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Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  Sexual feelings are part and parcel of growing up. You may be experiencing the awakening of new and different sexual feelings as the hormonal and physical changes of puberty take place. This can be a time of intense confusion!! Take heart and remember: such thoughts and desires are completely normal!

  Later that night, she sat at her desk, staring out the window at the empty street below. The wind had picked up with the setting sun and now it was doing an excellent job of stripping the brightly colored leaves from the trees. She watched as they whirled in frantic circles beneath the streetlights, disappearing into the black of night.

  She was stuck. Her clock read 11:23. Ugh! All she wanted was to crawl into bed and go to sleep. Running through the few paragraphs she had written so far, she resisted the temptation to press Delete. The assignment was for her creative writing class, a short story about a life-changing event. Her teacher had told the class their work could be fiction or nonfiction, according to preference. Choosing to write about Ashton had seemed like a good idea two hours ago, but now…

  It was impossible to put into words the emotions of that day. Even after all the hours of grief counseling, she found it an exceptionally difficult thing to discuss. She’d always wondered why the clearest detail in her memory was the incessant high-pitched screaming of the tea kettle, as if this one particular sound symbolized the horror that had begun when her mother answered the phone.

  “What? I don’t understand. No, no, no,” her mother had moaned, eyes squeezed shut.

  Mrs. Collins was on the other end, trying to relay in a semicoherent manner the tragic news concerning her son, Max, and Ashton. En route to meet the other members of their band, The Putrid Days, at an outdoor concert venue north of town, the boys had been delayed by construction. The Days was to be the featured band at the annual heavy-metal marathon. But they were late. And Max had been speeding to make up for lost time. Somehow he lost control on a notoriously dangerous section of the interstate, careening sideways into a double tractor-trailer. The van veered, plowing through the guardrail and rolling repeatedly until halted by a thick line of trees.

  No survivors.

  Vivien had watched from the hallway as her mother’s face drained of color. She was unwilling to enter the kitchen completely, as if perhaps she could keep it from being real by remaining a nonparticipant.

  Two police officers arrived while the phone was still cradled to her mother’s ear, despite the fact that the conversation had ended long ago. The officers took hold of Ramona by both arms, sat her down, and formally explained the tragic sequence of events that had ended the life of her only son. It was the female officer who finally extinguished the flame, but the screaming inside Vivien’s head refused to be silenced.

  Vivien began to type again, changing the story to a fictional account of a child losing his grandparent. Sad, mildly life-changing, but much easier to handle. Old people were supposed to die. Twenty-year-olds were not.

  She was finally ready for bed at a quarter to one. But the writing had brought up painful memories and now she was having trouble falling asleep. She rolled onto one side, flipped to the other, and finally settled on her stomach, legs spread-eagled across the double bed. Nevertheless, sleep eluded her. She returned to her back and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Hey,” she murmured. “So, if you’re listening, I’d like to send a shout-out to my brother. Tell him I’m thinking of him and I know he’s probably jamming on his guitar at a really cool club up there. Say hi to Max, too.” She could picture the lead singer next to her brother, screaming into the microphone as his long, blue-streaked hair flew wildly in all directions. Yeah. That was their heaven. She let the emotions flow out and over her body, something she did only in the privacy of her own room. “Tell him I miss him, please,” she whispered.

  The following morning she was dragging herself to the kitchen when she heard her mother calling from the master bedroom. A smattering of words reached her: “Office…late…milk…tonight?”

  She collapsed into a kitchen chair, peeled back the foil on her raspberry yogurt, and licked it. “What?”

  Ramona emerged from the hallway, looking irritated. She was wearing a silk kimono and had large foam rollers secured to the crown of her head. “I said I’m going to be at the office late this week. Maybe the next few weeks—the firm’s just beginning a really big case. I’d appreciate it if you could go to the market tonight.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at her daughter.

  Vivien glared back, leaving the thinly disguised order unanswered.

  “Is that what you’re wearing to school?”

  “Can we please not have this conversation again?” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “All I’m saying is that you don’t work your assets. Blue jeans and baggy t-shirts are never a girl’s best friend. Why don’t you change it up? Wear a nice blouse—something more fitted, at least.”

  Vivien suppressed a groan.

  “Capitalize on that gorgeous hair I gave you,” her mother continued as she reached out and fingered Vivien’s long ponytail. “What about some eye makeup? I’ll bet you didn’t know you can make your eyes stand out by using an opposite color on the color wheel. A burgundy-sable shade would look spectacular! And a touch of red lip gloss would do wonders for those nice pouty lips of yours.”

  “Mom,” she said, unable to hold it in any longer. “High school is not the office. No one dresses up. There’s no point. And I have personal fitness this semester anyway. Every day we have to run a mile or something equally masochistic. The rest of the day I’m all sweaty and gross.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Don’t you shower?”

  “We don’t have time to shower.”

  “Ridiculous,” Ramona repeated, unrolling a curl. “Well…so, I’m in a hurry. What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “Oh!” Ramona spun around, dropping the roller on the carpet. “At least pick up a gallon of skim milk,” she called behind her, dashing to the bedroom. “And salad ingredients. No bread. No pasta. I’m starting this low-carb thing as of today. I tell you, Gwen—from the office?—lost ten pounds. She won’t eat anything white: bread, pasta, rice, sugar. She looks amazing!”

  Vivien sighed. “Fine. But I’ve got that Future Leaders group tonight, remember? I have to start going so I can put it on my applications.”

  No answer. Figured. Her mother never wanted to discuss college. She never went. That’s why she was stuck being some six-figure lawyer’s secretary—wait, executive assistant. Was that what she had in mind for her daughter?

  Ramona was a closet sexist. Case in point: she’d thrown a huge hissy fit when Ashton had told her he wasn’t going to college; he was starting a band instead.

  “A band? Don’t you pull that crap with me,” Ramona had said. “I’ll never allow any son of mine to jump on the fast track to becoming a nobody. Listen, Ashton, you’ll never get anywhere in this world without a four-year degree. Minimum.”

  But Ashton hadn’t listened.

  So why was it that her brother should be college-bound, but not her? No, her future involved sitting in a cubicle, typing office memos and making coffee. But wait! Another equally exciting option was to become some rich man’s wife—no degree required. Sorry, but that wasn’t going to happen. She thought it extremely unlikely she’d ever get married at all. Didn’t at least half the marriages in this country end in divorce? And divorce was ugly. Oh yes, she’d seen firsthand that divorce was a guaranteed way to bring out the most despicable qualities in humankind.

  According to a reference book she’d found at the library, she was doing all the right stuff: maintaining a high GPA, logging consistent community-service hours, participating in extracurricular clubs, etc. Now all she had to do was score well on the ACT. She’d taken the prep class a whole year early so she could maximize her practice time.

  She was going to be nothing like her mother. Nothing.

  At lunch
hour, she and her friends were lucky enough to snag an outside table. The conversation had meandered to the sudden arrival of the hot new French teacher, Monsieur Laval.

  “You are sooooo lucky, Vivs,” Charlie moaned. “My Spanish teacher is a major snooze. He’s, like, ancient and he always loses his train of thought right in the middle of a sentence. That geezer seriously needs to retire.”

  “Yeah,” Lauren agreed. “I totally got ripped off. How come my French teacher couldn’t have a personal emergency? I have a serious weakness for cute foreign men.”

  “Or any man,” Miranda corrected.

  “He’s OK,” Vivien said, trying to play it down. “His accent’s kind of sexy, but…” She shrugged. “I wonder what kind of disability he has.”

  “Yeah,” her friends agreed, shaking their heads. Clearly they found this one flaw to be a great travesty.

  The bell rang for fourth period. After saying their farewells, the girls split up and headed off to class.

  If possible, M. Laval looked even more handsome than the day before. He was wearing a teal V-neck sweater that brought out the smokiness of his eyes, and a pair of nice-fitting black jeans.

  The hour flew by and she found herself actually disappointed that class was over. As the other students rushed off, she purposely lingered at her desk, packing up her belongings in slow motion in hopes that she’d be the last student remaining in the classroom.

  Her plan worked. As she passed his desk, he looked up and called out her name. She stopped, feigning surprise and did her best to meet his eyes this time.

  “Tell me, do I get a passing grade for the day?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did today’s lesson meet your impossibly high expectations?”

  “Oh!” she laughed. “Yes. Definitely. Congratulations.”

  He grinned, pretending to wipe his brow. “What a relief. Only one hundred and fifty-four days to go. That’s manageable.”

  She laughed again. “I’m pretty sure you can do it. And to be fair, I’ll give you a couple of freebies in there.”

  “You’re fairness is much appreciated,” he said. “Everyone has a bad day now and then.”

  They appraised each other silently for a moment.

  “I’m glad to have you on my side,” he told her. “Substitute teachers suffer a lot of abuse.”

  “Have you subbed before?”

  “Not here. I’m new to the area.”

  “You just moved?” she replied. “That must be hard. Not knowing anybody and…stuff.”

  “Oh, I’m excited to be here. East Lake Pines has a lot to offer.”

  She gave him a dubious look. In her opinion, her town barely deserved a second glance. Almost anywhere else in the state seemed a vast improvement.

  “Unfortunately, I’ve made little headway unpacking,” he continued. “The movers did all the heavy furnishings, naturally. It’s the small things that need arranging now. I happen to be at a slight disadvantage.” He glanced down at the crutch.

  “Oh, um…right. That must be hard,” she said for the second time, and grimaced. Without a doubt, she was coming across like an idiot. “Maybe you could call one of those handyman services?”

  “Yes, well, I’m more in need of someone with some good organizational skills. Someone with an eye for maximizing space.” He paused, seemingly searching for the right words. “To be frank, I’m not comfortable with the idea of complete strangers going through my personal effects.”

  “Oh,” she mumbled, disappointed that she’d failed to be any help whatsoever.

  M. Laval glanced at the clock. “You should get a move on. I fear I may have made you late.”

  She took note of the time and gave a start. “Right. Yes, I’d better hurry.” Still she stood, wracking her brain for something smart or funny or interesting she could say to close their conversation. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow” was all she could manage.

  “Tomorrow,” he agreed, an intriguing twinkle in his eye.

 

  At 7:45 p.m. that evening she stood on the sidewalk before the old Victorian house where the Future Leaders meeting was to be held. Inside, an agenda board that had seen better days stood next to a narrow staircase. Future Leaders 2nd floor, it read. The first floor consisted of a copy shop and a people’s co-op with a handmade sign advertising medicinal marijuana. “What a weird place,” she muttered under her breath.

  She’d arrived a good fifteen minutes early, as was her habit. Nothing stressed her out more than being late. In situations like this it was imperative to get a good seat (she preferred front left) and to have a few minutes to get organized before any lecturing began.

  The leader of the Future Leaders was perched on the corner of his desk. He nodded curtly as she entered the room. She couldn’t help but notice he was one of the most unattractive men she’d ever seen, his pasty complexion riddled with acne scars, his clothes outdated, and his body excessively thin—the very opposite of a leader. She wondered if this was going to be a complete waste of time.

  Smiling politely, she selected a seat in her favorite section. Apparently the front was not a big draw, as she noted the seats in the back were filling up first. Pen, pencil, and notebook lined up neatly on her desk, she waited as the remaining students filed through the door. She found herself looking for familiar faces and recognized a good number from Eastbrook. Her attention wandered to the front of the room for a moment as Mr. Fashion-Challenged wrote his name and email address on the whiteboard with a squeaky red marker: Chad Stossel. She copied this down and glanced at the door again just in time to see Declan Mieres breeze in.

  You’ve got to be kidding me!

  His eyes roamed the room, searching for the last few empty desks. Pretending to hunt for something in her backpack, Vivien quickly checked the seat behind her to see if it was occupied. Empty. Gaze flicking to the door once more, she gasped softly as her eyes met his for a split second before she had to look away, suddenly embarrassed. Now that he’d seen her, she had the sickening suspicion that he was going to sit right behind her. As if he hadn’t gotten enough satisfaction from laughing at her expense yesterday, now he was going to try his hand at round two.

  Still unable to look, she waited for the sound of him. Sure enough, seconds later she heard a backpack thump to the floor, followed by the sound of rustling papers.

  Mr. Stossel began his introduction and then moved on to an outline of the year’s projects. She did her best to listen, but she was annoyingly distracted by the knowledge that Declan was so close. Was he staring at the back of her head? What did the back of her head look like, anyway? Not much, probably. Her mother was right; she should spend some extra time on her appearance, maybe use the straightener instead of the perennial ponytail. But then she’d have to wake up even earlier. And for what? For a second glance from some brain-dead nobody whom she had no desire to impress whatsoever?

  The morbidly dull monologue over, Chad was now giving each student in the front row a stack of papers to pass back. Now was her chance to show Declan just how much she didn’t care. A swift look of indifference should do the trick. She lifted her pile and twisted in her seat, but midrotation, her thigh caught, rubbing against the chair in such a way as to make the most mortifying burst of noise. She froze, certain she heard muffled laughter. Oh my God, she thought in horror, the whole room was now thinking she’d just let one fly. Not just the whole room—Declan Mieres! Someone please kill her now. Swiftly she squirmed in her seat in a crazed attempt to duplicate the sound, but succeeded only in looking as if she belonged in a hemorrhoid commercial. Still gripping the stack of papers, she was left with no alternative but to suck it up and pass them on. Steeling herself for a giant slice of humble pie, she turned. But the hand reaching out was small-boned and delicate, with long, sky-blue fingernails.

  “Thanks,” the girl mumbled.

  Her jaw dropped. Her eyes darted around the room. Where was he, then? And why hadn’t he chosen the seat d
irectly behind her? There was no doubt he’d seen her sitting here.

  Evidently he wasn’t interested in her type, that’s why. He preferred the bubbly, giggly sort whose shirt never made it past her pierced navel. A girl who inexplicably had a tan yearlong despite the fact that this was not L.A., and who wore lace thongs that peeked out of her ultra-low-waist skinnies. A girl who knew how to flirt, to tease, to laugh at everything he said. A girl who modified every other word with awesome and amazing.

  She felt sick to her stomach.

  Oh yes, there he was. She found him sitting two rows over toward the back. What a jerk!

  Now, instead of imagining him staring at her, she imagined him choosing not to, and she continued to have difficulty listening to anything Chad said. The entire hour passed in this fashion and she became increasingly disgusted with herself. It was with an enormous sense of relief that she was able to pack up at last and head out the door.

  Later that night she lay sprawled on her bed, knee-deep in homework, when Miranda called.

  “So…Friday night, right?” Miranda said, straight off the bat.

  “Miranda…”

  “Charlie and I will be by to pick you up around eight.”

  “Pick me up for what?” she said, deciding to play dumb.

  “Very funny. Nathan’s party.”

  She sighed. “I already told you, I don’t want to go.”

  “Yeah, but we need you.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “For…fun? You’re an indispensable piece of the puzzle, Vivs. The piece that makes us—us! How can we go without you? It wouldn’t be the same.”

  Miranda was an expert at laying on the guilt. But Vivien would be strong. She said nothing.

  “Can’t you just try it? What’s the big deal?”

  “There is no big deal.” She wasn’t in the mood to elaborate, to reenact the humiliating chain of events that had taken place earlier. Everything had gone wrong—running into the boys, hearing them laugh at her, being completely ignored at the meeting. “It’s just…I couldn’t be less interested, if you want the honest truth. Staying home and cleaning my toilet sounds way more fun.”

  Miranda sighed. “The sad thing is you are not even kidding.”

  The line was silent.

  “How ’bout we go for an hour, tops?” Miranda bargained. “I promise. We’ll see what it’s like and then leave. OK?”

  Vivien let out a groan. Miranda would never give up. Maybe she could just wait in the car while her friends prowled for hot guys. “Fine,” she said at last.

  “Yes! Someone has to force you out of your shell, you know.”

  “Where oh where would I be without you?”

  “All alone. That’s where.”

  “Hmmph.” But deep down she suspected Miranda might be right.

  “So how was French today?” Miranda inquired, switching topics.

  “What?”

  “How was the gorgeous Frenchman?”

  “Would you stop? He’s like thirty-something,” she exaggerated, pushing him into the next decade to diminish his appeal. “And he’s a teacher. It’s not like I’m going to flirt with him in class or anything.”

  “But that’s exactly what you should do. It’d make the class way more interesting. And maybe you’d get yourself a guaranteed A. I’d be all over that.”

  She’d reached her limit of Miranda-isms for the evening. “Look, I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

  “Yeah. See you tomorrow, sweetie pie.” Miranda hung up.

  But her homework sat idle. The conversation had left her in an agitated state. It was more than just being pressured into going out Friday night, she realized. It was the way Miranda had referred to M. Laval; the running commentary on his hotness gave her a weird feeling. He was her teacher after all, not theirs.

  Not to mention the fact that she knew him now. At least, more than they did. And she felt bad for him, a stranger to East Lake Pines, living all alone. He couldn’t even get his things unpacked properly. If she was any kind of Good Samaritan, she should offer him a hand herself.

  The idea jolted her upright.

  Should she? It excited and frightened her at the same time. Most definitely something out of her comfort zone. But she felt an odd, urgent need to do it nonetheless, before some other girl caught his eye and she was cast off once again into the sea of the unremarkable. Really, what did she have to lose? If he turned her down, then at least she’d demonstrated a willingness to help. It could only go in her favor. Yes. She would do it—tomorrow, even. Closing her eyes, she conjured up an image of his face as she offered up the solution to his dilemma. He would be surprised, of course, but pleasantly so. Most likely he would bestow one of his killer smiles upon her and express his deepest gratitude.

  She smiled in return, relishing the image. And just like that, she couldn’t wait to go to school.

  The first half of the day Friday seemed to creep by at a snail’s pace. On a whim, she decided to spend the lunch hour in the library, telling herself that she wanted to get some work done. But deep down she sensed ulterior motives for avoiding her friends. Thoughts of M. Laval filled her head as she stared at her textbooks. How long had he been living in the United States? What part of France was he from? What did his house look like? And just what exactly were the “personal effects” he wanted to keep out of the hands of strangers? He seemed incredibly mysterious and sophisticated. She couldn’t help but be intrigued by his unforeseen arrival in this snooze of a town.

  When the bell suddenly rang, snapping her out of her daydreams, she realized she had wasted the entire period. But what did it matter? French was her next class. Quickly she packed her things and hurried out.

  She tried to appear casual as she walked into the classroom, casting a quick sideways glance at the teacher’s desk. M. Laval was seated, staring absently into space, elbows planted, fingertips touching to form a perfect triangle. She caught a whiff of his cologne as she passed. It smelled exotic. Foreign.

  She took her seat and was just about to copy down the assignment from the board when a loud buzz pierced the air, startling her and all the other students in the room.

  “All right!” someone yelled. “Fire drill!”

  She heaved a sigh. She was probably the only one who wasn’t thrilled with the idea of missing class.

  The students bolted out the door. She rose slowly to her feet, glancing toward the front of the room. M. Laval still hovered over his desk, a bewildered expression on his face. It soon became obvious he had no idea what to do.

  Hurrying to his side, she did her best to shout over the deafening noise. “Follow me. I know where we’re supposed to go.”

  He nodded thankfully and pushed himself forward on the crutch. His speed surprised her. He moved fluidly, saving her the need to slow down and possibly embarrass him. And she was feeling quite pleased with herself until she realized that she’d led him directly to the top of the stairwell.

  “Oh! Oh no!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry—I’m…this is the way we go. Do you…? Can you…?”

  “Not a problem,” he said quickly, extracting a large ring of keys from his pocket. “I have access to the elevator.” He began to move along in the opposite direction. “This way,” he called to her.

  She followed and soon they were inside, descending slowly to the first floor. She avoided looking at him and they rode in an uncomfortable silence.

  In a matter of minutes they were outside with the rest of the student body. She pointed out the members of the French class and they made their way over, stopping just short of the group.

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” he said, leaning so close his smell enveloped her like a cloud. “I was seconds away from looking like a complete idiot.”

  She shook her head. “No. No you weren’t. It was totally the school’s fault, anyway. Aren’t they supposed to go over that kind of thing before you start?”

  He merely shrugged.

  Sh
e snuck a peek around her, on the lookout for her friends. Wouldn’t they be green with envy to see her standing alone with him? Instead, Nathan, Declan, and that whole crew caught her eye, clumped around one of the picnic tables directly across from her. As usual, they were behaving like a bunch of children. She returned her attention to M. Laval. “It sure is nice out today,” she declared, filling space as she searched for something clever to say.

  M. Laval glanced up at the clear blue sky. “That it is. Autumn is my favorite time of year.”

  “Mine too!” she cried, as if having this in common was a rare coincidence. “I love the cool temperatures. The colors. And pumpkin—I love the taste of pumpkin! Pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin coffee…” She laughed self-consciously.

  “Pumpkin coffee?” He screwed up his face. “I have never heard of this.”

  “It’s super-delicious,” she told him. “Especially with whipped cream.”

  M. Laval looked doubtful. He turned his head, surveying the clumps of teenagers milling about. The students were laughing and shouting. A small group had broken off to play catch with a stray tennis ball. A few teachers were making half-hearted attempts to maintain order. “So this is it?” he asked. “This is the correct procedure for a fire drill?”

  She followed his gaze. It did look rather chaotic. “Yep.”

  He tilted his head in the direction of the courtyard. “Friends of yours?”

  To her dismay, Declan and his sidekicks were staring straight at her, candidly checking her out. She shook her head firmly. “Not even a little.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “It seems to me they find you quite interesting.”

  She frowned, then glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see one of the popular girls standing behind her. Yet nothing but empty space came between her and the red brick building.

  M. Laval chuckled and she felt her cheeks burning. Abruptly she changed the subject, blurting out, “M. Laval, this is just an idea, but I was thinking…if you’re still looking for someone to help you get settled at your new place… maybe I could help?”

  For a second he appeared speechless. Then he began to shake his head, categorically dismissing her offer.

  “Oh, I know.” She looked at the ground, blushing a deeper shade of red. “It was a dumb idea.”

  He chuckled good-naturedly. “Vivien, you misunderstand me. I’m sure you’re busy enough as it is. I wouldn’t dare ask for your time like that.”

  Her head popped up. “No. Really. I’m busy after school on Wednesdays—I volunteer then—and Thursday evenings, but any other day…”

  M. Laval regarded her carefully, his fingers caressing the faint stubble on his chin.

  “I’m super-good at organizing things,” she went on, unable to stop plugging herself. “I’ve actually developed my own system. And I work quickly.”

  He stood quietly, his face eventually breaking into a wide grin. “All right. You’ve won me over.”

  “Really? Great! Oh my gosh. I promise I’ll be whatever you need.” Then a small hitch caught in her mind. “But, um, where do you live? Because…I don’t have a car.” The truth was she didn’t even have her driver’s license, but she didn’t want mention this for fear of looking immature.

  “No car required,” he assured her. “My house is only a few blocks from here. I walk to and from the school.”

  “You walk?” she replied. Immediately, her hand flew up to her mouth.

  “Please,” he murmured, pulling her close, his lips only inches from her ear. “There’s no need to tiptoe around my disability when you’re in my presence. Believe me, I am fully aware of my limitations and have learned to accept them.” Then he stepped back, creating a more appropriate distance between the two of them and watched her.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  An all-clear bell sounded and an audible groan echoed throughout the courtyard. The students began funneling back inside.

  “That means we can go back,” she told him.

  He nodded and they began to head toward the building. “Thanks for the company. Shall we set a date for this Monday? Unless you’ve something already planned.”

  The word date threw her for a split second. “No,” she said. “I mean, yes! Monday’s good. I don’t having anything going on.” Her pulse fluttered.

  Dutifully they fell in line, and soon the other students from French class were surrounding them, effectively putting an end to any further conversation.

  At eight o’clock on the dot, she waited for Charlie and Miranda in the front entrance of her apartment building. Despite the evening’s destination, her mood was surprisingly good. Yes, she’d been badgered into going to Nathan’s. And yes, she was positive she was going to hate it. But Monday…Monday was only three days away. Three days and she would see M. Laval—not once but twice! Her friends would freak if they knew. But she wasn’t going to tell them. They would turn it into something other than it was. And what it was, she couldn’t quite say herself. She didn’t know why she’d made such an uncharacteristically bold move. But for the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of purpose. She felt alive.

  The girls made it to Nathan’s house in less than fifteen minutes, parking on an already crowded street.

  “Is that it?” Charlie asked, craning her neck for a better look.

  “I’m guessing yes,” Miranda replied. “Look at all those people going in and out.”

  Vivien ducked for a look as well. The house in question was an enormous beige rectangle that sat equidistant from the curb as all the other beige rectangles on the street. Professionally manicured lawns spanned each identical space between house and sidewalk, complete with matching shrubs and lava rocks. No doubt about it—they had entered the land of the McMansion.

  “All right, let’s go,” Miranda said.

  There was a moment of hesitation before getting out, as if the evening ahead called for a mental pumping up. Various game faces were tried on: coy smiles, flirtatious glances, sultry pouts.

  And then they were out, Miranda and Charlie pressing ahead, intently focused on their mission to talk to as many hot lacrosse players as possible.

  Vivien trailed behind, still tempted by the thought of waiting the night out in the car. What did she know about parties? Absolutely nothing. Except the fact that people would be drinking. She’d never had a drink in her life. She didn’t smoke. Wasn’t the least bit curious about drugs. Why would she want to act all stupid and embarrass herself in front of other people?

  She’d seen it all before. At the Eastbrook football games. Notorious gatherings of drunk teenagers. One time in particular, she’d watched a totally wasted girl trip down the bleacher steps and break her arm. Vivien had stood, dumbstruck, as the girl lay sprawled on the filthy ground. “Don’t move!” she shouted, not so much worried about the girl’s arm as the fact that the flailing Barbie doll was about to roll right over a giant glob of yellowish green spit, brought up from the nether regions of someone’s lung. Adding to the shock factor was the awkward detail of the girl’s tank top which, as a result of her fall, had twisted a bit too far to the left, placing one perky round breast in plain view. By the time the ambulance arrived, the entire stadium had gathered around to gawk. The horror!

  As the three girls climbed the front steps, Miranda and Charlie greeted with giddy smiles people they knew. Inside, directly to their left, a group of boys stood in a semicircle around a bulky kid she recognized from the football team. He was in the midst of chugging an impossibly large amount of beer down a long glass tube. His buddies egged him on, shouting and hopping up and down as they chanted, “Drink, drink, drink!” This he did, swallowing the entire contents in a matter of seconds, finishing it off with a giant belch. She felt a small gag reflex lurch up from the back of her throat. Turning to her friends she said, “What on earth is that?” But no one replied; they’d already moved farther on into the room.

  “Oh no,” she moaned as she noticed Leonard Butler from he
r creative writing class making a beeline straight for her. The guy was a borderline stalker, trailing her from class to class, invading her personal space with his greasy face as he asked her totally obvious questions like, “Did you do the homework for today?” Before he could reach her, she spun around and went back out the door into the fresh night air.

  A small group of students stood smoking cigarettes on the veranda. She headed to the opposite end and plunked down on a porch swing. With no plans to venture back inside, she prepared herself for a long wait. Nobody seemed to notice her. It was as if she was completely invisible and could watch the scene play on before her, unaltered by her presence.

  At times she felt so different from her classmates. Even her close friends. Not that they didn’t have plenty of good times together. They did. She recalled weekends of sleepovers, the four of them loud and hyper, keyed up on Hawaiian Punch. They’d talk until the wee hours of the morning, listening to music, squealing about cute boys, sneaking upstairs every so often to raid the refrigerator. One time they’d made chocolate-chip banana pancakes in the middle of the night, documenting the experience with a video camera. They were exceptionally goofy, pretending to be mentally challenged hosts of a cooking show, misreading ingredients, cracking eggs outside the bowl, patting their faces clown-white with flour. Lauren had spent five solid minutes figuring out how to turn on the burner. Charlie had slipped on spilled milk, laughing so hard she had to borrow a clean pair of underwear.

  But here she was definitely an outsider. The only one sitting alone. There was a part of her that relished the solitude. Having been left to fend for herself for quite some time now, she felt a sort of peace and comfort being on her own. At the same time there was a part of her that dreaded coming home to an empty apartment, cooking and eating meals for one, and turning to share a laugh with a vacant space on the sofa when her favorite sit-com was on.

  Loud hip-hop music pulsated through the walls of the house as the line of parked cars grew steadily. A particularly boisterous cluster of students was stationed around the back of their SUV, drinking beers from a cooler. Their boldness grew until one of them lost all inhibitions, jumping on the hood of a nearby car to perform a fast, gyrating dance. He finished with a bow, winning himself an enthusiastic round of applause from the onlookers.

  Maybe she wouldn’t have to sit here long after all. There was no way this party was going to last.

  As if on cue, from across the street she observed an elderly man step out of his house, looking left then right as he spoke on a cell phone. After a minute or so he hung up and walked to the edge of his property, shouting and gesturing angrily at a group of boys whose car tires had come up onto his lawn. His warning was answered by a string of obscenities. Vivien could hardly believe her eyes when next, one of the boys dropped his pants, giving the man a full view of his ass, which seemed to shine as it basked in the glow of the streetlights. The old man turned in disgust and shuffled back inside.

  Jumping to her feet, she headed back toward the front door. The place was definitely getting out of hand. The thought of being trapped here when the police showed up, sirens blasting, sent a wave of panic through her. Anxious and distracted, she collided directly into a pair of boys leaving the house.

  “Wha…you again?” Thomas slurred as he stomped clumsily on her foot.

  She winced and glared at the careless duo. “Excuse me. I need to find my friends. Some guy across the street just called the police,” she added, gesturing behind her.

  The boys swiftly followed her sign. “Aw, dude!” Thomas exclaimed.

  “I’d better give Nathan the heads-up,” Declan said. He turned to Thomas. “You stay here. And hand over your keys. You’re not driving.” Catching Vivien by complete surprise, he seized her wrist, pulling her through the door and into the house.

  “Who’re your friends?” he said, leaning toward her, his breath hot in her ear.

  Tongue-tied, she had to scramble to come up with their names. “Miranda Lange and Charlie Sullivan,” she managed to say. She looked around helplessly. “Have you seen them?”

  He stopped moving and thought for a minute. “I think. Over by the kitchen.” His fingers still gripped her wrist and now he yanked her along again, across the living room, down the hallway, weaving through bodies, nudging people aside and advising them to clear out.

  “There!” she cried at last, pointing to the far end of the packed kitchen.

  Declan nodded, leading her as far as the island in the center of the room. He paused, giving her one last lingering stare before he broke the connection and released her. He wore the same look as before, like she was someone he knew but couldn’t quite place. After a minute he shrugged and said, “You’d better get out of here.”

  She stood there, unconsciously rubbing the spot where he’d touched her. “We will,” she said finally, but he’d already turned away. She watched him go, his dark hair bobbing this way and that as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Three

 

  Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  Relationships are mostly fun. But sometimes it’s all about trying to fit in. Be wary of pressure to date the most popular boy or girl. Dating for the sake of being in a relationship is never a good idea!! Begin with friendship. If more develops, then you’ll know you’re headed in the right direction!