Vegan Virgin Valentine Page 7

  On the ride home, my dad turned on some soft jazz. V leaned her head against the back seat. My mom put her hand on my dad’s knee. I looked out my window at the snowflakes swirling around the side of the road. I had this bittersweet sad–happy feeling in my throat as I thought about how for once in a long time things actually felt okay.

  Chapter Nine

  Everything went to hell the last week in February.

  My family always goes away that week. My dad has a five-day dental convention in Tampa that coincides with my school break, so my mom and I join him. We hang out by the pool and take a shuttle to the mall and invent names for all the shades of gray hair that we see on old people, such as more-salt-than-pepper white and I-bet-you-can-guess-I’m-legally-blind blue.

  But I couldn’t go this year. Even though high school was out for the week, I still had my college classes. Also, the yearbook pages were shipping to the printers in early March and I’d committed to proofreading all the text, an undertaking that was keeping me up past midnight every night. My parents had invited V to join them and it looked like she was going to go, especially since her SAT course was canceled over the school vacation. But then she got into the play and Ms. Green scheduled rehearsals for every day of break.

  At first, my mom was going to stay home with us, but then my dad said that since he’s probably retiring from dentistry in a few years, this may be one of their last chances to go. That’s when they floated the idea of flying in my cousin Baxter Valentine from Portland. Baxter is in his thirties, still single, and a freelance cartoonist. All those hours alone with pen and ink have made him Extremely Weird. He visited us a few years ago and was perfectly normal in front of my parents, but as soon as they walked into the other room, he would make this screwy face at me and then bark like a dog or squawk like a chicken.

  “No way!” I shouted when my parents called a Family Meeting and suggested inviting Baxter to Brockport. “Baxter is a freak!”

  “No, he’s not,” my mom said. “He’s a very successful—”

  “Freak,” V said. “When Aimee and I lived in Eugene, he drove down and stayed with us on the farm a few times. Maybe it was the Old MacDonald setting, but he was like quack-quack here, quack-quack there, here a quack—”

  “Oh my God!” I shrieked. “Baxter made animal noises at you, too?”

  V nodded. “Quacks, moos, barks…”

  “Animal noises?” my dad asked.

  My mom shook her head. “I can’t believe Baxter makes—”

  “Yes, he does!” V and I screamed at the same time. We could barely hold it together we were laughing so hard.

  My parents finally abandoned the Baxter idea after V and I assured them we’d be fine and would eat well and lock the doors and go to bed at a decent hour. And so, on Monday morning of February break, they hugged us goodbye, extracted promises that we’d leave our cell phones on at all times, and headed to the garage.

  “Parteeeee!” V shouted as their car backed down the driveway.

  I eyed her suspiciously. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Duh, Mara,” she said, and then headed up to her room.

  I stood in the kitchen, trying to figure out whether that meant duh, no or duh, yes.

  At first, it seemed like, duh, she was joking. V and I barely even saw each other on Monday or Tuesday. Some kids from the cast picked her up in the morning, and she didn’t come home from play practice until evening, around the time I was leaving for Common Grounds.

  I went over to the high school a few times to drop off pages of the yearbook and pick up the next section for proofreading. On Wednesday, Leesa Zuckerman held a meeting in the yearbook office. She’s the executive editor, a junior, and T.J.’s little sister. Leesa gave updates on all the sections and then announced that the final vote on the title was “Breaking Out.” It was an improvement over “Time of Our Lives,” but I still didn’t like it. It sounded like a prison escape or a raging case of acne. When I told this to Leesa after the meeting, she said, “You shouldn’t read into everything so closely.”

  “I’m the proofreader,” I said, “so you should hope I’m closely reading every word.”

  Leesa rolled her eyes. “Do you know if anal-retentive has a hyphen?”

  “Very funny,” I said, reaching over her for the sophomore-class section.

  That afternoon at improv dance, Dr. Hendrick harassed me worse than ever. He kept shouting for me to “just let go and get into the movement.” But every time he said it, I tensed up even more.

  At one point, when we were supposed to be dangling like apples from a tree, Dr. Hendrick told the drummer to stop pounding.

  “Ms. Valentine,” he said as the room grew quiet. “You are a rotten apple.”

  Whenever he’s made remarks like that in the past, I’ve always blown them off. But this time, I’d just had it. I lowered my arm/stem and looked him in the eye.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I said. “I’m being the best apple I can.”

  The entire class/orchard stared at me.

  “I don’t like your attitude,” Dr. Hendrick said.

  “Well, I don’t like your attitude, either,” I said.

  Then I grabbed my jacket and ran all the way out to my car.

  On Friday afternoon, V got kicked out of play practice.

  I was sitting at the dining-room table, still proofreading the sophomore-class section. I had my cell phone next to me because my dad had already called twice, first to ask if I’d eaten lunch and then to make sure I’d turned off the burners on the stove. My mom had called once to report that her favorite thing about Florida is that there are so many ancient people around she actually feels like a spring chicken, even though she’s sixty-one.

  I was just crossing out a caption that labeled Mr. B as Vice Principle and changing it to Vice Principal when V unlocked the side door.

  “What are you doing home?” I asked.

  “I got kicked out. I have to write a fucking letter of apology to go back tomorrow.”

  “You what? What did you do?”

  “Why do you assume it’s something I did?” V unlaced her boots and threw her bag onto the couch. As she headed up to her room, she said, “If you tell your parents, I’ll murder you.”

  I sat there for a minute, clenching my pencil in my mouth, sinking my teeth into the soft wood. And then I dropped it on the table and walked upstairs.

  V’s door was a few inches open, so I pushed it forward. She was sitting on her bed, but when I came in, she jumped up and said, “What the fuck?”

  I looked around the guest room. I hadn’t been in here since V took it over. I was surprised to see that she hadn’t fully unpacked. One of her duffel bags had shirts and jeans spilling out of it.

  “I said, ‘What the fuck?’ Why didn’t you knock?”

  “Your door was open.”

  “It was slightly cracked.”

  I glanced at a small wooden object on her dresser. It looked like a miniature pipe.

  V caught me looking and quickly slid a tissue box in front of it. “What do you want anyway?”

  “I wanted to tell you that I didn’t appreciate the death threat. I just asked why you got kicked out.”

  “It’s none of your business, but someone pissed me off and I let him have it.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why can’t you control yourself?”

  V had unpinned her bangs, so they were hanging down to her nose. She angrily swept them to one side. “What the fuck do you mean?”

  I felt this surge of adrenaline in my arms. “I mean, why do you have to say whatever goes through your head? Why can’t you control your emotions?”

  “Because I’m not repressed like some people.”

  I stepped closer to her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “I can’t believe you just said ‘fuck’!” V shrieked. “I’m going to call your parents and tell them we�
�ll have to have a Family Meeting as soon as they get home.”

  “What do you mean ‘repressed’?”

  “Look in the mirror,” V said. “You’re the most repressed person I’ve ever met. You’re so repressed, you can hardly even smile.”

  “I am not!”

  “Why don’t you ever let loose then?”

  “You mean like a certain loose person?”

  V stepped closer to me. We were only a few feet apart and the tension between us was palpable.

  “Are you talking about the fact that I fooled around with Travis Hart?” V asked.

  “You’re the one who said it.”

  “Will you FUCKING let that go?” V screamed. “It was stupid and maybe I’m even sorry, but do you have to hold it over me forever? I mean, LET IT FUCKING GO!”

  “I’ll never let it go!” I screamed back. “It was a horrible thing to do and I’m never going to let you forget it.”

  “THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY ROOM!”

  “I’LL LEAVE WHEN I WANT—”

  V shoved my shoulder. Then I shoved her, much harder than she’d pushed me because she stumbled backward. She had this shocked look on her face as she caught herself on her bedpost.

  I bolted out of her room. When I got downstairs, I grabbed my car keys and peeled out of the driveway.

  I drove all the way to Lake Ontario. At first, I was too furious to even think. But after about ten miles, I started crying and biting my bottom lip.

  When I reached the Lake Ontario State Parkway, I took a left, headed west, and drove through the entranceway into Hamlin Beach State Park. I drove until I got to the first parking lot, which was empty, and pulled all the way up, so my car was facing the lake.

  I cut the engine and sat there, staring out at the steely gray water. It was forebodingly rough and scratched with white caps. Lake Ontario is so immense you can’t even see Canada on the other side. A few years ago, Bethany’s dad took us sailing on the lake. We got so far out that we lost sight of the shoreline. I had this hyperventilating panic attack, but I was really discreet about it, so I don’t think anyone even knew.

  Is that what V meant when she said I was repressed? Or was she talking about physical stuff, like with Travis? I’ve never given her any details, but she pretty much got it right that first night she arrived, when she cornered me in the bathroom.

  So maybe V is right. Maybe I am a repressed freak. Maybe I’ve got a genetic flaw, like Baxter, and I’ll be single for my whole life and will terrify children by mooing and woofing at them.

  My eyes were welling with tears. I looked up at the seagulls circling above the water. It must have been seriously windy out there because gusts kept flipping them over and propelling them sideways. I shivered. I was only wearing jeans and my Yale sweatshirt. I’d run out the door so quickly, I hadn’t even grabbed a coat.

  I can’t believe I shoved V. I’ve never done anything like that in my entire life. I know she was being a bitch and she shoved me first, but when I picture her face as she stumbled across the room…

  I started crying again. The air was so cold in my car that my cheeks were stinging. I wiped my face with the bottom of my sweatshirt and turned the ignition. As the heat came blasting out, I glanced at the clock.

  Damn!

  I’d completely forgotten about improv dance and now it was halfway over.

  That night at Common Grounds, my wish came true.

  “Claudia’s sick,” James said as I hung my coat in the cupboard behind the counter. “She called an hour ago. She’s not coming in.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “It sounds like the flu… I’m sure she’ll be better in a few days.” James studied my face. “Are you okay?”

  I thought I’d pulled myself together. When I got back from the lake, V was upstairs playing music. I’d taken a shower, blow-dried my hair, ate dinner, and headed over there. My eyes felt a little puffy and I’d launched a squeezing attack on a chin zit, but I’d carefully concealed it with foundation.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Why?”

  “You look a little upset.”

  I shook my head. “No … I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, gesturing to one of the stools, “and let me make you a cup of Famous McCloskey Chamomint Tea.”

  “Famous McCloskey Chamomint Tea?”

  James picked up two mugs and headed over to where we keep the jars of tea leaves. “A secret family recipe. It’s a blend of chamomile, peppermint, a few other things. Cures anything from a broken heart to a bad-hair day.”

  I giggled. “A bad-hair day? Is that my problem?”

  James smiled as he looked over his shoulder at me. “No, your hair looks beautiful.”

  For a second, there was this zingy-energy feeling between us. I quickly stared down at my hands. James turned back to the jars.

  It was a blustery night, so we had very few customers. James made us two more cups of Famous McCloskey Chamomint Tea, which turned out to be the perfect blend of soothing and sweet. We sat on the stools, talking and laughing, stopping only to take turns heading to the bathroom. At one point, as I was washing my hands, I glanced into the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes were bright and my hair was messily falling in my face.

  And guess what, V? I was smiling!

  As I walked back to the counter, I pushed my hair behind my ears, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

  James and I talked about everything from Brockport to books to life in general. We ended up discussing these totally random things, like how annoying it is when you cut a tag out of your shirt because it’s uncomfortable but then that little remaining strip itches you even more. Or why is it that soymilk always spills on the counter the first time you pour it, as if the people who manufacture it have never even tried it? Or why do people walk on the right in grocery stores, just like how we drive on the road? Did the walking come first and the cars follow? Or did cars dictate pedestrian patterns and, if so, how did people walk before cars came along?

  Sometimes, like when we were discussing the walking question, we’d both laugh so hard that our legs would splay out and our knees would touch. It was only for a second, but it would send this tremor through my whole body.

  After we’d talked for a while about how I’m going to Yale, I said to him, “May I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you ever… Did you ever think about going to college?”

  “My parents thought about me going to college.”

  “And you didn’t want to?”

  “I still want to,” James said. “But I guess you could say I’m on the slow track. Toward the end of high school, when everyone was rushing off to college, I just wanted to experience real life.”

  “So how did Common Grounds happen?”

  “After high school, I got my apartment in Presidents Village and a job at that Starbucks near the mall. And then, after a year of working there, I decided to try it myself. I applied for a small-business loan and learned the art of coffee roasting.”

  “What did your parents say?”

  “They were upset for a while. You have to understand, I was an honor student, great SATs, swim team, the whole bit. They’d been thirsting for that Ivy League bumper sticker on their car.”

  Hmmmmm … sound familiar?

  James quickly added, “This has nothing to do with anyone else’s choices. I think it’s amazing that you’re going to Yale. This was … is … about me. I always seem to take my own time with things.”

  “What do your parents think now?”

  “They won’t stop bugging me for free bags of coffee!” James said, laughing. “I mean, I’m sure they’d love to see me go to college. But when I do it, it will be for me, on my own terms.”

  Neither of us said anything. I was thinking about what my parents would say if I told them I wasn’t going to Yale after all and had decided to get an apartment in Brockport. It’s almost humorous when
I picture their faces. Almost.

  “You wouldn’t believe this,” James said, “but it’s ten minutes past closing time.”

  I looked around. I hadn’t even noticed that the few customers were gone, leaving mugs and plates scattered on some tables.

  “Mara?”

  I glanced over at James and was surprised to see that his normally calm face looked nervous.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you ever think about…” James trailed off.

  Yes, yes, I think about it, I answered him in my head. I think about it a lot. But you can’t say it. Because if you say it, then it’s out there, and if it’s out there, then…

  James shook his head and then reached over and tousled my hair in this brotherly way.

  I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

  That night in bed, I kept thinking about James.

  STOP!

  I flipped from side to side. I tried lying on my back. I tried lying on my stomach with my arms above me. I tried curling up with the pillow over my head. But no matter what I did, James wouldn’t leave my mind.

  STOP! STOP! STOP!

  James is my boss, I’d tell myself. He’s twenty-two, the same age as Aimee’s boyfriend, for God’s sake. He’s shorter than me. He has no immediate college plans and he lives in an apartment in Brockport and he graduated from high school when I was in seventh grade. He has a ponytail. A short, ponytailed twenty-two-year-old high-school graduate.

  Mostly, though, I was thinking about the fact that Claudia loves James, which makes me a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad traitor. Worse than V because I didn’t even love Travis. But Claudia loves James. Even if it isn’t reciprocal, she loves him.

  Then I’d tell myself, No, no, I haven’t done anything with James, especially not like what V did with Travis. So I’m still innocent, right?