There’s usually a completely clueless kid on the line, punching away at the keypad, unaware he’s even made a call. It drives my father nuts, but he’s convinced it would be too much of a hassle to have the number changed. Personally, I think it’s hilarious. Sometimes, late at night, I’ll pick up and try to get a conversation going with whoever’s on the other end. A lot of the time they don’t speak English, but last December this charming little kid decided I was Santa Claus and made me promise to get him a retainer for Christmas, which just about killed me.
When Dad sat back down at the table, he picked up his fork as though we hadn’t just heard him shouting obscenities into the phone.
“So, Ezra,” he said, giving me the same schmoozy grin he must use at every UCLA alumni donor reception, “how’s the new car running?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” I said, even though it was just your average five-year-old sedan. Not like I’d been expecting our insurance, or my dad, to replace the roadster. But, I mean, it would have been nice.
“Well, just remember, kiddo: if you put a dent in that thing, I’ll kill ya.” Dad started laughing like he’d said something tremendously witty, and I offered up a weak grin in return, hoping I’d missed the joke.
6
IF EVERYTHING REALLY does get better, the way everyone claims, then happiness should be graphable. You draw up an X axis and a Y axis, where a positive slope represents a positive attitude, plot some points, and there you go. But that’s crap, because better isn’t quantifiable. Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about in Calculus the next morning while Mr. Choi reviewed derivatives. Well, that and how much I hate math class.
I got in line for the coffee cart during break, where I had the particular luck to get stuck behind two freshmen girls who wouldn’t stop giggling. They kept bumping each other with their shoulders and glancing back at me, as though daring each other to say something. I didn’t know what to make of it.
They hung around while I gave my coffee order, and when I grabbed a sugar packet from the little station, the taller girl thrust a stirrer at me.
“Thanks,” I said, wondering what this was about. I’d occasionally experienced this sort of thing from love-struck freshmen during junior year, but I was pretty certain that my status as an unattainable upperclassman had been irrevocably withdrawn.
“Hi, Ezra,” the girl said, giggling. “Remember me? Toby’s sister?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, even though I doubted I would have recognized her in the hallway. She looked like so many other freshmen girls, skinny and brunette, with a pink hoodie and matching braces. And then I realized I’d completely forgotten her name.
I stalled, stirring the sugar into my coffee, and then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Good morning,” Cassidy said brightly. “What kind of high school has its own coffee cart?”
“Beverage cart,” I said. “We had a coffee rebellion last year. Before that, it was just hot chocolate.”
I started to introduce Cassidy to Toby’s sister, mostly out of politeness, and hesitated, wishing I could remember the girl’s name.
“Emily,” Toby’s sister supplied.
“Right, Emily,” I said sheepishly, committing it to memory.
The passing bell rang, and both freshmen looked panicked, as though the world would collapse if they didn’t head to class that very second. Ah, to be a ninth grader.
“Shouldn’t you two get to class?” I asked, gently teasing them. “Don’t want to be late.”
They scrambled away as though I’d given orders. I could hear them giggling as they walked, their shoulders pressed together.
“Don’t want to be late,” Cassidy echoed with a smirk. She’d ditched the oversized boy’s shirt in favor of a plaid dress that must’ve been an antique. It was tight in all of the right places though, and Butch Cassidy she was not.
I threw away my empty sugar packet and headed toward the Speech and Debate classroom.
“It’s called a tartle,” Cassidy said, following me. “In case you were wondering.”
“What’s called a tartle?”
“That pause in conversation when you’re about to introduce someone but you’ve forgotten their name. There’s a word for it. In Scotland, it’s called a tartle.”
“Fascinating,” I said sourly. Actually, it was interesting, but I was still upset with her over what had happened in Spanish class.
“Wait,” Cassidy persisted. “About what I said yesterday? I didn’t know. God, you must hate me. Go ahead, I give you permission to aim an invisible crossbow at my heart.”
She stopped walking and stood there a moment, her eyes squeezed shut, as though expecting me to play along. When I didn’t, she frowned and caught up with me once more.
“It’s not like I was asking around or anything,” she continued. “The whole school’s talking about you. And we’re going to be late, by the way, if we don’t hurry.”
“You’re the one walking with me,” I pointed out.
She bit her lip, and I could tell that she’d made a pretty educated guess as to why I hadn’t wanted to walk her to English the day before. This strange, silent moment of understanding passed between us.
“What’s your fourth period?” I asked, filling the silence.
“Speech and Debate.” Her lip curled, as though she’d gotten stuck with the class like I had.
“Me too. Listen, you should go ahead.”
“And let you take that invisible crossbow and aim it at my back?” she scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
And so we were late together.
“FAULKNER!” TOBY BOOMED. He was sitting on top of the teacher’s desk and wearing another shocker of a bow tie. Class hadn’t started, and hardly anyone was in their seats. Through the little window built into the door, I could see Ms. Weng in the Annex, in conversation with the journalism teacher.
Toby slid off the desk and practically choked when he saw Cassidy.
“What are you doing here?” he spluttered.
“You two know each other?” I frowned, glancing back and forth between them. Cassidy looked horrified, and I couldn’t read Toby’s expression at all.
“Cassidy’s—well,” Toby seemed to change his mind mid-explanation. “She’s a fencer.”
For some reason, this made Cassidy uncomfortable.
“What, like swords?” I asked.
“He means a picket fencer,” Cassidy clarified, grimacing as though the subject was painful. “It’s just this term from debate. It’s not important.”
“Like hell it’s not!” Toby retorted. “I can’t believe you transferred to Eastwood. You transferred here, right? Because, seriously, this is epic! Everyone’s going to freak out.”
Cassidy shrugged, clearly not wanting to talk about it. We took a table together in the back, and, after a few minutes, Ms. Weng came in and passed out a course description. She was young, barely out of grad school, the sort of teacher who would constantly lose control of the class and quietly panic until the teacher next door came in and yelled.
She talked about the different types of debate and then made Toby get up and sell us on joining the debate team.
He sauntered to the front of the classroom, buttoned his blazer, and grinned.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I presume that we all share an interest in booze, mischief, and coed sleepovers.”
The color drained from Ms. Weng’s face.
“I’m speaking, of course, about getting into college, where one has the option to engage in those sorts of illicit activities after achieving academic excellence, naturally,” Toby quickly amended. “And joining the debate team makes an excellent résumé stuffer for those college applications.”
Toby continued talking about the debate team, the time commitment, and the school’s past record (“We’re even worse than the golf team!”). He was a decent public speaker, and for a moment I wondered why he’d never gone out for student government. And then I remembered the severed head.
Afterward, Toby sent around a sign-up sheet for the first debate tournament of the year, which no one signed. When the sheet got to Cassidy, her shoulders shook with silent laughter. She slid the piece of paper onto my desk.
Written at the top of the list, in obnoxiously hot pink Sharpie, was this beauty:
EZRA MOTHA-EFFING FAULKNER, YO!
(you owe me for the Gatorade piss)