I fly around the corner and almost fall on my face as I come to a screeching halt. Red Spitfire talks to my Mudpie Mojo in hushed tones. They’re in a corner in a dark hallway. I almost missed them. What the heck? Jealousy flares and I try to tamp it down. I’m cool, I’m cool, I’m cool.
“Hey, Oli and Livvy!” I call out as I wave to them with all my fingers instead of the two birds that beg to fly. I head for the locker room and ignore the fact that they both jumped about a foot. I’m not paranoid, it really happened. Why were they standing so close and why did they jump apart. Oh. I hate this.
I grab my stuff and dash to the parking lot. I’m not going to have an ugly confrontation. I’m going to be a normal, rational, decent girlfriend and wait patiently in my car in a non-Lifetime-movie-stalkerish-way for my boyfriend to explain why he was in a dark corner, hiding, and talking to his ex-girlfriend in hushed tones.
Because I’m normal. Because I’m rational. Because I cannot stand the sight of Spitfire Red and her stupid grating voice and her stupid entourage and her stupid personality and her stupid, stupid, stupid self.
This is why I waited so long to have a boyfriend, so I wouldn’t have to go through all these emotions. I’m like a kaleidoscope of feelings, and I don’t like it. I think I’m getting an ulcer. I think I have multiple personalities. I think I need to go see a shrink. I think I’m a hypochondriac. I think I need to go lie down. I think I need to stop thinking about my bloody boyfriend standing in a bloody corner with his bloody ex-girlfriend. Bloody hell.
Screw this. I’m not sitting here one more minute to wait on the idiots. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was merely walking down a hallway, trying to leave school. It’s not my fault they were all whispery and secretive. I punch the gas, throw some gravel, and go to work so I can throw on the jersey. I wrestle the blue Cinderella dress on next. I’m testing my theory to see if wearing a jersey under the dress will make me more graceful and less klutzy.
First things first. Art show. I go to Fernando to sell him this wonderful idea of embracing his son’s artwork, being a supportive father, showing Israel he cares about what he does, and making money in the process.
Will wonders never cease? He goes for it! Maybe he’s still basking in the glory of his recent anniversary. I don’t care. I suggest the date I already gave Ms. Madiss. I cross my fingers and feet for good luck. He goes for that too. Well, al-righty then. Now, I just have to convince Israel. I race upstairs. He’s still in a mood. He’s got the black paint out. He’s going to paint over the entire fantastically fabulous scene he just painted three weeks ago, the one that took hours and hours of his time and effort; the one I Absolutely Fruitly Love!
It lightens up the room and gives room for imagination and it’s brand new. How can he ruin all his hard work with one stroke of his dark brush? I run over and grab his arm as he’s stirring the paint. “No. You are not painting this room black. No way in heck is that happening. You are going to have an art show here in two weeks. It’s going to be awesome. Your dad approved it! I’ve set it up. It’s preparation time, Is-ra-el. You are going to meet my hot French teacher, and you are going to give her a chance. I have plans for you two.”
He halts in his color-of-night-paint-stirring tracks. “She’s hot and she’s French?”
Men! “That’s all you got? From what I just said. Did you hear the part about the art show? That’s happening here in two weeks. I mean, we gotta prepare. We gotta look legit. JuneBug and I are going to social media the heck out of this crap! You will have like Mega interest if we have anything to say about it!”
I race back downstairs. I’m super-duper Psyched about the upcoming art show! It’s going to be Awe-Some. I can feel it. The rest of the workday flies by. I go home with my exciting announcement.
“Mom! There’s going to be an art show in two weeks. It’s going to be all that. Israel’s painting and you’re baking. Free advertising for everybody. It’s absolutely fruitly perfectly cosmic kismet. And I did it! I convinced Fernando to let Israel have an art show upstairs at the shop.”
I flop down on the couch. Nothing can ruin this perfectness. Not even my beautiful boyfriend hanging around dark corners and hallways with the Red Spitfire skank… speaking of which… here comes Oliver, walking in my back door. I’m fired up again, thinking about him, all whispery to her. I drag him upstairs to my room, shut the door, and get in his face, shaking my finger.
“You mess around with Red, I’ll rearrange that pretty face of yours that I love so much.” Whoa. That came out all wrong. I must be channeling the Godfather or something.
Oliver looks at me. “What the hell you talking about? Don’t get all up in my face. Livvy was the one who dragged me out in the hallway.”
Nope. I ain’t playin’ that game. “You could have said no. You didn’t have to follow her. It’s not like she can overpower you or anything. I don’t have an issue with her. You’re my boyfriend. You have to make the right decision at crunch time.” Okay, so mayyybbeeee I have unresolved subconscious anger issues with my father and what he did to my mom, and it’s probably not fair to Oliver, but he’s standing here, and he was talking to Red. I try again. “So. What were you two talking about?” He gets all belligerent looking. My cool dissipates at the speed of light. “Either you tell me what you were talking about, or you march your happy butt right out my front door.”
He gives me a look. “If that’s what you want.”
No, it’s the opposite of what I want, but the words are out and this baller girl’s not backing down. “That’s what I just said.”
He reaches over cool as you please, turns my doorknob, and walks out. “See you later, Ms. Albright.”
I throw myself into my homework, but it’s not working. I can’t think of anything except our conversation and how fast it went South and how much I hate that it did and how much I hate that I feel like I should apologize, but I don’t think I should really.
I didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. I mean, I did accuse him of something he may not have done. But he didn’t even try to defend himself. He up and left! What was that about? And I still don’t know why he was in the corner with Red. And I want to know, and I want to know now. And I won’t be able to think of anything else until I do know. Aaarghhh.
I need, like a Super-Duper major distraction. I Facetime JuneBug, who I’m embarrassed and ashamed to admit I haven’t really truly spoken to in a while. I mean, we make small talk, and we ride to school together every day. But, I haven’t had like quality best friend time with her in forever. She picks up, snapping her gum. “Yeah?”
“Hey. I’m just checking in, to say Hi. Sooo what you doing?” She snaps her gum louder. I can tell she’s annoyed. I’m not going to call her on her rudeness.
“I’m doing what I always do. Workin’ the front desk. Having the time of my life. Living the dream.” I forget how much I miss her sarcasm.
“Okay. Well, do you think you’d have time in your busy schedule to come by the house tonight?”
There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Maybe.”
I try to sound bubbly as possible. “Okay. I’ll take it. Guess I’ll get back to my homework then.” I hit End.
I go back to mulling over my conversation with Oliver. This is stupid. I’m not going to be the first one to give in. I’m not even sure what we are fighting about, only that I have to win. Because I’m right. I know I am. I so have to win.
A throat clears behind me. “Honey, you want to talk about it?”
Yes, mom, I need help.
“Nah. I’m just a little distracted. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, well if you change your mind,” she mutters and walks off.
I know, a bath. I rush off to the bathroom to hop in the tub and adjust my music to an acceptable level. I get lost in my bubble bath wonder world. I’m singing along loudly and off-key. There’s a knocking at the door. The door opens. Cover thyself, woman. I’m in a fit, trying to arrange the bubbles in a strategic way. It’s JuneBug. She’s laughing. “Ooh girl, you should see the look on your face. You are all kinds of freaked out!”
“Well, I don’t know who’s coming in my door. Shoot the sheriff!”
She looks at me like I’m loony. “What does that mean, even?”
I throw up my hands. “I don’t know. Crazy words just be flying out my mouth, bouncing off the walls like bullets. Who knows what they mean?”
“I think you must have been a writer in another life. So, where’s the fire? What’s got your panties all bunched up this time?”
I sigh. “Am I really that transparent?” I tell her all about the art show, losing my phone, the target on the pictures in yearbook, my fight with Oliver, and him hiding in corners with Red.
She sits on the toilet seat, painting her toenails and listening. “Well, it seems you got a lot to think about. Dang. I think I can help you out with the social media and advertising the art show. It might be cool if Ms. Madiss got herself some action. The girl is wound tighter than a squeaky hundred-year-old grandfather clock in need of oiling.” I can’t help but smile at her description. I think I’m rubbing off on JuneBug.
“And, as for Oliver and Red, you’ll have to make up your mind there. Winning is important, but is it worth losing him?” I didn’t think JuneBug would get so serious. I don’t like what she just said either.
“Dang it, JuneBug! I thought you were on my side! Why are you defending him?”
She throws up her hands. “We’re best friends, right? Best friends are honest with each other. You want to hear me candy coat the shit in life, I don’t do that. You know me by now. I tell it like it is. Even when it sucks.”
“Alright, alright. So you’re saying I have to put on my big-girl panties and have an adult conversation with my boyfriend? Even though I don’t want to, and even though I found him hiding in the hallway with my archnemesis? Fine.”
JuneBug gets up. “You might want to do it before Friday; you know, the winter formal and all.”
Oh crapola. This is such terrible timing!
“Thanks for the reminder! You still taking Ernesto?”
JuneBug laughs. “Um, no. I met a new guy, Owen. He’s been at our school this whole time! I don’t know how I missed him. He’s super cool, has great style, and he’s wicked smart. He’s funny too. I think you’ll like him. Guess I’d better go tell Ernesto so he can find another date.”
I give her a look. “Ouch! You’d better tell him quick.”
She leaves. I soak in the bubbles a while longer. I listen to my music and let my worries float away to the sounds of Norah Jones because she’s so relaxing and chill. I give myself a pep talk about making up with Oliver. It could be fun. I could get some hot kisses out of the deal. Hmmmm. I get out of the tub, dry off, slip into my sweats and running tee.
I braid my hair, something I haven’t done since basketball season? Girls used to tease me ‘cause I was a white girl braiding my hair like a Hispanic gangsta girl, but I can’t help it if I like the way they do their hair and I want to imitate it. Imitation is flattery, and they don’t own a hairstyle. I pat my mean gangsta braids. They’re my crown of confidence.