Cracked Up To Be Page 4

Page 4

  "That was really good," she says. "You know, I think there's a lot more hope for you than you think there is. "

  I roll my eyes.

  "Thanks, Ms. G. "

  Becky accosts me as soon as I step into the hall, waving a sheet of paper in my face.

  "Here," she says, as I take it. "I copied down homework for you. Lerner had a headache so he told us to read `The Yellow Wallpaper' again--"

  "We read it before?"

  "Yeah, in ninth grade. Anyway, he wants us to write a thousand words on how we relate to the story now, as seniors, compared to how we related to it as freshmen. It's pretty half-assed, but like I said, he had a headache. "

  "`The Yellow Wallpaper' is the one where the chick goes insane and starts humping the wall at the end, right?"

  She stares. "You might wanna reread it again to be safe. "

  Pfft. "We'll see. Ready for your date tonight?"

  "Yeah, got my pink sweater dry-cleaned and everything," she says, and then she puts on her fake- interested face. "How'd your meeting with Grey go?"

  "It's six o'clock, right? The date?" I ask. She nods. "Look, I've got to go. I don't want to miss the bus. "

  On the ride home, I pass the time imagining their date. Chris will take Becky somewhere predictable and nice, even though he could take her Dumpster diving and she'd be happy because she's wanted him so long, and he'll spend the whole time trying desperately hard not to stare at her breasts, because that G-spot stuff is all bravado, but by the end of the night he'll be feeling her up, telling her she's pretty, the prettiest, and she'll blush and say, Oh, Chris, and they'll make another date and they'll fall in love and she'll be a cheerleading coach and he'll be an heir and they'll have two-point-five kids and, and, and. . .

  "I think we should get a dog. "

  It's one of my better entrances. Dad lowers the paper and Mom drops the potato she's peeling over the sink and they look at me like I'm certifiable, but I'd rather be certifiable than perpetually boring, which is my parents in a nutshell. If I had to own up to resembling either one of them, it'd be my dad. We both have brown hair and sharp features. Mom's less sharp, more Pillsbury.

  "A dog?" Mom says, retrieving the potato. "You think we should get a dog?"

  "That's what I said. "

  Dad returns to the paper. "I've always wanted a dog. "

  "Well, a puppy actually," I say.

  "I've always wanted a puppy," he amends. "They turn into dogs. "

  "What?" Mom demands, turning to him. "What's that supposed to mean? We're getting a puppy, just like that?"

  "No, not just like that. We'd have to talk about it more. Figure out the logistics. " He glances at Mom. "It wouldn't be so terrible, would it? Having a dog?"

  She turns to me.

  "Where did this come from, Parker? You don't want a dog. " "Yes, I do! Ms. Grey said it would be good for me to--to. . . " I chew my lip and start making faces that obviously indicate I'm in the process of lying, but my parents hate believing I do that. Lie. "She said it would be a good learning experience for me. By learning to nurture a puppy into a healthy dog I could. . . in turn. . . learn to nurture myself again! And I did all my homework this week, so I'd say I've earned it. "

  "You couldn't start out with a goldfish?"

  "Goldfish die at the drop of a hat, Mom. It could die of completely natural causes after two weeks and I might think it was something I did and I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Puppies are harder to kill and more challenging to take care of and I'm pretty sure that's the point. "

  Mom and Dad exchange a long look.

  "We'll have to talk about it," Dad says, which means we're getting a dog.

  "Great. You two do that and call me when dinner's ready. I'll be in my room. "

  "But don't you want to tell us about the rest of your--"

  I'm a bad daughter. I don't go to my room at first; I hang back in the hall and listen. Mom and Dad are quiet for a little bit and then Mom goes, "Did you find that as oddly encouraging as I did?"

  And Dad goes, "Yeah. She hasn't really talked to us in a long time. "

  "You think her guidance counselor really thinks she should get a dog?"

  "It could be a lie. "

  "And if it is?"

  "We can check. But look, if she is lying it's because she wants a dog. It's not like she's lying about where she's been and who she's been with. . . "

  My dad, the softie.

  "And that makes it okay?"

  "No, but maybe a dog could foster some kind of. . . sense of responsibility and. . . discourage her recklessness. . . "

  "So we should get a dog? That's what you're saying?"

  "Who knows? But she talked to us, Lara. She asked us for something we can give her. "

  "It would be nice to feel like we were doing something. " Quiet. Mom clears her throat. "Now come over here and taste this and tell me if it's awful. . . "

  I check out at dinnertime. I mean, I'm there and I'm eating, but I spend the meal staring into space, nodding my head every time it's clear my parents are talking to me and sometimes when it isn't. When our plates are empty and we fall into that awkward silence that happens between digesting and clearing the table, I come back to myself.

  "May I please go for a walk?"

  It's a big question because I have a curfew now, but my parents' spines are so pliable I don't think it'll be a problem. Mom and Dad exchange a nervous glance and have a telepathic conversation about it. I hear every word.

  Do we let her out? It's past curfew.

  True, but look at that--at least she asked!

  I know! I can hardly believe it!

  She could have just sneaked out, but she asked!

  I know! We're good parents!

  "What time will you be back?" Dad asks. "What time is it now?"

  "It's seven. "

  "Within the hour, I guess. "

  "Where are you going?"

  "It's just a walk. " I make sure to look them both in the eyes. "That's it. "

  "Sure. . . ," Mom says slowly, staring at Dad, who nods slightly. "That would be fine. Thank you for asking, Parker. "

  I'm out of the house quick in case they change their minds. It's dark out, but I have a Mini Maglite attached to my key ring, so I'm not worried. It feels nice having the streets to myself. Every so often I hear the sound of cars in the distance navigating some faraway road.

  Chris lives two blocks from me, in the nicest house on the nicest piece of property in all of Corby, Connecticut, and I'm sure he's still out with Becky and no doubt his parents are at the country club. When his house comes into view, I walk up the gravel driveway casually, so if any of the neighbors happen to look out their windows I'm only here for a visit. Nothing unusual.

  I bypass the front door and edge my way around the house, maneuvering past shriveled flower beds and tacky lawn ornaments until I find myself in the backyard, facing the woods behind the house. These woods never change. The pine trees stand tall and separate, illuminated by the light of some far-off source. When I come here, it always takes me a while to get my bearings, but I can't afford to do that tonight because I promised my parents I'd be home within the hour and I'm not wearing a watch.

  I trudge into the trees and pull out my Mini Maglite. One step, two steps, ten steps, twenty, twenty- five steps. I turn the flashlight on. A feeble, yellow light reveals a small strip of ground laden with pine needles.

  It was around here. . .

  And then, without fail, I hear the music from that night, like I always do when I come out here. A heavy bass line and an earsplitting drumbeat winds its way into the woods from Chris's open bedroom window, where he likes to mount the speakers of his sound system for optimal noise blaring into the neigh
borhood. And then there's splashing sounds coming from the pool and everyone's laughing and talking and shrieking and having a good time.

  His parties are the best.

  I stick the flashlight in my mouth, get down on my hands and knees and start pushing aside pine needles. Five minutes later, my throat hitches. I rip the flashlight from my mouth, scramble backward and throw up.

  Fuck.

  I wipe my mouth, force myself to my feet, move past the puddle of vomit and get back to work. I don't know what I think I'll find out here, but I stay on the ground for a while anyway, searching, until I know the hour's gone and I'm late and I'd better go. I don't want Chris to come back and see me here and ask me what I'm doing.

  Finding the bracelet that time was just a fluke, Parker, you idiot.

  THREE

  Jake's a rather tenacious young man. Monday starts with him waiting for me by my locker, and I'm really not in the mood for it because I might have a hangover.

  Okay, that's not true. I'm kind of in the mood for it because it is vaguely intriguing. I have clearly charmed the guy out of his mind.

  "You're in my way. " I nudge him aside. I think Grey knows I'm hungover. She gave me this extralong look when we passed in the hall earlier, and that's never good. I grab my history books and slam my locker shut, which makes the bad headache I'm nursing worse. Like that, my vague state of intrigue fades. "What do you want, Jake?"

  "In your pants. " He turns red and cringes. "I mean, I don't want into your pants. And I didn't. I'm not interested in you. "

  "Okay. " I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Thanks for that. "

  I head for homeroom, but Jake expects more apparently, because he follows after me.

  "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

  "You don't want in my pants. Duly noted. "

  A couple passing freshmen give us startled looks.

  "Look, I was just trying to be nice to you and--"