Chapter 42
SLEEPOVER
Entenmann’s?” Brainzilla asks when I open the door. She’s holding out a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts.
“I’ve got milk!” Flatso says, holding up a gallon. “Plus three Will Ferrell movies!”
“Oh, I—”
“We thought we’d have a sleepover,” Brainzilla says as she pushes open the door. “If you don’t mind.” She and Flatso don’t wait for me to agree, or anything. They just bust into the living room, where Marjorie is drinking coffee in her bathrobe and cursing out an electric knife on TV.
“Listen, guys, I’m not sure that Marjorie—”
“Did someone say Entenmann’s?” Marjorie asks.
My friends charm Marjorie, who gets dressed and makes us a pesto-and-gorgonzola pizza (which is delicious, by the way).
Later, when Marjorie heads out to go grocery shopping at midnight (her favorite time), I get to have some quality time with my besties. We settle in and flip through magazines, while Flatso paints our toenails. My room is still cold, but it feels cozy with my friends and Morris to cheer me up.
“I’m so glad you two came over tonight.”
“Yeah—we kind of thought you needed a hug,” Flatso says.
Brainzilla nods.
I swear—my friends are the best. I couldn’t even make up anyone as good as them.
“I don’t know how you guys even put up with me,” I say. I seriously mean this. Who wants to be friends with someone who’s sad all the time?
“We love you,” Flatso says. “And the thing is, you don’t even understand how amazing you are.”
“W. H. Auden was talking about you when he said poetry is ‘the formation of private spheres out of a public chaos,’ ” Brainzilla replies.
“Thanks,” I whisper. I’m not really sure what she means, but I think she’s talking about my writing. Anyway, I know she means it as a compliment, and I love her for just being here. And for being her.
I know I’ve had a lot of bad luck lately. But I’ve had good luck, too.
Just look at how lucky I am right now.
Chapter 43
DRESSED FOR STRESS
Three hours.
That’s how long it took Brainzilla to decide what to wear to her informational interview with the Yale alum. I didn’t realize that it was possible for one person to own so many accessories.
Once we narrow down the choices, Brainzilla comes out looking gorgeous and impressive, as always. She’s wearing a soft pink sweater and a gray knit skirt. Black tights and high-heeled booties make her legs look five miles long, and she has on a wrist full of funky African bangles made by a women’s cooperative that she did a fund-raiser for last year. (Perfect conversation starter.) Even though this isn’t a super-official interview, Brainzilla always goes for the knockout punch. Still, she’s so nervous that she begs me to come with her to the café.
“Won’t that look weird?” I ask.
“I’m not asking you to sit in my lap,” Brainzilla says. “Just walk with me, so I don’t hyperventilate and die on the way there. Then you can order a Frappuccino and read, or whatever, while I talk to this woman.”
She had me at “Frappuccino.”
But before we reach the front door, Brainzilla’s mom calls, “Katie!” She dashes in, her hair escaping in wisps from her ponytail. In her brown Cape Cod sweatshirt and jeans, she looks younger than Brainzilla. “How long will you be gone?”
“Just an hour, Mom,” Brainzilla promises.
“I really need your help with your brothers,” Mrs. Sloane says.
“Just an hour.” Brainzilla is begging, and I wonder if her mother even knows where she’s going. Her parents didn’t go to college. The whole idea is vague to them—except for the cost, which is real, and terrifying.
But Mrs. Sloane just nods, and Brainzilla and I walk out the door. Even though I’m supposed to be keeping her calm, we’re silent the three blocks to the café. I let Brainzilla walk in first, then slink into the warm, fragrant air like an innocent bystander. I order my drink and settle in at a table beside a steamed-up window.
Brainzilla’s feet are tap-tap-tapping beneath her table, so I know she’s nervous. But even from across the café, I can tell that she and the Yale lady are getting along well. Zilla gestures wildly, and Yale Lady laughs. Perfect.
I space out and look around the café. I didn’t bring a book—or even my notebook—so I decide to play my favorite form of solitaire. It’s a game I made up in which I imagine the people around me as literary characters.
This is such a fun game that I completely lose track of time, and before I know it, Brainzilla has slipped into the seat across from mine. She’s beaming so hugely that I don’t even need to ask how it went. But I’m polite.
“How was it?”
“Fabulous!” Brainzilla peeks over her shoulder, but the woman has disappeared into the parking lot. “We really got along.”
“You can talk to anyone.”
“I even told her to friend me, so we can stay in touch on Facebook,” Brainzilla gushes. “I wanted her to see the photos from debate team, and a few from the hospital.” Brainzilla has a volunteer gig reading stories to kids with cancer. Because she has so much spare time.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “I can just feel it, Kooks! This is the beginning of the beginning!” Her toes are still tapping a crazy dance beneath the table, as if a thousand volts of electricity are shooting through her. I know she’s happy, but I can tell by her wide eyes that she’s stressed out.
“That’s great!” I really want to tell her that I’m proud of her, but that’s kind of silly. I mean, even with perfect grades and excellent test scores, and a million extracurriculars, she still might not get into Yale. I know she’s counting on it. I know she thinks her whole life will change if she goes to an Ivy League school.
I just hope it works out the way she hopes it will.
I think we’re all kind of counting on it.
Chapter 44
SMOKIN’
Some people have video games, some have bad reality television, and I have homeroom with Laurence.
There’s nothing wrong with escaping from reality sometimes. It’s not like I’m a heroin addict.
Well, I might be a heroine addict, or in Laurence’s case, a hero addict, but that’s not as dangerous. So I don’t hesitate to imagine up a lovely date with Laurence. Dating him is way easier than dating in real life. Real life is complicated.
Laurence’s only flaw is that he doesn’t exist.
“Your only flaw is that you do exist,” Laurence tells me. Sigh—high school boys never come up with such witty repartee!
I can’t tell you how much I love thinking about Laurence and writing down our story. With Laurence, I can have our first kiss take place under a rainbow or in a cave hidden behind a waterfall or up in a hot-air balloon. Whatever I want—I’m in charge. I’m not in charge of much these days, but I am in charge of that.
Laurence and I go for a stroll in the summer countryside. It’s warm and smells like hay. Dust motes float on golden sunshine as he tells me that he loves me. He says that he wants us to be together forever, in a comfortable house with a small garden in the back.
Everything is beautiful and wonderful for fifteen minutes. Then the bell rings, and I have to plunge back into the daily grind.