Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Simon Pulse
N e w Yo r k L o n d o n To r o n t o S y d n e y N e w D e l h i
It is not the ending I expected. The free fall from the roof and the torn green awnings. Her body landing in a heap at the foot of a hydrangea bush. The hedges lit with pink Malibu lights that glint off the sequined skirt, the blouse half open, and her pale hair. The thud, the doorman running down the sidewalk, and then sirens and more rain. Siobhan the Wild and Emma the Good. I was the good one . . . maybe not so much. Poor Siobhan. She could batter mean girls with a field hockey stick and make it seem accidental. She could break your heart and make it seem accidental. And then she couldnt. Then she was gone. Maybe. Maybe she is only temporarily asleepbut more likely, she is only temporarily alive. Hanging on by her fingernails is what they say. The wild one is gone and the good one . . . isnt good. Because good girls dont usually wear long sleeves to cover where their best friends fingernails scored their forearms. Good girls dont usually slip out their bedroom window in a silver dress and taxi to the Camden Hotel late at night. Good girls dont usually kill their best friend.
PART ONE
Chapter One
shirts, like privates in the tap-dancing division of a silent movies smudge all along the horizon.
tropical army. The sky is dazzling blue with a faint grayish haze, a My dad thinks its some smog-like form of breathable dirt. I think its the edge of Paradise. On the drive from the hotel to the beach, I start counting
palm trees, but there are so many, I lose track. Then I count cars so low to the ground that you could use their hoods for coffee tables, and then landmarks that Ive seen in movies. The Bel Air. The Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. My dad says, Were not in Kansas anymore.
shirt and cuff links. I had to fight with him to leave off the tie because, seriously, its a beach party at a beach club at the beach. I am wearing a sundress that is saved from intolerable dowdi-
ness only by the fact that its vintage. (Hint: If your dad insists you girl who wasnt Amish since the nineteenth century, go vintage.) cats-eye sunglasses.
wear skirts that are several inches longer than any skirt worn by a Cinched waist, wide belt, Audrey Hepburn flats, and big I say, Best city yet. So far.
the North American landscape like a tiny band of lost nomads from the icy North, pausing at medical schools that needed a visand then pack up and leave. Dragging his kid behind him. Until now. iting professor, my dad, who could work on their research grants,
My dad says, Ems, are those polarized lenses? Blue eyes and I say, Dad. Of course they are. Welcome to California. I have been here for less than twenty-four hours. I am sitting in
the backseat of a limousine behind a driver in a jet-black cap who drives too fast. I am dressed for 1958. And already I am telling lies.
the beach and up the coast. I cant tell if were in Santa Monica or Malibu or some other sunbaked city that Ive never heard of.
and cars with surfboards sticking out of hatchbacks. I start countecstatic to be here and not there when we pass them.
ing cars with out-of-state license plates, with drivers who look I am counting license plates because I dont want to think
about whether theres some way my dad can check out if my sunglasses really are polarized. light instead. I am trying to think about all the seagulls here and all this How Im wearing coconut oil instead of dermatologist-
approved number 50 sunblock so I can get tan during the last remnants of afternoon sun at this beach party.
and the driver and my dad all lunge to open my door. care of me. Sometimes maybe too much, but still.
I feel very princess-y in the back of this black car. The valet My dad wins. Theres not a minute that he isnt trying to take We are here because the head of the Albert Whitbread Psychi-
atric Institute dropped dead on the last day of July, by the side of the road, on his annual bicycle trek through Provence. The Institute started trying to hire my dad to replace him when his corpse was still in a cooler in France. My dad has spent the month of August trying to decide whether to sign the contract sentencing him to Biblical trivia, were the ancient prototypes of Sin City. five years in Sodom and Gomorrah, which, if youre not up on your Usually I am the person protesting the move while my
dad tries to explain why moving from Montreal to Toronto to Chicago in the space of ten years is a good thing.
5
We walk under a striped awning toward a cluster of white My dad brushes sand off the cuffs of his pants and gestures
toward the club, where, I can tell just by the way hes frowning, theres way too much perfectly tanned skin and visible fun. He rolls his eyes Would you say this is more killer or more gnarly? want these people to hire you, you cant say those words out loud ever again. I say, Dad, I love you, please dont get mad at me, but if you
but Im pretty sure my dad was in Quebec, speaking French, back when they did. My dad says, Lets not get ahead of ourselves. I have to
This would be the whole rest of high school in one place, and Beyond the giant wooden deck of the main building, there
are pools and shuffleboard and rows and rows of beach chairs, studded with giant striped umbrellas that skirt a lagoon on one side and go straight down to the surf on the other.
snack shack by the lagoon. My father makes me promise that I toe in that lagoon, which he is pretty sure is formed from toxic runoff from a storm drain. What if my hair catches fire from a rogue tiki torch? I say.
6
Kids my age seem to own the chairs and the fire pit and the
Ems, Im sure theres a highly trained staff of lifeguards with Just so long as I can swim in the ocean when we move here. A hostess in white linen leads us to wicker club chairs on
the deck next to Dr. Karp, the head of the Albert Whitbread Institute board of directors, and his wife, who are mounting a campaign to convince my dad that Los Angeles, far from being Sin City, is actually a lot like Heaven. Only with a beach. It is hard to tell from here if all those kids are hanging on the
outskirts of the beach club willingly and are having a wonderful ately, despite the toxicity) or if theyve been dragged here under protest to keep them penned up and away from the un-rich.
time (in which case we should move here and join up immedi-
fornia Girls, followed by California Dreaming, a version of Hotel California with marimbas, and I Love L.A. All I want at that moment is to be a California girl leading
a normal California life, sitting by the lagoon, drinking, all right, a bottle of root beer, with my magically transformed California mal California teen activities. dad, who has become completely okay with me engaging in norFor my whole life, I was that girl. The girl who wasnt allowed
to watch PG-13 movies until I turned thirteenwhich made sleepovers tricky, since if I couldnt, nobody else could. The one
dad found out, I basically spent the next two weeks in my room,
7
nodding my head during long, heartfelt talks about how disap pointed he was, and didnt I have a moral compass? It wasnt a ploy or a trick or a parental manipulation, either.
The thought that I might not be Emma the Good filled him with woe. I cried so much that he made me crme brle with a burnt sugar crust, and I sobbed the whole time I was eating it. By the time we hit Chicago, the only kind of coeducational
activities that didnt leave him in a state of overwrought parental panic were rehearsals of the Chicagoland Youth Orchestra. Yet here we are.
Candy Land. Here I am, standing on the exact sandy spot where
Here I am, the girl who has been craving sugar all her life, in
I want my life as the girl previously known as Emma the Good Girl to begin. Here I am, sliding the sunglasses into my bag after I look at all the other beach club kids and see that cats-eyes arent an Mrs. Karp, who keeps putting her hand on my arm when she
Audrey Hepburn kind of fashion statement at all; theyre just weird. talks, says, Your daughter is so lovely. Ill bet you have to beat the boys off with a stick. Not that he wouldnt, given a boy and a stick, but this is the
completely wrong direction for the conversation to be going. In fact, two boys standing in line for the bar at the edge of the deck are at that moment checking me out. At least they are until my they wont live long enough to put their shirts back on.
dad gives them a look suggesting that unless they avert their gaze, Mrs. Karp tells me how much Ill like California, oblivious to
But really, a new school thats already started? my dad says. But school doesnt start for days, and Im a really fast packer!
(Also a highly experienced packer. I could be out of Illinois in forty-eight hours.) Mrs. Karp pats my hand and says, Isnt she precious, as if I
Latimer Country Day, where half the kids at this very club (kids who appear to be drinking beer and hooking up in broad daylight halfway across this crowded strip of ritzy beach) go to school, and moments from now, I, too, could be attending.
Then Dr. Karp tells my dad how hes also on the board of
having anything to do with these kids. Every time Mrs. Karp kids my age, he shoots me a dont-you-dare look and I end up ordering more lemonade. My dad sighs, Youd probably have to drive a car.
almost die of longing. I start wondering if there are GPS braceyou could buy them, Id have one already. I say, I wouldnt mind driving.
lets you can clamp on your kids ankle, but Im pretty sure that if
oppressive dictator and overprotective good guy, smiles. He says, I thought you might have that reaction.
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go sit with the kids. A lot. Even though I am wearing a polkaknees and theyre wearing almost nothing. Even if I end up next to the girls who came up onto the deck to moan about something doing-here once-over on their way back to the sand. Not a chance.
dotted dress with a circular skirt that falls three inches below my
hovers over us, keeping our water glasses perfectly full and whisking away the appetizers like a magician before bringing even ing to maneuver me across the sand to meet other kids. She has practically given up talking to me altogether, ever since she kept more food. Of course, Mrs. Karp has long since given up on try-
trying to shove surf n turf down my throat over my (extremely polite) protests. Then she clammed up, horrified that maybe she eat shellfish. was trying to force lobster on a kosher person who cant actually I am not a kosher person. It isnt even clear if Im a Jewish
when I hit adulthood. I just dont like lobsters. Theyre like giant
bugs that stare up at you from the plate. I keep telling her that its okay, but Mrs. Karp looks stricken, even when my dad reassures past life?) behind in Montreal. her that we left all that (kosher food? religion? all vestiges of our I am starting to feel as if Im a walking, talking motherless-
girl vacuum that nice women who so much as spot me across the
10
room are inexplicably drawn to fill with helpfulness and insects of the sea. I wander off in search of the ladies room, in search of five
unsupervised minutes during which I plan to chew some contraband gum, which my dad thinks is a disgusting and therefore stuff across the Rocky Mountains. When I see him. unacceptable habit. I am visualizing a moving truck carting our
almost to transparency, and tight but not disgustingly tight jeans, ocean-soaked around the ankles. I am at a dead end in the maze of hallways and unlabeled doors where the ladies room is supposed to be.
his fingers. He has a face you could draw from memory a second after you first see it, a line drawing of hard-edged, witty symmeis deeply amused by the world but not so much so that youre distracted from the cheekbones, or the eyelashes, or the long upper lip, or the mouth. The mouth. try. He looks like an underwear model who also attends Yale, and
There is a bit of toasted marshmallow at the corner of his He says, So. Were you looking for me?
I watch his tongue trace his lower lip, possibly in search of He has the best hair. Light brown, shiny, slightly spiky from
11
having been in the ocean recently enough to still be damp and only just shaken dry. He says, Did I miss something?
which is cold and slippery, as if its sucked up all the air-conditioned air and left the hallway balmy. I am. He says, Youre looking at my mouth. I say, Marshmallow.
He tilts his head. He is bemused, and also gorgeous. turf, and I want marshmallows.
I say, Im trapped up here in the dining room with surf n He says, Poor you. Avoid the clams. Unless you like rubber. I say, Not my game.
You could stick them together and use them for handball.
He rests the back of his head against the wall opposite, but Oh God, a line! Ive been here for less than twenty-four
hours, Im just wandering around looking for a quiet place to is feeding me a line.
chew a stick of gum, and Im two feet away from a tan guy who The guy leans forward. He smells like salt water and smoke
from the bonfire down by the lagoon. He slips the hand that isnt holding the corkscrew and the glasses into the small of my back and then he pauses, and I smile, and hes kissing me. Welcome to California.
I dont flirt, and I dont kiss them backnot that Ive ever had
the opportunity to kiss them backand I dont put my hand on be doing this strange, random, surprising thing.
their shoulders in tacit acknowledgment of how much I want to There are footsteps, but he doesnt stop until hes finished
kissing me. Doesnt look back at the blond girl in the black bikini top and sarong who is looking at me over his shoulder. I didnt know that people even actually wore sarongs. It might just be a really well-draped beach towel.
She says, Right. Well, dont get any ideas about sister-wives, He is smiling, apparently capable of smiling intensely at two I would jump back, but Im already pressed against a closed
every few inches that is pooled between her breasts, and she has modeling tiny pieces of lingerie while glaring.
the same wet hair and the same potential for a lucrative career She says, You can have him. Hes a shit kisser, anyway. She
hooks a finger through his belt loop and pulls him away, down the hall. I go back to the dinner party, but its hard to pay attention.
13
Chapter Two
with night-blooming jasmine a half mile above the Sunset Strip. At night, we see its colors filtering skyward through the pine trees in the canyon at the edge of our backyard, spotlights sweeping the too-bright sky. If I open my bedroom window, I hear traffic and coyotes and wind. In the morning, my room smells like fresh paint and the aroma
of my dad baking me pumpkin bread in his belief that motherless girls need fathers who know their way around a mixing bowl. He pulls my uniform out of its box and rubs the fabric of one
more plaid pleated skirt between his fingers. The other Lazars scandalize Montreal by marrying the spectacularly wrong woman and producing meare the kings of Canadian imported silk.
the ones who, unlike him, did not go to medical school and then
He says, Ive never felt so much synthetic. If someone flicks I imagine myself standing skirtless in a puddle of navy blue
and burgundy. You can guess who I imagine flicks the ash. (Hint: He is wearing a worn-out Latimer football tee.) My father, gazing at me slouched in the doorway in the stiff
white blouse and dinky little tie, as I pin up my hair, says, Ems, you look just like her. It is the first time he has mentioned herShe Whose Name
Shall Not Be Spoken, the unmentionable junkie otherwise known as my mothersince Baltimore, two cities ago. And its not that I havent been waiting for an opening to
have this conversation with him since Baltimore, because I have. Its just that Id like to make it to my first day of school without snot and mascara streaming down my face.
English bulldogs, Mutt and Jeff, who have tunneled under the tails and panting, noses to our French doors, watching us.
fence between our houses and are currently wagging their stubby My dad grabs the backpack he has filled with brightly colored
plastic school supplies, well suited to the carefree twelve-year-old I never was, and we wind down to Sunset, past the flower beds on Roxy, back into the hills toward Latimer. the gray-blue haze. the median strip at Sunset Plaza, past the Viper Room and the
We can see the ocean dead-on from the parking lot despite The landscaping belongs at a luxe tropical resort (not that
15
we go to luxe tropical resorts: we fight off bloodthirsty Canadian mosquitoes in a cabin in Quebec near Lac des Sables; we take nature walks in the hills, facing due north, away from Montreal). swept immaculate. The buildings are palatial, the pathways wide and curved and And in the middle of all this, there is a sign pointing to the I was prepared for swank, but not this level of swank. I panic,
but now that we are (sort of ) Southern Californians, my dad opulence. He half drags me down the perfect path toward the awe-inspiring administration building. Our hands are shaken firmly and repeatedly by well-dressed
Latimer administrators, juggling the words welcome and elite and fit right in. I am sent off to get my student ID photo taken in the stu-
dent store, which has Latimer-logo clothes, school supplies, and gear known to man.
every kind of ball, oar, paddle, fencing jacket, and athletic headA girl in riding clothesboots no doubt sewn together by
leather, and jodhpurs so tight across the back, you have to wonder how she got her thong so lined up with the seamis complaining about the brand of saddle soap and the fact there hasnt been any mink oil for her bridle for a week.
The kid behind the counter keeps trying to end the tirade by
the slightest pause, I say, Excuse me, is this the right place for the photo? The girl turns on her heel (literally); she pivots toward me.
She says, I was talking about my bridle. So unless you have something to add . . .
potential should never be the new girl. Then she does a double take and looks me over in a horrified state of disbelief. club?
She says, Didnt you, like, babysit the Karp brats at the beach I am about to descend into my own state of horrified disbe-
lief, but even though she is tall and blond, she is not the girl in the bikini top. I say, I was having dinner with the Karps.
beque Wednesday is turning into freak night. But who knew Latimer was slumming it too?
Ill bet you were, she says. Anybody can go as a guest. Bar-
I am standing there, counting the number of maroon balWELCOME BACK, LATIMER LIONS!
banner. So much for a fresh start with boys in it, and maybe some friends who dont remember me with knee socks covering unshaved legs through middle school. A girl behind me says, Who are you?
me. Heres a tip, she says. This is Latimer Day. You might want
The girl in the equestrian cat suit doesnt take her eyes off
to stop interrupting people like you do at Walmart, or wherever you got that cheap barrette. You might want to lose the tacky
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vintage thrift-store look and get over yourself. She pats my arm. I want to hit her, but more than that, I want to not cry. There, there. Theres always Halloween. I am not even fully enrolled yet, and its starting.
trian Girl. You might want to get some pants that fit so the cellu lite in your butt doesnt show. And you might want to bone up on cheapness, because, guess what, you dress like a hooker with a trust fund. wonder.
And heres a hint for you, the voice behind me says to Eques-
The kid behind the counter is frozen in reverential awe and The voice behind me asks, So wheres the transfer photo place? I turn around, and there is Siobhan. Only without the sarong or the bikini top or the neck-
lace with the tiny diamonds. Without her index finger hooked through the belt loops of a guys pants. She says, Hey, sister-wife.
her jacket are pushed up almost to her elbows; her hair is coming
She is blond and slouchy and tapping her foot. The sleeves of
out of the wood bead bracelet she is using for a rubber band; and her socks are pushed down to the rim of high-top sneakers that are not, strictly speaking, part of the uniform. She doesnt look messy; she looks perfect.
she doesnt. She stares down at my feet, in pointy black Mary Janes from the fifties and frilly white anklets that are, in fact, part of the uniform if youre in K through 3.
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is wafer-thin and stainless steel and Swisshes probably playing two or three other girls in college somewhere. His loss. It feels more like my loss. I have been waiting for him to come
jogging up from the gym in that old T-shirt, or brush against my entirely synthetic navy sweater in the hall. Ooooh yeah. I say, Admit he was a really good kisser. We head into the exceptionally green quad that smells like
freshly cut grass. We have linked arms. People heading in the opposite direction have to go around us. Thank God, another human, she says, pressing her arm
against my arm. All the clone girls here have fruit-scent lip gloss same lollipop.
and headbands. Jesus. It looks like they all just sucked on the Headbands?
Exactly. Where were you when school started? I was in As it turns out, she was in Africa because her mother, Nancy,
carting Sibhoan around Zimbabwe on an arguably educational with pretty much anything. since I was five.
safari, and her mom doesnt believe that school should interfere Im from Montreal, I say. Kind of. I havent been there Jadore Montreal! You speak French, right? We walk past
19
wooden bench that backs onto a hedge of red hibiscus. I hate it and now my moms squeeze wants to be in Hollywood and I have to go to school with nasty clones in headbands. Hes an actor?
here, she says. I just got used to some crap school in New York
Hes too old to be anything. But my mom used to live here. So far, this is the main thing we seem to have in common, our
parents use of outdated vocabulary. That and the ability to speak French. And kiss the same boy. dad says I catastrophize.
I say, Im not too optimistic about Latimers bossness. But my No way, she says, tightening her grip. This place is the But some of us are not bored. By her.
20
Chapter Three
so much blondness, or a school with students so unconcerned about getting to class on time. I say, Eventually, were going to have to do this. I am likely She says, Yes, Mommy. But we dont get up.
ear, the side of her face shadowed with red petals. Then she takes
the barrette, mother-of-pearl, from Montreal, out of my hair. Bangs in a state of droopy tendrils fall over my forehead and ears, leaving the ballerina bun moored at the nape of my neck. She says, You can thank me later.
perturbed that were an hour late and dont have the ID cards
she sent us to get. She delivers an unsettling pep talk about how wearing the Latimer uniform means were the best of the best
of the best (as stated, in Latin, on the school crest), marches us across the quad to a building modeled after a Greek temple, only our French class. theyd ask. with air-conditioning, and ditches us inside the carved door of Siobhan whispers, I already speak French. Youd think Bonjour, Siobhan Lynch et Emma Lazar. The teacher,
M. Durand, is an authentic Frenchman, slightly graying, slightly put out to be here. He looks us over with an unabashed stare and asks for two volunteer hostesses to show us (How you say?) the ropes.
nails, the wood-grain surfaces of their desks, and the floor. Equestrian Girl from the bookstore rolls her eyes so far back in tated a seizure. Nobody raises her hand to volunteer. glares at la classe. her head, it seems that our mere presence in her lair has precipiSiobhan twirls a lock of hair around her index finger and No worries, she tells M. Durand. Je men fous de hostesses. She really can speak French.
The girls in the front row are busy examining their finger
Roughly translated: I say screw you to the hostesses. M. Durand raises one thin black eyebrow.
could, no doubt, show you one or two things. (There is no percrimson all down his neck.)
fect translation, but it is so suggestive that M. Durand turns Oh, and Monsieur, Siobhan continues, sil vous plat, assure
22
these girls that even though Emma and I are un peu intimidating, we hardly look down on them at all. The entire front row looks up. Its like the Wave people do
at baseball games, only with bobbing headbands sparkling with a dizzying array of tacky rhinestones.
me, nodding in almost imperceptible approval. Dylan, but I dont know that yet. And I full-on smile back.
entire class that no doubt thinks Im smiling about how much I look down on them by beaming at one. He is worth beaming at.
that wide mouth, slightly long brown hair, unbuttoned cuffs, his he swallows just before the point hed have to have a coughing fit or leave the room.
right arm hanging over the back of his chair. The wicked laugh
by mistake when he fell into a wind tunnel on his way someplace a lot more interesting. Which could explain why his hair is isnt wearing socks.
mussed and his shirttail has escaped from his pants and why he He is the most attractive person I have ever seen, with the
possible exception of Siobhan and the guy at the beach club, who was more of a fleeting mirage in the sad, overchaperoned desert of my life than an actual person.
23
ner of boys. And its clear that even in a lush forest of boystheir
minute differences, the rich variety of their faces and shoulders same thingthis is the boy.
and hands, emphasized by the fact that theyre all wearing the It occurs to me that if I dont stop staring at him, if I dont
suppress my desire to follow him out of the room and basically anywhere, he will probably notice.
ting in the empty cafeteria after French, when Im supposed to be in Math and shes supposed to be in Econ. unusually long time.
And its going to get better. I hold on to grudges for an Remind me not to get on your bad side.
How could you be on my bad side? she says, wide-eyed. Youre I have several semi-friends scattered across North America,
in cities where we lived when I was little and you make friends send chain letters threatening doom. I say, Yes.
were supposed to be for all of our classes (just in case wed and shepherds us to PE.
planned to spend the whole rest of the day eating frozen yogurt), Siobhan and I have checked our schedules, and we have four
I dont think Im supposed to be in PE. My schedule says PE Alternative Dance. But apparently Im trapped playing field hockey until Im No worries, Siobhan says when we are rifling through the
leftover gym clothes they lend people who need them. Ill get us out of this. First, she tries to convince the teacher we cant run around Were synchronized, she says. Its a scientific fact that best Suit up, he says.
to me. I lived in Milan before New York. There are old ladies who think you shouldnt take a bath during your period in Italy. Mr. Tinker points to the hockey sticks.
leaning on their sticks, ignoring us as much as possible given that were ten inches away from them. When Mr. Tinker blows his whistle, we go trotting after them, trying to blend in. Thirty seconds later, Siobhan is on the ground and you cant even tell who put her there, which girl is saying whoops over her shoulder. Whoops? Siobhan says, rubbing her thigh. Really?
get even. Or, more accurately, Get mad and get even. Soon, half the girls on the field would have bruised ankles and battered shins if they werent wearing monster shin guards.
25
Siobhan, it turns out, is the poster girl for Dont get mad,
the field, cornering the little ball and slamming it into the goal, plants herself in front of us. She says, What the hell. It isnt even a question. Did someIm sooooo sorry, Siobhan says. Maybe Im swinging too The girl snorts, a horses whinny kind of snort, appropriate
Equestrian Girl, who has been slashing her way up and down
because it turns out shes the queen of the eleventh-grade horsey do whatever you want.
girls. Right, she says. Well, Im Chelsea Hay, and you cant just Siobhan says, Watch me.
a petite girl who elbows me as if Id jumped her. Chelsea takes off not) and yelling, Take that, bitches!
with Siobhan at her heels, swinging (maybe at the ball and maybe Mr. Tinker blows his whistle until Siobhan can no longer
pretend she doesnt know it means shes supposed to stop trying to shed blood. I dont know what you did at your old school, he says. But Theyre my teammates?
Mr. Tinker rubs his shaved head. Do you play lacrosse? Eastside Episcopal, Siobhan says. Boys team. Varsity tryouts, he says. Tomorrow. Give me that stick.
26
Chapter Four
my desk in homeroom. I hear youre violent for a ballerina. You cant tell from his face or tone or posture if he thinks this is a good thing or a bad thing. not actual ballet.
I say, Not a ballerina. The bun is for PE Alternative Dance, When he rests his hand on the back of my chair, theres a
chill at the nape of my neck under the ballerina bun, in the same frequency vibration, or possibly lust. there.
general category as tingling, or a cold wind, or waves of highI heard you got a lot of help slashing from your friend over Dylan nods toward Siobhan, who is sitting at her desk admir-
ing her manicure, full-on lacquered gold in a room full of frosted pastels studded with small yet hideous jewel stick-ons.
purely accidental.
I dont know what you heard, but all dismemberment was Dylan is too deadpan to smile, but the corners of his mouth
do a little twitchy thing thats just as good. So. Did you grow up a bad temper?
playing ice hockey in a Canadian street gang, or do you just have In actual fact, I grew up eating homemade pie and watching
wholesome teen movies from the 1980s where the worst thing anyone does is wear criminally gigantic shoulder pads. Bad seed, I say.
let. I play for their performancesorchestra does. Seems like a more stable gang of thugs. What do you play?
Maybe you should ditch the field hockey and stick with bal-
Violin. Third chair, not exactly stellar. Only class I can stand Youre making me regret giving up cello. And not for musiHe says, Youd fit right in.
bands of thugs. Coming from a Canadian street gang and all. to you, right?
Anyway, thanks for the advice. I always keep my eye out for Dylan shakes his head. You know what theyre going to do What? I say. Embarrass us in front of the whole French
class. Knock us down when we try to be on their lame field Stick needles in my eyes.
hockey teams. Not talk to us. Avoid us. Sneer when I talk in class.
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Siobhan and I are a two-girl island in a sea of bobbing I get into (somewhat remedial) ballet that meets just before
lunch, and the girls tend to eat together. But in a room of stickthin, aspiring ballet girls, Im the Sesame Street, one-of-thesethings-is-not-like-the-others, doesnt-fit-in one who eats actual food. Because the ballet teacher here pitches a fit whenever anybody jiggles, even if theyre only there to get out of field hockey. I am not giving up food.
in the history of girls lacrosse, has teammates swarming her (grateful she has saved them from a season of endless defeat), but she says theyre all hormonal. And boys.
the picnic table the unattached onesthe ones who dont spend lunch making out with their girlfriends in between huge bites thought Siobhan insists is not an afterthought, Hey, Emma! of burgerlike. They go, Hey, Siobhan! and then, as an afterWithin a week, she is playing midnight touch football with
them, climbing the fence and evading Latimer security. And Latimer Day football boys.
I, Emma Lazar, Canadian good girl, am eating lunch with the Dylan is never around at lunch.
Siobhan says, Who are you looking for? Not that jerk from
29
the beach club. I told you hes not here. You should listen to me.
as this would involve pointing at Dylan and gnawing on my arm to keep from saying something truly embarrassing. Guys an arrogant dick, she says. Guy cant go on a simple
corkscrew run without sticking his tongue down some handy skanks throat. Making me the handy skank?
on his way to the matre d? How do you know if he even kept right. You dont.
She says, How do you know how many other girls he kissed
it in his pants between the beach and the clubhouse? Oh, thats How do you know I didnt captivate him with my charm?
I dont actually think this is what happened, but the thought of him kissing his way up from the beach, his lips landing on mine just because they were there, is not my memory of choice. Your charm and that dress. I love that dress.
The football boys, catching a snippet of a conversation with The mean girls walking past our table take note, but what are Us against them, Siobhan whispers. We win.
they going to do, dump their Fiji water down our backs?
In Math, Dylan walks past my desk even though his desk is in shoulder brushes my arm, smooth and alarmingly electric for navy blue gabardine. So. Any needles in the eye yet?
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the farthest back corner, by the door. The blazer hanging off one
Post-it and sticks it on my sleeve. He says, Text. They dont confiscate cell phones. They say they do, but they dont. I type his number into my phone. I do not pay attention in class.
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