The True Meaning of Cleavage Page 4

  It’s funny—when I’m in the art room, I forget I’m at Eldridge.

  All that week, I wait for Sari to say whether or not she likes my movie choices. I need to know, because she’s pretty picky about movies. But she doesn’t bring it up.

  The week after that, we are in the gym. I call the gym the Hall of Happy Thought. Once a month, we have community awareness assemblies, in which grades nine through twelve are exposed to something inspiring and life affirming. A documentary on the homeless. A slide show on the Middle East. Music that sounds like a sick cat. That kind of thing.

  Sari swears she’s going to start cutting every single assembly and go smoke on the park wall. This is definitely the fashionable thing to do, but frankly, I’m too chicken. Also, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right to skip out for a cig so you don’t have to see starving kids. Besides, my dad has promised me that if I ever start smoking, he’ll rip my lungs out for free.

  This assembly is so we can hear the speeches from people running for the president of student government. Nobody good ever runs for these things. Like this year, Daisy Fisher is running. She’s up there now, her stupid speech in her hands, trying not to look down too much while she talks so she can flash us this big cheesy smile that’s supposed to look sincere.

  Her opponent is Eric Reed. A lot of people say they’re going to vote for him. I am definitely going to vote for him. Anybody but Dippy Daisy.

  In the middle of some endless blah-blah about cleaner bathrooms, Daisy drops her speech. While she kneels down to get it, I write in my notebook and show it to Sari: I’m going to go reserve videos this afternoon. Want to come?

  I have to nudge her to get her to look at it. She frowns and kind of shakes her head.

  Daisy’s trying to find the place where she left off, so I whisper, “Well, is what I said okay?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, we should decide, because all the good ones will be reserved otherwise.”

  Then Daisy starts up again, so we have to be quiet. Then she finishes, and people go clap, clap, clap.

  Now it’s Eric’s turn to make his speech. It is three words long. It is …

  “Vote for Reed!”

  Everyone bursts into cheers, and Eric stalks around the stage, pumping his fists in the air. The whole place is chanting, “Reed! Reed! Reed!”

  Daisy Fisher looks like she’s going to cry. I’m chanting “Reed!” too, but for a second, I feel a little sorry for her.

  I glance over at Sari. She is not chanting “Reed!” She’s just staring off into space—something she’s doing a lot of these days. I feel like asking, What is with you?

  As we leave the Hall of Happy Thought to go downstairs, I say to her, “Look, what if I just go pick the movies, and then—”

  Sari frowns, and I can tell she has something she both wants to say and doesn’t want to say.

  “What?”

  “No, I’m just thinking.”

  “Okay, thinking what?”

  We get to our lockers. Pulling her coat on, Sari says, “What if, before we do videos, we just stop by the Halloween dance?”

  I make an immediate vomit noise.

  “Not for a long time. Just to see what’s going on.”

  “I know what’ll be going on. Grossness and stupidity. No thank you.”

  Now Sari’s pissed off. “Well, I might want to go.”

  “Well, then, go.”

  “Good, fine. I will.”

  And just like that, we’re not doing videos. Just like that, I’m stuck with nothing to do on Halloween, and Sari’s going to this asinine dance.

  And on top of everything else, we’re pissed at each other.

  For the rest of the day, I keep trying to figure out what happened. It’s like I have two voices in my head: my Nice Self, which feels bad, and my Pissed-Off Self, which feels … pissed.

  My Nice Self points out that I shouldn’t have been surprised that Sari wants to go to the dance. She’s always been more into that kind of thing than I have.

  Then my Pissed-Off Self says, Yeah, but she agreed to hang out that night.

  Sari didn’t say she didn’t want to hang out, says Nice Self. She just wanted to do something different while you were hanging out. Like go to this dance.

  Well, guess what? says Pissed-Off Self. I can’t stand dances.

  Yeah, but Sari likes them.

  And neither self has an answer for that one.

  The next day at school, I don’t see Sari all day. Which I guess means we’re avoiding each other. Which is okay, because I’m not speaking to her.

  And I guess she isn’t speaking to me either.

  I reserve the movies anyway. When I give the guy my video card, I think, Maybe when Sari realizes the dance is totally asinine, she’ll want to come over.

  We’ve never had a fight before. It feels strange.

  If Sari isn’t speaking to me, it means she’s as pissed at me for not going to the dance as I am at her for going. Which I totally don’t get.

  Fine, whatever. Let Sari go to the stupid Halloween dance. Let her look for whatever it is she’s looking for. Who cares?

  Yeah, says Nice Self. But if you’d gone, you could have hung out with Sari like you planned.

  Oh, shut up. I think. I’m renaming you Loser Self.

  And Loser Self is pretty much how I feel on Halloween, sitting alone in the living room, with a huge bowl of popcorn and a bag of M&M’s, watching my mother run to the door every time the bell rings. I look at the three videos, trying to decide which one I want to watch first. I was so psyched to get them. Now I feel like they all suck.

  There’s some kind of contest on the M&M’s bag. Aha, I think. I shall win a million dollars, a car, and a trip to Hawaii. I will give the car to my parents, primarily because I can’t drive yet. I will refuse to share any of it with Sari. She will be miserable she was not here to win with me.

  Tearing the bag open I read, “’Sorry, this bag is not a winner. Please try again.’”

  I’m putting in a video when I hear the phone ring in the kitchen. I put the movie on pause and listen as my mom answers it. “Hello?”

  I wait, hoping to hear, Oh, hi, Sari. Hold on …

  But then my mom says, “Miriam, how are you?” and I know it’s my aunt. They will be on the phone forever.

  So even if Sari does call, all shell get is a busy signal.

  And guess what? She’s not calling.

  I flop on the couch and hit PLAY.

  Stuffing a handful of popcorn in my mouth, I try to convince myself I am having a good time.

  It doesn’t work.

  Nobo wanders in looking for popcorn. I watch as this chick races through the woods, screaming, and wonder: A mad killer is after you, and your makeup is totally perfect. Your hair bounces perfectly, like in some creepy shampoo ad. Of course, the camera stays on her chest the whole entire time.

  My mom passes by the living room on her way back from appeasing the hordes. Hearing the screams, she stops and makes a face. “What are you watching?”

  “Camp Killer 2.” My mom looks horrified. “A maniac goes after camp counselors because they work at the camp where his little sister drowned … many years ago.”

  “That’s grotesque.” My mom comes in and sits down.

  I grin. “Oh, it is.”

  As we watch the movie, I can tell my mom is completely grossed out. She doesn’t say anything, but she keeps making these faces like she swallowed putrid phlegm. This is my mother’s normal reaction to most of what I like.

  Reaching for the popcorn, she says, “I thought Sari was coming over tonight.”

  I shrug. “She changed her mind.”

  “Oh.” She’s pretending not to be curious, but I know she is.

  I really don’t want to tell my mom about the dance. But I can feel her wanting to know, and so, finally, I say, “They’re having this Halloween dance at school, and she wanted to go.”

  My mom nods. Then, superca
sual, she asks, “You didn’t want to go?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I would rather eat rancid rat than go.”

  “Ah, hon.” My mom laughs. I look away, feeling like she’s laughing at me. If she didn’t want to know the answer, then she shouldn’t have asked.

  “Can I ask why you’d rather eat rancid rat?” Her voice is gentle.

  “Because …” I slump, dig my heels into the rug. “It’s all just a big stupid game. All you do is wait around for someone to notice you so you feel like you exist.”

  “Are you sure? I thought they were just big parties where people, you know, danced.”

  Now she’s teasing me. I say lightly, “Yes, I’m sure they were in 1847. But times have changed since you were a girl.”

  For a second, I’m scared she’ll be annoyed. But instead, she laughs and hugs me. “Okay, you win,” she says into my hair.

  Normally, with a hug, I would sit up after a second. But for some reason, I just sort of hang out in my mom’s lap for a while. We watch the rest of the movie, and I drop popcorn on the floor for Nobo, until Mom tells me to quit it, it’ll make him sick.

  And that’s how I spend Halloween.

  That night, before I go to bed, I check the answering machine. No one has called.

  I guess Sari’s having a good time at the dance.

  4

  —Hollow Planet: Thorvald’s Hammer The sight before them left them astounded. Finally three words broke the silence … “It cannot be!”

  On Monday, while I’m on the bus to school, my Nice Self and my Pissed-Off Self have another argument.

  Nice Self thinks I should ask Sari how the dance was. Pissed-Off Self says: Make her come groveling with apologies.

  I really do think Sari owes me an apology. And I don’t think I should speak to her until I get it.

  The only problem is, I miss her.

  Sometimes during a class, if I know I’m about to pass out cold from boredom, I ask to go to the bathroom. I take my book, and I just sit there and read, until my brain wakes up again.

  That’s exactly what happens to me just before Madame Balmain has a chance to ask me to conjugate venir.

  And that’s how I end up hearing what I hear in the third-floor girls’ bathroom.

  When I get there, I’ve got the place to myself. Then, when I’m settled in the left-hand stall, I hear the bathroom door open and what sounds like two or three girls come in. They’re all talking at once, and at first, it’s kind of hard to tell who they are.

  Then I peek under the stall door and see their shoes. Prada Mafia.

  “God, could you believe her?”

  “I just could not believe her.”

  Voice One is definitely Erica Trager. Voice Two is probably Michelle Burke, her dim flunky.

  “I was just, like, how trashy can you be?”

  “Well …” Big snort from Michelle. “Pretty trashy.”

  “Oh, yes.” Erica’s voice was turned all prim. “I forgot we were talking about Sari Aaronsohn.”

  Carefully, I lift my feet off the floor. I hope they don’t notice that one door is closed.

  “I mean, that skeleton costume she had on …”

  “Please, you mean sprayed on.”

  “So slutty.”

  I am about to get up and say, Who do you think you are? when I hear Michelle say:

  “And the way she was going after him.”

  I freeze. Who him? Which him?

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Totally pathetic.”

  I’m dying to tell them how pathetic they are. But I also want to find out who they’re talking about. So I stay where I am, quiet and hidden.

  “I mean, good luck, honey.”

  “Like he would ever look at her.”

  “Yeah. I mean, hello, when he’s …”

  Their voices are fading out, so I don’t get to hear who this guy is and why he would never look at Sari. Lots of guys look at Sari. Why wouldn’t this one?

  He probably would, I think, and that’s what’s got Erica and Michelle so twisted.

  I sit there for a long time, thinking. Is this why Sari went to the dance? Because she wanted to see this guy? Or did it happen by accident? What I mean is, is this someone she really likes?

  If it is, why didn’t she tell me about him?

  And who is he, anyway?

  Back in French class, while Madame Baimain is enlightening us about the glories of the plus-que-parfatt, I try to think of who Mr. Him could be. It could be Craig Schaeffer. Sari had a big crush on him last year. A few weeks ago, she called him a snot, but she could have been pretending. Or maybe it’s Eric Reed, who used to have this big crush on her. At least, he teased her a lot. But no way would Sari have to chase Eric Reed.

  I seriously hope it’s not Mr. Barry. If it’s Mr. Barry, I will have to take Sari to one of those clinics where they fry your brains.

  But if I’m honest, none of these guys feels like Him.

  So I guess I have to wait for Sari to tell me.

  That is, if she ever speaks to me again.

  At lunchtime, I’m sitting in the cafeteria, reading Hollow Planet, when I hear, “Hi.”

  I look up and see Sari. She’s looking nervous, but also kind of pissed off. Like if I don’t say exactly the right thing, she’s ready to split.

  I could just look back down at my book. Not say a thing.

  But Sari did make the first move.

  I figure the least I can do is move over so she can sit down.

  Which I do, and she does.

  For a second, we just sit there. Then I decide it’s better to get everything out in the open. So I ask, “How was Friday night?”

  Sari shrugs. “Okay. Kind of dumb.”

  Then she says, “It would have been better if you’d been there.”

  It’s weird—how one nice thing can make you forget you were ever mad at someone.

  To be nice back, I say, “Maybe next time I’ll come.”

  “Yeah?” Sari nudges me, like a dare or something.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Then I say, “I heard your costume was hot.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sari brightens up. “Who from?”

  Oops.

  “Um, some girl? I overheard her in the bathroom.”

  “Oh.” I can tell from her face that Sari is disappointed it was not Him.

  I decide to push a little. “So, who else was there?”

  “Nobody, really.”

  I’m about to ask how she could hang with nobody for a whole dance when she says, “How were the movies?”

  I smile. “Kind of dumb. Definitely would have been better if you’d been there.”

  So, Sari and I are back to being friends. Everything’s great, right?

  Right.

  Only here’s the thing: Sari’s not saying a word about Mr. Him. A week goes by, and nothing. I listen carefully whenever she talks about a guy or even Mr. Barry, but it’s not like her eyes light up or anything.

  At first I figure she doesn’t want to bring up anything about the dance, since we had a fight about it. But then I realize, whatever happened at the stupid dance, whoever He was, she’s not going to talk about it, period.

  Which I don’t get. Sari always tells me everything. She’s like that.

  Was like that.

  Is this guy so gross that she’s embarrassed? Or is it just me she doesn’t want to tell for some reason? Why wouldn’t she tell me?

  Question: How do you get someone to tell you something they don’t want you to know?

  One day, I say in a casual voice, “I saw Craig Schaeffer checking you out yesterday in assembly.”

  Now, last year, Sari would have freaked if I said that. She would have demanded to know when, where, and for how long.

  Now she just says, “Oh, barf.”

  I say, “I thought you liked him.”

  Sari looks at me like I’m demented. “Yeah, last year.” In other words: A zillion
eons ago, when I was a mere child.

  Okay, Craig’s out.

  The next day, I say, “You know who’s looking kind of cute this year?”

  “Who?”

  “Eric.”

  Sari frowns. “Eric?”

  “Reed.”

  Sari shrieks, “Oh, my God, I just ate.”

  Scratch Eric off the list. (As an added bonus, my best friend now thinks I have hideous taste in men.)

  Finally, I’m left with my least-favorite candidate, Mr. Barry. I will die if Sari likes Mr. Barry. It will be so creepy, I won’t be able to stand it. I’ll have to kidnap her and drag her to some deprogramming center. (Probably the same one she wants to take me to now that she thinks I think Eric Reed is cute.)

  One afternoon, after English class, I work up the nerve to ask her, “So, would you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “With Mr. Barry.”

  Sari makes a very candid and believable face, and says, “G. W.” This means Gag Wretch.

  Which means no.

  Which makes me feel better.

  Except that my supposed best friend is in love with someone and she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me who it is.

  But after another week with no clues, I’m starting to think maybe I overreacted. That I heard wrong or … I don’t know, imagined the whole thing. Or that Erica did. Probably all that happened at the Halloween party was that Sari said hi to some guy, and Erica blew the whole thing out of proportion. Because she’s jealous and always has to have something nasty to say about somebody.

  And that’s all there is to it.

  I feel seriously guilty. I can’t believe I believed anything Erica Trager would say—particularly about my best friend.

  Resolved: Find some way to make it up to Sari that I believed Erica and not her.

  On Friday, Sari and I are getting our stuff out of our lockers. I’m about to ask her if she wants to go for cheesecake, my treat, which I figure will be my secret apology.

  Then all of a sudden, Sari whispers, “Whatever you do, do not turn around. Okay? And don’t say anything.”

  I freeze. I am staring into my locker. Whatever is happening, I can’t see it because the door is blocking my view. I am wondering why Sari doesn’t want me to say anything when I hear her say, “Hey, David.”