Читать книгу Calli - Jessica Lee Anderson - Страница 13

ANOTHER MARK ON THE TALLY SHEET

Sunday, April 20

CHERISH FRANTICALLY KNOCKS on my door before barging in.

“Shi—”

“Shiitake mushrooms,” I say, interrupting her rude greeting. Can’t she see I’m studying for a quiz?

“You’re so weird. Your whole family is weird. Even your dog.”

I stare at her from my desk. My moms can be weird sometimes. . . but Sassy? “What do you have against my dog?”

“I saw her eat shi—”

“She did not. Don’t bother me if you’re going to talk shiitake mushrooms about my family.” I could talk merde about hers, like how her mom is locked up in St. Gabriel.

“Sorry,” Cherish says, leaning against my wall. “I need your help.”

“Really?” Not only does Cherish apologize, but she’s also asking for my help? “Why don’t you ask Dub instead? You should know he’s more than a good kisser.”

She straightens up and moves away from the wall, closer to my desk. “It’s Sunday night! My paper’s due tomorrow morning and it’s not on my desk. It’s too late to call Dub or ask your mom to help me again.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Sounds like you have a problem. Good luck.”

Cherish doesn’t get the hint and keeps standing there. My hands unfurl and I pick up Français: Bienvenue. I glance away from Cherish and turn to the vocabulary pages in the back of the book.

les amis (layz ah-mee)—friends le chocolat (luh shok-oh-lah)—chocolate l’école (lay-kohl)—school

“It’s not like the two of you were married. Besides, you’ll probably end up like your mom anyway.”

“Just because your mom is in jail doesn’t mean you’re going to start selling drugs too!”

Cherish slaps her hand against my desk. The loud thud makes me jump back in my chair. “It’s none of your fuc—”

“Get out!”

She steps back, and her voice lowers. “It’s none of your business, but my mom was trying to make a life for us. Especially after what happened with my stepdad.” The eyeliner in the corner of Cherish’s eyes smears into a smudgy black.

“I’m sorry.” What’s up with me? I should be fighting. I shouldn’t be apologizing.

“You gotta do something. Sucking at school isn’t going to help my situation.”

The air conditioner is running, but it isn’t cold enough to keep me from sweating. “You looked everywhere for it?”

Cherish nods and I try my best to act clueless. She’s got no idea that her essay is in the landfill by now.

It makes me a terrible person, I know, but I like that this girl is begging. That I’ve got the upper hand for once. Since she’s so behind, Cherish has to take special classes. I’m supposed to keep certain things confidential. Not like Cherish has ever had that respect for me. Right after moving in, she made nasty comments about Mom and Liz to everyone at school. I’d done my best to keep their relationship private as much as possible, not because I was ashamed exactly, but to avoid the jokes and gossip. When people asked me if what Cherish said was true, I ignored them.

“Please, Calli.” Cherish sniffs and I look up. She wipes her eyes with the back of her fist, smearing her makeup deeper into the creases underneath her eyes. She crosses her arms over her small chest. “Fine.”

“Fine, what?”

“I’ll make a deal. I’ll leave Dub alone if you write the essay for me, and I’ll make sure he leaves me alone too.”

She’s asked me to do her homework before so she could hang out with her friends instead of working with Mom. I’ve tried helping her, but all she wants to do is copy my work. This is the first time I’ve considered cheating.

I close the French textbook and stand up to shake her hand. “Deal, but I also want my iPod back.”

My hand dangles in the air because she doesn’t uncross her arms. “What are you talking about?”

I knew she’d deny it like she’s denied stealing everything else. I’ll have to let it go for now in the same way I haven’t reacted to what she did to my locker.

“Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I place my hand by my side. “Whatever. So I have to write about Monsieur François Barbé-Marbois?” The name rolls off of my tongue like an insult.

“How’d you know that?” Cherish raises a thin eyebrow.

I take a deep breath. I’m a terrible con artist. I should be playing stupid about her assignment. “Torey complained about having to write about the Louisiana Purchase. She’s in your class with Mr. Roberts, right?”

“Yeah. You’re going to do it?” Cherish almost smiles.

“As long as we have an agreement about Dub.”

Cherish holds out her pinky. I lock mine with hers. This is the way Delia and Rashell solve things.

After the pinky shake, Cherish tells me the details about the essay and it’s my idea to type it using our shared laptop. This way Mr. Roberts won’t be able to tell I wrote it and not Cherish.

“Does it need to be about two pages?” I ask without thinking. If I keep dropping clues, Cherish is going to call my bluff.

“Four actually.”

Four? I didn’t shred four pages! But I can’t argue or she’ll know.

“Thanks, Calli. You’re all right.”

“Whatever,” I repeat before she goes to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I almost smile myself when I think about what she said. You’re all right. It’s the nicest thing she’s said to me since joining our family.

I open the American history textbook. Writing a biography in exchange for things ending between Cherish and Dub? Not having to keep wondering about them? Never having to witness Cherish’s lips on his again? Definitely worth breaking the honor code for. God on the other hand? He’s probably adding another check mark on that tally sheet of my mistakes.

After an hour Cherish comes back to check on my progress. “You close to finishing?”

“Does it look like it?”

Uninvited, she sits on my bed wearing a pair of men’s boxers and a bright pink tank. Her face is freshly washed. She doesn’t look older than fifteen or as hard without all her eyeliner and lipstick. “How much longer do you think it’ll take?”

“You’re not helping.” I turn the page of the book and try to keep my focus, but it’s shattered when Mom comes to say good night.

“What a surprise to see the two of you together. I thought I heard arguing earlier.” Mom glances at Cherish and then at me. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Cherish and I answer at once.

Mom makes a noise that sounds like “hmm.” “We decided to study together,” I add sweetly.

I feel ashamed when my mother beams at us.

A couple of hours later I yawn and I realize Cherish’s lights are no longer on and the whole house is dark.

My eyes feel heavy. I think I’ve stared at page 189 in Our American Journey for over thirty minutes. I try to focus on the many things this French guy did, like selling Louisiana for crying out loud. My father is a French guy too, but he’s pretty worthless in comparison. He has a flesh-and-blood daughter he chooses not to love.

Thank God I have Mom and Liz.

On my birthday this year, Mom slipped and said I was the best mistake she’s ever made. “What does that mean?” I asked her. Mom had never used that word before. Mistake. She’d always said I was her special gift.

Mom finally opened up about her relationship with my father. She explained how she’d come out after high school. Grandma wasn’t supportive and kept trying to set her up on blind dates with men. Supposedly Mom hadn’t given them enough of a chance.

Mom decided to humor Grandma after her first girlfriend broke her heart, and that’s when she went on a blind date with Pierre Gilbeaux. They ate dinner, drank too much, and here I am.

It’s weird to think about Mom making mistakes, and even weirder to think about being a mistake.

Mom and my father stayed in contact for a little while before they went their separate ways. He wanted to name me Clémence, but Mom talked him into Calli, meaning “lovely flower.” She thought Calli paired well with her name, Brandi. I’m glad she got her way, though it seems unreasonable that I got stuck with my dad’s last name.

There are four of us living in this house with different last names. Clovis (Mom). Gilbeaux (me). Donahue (Liz). Ogilvie (Cherish).

When I was only a couple of months old, my father moved back to Angers, France. Yes—Angers, France. I’ve seen a couple of pictures and he didn’t look red faced and ticked off, but he also didn’t look like I’d imagined. His body was small in comparison to my cowlike frame. His teeth weren’t crooked either. A large forehead was the only thing we had in common.

I stand up and stretch before I continue writing the essay. “François Barbé-Marbois owed his liberty and life to Napoléon Bonaparte.” At this point I don’t care that the sentences in the essay sound more like the textbook than something Cherish would create independently. I’m up to three typed pages, a big difference from the previous two pages Cherish had written.