Freshman Year Page 2

  “Great! See you tomorrow.”

  After Kate leaves, I look around and evaluate the food court lines. I nearly join the crowd in front of Eegee’s, but the line at Hot Dog on a Stick is free and clear, so I beeline it over there instead.

  I stand a little ways from the counter and gaze up at the menu to figure out what I want. Ordering french fries isn’t normally a challenge for me, but I guess riding my bike fifteen miles in the hundred-degree heat and baking under the fluorescent lights in the fitting rooms like a Big Mac has sizzled my brain.

  I have a bad habit of twirling my hair when I’m thinking, so that’s what I do, as I stand there, spacing out at the menu like a moron.

  Then a straw wrapper sails through the air and hits my gaping mouth.

  And standing behind the counter, twirling a clean straw between her fingers, is a girl in her red, yellow, blue, and white striped polyester tank top with a whole lot of black hair stuffed under her matching striped paper hat. I have always loved those outfits, especially recently. I used to think it was because I associated the outfits with food, but now I’m definitely beginning to wonder if it isn’t something much more involved than that.

  “Is the menu too complicated for you?” she asks. She’s smiling, and her teeth are bright against her cocoa-brown face. It’s a smile I feel like I’ve seen before.

  I feel my face turn red like an instant sunburn, but then I do something I’ve never before done to a girl like her: I smile back. Then I stammer, “Uh, sorry. I’ll have a regular fry and a small lemonade, please.”

  I watch her peck my order into the register and see that her fingertips on her left hand are rough with calluses. My dad’s fingers looked like that because he played guitar all the time. He was really good. Mostly he played the Beatles, which is why he wanted to name me “Abbey Road” Brooks, after one of their later albums. My mom said no way, of course, because she’s a total bore. So, instead, they named me plain Abbey Brooks. But now that Dad’s dead, Mom calls me Abbey Road. I’ll never get her.

  Now I’m wondering how long the girl with the nice smile has been playing guitar and where the heck I know her from. I try to look at her name tag, but it’s hiding in a fold of her uniform and I’m afraid if I look there for too long it’ll look like I’m checking out her boobs, which I’m currently not doing. I mean, not really.

  “That’ll be six dollars and twenty-five cents,” she says.

  Where could I have met someone cool like her? It’s not like I go to concerts or coffee shops or wherever cool people hang out. Then I notice she’s reaching for another straw and I snap out of it. At that exact same moment, her name tag is finally revealed, but it’s plastered with stickers from Chiquita bananas.

  As I reach into my backpack for my wallet, I can’t hold back a goofy smile. See, my dad used to put Chiquita stickers on my nose every time we shared a banana, and I’ve spent the last five years sticking Chiquita stickers all over my wallet to keep that memory close.

  The girl, I’ll call her the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick, notices our shared affinity for bananas. “Nice wallet.”

  “Thanks.” I smile bigger, if that’s even possible. “Nice name tag.”

  I’ve only been around her for about two minutes, but I think…no, I know, I want to be like her and near her. She seems so confident, like she knows what she wants out of life and how she’s going to get it. I wonder how people get that way.

  She repeats my order to the guy working the fryer and then says in a voice that’s cooler than the frigid mall air conditioning, “Y, apúrale, gringo. Tenemos una morra bien loca que tiene mucha hambre.”

  With my junior high Spanish skills, I know she’s just said I’m crazy and really hungry, which is pretty much true. I smile again and then sneak a peek at her eyes while she gets my change. They’re brown with tiny flecks of gold sprinkled in like glitter.

  She asks for my name and I panic before I realize that it isn’t for any special reason; it’s so she can call me up for my order. “Tu nombre…?” she asks again and poises her finger over the register keys.

  I open my mouth with every intention of telling her my name, but all I can think of to say is Chunks. “Um-uh,” I say to try to buy time, but she’s already typing something on the keypad.

  The name Amara illuminates on the screen.

  “Okay, Amara, I’ll call you in a sec.” Then she turns away to get my drink and…did she just wink at me? Whoa, this is definitely a first, but then I get a reality check and convince myself that she just got some lemon pulp in her eye.

  I sit down at a nearby table because, for some reason, my knees are shaking and I feel like I might collapse. I want to look at her a little longer, but instead of staring at her like a hungry puppy, I count the Nikes walking by. A minute later the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick calls Amara on her loudspeaker, but I don’t make the connection because I’m too busy trying to count the Nikes walking by and trying not to obsess over how she is making me feel. Then she says it again, follows it with a laugh, and I finally realize she’s calling me.

  I bolt up to the counter, but then slow down so I won’t look too desperate for the french fries or to talk to her again.

  She slides the tray to me and flashes her stunning smile again. “Here you go, Amara. Enjoy.”

  I look down at my tray because she makes me feel so shy. Then because I’m a professional idiot I say, “Oh, uh, I paid for a small lemonade, not a large. I mean, I don’t want you to get in trouble,” and pick up the drink to hand it to her.

  She takes it, but puts it back onto my tray. “Sure, Amara, the lemonade police are going to bust through the door to take me away for giving you a bigger size.” Then she laughs and winks again, and this time I’m almost sure she winks on purpose.

  I laugh, too, because I don’t know what to say or do with myself. I’m on uncharted ground, so I stand there, hold tight to the tray, and wait for my brain to send the message to my feet that it’s time to go.

  Just as I’m about to finally make my escape, she puts her hands on my tray, her right index finger nearly touching my left pinky. “Hey, Amara,” she says easily, as if this new name is the one my parents had finally decided on.

  I don’t dare move an inch. I’m sure if our fingertips touch I’ll implode.

  She leans across the glossy red counter. “Come here. I’ve got some advice for you.”

  I move in a little closer, but I can’t speak or even blink. I reach for my ponytail to twirl but force my hand down and wait for her next words.

  “Amara, the next time you are given more than you expect, just say thank you and walk away.” Her voice is heavy and sweet now, like cold maple syrup.

  Then the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick just looks at me, and something about the way she does this activates a memory I didn’t even know I had. She’s that girl from elementary school. I still can’t remember her name, but I know she’s at least three grades ahead of me. She was the one who beat every boy at tetherball, and she never wore socks or hair bands that matched her outfits. And then I remember how she ate her string cheese very carefully, tearing each strip with the precision of a surgeon, unlike me who would just bite into it like the ogre that I am.

  The memory feels like a jolt of something unfamiliar in my body, and all I want to do is get out of there. “Okay, thanks,” I say way too loudly and yank my tray toward me. The giant lemonade teeters but doesn’t spill.

  “Wait a minute, Amara.”

  I freeze again. Oh my God, she can tell. What she can tell I’m not so sure of, but maybe she knows me better than I know myself, which seems very possible.

  “Do you go to Gila High?” She leans on her elbow and squints at me. “You look really familiar.”

  I mumble something about being a freshman.

  “Oh, then you went to McCormick Elementary, right?”

  I nod and wonder why no one else in the whole entire mall wants a corn dog or fresh-squeezed lemonade. It’s like we’re suddenly alone. Very,
very alone.

  “Yeah, I remember you now. What was that crazy Halloween costume you wore one year?” She taps the counter with her hard fingertips.

  I beg the greater beings of our universe to help her forget, but I know from experience that the universe works in magical and sometimes hateful ways.

  “Oh yeah, you were a guitar-playing rock.” Then she laughs at me for the third time. I like her laugh, though, even if it’s at my expense. “Very creative.”

  I could save the entire moment by simply saying, “Thank you,” but instead I say, “Well, I was actually a piece of metamorphic rock. Gneiss, to be exact, which is formed by the intense heat and pressure surrounding it. It was supposed to symbolize the pressure rock stars are under, kind of. Um, I mean, well, it was my dad’s idea. I wanted to be a unicorn.” My dad would have been so pleased that I remembered the rock facts, but I totally regret the words as they leave my mouth.

  “Good to know, Amara.” Then the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick nods at the woman who has apparently been standing behind me, waiting for her turn to order. “I guess I’ll see you at Gila next week.”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably be there. I mean, of course I will. I have to go to school. It is the law. Besides, where else would I go?” Oh, how I wish I could go back to being a smiling, but voiceless, idiot. “So, see you soon. Or whenever,” I say, then grab my tray and hurry away like an Olympic speed walker.

  And this is how my crush on the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick begins.

  Chapter Two

  “And don’t cheat, Abbey,” Kate says, as she washes down a spoonful of raw brownie batter with a gulp of Mountain Dew.

  “I’m not, so shut up already.” I lean in closer to the screen to read the next question.

  It’s around two in the morning and it’s our last sleepover at my house before our big first day of high school. My mom said good night four hours ago, making us swear we wouldn’t stay up past midnight. We did promise to go to bed, but after my mom takes her prescribed sleeping pills she’s pretty much in a coma. I guess I’m not the only one who still has dead-dad-caused sleep issues.

  So here we are, strung out on brownie batter and Mountain Dew, enjoying our last night together before high school. Sarah and Marisol are sharing the earphones of Sarah’s iPod while simultaneously beautifying themselves, and Kate’s forcing me to take a stupid online personality quiz titled “Which Condiment Are You?” I’ll admit I’m thinking about lying on some answers, but I don’t because I know they will double check them. Being the founding sisters of the Doolen Junior High Geek Pack, we take tests very seriously.

  “What does any of this have to do with my personality?” I ask after answering a question about how long I leave conditioner in my hair before rinsing.

  “Just freaking do it,” Kate says, throwing my U of A Wildcats pillow at my head.

  Cherry or Vanilla Coke? I hate both but pick Cherry because it seems to have a sexual connotation, which I hope will increase my score. Gap, Wrangler, Levi’s, or Lucky jeans? I pick Lucky for the same reason as above.

  Marisol leans over my shoulder, smacks her gum in my ear, and reads the next question out loud. “‘Who would you most enjoy grinding on the dance floor with? Katy Perry, Madonna, Miley Cyrus, or Lady Gaga?’ Yeah, that was a tough one.”

  That’s when I close my laptop and push myself away from my desk. I make pretty good distance in my wheeled chair on the wood floor. “Hey, I know. Let’s do something else. Who wants to torture me with makeup?”

  “Nice try, Abbey.” Kate kicks my chair, and I’m back where I started. “Open up your flipping computer and answer it.”

  “Yeah, who’s it gonna be?” Sarah says, blowing some loose strands of blond hair out of her face. She’s hunched over, painting her toenails, her turquoise thong peeking out of the back of her yoga pants. No one says anything, so I guess that’s the style. Then Sarah says, “I picked Madonna because I don’t really like dancing and she’d probably get tired faster being that she’s a hundred years old.” She finishes her toenails and moves on to do her fingernails. She changes the color of her nails so much I am convinced she’s lost some brain cells from the toxic polishes and remover. In fact, she nearly got kicked out of the Geek Pack when she got a B in Science, but Kate let her stay because Sarah has a giant trampoline at her house and a sister who works at Old Navy who gives Sarah and all her friends the employee discount.

  “I don’t know why they all have to be gringas.” Marisol usually complains in Spanglish, which Kate hates because she can only half understand her.

  Sarah and I get it, though, because we took Advanced Spanish in junior high seeing as we live in Arizona and all. Kate, on the other hand, took German because she wanted to be different. Sometimes, on very rare and beautiful occasions, Marisol uses her wonderful native language to tell Kate off. I enjoy those moments.

  “Besides, brown girls are where it’s at,” Marisol says, as she straightens another lock of her thick black hair. “Prefiero bailar con Shakira que con alguna de esas vacas.”

  “What the hell are you saying, Mari? Are you talking about me?” Kate asks then smacks me again. “Just pick one, Abbey.”

  “Yeah, Marisol, Shakira is a good dancer, but I guess I’ll pick Lady Gaga.” I click on her name. “There. I’m done.”

  “That was my second choice,” Sarah says. “She’s got a nice ass.”

  But Kate gags and says, “Nah. She’s too freaky. She’d probably try to make out on the dance floor.”

  I remind myself this is straight-girl talk; my friends are so very, very not gay and that’s why they can talk like this. But for me, the one who is crushing hard on the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick, this is a tricky situation.

  The website slowly contemplates my condiment.

  “Read it to us,” Kate demands.

  “I will. Hold on. There’s nothing to read yet.” Then a giant pickle appears on the screen, which I’m predicting is not a good sign.

  “Well?” Marisol and Sarah say in unison.

  “Okay, it says, ‘Congrats! You are relish: though you are rarely wanted, you are good to have in the back of the fridge and sometimes you can be sweet.’”

  They all bust up laughing.

  In between gasps, Kate manages to say, “Abbey’s smothered all over wieners!” and they all cackle again.

  I stare at the screen in disbelief. Relish? Why not salsa like Kate—fresh and spicy, and good with every meal? Or at least mustard like Sarah—packs a punch and offers many flavors to please everyone. But, no. I get stupid pickled relish. I spin a lock of hair between my fingers for comfort while my friends laugh at me. Unlike the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick’s laughter, theirs makes me feel like crap.

  “Hey, Weiner Sauce, take notes,” Kate says after finally catching her breath. “It’s time to make our new list of rules for high school.”

  Glad to change the subject, I pull a piece of paper from my printer tray and take on my duties as the official Geek Pack secretary.

  The Geek Pack is our not-so-secret club. It was founded in seventh grade, which was precisely when we discovered that if the four of us stuck together, we could continue to earn the highest grades in class while helping each other fend off cheaters and other classmates who found our genius irritating. In junior high, we displayed our A+ grades proudly on our bedroom walls and celebrated every honor roll and student-of-the-month certificate. In fact, mine are still taped to my closet doors around the edges of my Beatles posters.

  “First of all,” Kate says, pointing her brownie spoon at each of us, “from this point forward, the Geek Pack is null and void.”

  Sarah stops blowing on her nails and nods her head in agreement because that’s what she always does. Kate could say, “From this point forward, Sarah will cluck whenever we eat pizza,” and every time we sat down for a slice at Mama’s Pizza, Sarah would start clucking away. Marisol hesitates, runs the straightener down her hair to think on it, and then agrees that it’s time to end our
little haven of intellectual security. I’m usually the most argumentative one, but I feel too tired and shocked, so I write, Rule #1: The Geek Pack is dead. And just like that, when I feel like I’ll need it most, it’s gone.

  “Rule number two,” Kate says, as she eats another spoonful of batter, “we can enroll in honors classes, but we should not sit in the front row or raise our hands to answer questions.”

  “Why not?” Sarah asks.

  Kate glares at Sarah with great exasperation. “Because hand raising is for dorks.”

  Marisol looks pensive and finally says, “What if we have to go to el baño?”

  Kate looks at me.

  “The bathroom,” I translate.

  “Obviously, you can raise your hand for that, Mari.”

  Then Sarah asks, “What if the teacher is asking something like, ‘Who wants to get out of class early?’”

  “Next rule,” Kate continues. “Rule number three—no dating loser freshmen boys. No exceptions. Rule number four—no asking about extra credit assignments. Rule number five—no helping teachers grade papers. Rule number six—absolutely no displaying of report cards.” After this one she looks over at me and then looks at my closet door.

  “Whatever. I’ll take them down tomorrow.” I wonder if I’m the only one who already misses the old us.

  When Kate finishes her rules, my whole page is full. Most of them are as stupid as Rule #14, which states that pink shall only be worn on Tuesdays. The only one I do like is Rule #20: We will eat lunch together every day. This makes the loss of Geek Pack feel a little less tragic. Like there might still be a chance for a reunion tour senior year.

  By around three o’clock, the brownie batter has settled uncomfortably in our stomachs, the Mountain Dew wears off, and we decide we’re all too sick and tired to stay up any longer. We pinky-swear in the new rules with our never-to-be-used-again song: “We link our pinks and swear to keep this promise ’til we sink.”

  While Marisol and Sarah, still connected by Sarah’s earphones, sleep on an air mattress on the floor, I lie next to Kate in my bed, holding tight to the edge of consciousness and to the side of my mattress. I have to stay awake because if I let myself fall asleep, I might slowly slip into the middle and our bodies might touch. I don’t think of Kate in that way and never have, but if I accidentally snuggle up to her in my sleep and she finds out about my crush on the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick and she freaks out and we are never friends again…well, I’m pretty sure I’ll die.