“You’ve been gushing most of the day, then?”
I looked down. “Pretty much…” I wasn’t sure the gushing metaphor was helping.
“And Peter? He’s been gushing too?”
“Uh…on and off…you know…”
Mom picked up from my dresser the little crystal dog that Todd Kovich had given me when we were achingly in love. She examined it for clues. “Then why,” asked Mom, poised for truth, “were you crying?”
I stiffened, because that wasn’t the point. I wasn’t crying now. “It was a momentary lapse, Mother, everything is fine now—massively flawless. You and Dad won’t have to worry about me ever again.”
She took this in. “Your father will be relieved.”
“It’s been a decent day.”
Mom measured her next words carefully. I figured she had three minutes left before she folded. “I don’t want you to misinterpret what I’m about to say.”
I froze in misunderstanding.
“Or be defensive.”
I folded my arms tight.
“I’m glad you’ve got a guy you really like, A.J., but I think you need to walk very carefully.”
“Mother, I’m—”
“You need,” she said, gaining strength, “to look at this relationship with clear eyes—”
“You don’t even know him, Mother, and—”
“But I know you,” she said. “And I’ve seen the frustrations you’ve gone through with other relationships because your heart gets in the way of your mind and you close yourself off to the truth about people.”
I was ripped, but said nothing.
“Todd Kovich,” she reminded me, putting the crystal dog down, “wasn’t a nice guy.”
“I’d appreciate it, Mother, if you would never utter his name in my presence…”
“You knew the games he’d played with other girls; you saw firsthand how he used and manipulated relationships. You knew who he was, A.J., when you went out with him.”
“I don’t want to talk about this now…”
“I know you don’t…but we need to talk about it because the same thing happened with Robbie Oldsberg and Scott Zimmerman and Don Lucetti with that great cleft chin. I don’t want you to leap into another relationship without thinking. Looking for perfect is a big, fat myth because perfect isn’t out there.”
That was rich coming from my mother, the Emotional Gourmet of Crestport, Connecticut, who had been known to slave for hours trying to perfect her Candied Claret Pears that guests would consume in eleven minutes flat. I had seen her throw out cakes that were a half an inch too short and sneer at any zucchini that wasn’t seven inches long and perfectly tapered. I wanted to shout that perfection sure seemed to run in the family, and that I, for one, could have it without guilt and pain. All it took was a little arrow flying through space and a reverberating thwonk.
“I’m in the perfection business,” Mom said quietly. “The food always has to look great or I’m dead. I have to keep reminding myself that in the people business, perfection trips you up. The funny thing is, honey, if you ever did get a totally perfect guy, he would make you miserable.”
Jonathan peered at me from my purple hat rack.
“Lecture’s over,” Mom said, giving me a hug. “Get some sleep.”
She got up slowly and paused at the door like she had more to say. She didn’t say it, though—just tapped the door lovingly and padded off to bed.
“Your mother,” said Jonathan, floating down, “is a wise woman.”
I hugged my knees. Mom was operating on earth wisdom. I, on the other hand…
Jonathan perched on the little crystal dog and regarded it coldly.
“Listen,” I began, “I really want to thank you for what you’ve done.” Jonathan folded his wings and looked down. “I’m happy, Jonathan, for the first time in eons!”
He gazed sadly out the window; his little body went taut. “You will sleep,” he said flatly.
Peter picked me up at 7:17 A.M. in his brown Jeep with tan interior—he was all lovesick smiles. He handed Stieglitz a Milk-Bone in friendship, but Stieglitz still hated him. He told me I looked beautiful. I was wearing my quilted green jacket, black jeans, and a patterned yellow Tee. He grabbed my father by the shoulders and shouted, “Mr. McCreary, it is so great to see you!” Dad drank a mug of hot coffee in one gulp.
“Well,” I said, yanking Peter out the door, “have a nifty day, Dad.”
I settled into the Jeep, wondering if Peter would turn into a werewolf; he didn’t. He sweetly handed me a freshly baked blueberry muffin. He talked about being on the debate team and complimented my outfit. He said he couldn’t believe that we’d never gone out all these years and that he must have been blind. He held my hand and didn’t get nuts. He said I was wonderful. He said he wished it was Saturday so we could be together all day. He said he’d never felt like this and that more than anything he wanted to park this stupid Jeep and hold me. My heart was pumping and my hands were shaking and I said that would be really fine with me. He pulled the Jeep over and cradled me with gentleness, kissed my head, and asked if I was going to the King of Hearts Dance with anyone.
“Not yet,” I cooed.
“Would you like to go with me?”
He was breaking the rules—girls asked guys to this dance—but rules were meaningless to the supremely succumbed. I nuzzled his cheek and said I would. A certain winged being appeared out of nowhere and buzzed around us like a mechanic checking a stalled car. I was truly grateful to Jonathan for having zapped Peter with undying devotion, but he was bludgeoning a tender moment. I signaled for him to leave; he didn’t. Peter looked at me strangely. I swatted the air near Jonathan for effect. A shaft of sunshine flashed across his quiver as he did a triple aerial loop and zipped out of the way.
“A…fly,” I explained to Peter.
Jonathan said “Hmmmph” at being called a fly and looked in Peter’s ear, which was killing the mood. He peered into Peter’s ice-green eyes, took a tuft of Peter’s hair, rubbed it in his fingers, perched on top of the steering wheel, and said, “Looks normal. I can’t explain it.”
Then go away!
Jonathan waited. Peter put his hand over his chest and bent down. “I just had this funny twinge,” he said.
“Most bewildering,” said Jonathan, flying backward right out the window.
I was standing in the Student Center by the statue of Big Ben, waiting for Peter, who had dropped me off right in front of school, so I wouldn’t have to walk across the cold, slushy parking lot. I was gazing at Ben in all his bronzeness—a jack-of-all-trades, who’d accomplished things because he had had vision. A big red bow was draped under his chin, courtesy of the King of Hearts Dance Committee; a pair of pantyhose dangled from his outstretched hand. Imagine what that man could have done with a cupid.
“You don’t have to thank me now, A.J.,” said Trish Beckman, running up beside me. “You can take your time about doing that, picking the appropriate thank-you gift, which would be altogether appropriate, because I, your best friend, am about to change your life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you were mortally wounded by Peter Terris being a chump last night, but he’s a killer, A.J., who can’t be tamed. What I’m about to tell you requires immediate action!” She touched her right cheek that was swollen from dental distress. “Alex DuMont just broke up with Cassie McLaughlin!”
“Yeah…?”
“This is not rumor, A.J., I saw the whole thing. He asked for his ring back and his jacket right by the World Peace Bench. It was like she was getting kicked out of the army. He took it all, A.J., and said she’d cheated on him, which she had—everyone saw her at the Pizza Pavilion with Bobby Pershing.”
I said, “That’s too bad,” and looked down the hall for Peter.
“A.J.!” Trish cried. “Alex DuMont is available and angry! He’s likely to say yes to anything at this point!”
“Even me?”
“That’s not what I meant. You ask Alex to the dance, and I”—she took a deep breath—“will ask Tucker before I lose my nerve. On the count of three…”
“I’m going to pass, Trish.”
“But Alex DuMont is darling!”
“I already have a boyfriend.”
“Who?”
I smiled, and said, “Peter Terris,” nice and slow.
Her mouth dropped open: “When did this happen?”
“Last night.”
“You didn’t call!”
“I called the first time…”
“We always call if anything changes!”
“I was tired. I was trying to sort things out.”
“Tell me everything!”
I wanted to. I wanted to confess it all. Peter ran up to meet me and put his arm tight around my shoulder. I waved to Trish, whose tongue was flapping. “It’s okay,” I said to her, then whispered, “Close your mouth.”
She didn’t.
I put my arm around Peter’s waist so you couldn’t tell where one of us ended and the other began, and we eased on down the hall, an official dating unit. I waved good-bye to Trish, my dear confused friend, who had turned into a stone statue.
I’d make it up to her somehow after she’d melted.
School with Peter by my side was exhilarating. We held hands. We snuggled. We exchanged locker combinations. Every nerve in me was alive to love. I shivered when he took my hand. My breath stopped when he kissed the top of my head—just stuck there really heavy before it got to my throat and I wondered if I would ever breathe again. He waited for me outside every class. When I got within feet of him it was like everyone else went away and I started grinning like a dodo and he was grinning too.
We sent shock waves through Ben Franklin High. Pearly saw us and positively gaped. Julia Hart saw us and turned bright crimson. She marched angrily up to Peter.
“May I speak to you, please?” she demanded.
Peter looked at her like she was a gnat. “Not now, Julia.”
She backed off, powerless.
This boy had succumbed!
At the sound of every bell we rushed from the prison of our classes to each other’s side. We ached, we hungered. It was pointless being in school, the waste of two perfectly good desks. Each time Peter looked at me there was more love in his eyes. Everyone could see it. I had several sneezing fits and he gave me his handkerchief. A senior boy who carried his own handkerchief! For an allergic person this was the ultimate.
We entered the Inner Sanctum of the Student Center, where the “in” seniors gather—it was right by the coldest water fountain and no one dared go there unless they were important. There was Melissa Pageant, who had never invited me to any of her parties; there was Al Costanzo, Star Running Back, who didn’t know I was alive. There was Lisa Shooty, Head Cheerleader, bouncing away. There was Heidi Morganthaller, who had stolen Scott Zimmerman from under my nose when I had the stomach flu and couldn’t fight back except to throw up on her, which I’d considered. Peter pushed the water faucet button for me and I drank. The water was colder.
Melissa Pageant eyed me up and down.
We stared at each other like cats do right before they start fighting. Get used to it, I felt like saying, but Peter steered me away.
We walked to Mr. Zeid’s room for my seventh-period Oracle meeting. It was like tooling down a busy road in a brand-new Ferrari. Everyone looked. Everyone was jealous right down to their toes. Then the jealousy moved into consummate respect. I took a deep breath of the Big Time.
I was somebody!
Students parted for us as we walked by. A football player ogled me. I felt a glow of importance as Peter kissed me on the cheek and jogged off to gym class. I leaned back on Mr. Zeid’s door, positively dizzy.
Trish pounced on me.
“Explain to me, A.J., what’s happening, please! Julia Hart has gone into apoplexy! Peter Terris is hanging on to you like you’re a winning Lotto ticket!”
I took a deep, guilty breath. Trish and I told each other everything; I was holding back, breaking the supreme bond of best-friendship. Of course she’d done this once, too, during sophomore year when we both liked Nathan Lawler (who was my type, not hers), and she denied it right up to the Saturday night when she went out with him behind my back, and felt so guilty about it that she called me from the movie theater to confess. Nathan’s father got transferred to Baltimore and he moved that semester, which meant we didn’t have to see him in the hall and pretend that a mere male had almost destroyed our friendship. Trish, who was five three, went back to liking short, stocky wrestlers, and I continued my search for the perfect, gangly male. Trish and I have seen the worst in each other and decided to hang out anyway.
The bell rang; Trish looked through me. “Well?” she shouted.
I couldn’t tell her anything now. So I made a joke and hid behind it. “When you’re hot, you’re hot,” I said.
Trish felt my forehead.
“He likes me. What can I say?”
Pearly danced into Mr. Zeid’s room at this point, all smiles.
She was holding a poster and a box of folders.
“Hello! Hello!” Pearly chirped out of character.
“Why is she smiling?” Trish demanded, looking nervous. “What is happening to everyone?”
CHAPTER TEN
“Attention, everyone, please!”
Carl Yolanta and Tucker Crawford looked up from their SAVE THE WORLD fliers as Pearly Shoemaker stood regally before us and held up a poster-sized blow-up of my soon-to-be award-winning photograph, “Donna Is Confused.” She had chosen the shot without the pigeon.
“Our cover,” she announced proudly. “Courtesy of A. J. McCreary.”
There was silence at first as the Oracle staff read of Donna’s trials with Steve, Gary, Derek, and Nathaniel. Then mouths broke into grins, grins turned to laughs. I smiled proudly. We were all Donna—except that now I wasn’t confused anymore.
“I think I can speak for everyone, A.J., when I say that you have truly outdone yourself.”
The group applauded.
“And now,” Pearly continued, “we have confirmation that our Valentine edition is going all the way to the top!”
We looked at each other as Pearly whipped out a folder and took out a full-page ad of a perfect couple running on the beach holding Pepsis and not spilling them.
“Pepsi,” she whispered, “has come to Crestport.”
Everyone oohed and aahed except Tucker, who was allergic to hype.
“Pepsi,” Pearly continued, “has caught my vision.” She sat down, overcome. “With help from Erin Donner, whose mother is on the Pepsi account team. Thank you, Erin.” Erin smiled and looked embarrassed.
“What exactly does this mean?” asked Tucker, tapping his pen.
Pearly stared at him, appalled. “It means, Tucker, that a national advertiser has embraced the concept of love and today’s teen!”
Tucker examined the Pepsi ad. “Let me get this straight, Pearly. If Pepsi hadn’t bought an ad you’re saying we wouldn’t be a success?”
Pearly closed her mascaraed eyes. “I’m saying, Tucker, that Pepsi’s sponsorship is impressive.”
“They make sugared water and put it in cans.”
“They are a major force in the world!” Pearly fumed.
Tucker made a sound like a mule. “I get the feeling, Pearly, that we’re all part of your game here. I mean, what’s the point of this Valentine edition? You want to do something on teenage love? Let’s talk real issues, not soda pop!”
Tucker was angry most of the time, which would serve him well as an investigative reporter later in life. He said the Oracle was becoming a farce and dared her to publish an article he had just written on being alone. “You can’t be with someone else effectively, unless you can stand to be alone with yourself,” he declared. “Being part of a couple isn’t the final answer. It can’t define who you are.”
I thought being part of a
n enchanted twosome beat the pants off learning to be alone with yourself. Those of us present knew Tucker was not a winner in the love and romance department, since he insisted that his girlfriends be rabid about his latest causes. Trish beamed at him, ready to take up the gauntlet.
“So are you gonna publish my article, Pearly?” Tucker asked. “Put it as the lead story right up front to offset McCreary’s cover?”
Carl Yolanta gave Tucker a friendly punch. “It’s a good cover,” he said.
Pearly said she’d see as I smiled at Carl, the Ultimate Nice Guy. I knew better than to box with Tucker, because he never gave up, especially when he was wrong. He was the perfect one to write about being alone, given his track record. Pearly said we’d all done a boffo job, the Valentine edition was coming out Friday to stun and amaze a needy world. She adjourned the meeting fast.
Tucker walked up to Trish and said, “We’re too busy as a society to take the time to get to know ourselves. We’re running from this to that and not getting anywhere.” Trish looked at him dreamily and said she absolutely agreed. He shot her a thin smile and she melted. Tucker started off in his fast, investigative-reporter gait, then doubled back to walk with Trish. Trish walked slowly when she was in love and it took them half the hall to click into a unified gait.
Peter was waiting for me in deep yearning.
“A.J.,” he said adoringly.
“Peter,” I said breathlessly.
Peter took possession of my hand. We glided through the puke-green halls of Ben Franklin High, basking in softly diffused light. We were enveloped in the Student Center. Lisa Shooty invited us to her post King of Hearts Dance party. Barry Lund, the senior class president, asked if we wanted to double-date. Sara Fizinowski eyed me with consummate covetousness and asked where I got my quilted jacket. Robbie Oldsberg stared at me with new eyes, realizing what he’d lost.
Hello, I felt like shouting, remember me? I’m the one you never noticed before…
I made my way to the bathroom and was standing at the sink; a small freshman girl stared at me like I was famous. I stood up straight and shook out my hair (she did this too). I flounced my blouse over my belt (so did she). I put on lip gloss (she reached for hers). I put my F2 over my shoulder (she didn’t have one).