And When I Die, page 6
The halls were empty as he made his way to the office to check his box for any messages. He nodded at a few teachers leaving for the day who only offered tight, polite smiles in return. Things certainly were different here in the suburbs. At least at this school. Back in the city, as the new guy, he would have already been to half a dozen happy hours and been taken under a flock of wings as the old timers showed him the ropes.
But not here. This was a quiet and dignified school, less prone to raucous happy hours, more inclined toward rushing home to husbands and wives and bottles of Merlot and wheels of Brie.
Still, he was grateful for the job. The fresh start. He hadn’t expected he would get one. Not after the brutality of the last two years.
Ron shook his head to wipe away the nightmare of the past couple of years. He wondered if there would ever come a day when it wasn’t with him every minute, every second.
Probably not.
The stout, dark-haired school secretary with the fuzzy, dime-sized mole on her cheek waved and said “Hola” as he entered the office and they chatted in Spanish for a few minutes before he grabbed his mail and told her to have a good night. That they were both Latino was probably why she bothered. Granted, he was only half, courtesy of his Puerto Rican mother, his European side owing to his Irish-Italian father, but he didn’t care. He was happy to have at least one ally at East Lake Forest High School. Even after coming in during the last two weeks of the previous school year, the other teachers still hadn’t exactly been warm and welcoming to him. It wasn’t his fault that the first-year teacher he replaced had finally snapped and quit by walking out in the middle of fourth period, never to return.
Ron smiled to himself as the warmth of the fading afternoon sun washed over him and he made his way to his dilapidated, salt-stained black Corolla, surrounded by a trough of luxury brand name cars—the proverbial weed in the garden. He wondered if the teachers snickered behind his back as they mused about who on earth would drive this blight. Someone who couldn’t afford anything else. At least for now.
He threw his briefcase into the passenger side of his car, relieved when it started right up. These days, it was a guessing game. He rotated his head around to relieve the knots in his shoulders and rolled the window down to compensate for the busted air conditioning. Winter would arrive in due time, so he’d suffer with his hot box of a car until the spring, when he could hopefully afford to get the AC fixed.
He made a quick stop at the grocery store, loading his little red basket with a loaf of bread, peanut butter, package of deli meat, a box of pasta, and tomato sauce, deciding at the last minute to splurge on a pint of Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and a bottle of Shiraz. A night of vegging out on the couch for a few hours while binge-watching Black Mirror was calling. Thank goodness his brother let him use the password.
When he pulled into his apartment complex, there was an empty spot right in front of his unit. He gathered up his briefcase and small bags of groceries, thoughts of the wine and ice cream sliding down his throat making him shiver in anticipation as he climbed the steps to his apartment. He juggled his keys as he fumbled to get the door open.
“Hey, baby.”
Ron gasped and turned to find her standing there. Right in front of him. The bags and briefcase slid out of his hands to the ground, the bottle of wine shattering as it smashed into the concrete.
“What the—” He hustled her inside, hoping no one had seen her before scrambling to gather up his briefcase and the sopping plastic bag of wine and glass. He slammed the door behind him, dropping everything to the floor.
“I was going to come by after school, but—” She jumped on him, smothering him in kisses. Like fire. “I thought this would be better.”
“Jesus … you can’t be here,” he panted, trying to pry her groping octopus arms from his body, wanting so badly to give in, knowing he couldn’t.
“Oh, come on. This is better, right?” she moaned, that tight, lithe body squirming against him, her Bubblemint gum and strawberry shampoo driving him to distraction.
Ron grabbed her and slammed her against the wall, rattling the cheap frames of the pictures, staring at her. Her bottom lip quivered, her eyes drowsy half-slits. Everything in him wanted to throw her down and bang her until the sun came up, melt into those silky legs, bury himself in all that soft, sweet, wild hair of hers. God, how bad did he want that.
No. It was wrong. All of it. He had to be the adult. He had to be the one in control.
He straightened up and sighed, his head hanging down. “Go home.”
“Come on, Ronaldo—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You know you love it when I call you that.”
“Look … go home. This has to stop. Do you understand?”
“But I love you, baby, I can’t—”
He dug into his pocket for his phone. “Do you want me to call your father? Huh? Have him come and get you?”
“Don’t,” she said, grabbing for his phone, which he held out of her reach. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’m giving you three seconds to turn around and go home and don’t come back,” he said, surprised and proud of the control in his voice. “Or, I will call your father.”
She folded her arms across her chest, pouting. “Fine. I’ll leave. For now.”
She blew him a kiss before opening his door, careful to avoid the puddle of purple wine pooling on the concrete. She slammed the door shut and for several moments, all he could do was stand staring at it as he waited for the storm inside of him to die down.
9
CARLY
“Hold still, Whitney.”
“Mom, stop. Let the woman do her job.”
Carly looked between Whitney and Mrs. Dean as the seamstress gathered a few inches of the glittery material of Whitney’s party dress at the waist and tugged at it. “You’ve lost a little weight since the last fitting, yeah?”
“She only eats protein bars,” Mrs. Dean said apologetically to the seamstress. “I try to get her to eat some actual food—”
“You can totally take this in, right, so that I don’t look like a cow? And have it back in plenty of time for the party?” Whitney asked as she preened atop the wobbly platform stationed in front of the bank of mirrors outside of the small fitting area.
“This is no problem,” the seamstress, a rotund Polish woman with short, curly red hair, said. “I take new measurements, we do right away.”
“Okay, Carly, tell me honestly, how do I look?” Whitney asked.
“It’s beautiful, Whit, really. Every girl is going to be so jealous.”
“Good.” Whitney turned back to look at herself in the mirror. “Mission accomplished.”
Whitney and the seamstress continued to chatter on while Carly turned her attention back to her phone. She’d been shocked when Whitney asked this morning if she wanted to come to the final fitting for her dress. Whitney had been so snarky with her yesterday after the whole confrontation with Jordan, and then claiming to be too busy to hang out after school, and not texting her at all. Whitney was secretive sometimes. Like a locked diary. It scared and worried Carly how Whitney would clam up. Carly had stressed out all night she truly was on the outs with Whitney this time. Whitney hadn’t shown the dress to anybody, wanting to wow everyone when she made her grand entrance on Saturday night. And now Carly was getting her own sneak peek. The dress, which Whitney designed herself, was based on somebody’s Oscar dress from a few years ago. Carly had no idea who, since she didn’t really keep up with award shows or things like that. But the dress was gorgeous. Whitney looked like a princess—a queen. Carly wondered how it was possible to be that perfect and still be so nice.
Carly snuck a peek over at Mrs. Dean, her own concentration on her phone seemingly unbreakable. If her mom was the cool mom, Whitney’s mom was like the movie star mom. She was a big-time real estate agent—practically anybody who was anybody in Lake Forest or Highland Park had bought their house from her. Where her mom had this kind of effortless style, this, ‘I just threw on these skinny jeans and random Tory Burch top and look like I walked out of a magazine,’ Mrs. Dean actually put in serious effort to look glamorous. She always wore expensive suits, lots of perfume, and high heels. Even her jeans and casual tops were elegant. Always a strand of pearls, chip-free nails, and red lipstick that never faded. Her blond hair always shiny and smooth, like she went to the salon every morning for a fresh blowout. Adding to her allure were the glimpses of tattoos Carly had spied over the years: an infinity symbol on her wrist, a small coiled snake on her shoulder, the tiny butterfly at the base of her neck. All of it made her even cooler.
“It was really nice of you to come with Whitney today, Carly,” Mrs. Dean said as she tapped the screen of her phone, the tip of one acrylic clacking against the screen.
She shrugged. “No problem, Mrs. Dean. The dress is beautiful.”
“I just hope the seamstress gets it done in time.”
“She seemed pretty confident.”
“So, how’s your mom? I haven’t seen her in forever.”
“She’s okay,” Carly said. “She’s out of town right now. I mean, again. Always.”
“Tell her once all of this party chaos is over, I’ll reach out to her so we can grab dinner.”
Carly nodded. “Sure, yeah, okay.”
Mrs. Dean looked up and smiled at her. “I’m so glad you and Whitney have been spending more time together lately.”
“Yeah, it’s been pretty cool,” Carly said. “Pom squad’s been a lot of fun. Whitney is such a good dancer. I’m learning so much from her.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. I’m happy to hear it’s worked out with you being on the squad.” Mrs. Dean flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I guess you took Jordan’s spot, then?”
“No, I tried out at the end of last year. Jordan was still on the squad. She only quit right before school started.”
“Oh, that’s right, that’s right.” Mrs. Dean fingered the long strand of pearls around her neck. “So hard to keep track sometimes.”
Carly laughed. “You sound like my mom.”
Mrs. Dean chuckled. “Yes, trying to keep up with all the comings and goings can be exhausting. At any rate, it’s good for Whitney to expand her circle while she and Jordan are taking a little bit of a break. All relationships need a little breathing room.”
Carly’s heart fluttered. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Dean gave a careless wave of her hand. “Just that whatever is going on with those two will blow over sooner rather than later.”
“Oh … you think they’ll make up?”
“I do, I do. I went through something like this with my best friend during my junior year. We had this huge fight over a guy and didn’t talk for six months. Then, we ran into each other at Sam Goody one Saturday and picked up right where we left off, like no time had passed. We’re still best friends to this day. And I can’t even remember the guy’s name.”
Mrs. Dean’s words were like a dagger through Carly’s heart. Her mom had said the same thing the other day, but her mom was always saying weird stuff like that. Coming from Mrs. Dean, though, that was different. It made it feel real, as though Whitney and Jordan making up could actually happen.
The seamstress slung her blue tape measure around her neck and scribbled some more in her notebook. “Okay, we get measurements, we fix super quick, you have beautiful dress in time for party.”
“Nadia, thank you so much,” Mrs. Dean said. “I know the dress is going to be perfect.”
“It’s no problem.”
Whitney stepped off the dais and headed toward the dressing room. “Mom, come help me with the pins and everything with the dress.”
“Excuse me, Carly,” Mrs. Dean said as she rose to head back to the dressing room with Whitney.
Carly’s heart continued to slam across her chest, Mrs. Dean’s words reverberating in her ears. Whitney and Jordan becoming friends again would suck. It would absolutely suck. She didn’t want Jordan around. At all. It would ruin everything. Besides being a little afraid of her, she didn’t want to give Whitney up and that’s what Jordan coming back into Whitney’s life would amount to. No more hanging out at the mall on the weekends, no more texting each other fifty times a day, or lattes at Coffee City.
No more Whitney and Carly. Carlney. Whitley.
“Hey, Carly.”
She looked up to see Dionne Cruise standing in front of her, her long red hair fluttering behind her, the wedge of makeup she wore only sort of covering the blanket of freckles across her face. She smiled at Carly, a sliver of peach lip gloss slashing one tooth. A bundle of clothes sheathed in plastic sleeves slung over the crook of both arms. Dionne Cruise. The biggest gossip in school. The last person you wanted to be alone with. Ever.
“Hey,” she said as Dionne took Mrs. Dean’s seat. “What’s up?”
“My mom sent me over here to pick up some of her tailoring. What are you doing here?”
“Whitney wanted to show me her dress for her Sweet Sixteen,” Carly said, straightening up in her chair, throwing her shoulders back. “She wanted my opinion on it.”
“Oh my God, is it the sickest thing ever?” Dionne asked, her eyes wide.
“So sick.”
“Okay, okay, okay, tell me exactly what it looks like.”
“I can’t do that. You’ll just have to wait to see it like everyone else,” Carly said, smugness lacing her words.
“This is going to be the party of the year.” Dionne squealed. “I’m so stoked.”
Carly still didn’t understand how Dionne scored an invite. Maybe Whitney wanted it spread around school to anyone who wasn’t there how awesome it was.
“Yeah,” Carly said. “It’s going to be pretty amazing. Totally surreal.”
“So, you will never guess what I heard about Jordan.”
Carly squirmed in her seat. “What?”
Dionne tossed her hair over her shoulder, before glancing around quickly, her gaze swiveling back to Carly. “I heard her mom totally cornered Mrs. Dean at the gym and demanded that she invite Jordan.”
“Who told you that?”
“My cousin works there, she heard the whole thing. Anyway, so is Jordan going?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ugh. Could you imagine?” Dionne smacked her lips. “It would be beyond ridic for her to be there.”
“Yeah, that would be pretty crazy.”
“You totally know what happened with them, don’t you?”
Carly opened her mouth, intending to say she had no idea.
Instead, she saw an opportunity. A way to solve the potential problem of Jordan and Whitney patching up their friendship.
And Dionne’s big mouth was going to help her.
She cleared her throat and leaned over. “I think it had something to do with a guy. Maybe.”
Dionne’s eyes lit up. “Seriously?”
“I mean, don’t quote me on this or anything, but Whitney told me Jordan’s a skank and a THOT and not to trust her.” She wasn’t telling an actual lie. That’s really what Whitney said. She just didn’t have all the details. Carly shrugged nonchalantly, her heart racing. “That’s all I know.”
“Whoa.” Dionne leaned back and Carly could see her wheels turning. “I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened. Jordan totally hooked up with someone Whitney was going out with.”
Carly stayed silent. The less she said, the better.
“I’m trying to figure out who it was.” Dionne turned to her. “Who was it?”
“That’s all I know.” She lowered her voice to deliver the boom. “But don’t say anything, since like I said, I don’t know much.”
“Carly, seriously. You can totally trust me.” Dionne pinched her thumb and forefinger together and drew it across her lips. “Sealed. Totally.”
“Cool.”
“I gotta bounce.” Dionne stood, adjusting the batch of clothes in her arms. “See you at school tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you.”
Dionne winked and left the shop just as Whitney’s voice floated out from the dressing room. Carly quickly picked up her phone and started scrolling, hoping she looked casual as everyone came out, the seamstress with the dress draped over her arm and Whitney back in her skinny jeans and Free People print top.
“Mom, Carly and I are going to walk over to Coffee City,” Whitney said. “We’ve got some pom stuff to talk about. We’ll split an Uber home.”
“All right, be careful. Dinner’s at six-thirty,” Mrs. Dean said as she came over and planted a kiss on Whitney’s cheek, then smiled at Carly. “Thank you for coming today.”
“No problem,” Carly said, beaming.
Mrs. Dean took her keys out of her purse. “Okay, girls, have fun,” she said before she breezed out of the shop.
Whitney linked arms with Carly as they followed behind. “I am so excited about my party, I can’t stand it. It’s going to be perfect.”
“Yeah. So on fleek,” Carly said, thinking about Dionne, hoping she’d given her enough ammunition to keep Jordan far, far away from Whitney.
10
JORDAN
Jordan tapped her nail against her MacBook as she reread what she’d just written for her American history essay. It wasn’t actually due for another few weeks, but she was trying to get ahead on a few things. It was amazing how much time she had now that she was no longer on pom squad. It was an added bonus that when she got home after school, her mom was out meeting with a client, her dad was still at work, her sister at soccer practice, meaning she had the house to herself, something that almost never happened. She’d propped her feet up on the coffee table, which would have driven her mother nuts, and binged three episodes of Kimmy Schmidt while scarfing half a bag of pita chips and hummus, which also would have made her mother crazy. She couldn’t wait to have her own place. She’d do stuff like this all the time. Just sit back and check out for a few hours.
