Ms. Madiss is Defeated. Yesss! I get my phone back. Of course, I don’t say that. I quietly and politely follow her back to her classroom, skipping and jumping for ever-loving joy inside my brain, doin’ the Victory dance like a bad salt-n-peppa video.
I decide right here and now I’m going to make a serious effort with matchmaking between Israel and Ms. Madiss. I think he would do her some good. She needs to loosen up. “So, as I was saying, Ms. Madiss, the local artist? He’s having an art showing at the cupcake shoppe on 9th street the last Saturday of this month. It’s not too far away—that should be easy to remember. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Ms. Madiss looks at me with a degree of skepticism. I try to keep my face blank, like I’m not up to something. I grab my phone from her drawer as soon as she opens her desk. “I gotta get to work. Thanks!” I rush out the door and tear back to the locker room to change out of my gym clothes.