Читать книгу Tagged - Mara Purnhagen - Страница 8

DAD WAS ONLY PARTLY RIGHT about the graffiti leaving town. The gorillas did appear in another state, on the side of an abandoned restaurant in Beulah, Arkansas, a small town east of Little Rock. This time, two gorillas were pictured, and the thought bubble above their heads read “We love vegetarians.” It appeared three days after our school had been “decorated.” Suddenly it did not seem possible that Trent had been involved. There was just no way to drive all the way to Arkansas Wednesday after school, paint a building and be back in time for class on Thursday morning, which was exactly where Trent was.

Dad knew about it, and an online search for “gorilla graffiti” would lead someone to several articles, but most people didn’t know or didn’t care. Trent seemed happy enough to take credit for the prank at our school, and everyone seemed happy enough to give it to him. His adoring league of freshmen followers quickly squashed any rumors that he wasn’t responsible for the popular artwork. Still, something felt off to me, although I wasn’t sure what it was. I guess part of me hoped that Cleary did have a resident graffiti artist. The mural had caused a commotion and shattered our boring routine, if only for a little while.

On Friday, the gorilla mural at school changed. Someone had added to it. “This is art” was stenciled in the right-hand corner of the wall. One of the gorillas was now holding a paintbrush while another grasped a spray-paint can. Again, it looked professional. And again, it caused an uproar.

“It’s just stupid,” Tiffany Werner proclaimed during our first period debate. “I mean, they’re going to sandblast it this weekend, right? So what’s the point of adding to it? It’s a desperate cry for attention.”

I was reminded of the quote I had used in my paper defining art. I had written that it wasn’t art if it did not endure. At the time, I’d believed it. I mean, all truly great art had endured, right? How old was the Mona Lisa?

Lan raised her hand, and Mr. Gildea nodded at her. “If he wants attention, then why has the artist remained anonymous?” she asked. “What if he doesn’t want anything but for us to look at it, to enjoy it? Isn’t that what art is for?”

I knew Lan was just disagreeing with Tiffany for the sake of disagreeing with her. Lan had come to school on Tuesday wearing her favorite orchid pin, the one made with hundreds of little stones in different shades of ivory and red. Tiffany noticed it and stopped in front of Lan’s desk before class began.

“Are those real rubies?” she demanded in front of everyone.

“Of course,” Lan said, making sure to look Tiffany directly in the eye.

Tiffany just smirked. “I’ll bet,” she said before walking away. Lan was furious and since then had been looking for any reason at all to make Tiffany look bad in public. So far, she had achieved only minor success.

Brady Barber agreed with Lan’s opinion about the graffiti artist, and the debate was soon picking up speed—and volume. Mr. Gildea finally had to quiet everyone down and tell us to open our books. We were already behind, he said, but we could debate for ten minutes every morning as long as we remained civil with one another.

“Debate is probably the best learning experience you’ll ever have,” he said. “Second best, of course, will be learning about the Carthaginians. Turn to page sixteen.”

I was relieved to finally get off the topic of the school gorillas. It was getting a little crazy. The local paper had featured a picture of the mural on its front page, and of course our student newspaper dedicated two whole pages to it, interviewing nearly everyone. I’d heard that some kids were planning to protest the sandblasting, scheduled for Saturday, but figured it was just another one of Trent’s crazy ideas. He had a real knack for self-promotion.

I was still thinking about it when I arrived at work. I was expecting to find Bonnie, but Eli was there, working on his math homework.

“Bonnie’s not here?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, she left you something,” he said.

A tall cup of caramel latte sat on the counter. I smiled and took a sip. “You know, I have these five days a week, and I’m telling you, they just keep getting better.”

“You keep drinking those and you’re going to become a caramel latte,” Eli muttered. He was furiously erasing a problem in his notebook. I was about to offer him some help when I heard the toilet flush.

“I thought you said Bonnie left?”

“She did.”

The bathroom door opened and Reva Abbott sauntered out. There were two things I always noticed about Reva: her heels and her nails. She wore tall, spiky heels that made a sharp clipping sound against the floor. I tried wearing high heels to school once, but my feet were killing me before the end of second period. I didn’t know how Reva did it. Also, she had the longest nails I’d ever seen on a girl. They were like talons, and she painted them in bright, unusual colors like turquoise or orange. That day they were deep purple, like an eggplant.

Reva stopped when she saw me, gave me a thin smile and turned to Eli.

“I’m leaving,” she said. Eli barely looked up from his work. Reva bent down and whispered something into his ear, her dark nails tickling the back of his neck. I turned away, flustered by the intimacy of it.

I stared out the window, watching cars and warming my hands around the steaming cup of latte. When a blue SUV sped past, I immediately thought of Kevin. He had driven a similar car. After prom we had spent some time in the backseat. Nothing too heavy, just a little making out while Black Sabbath played in the CD player. Kevin was really into classic rock.

“Sorry about that.”

I was pulled from my thoughts by Eli. When I turned around, I was surprised to see that Reva was gone. I hadn’t heard her leave.

“Oh, no problem.”

“She gave me a ride,” Eli explained.

“Right. You don’t have a car.”

I didn’t have a car, either, mainly because of my dad. He said he’d seen too much to let a teenager behind the wheel. “When you’re eighteen, we’ll talk,” he’d promised. When I complained to Mom that it was completely unfair, she sided with Dad. “We just need to know that you can be responsible,” she said, which was infuriating, because when had I ever not been responsible? I did well in school, went to work and came home every night for dinner. Most parents would consider me their dream child. My parents saw me as one tenuous step away from a tragic life of wild teenage debauchery.

“This summer,” Eli said. “That is, my parents said they’d get me a car if I pass math.” He ripped a page from his notebook and wadded it into a sharp ball. “So maybe I won’t be getting a car,” he said with a bitter laugh.

“What are you working on?”

“Precalculus.”

“You are so lucky you know me,” I joked as I sat down next to him. “Because I just happen to be a precalc expert.”

“Lucky me,” Eli agreed, although he sounded less than enthusiastic. A car pulled up to the window and Eli automatically got up while I read over his book. After he had finished with the order, Eli slumped into the chair and sighed. “It’s no use,” he informed me. “I can’t learn this stuff. Trust me. My brain cannot process numbers.”

I wondered if Eli’s dark mood was due more to Reva’s brief visit than from problems with precalculus. I sensed there were problems between them. Eli always seemed to pull away from her, to be uncomfortable with her, in a way. Or maybe he was just embarrassed by public displays of affection. He was one of those guys, I thought, that liked to stay in the background, someone who didn’t like or need the glow of the spotlight.

Reva, on the other hand, was more outspoken. She wore heavy red lipstick and always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. On the rare occasions I had heard her laugh, she was loud. I got the impression that she wanted people to look in her direction and see her with one arm draped across Eli.

I wasn’t sure why Reva disliked me, but Lan had a theory. “She’s the possessive type. She’s suspicious of any girl within a mile of him, and you work next to him every day.”

“So? It doesn’t mean I want to date him,” I argued.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lan had replied. “You’re a threat.”

It was laughable to me that anyone would see me as a threat, but I knew Lan had a point. I thought about this as I leaned over to help Eli with a calculus problem. He smelled very clean, like soap and mint mouthwash. I suddenly felt self-conscious and hoped that I smelled okay, too.

We went through Eli’s assignment slowly, getting up every few minutes to serve a customer. Eli struggled with some of the problems, and I tried to break it down for him as best I could. I was very aware of his breathing, which made it difficult for me to concentrate. At one point, I realized that we were breathing in rhythm with one another, and it was all I could think about.

It took us about an hour to get through his homework, but he seemed a little more positive once we finished.

“Thanks,” he said as he put away his book. “That helped. Maybe I can pass this class.”

“Of course you can,” I said, then felt immediately stupid. I hoped I didn’t sound like his mother.

A car pulled up, its bass pumping so hard that the windows rattled.

“You guys sell burgers?” someone yelled. I was about to snap that no, we certainly did not sell fast food when Eli leaned out the window to slap hands with the driver. It was Trent Adams. Eli told him to come on in, so Trent parked his car and came around to the back.

If you saw Trent walking down the street you might assume that he played basketball. He was long and skinny and kept his dark blond hair buzzed. I could see why Lan, like half the girls at our school, found him so attractive.

“Hey, Kate,” Trent said. He looked around for a place to sit, decided that the room was too small and leaned against the wall instead.

“Hi, Trent. You want something to drink?”

“Kate makes an awesome latte,” Eli said.

Trent shook his head. “No. Thanks, though.” He looked at Eli. “You ready for tonight?”

Eli stiffened. I thought I saw him tilt his head toward me. Trent glanced in my direction. “So, Kate,” he said, switching topics completely. “Brady tells me your history class has gotten kind of interesting.”

My very first thought was that he was referring to our unit on the Carthaginians and was making a joke. Then I realized that he meant the morning debates.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a Tiffany versus Brady type thing,” I said.

“I heard Lan was taking on Her Majesty, as well.”

I knew Lan would be thrilled when I talked to her later on and told her that Trent had actually mentioned her in conversation. I smiled. “Lan takes on a lot of things,” I said. We laughed, even though I wasn’t quite sure what I’d said that was so funny. I felt a little uncomfortable around Trent, like I had to try and impress him. I wanted him to think I was okay, but I didn’t know why I needed his approval.

“Hey, Kate, we’ll lock up tonight, okay?” Eli’s back was to me as he stacked cups that didn’t really need stacking.

“Oh. Okay, sure.” I was confused. Eli seemed suddenly cold. He wasn’t looking at me and I wondered if I’d said something to upset him.

“Nice seein’ you, Kate,” Trent said.

I took this as my cue to leave and gathered up my bag and pulled on my jacket. I left without saying goodbye to Eli and waited outside for my dad to arrive. I didn’t have to wait long, but the entire time all I could think of was how I had been kicked out of the one place where I always felt I belonged.

EDEN ALDER WAS HAVING a heart attack. At least, that’s what she told us on Monday at lunch. As editor of the Cleary Chronicle, our school newspaper, Eden had a “gut-wrenching” decision to make about the front page of the next issue: should she give lead-article status to the late-night protest over the “school mural” (as it was now being called) or Tiffany Werner’s birthday party?

The choice seemed simple to me, but Eden was in full-out panic mode. She had three hours until deadline and her staff was in an uproar. Half wanted the protest to be featured front and center while the other half argued that it was old news and had already been covered in the local papers. Tiffany’s party, however, was fresh news and of much more interest to the average Cleary High School student.

Lan and I listened to Eden as we ate our lunches. I, for one, was glad to be discussing something other than Trent Adams. I had spent the weekend at Lan’s house, and all she wanted to talk about was her current crush.

“How did his voice sound when he said my name?” she asked as she made banana spring rolls. Ever since the ninth grade Lan had made it her mission in life to get me to try new foods. At her insistence, I had sampled sweet mung bean soup and carp cooked in coconut milk and thang long fish cakes. If it were up to me, I’d live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I appreciated Lan’s efforts to expand my culinary horizons. Every once in a while, she made something that I loved, but most of the time I couldn’t figure out what animal I was eating and wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

“His voice? It sounded the way it always sounds,” I had replied.

Lan looked like she was concentrating hard on a complex chemical equation. “I need more information,” she said. “Help me out here.”

In the end, I retold the story of Trent’s brief visit to Something’s Brewing about a hundred times, never altering a detail. I didn’t talk about how it made me feel to have Eli give me the cold shoulder. Lan wasn’t really interested in that, anyway. She wanted to talk about Trent again at school that morning, and of course rehash it at lunch, but Eden’s dilemma had taken center stage, much to my relief.

Eden sat with her head in her hands, moaning about the tough decisions she was forced to make while Lan and I tried to offer our sympathy.

“I mean, it’s only the most important decision of my life!” Eden wailed. I glanced at Lan, who was picking at a salad. Eden had a tendency to exaggerate—not exactly a good quality in a journalist.

“I think it’s pretty clear,” I said. “The protest is much more interesting. It affected more students directly.”

“But that’s just it,” Eden said. “Only three boys were arrested, and they were released with a warning two hours later. No big deal. But the party? That affects hundreds of students.”

Tiffany Werner had announced on Friday that she was, indeed, throwing a party.

A big party.

To quote Tiffany exactly, “The biggest party this town has ever seen.” Her parents had rented out the country club, hired a band and booked caterers to celebrate Tiffany’s sixteenth birthday, which was, for some reason, a huge event. Monumental, people said. As if girls didn’t turn sixteen every day of the year and therefore it was a rare milestone that required a celebration ten times bigger than most people’s weddings.

There were a few people on the Cleary Chronicle staff who argued that Tiffany’s party would cause issues to fly off the shelves, or in the case of the Cleary Chronicle, to be plucked off the tables set up outside the cafeteria.

Tiffany’s story held a hint of mystery: two hundred and fifty students would be invited, but no one had yet received an invitation. The protest story had a bit of violence: a few kids had thrown bottles and were escorted “downtown,” where they had to wait in a holding cell until their parents came to pick them up. My dad had been there, cuffing freshmen and putting them in the backseat of his car. I didn’t ask for specifics and he didn’t offer any, but it was all over school and people were giving me some distance when I walked down the hallways as if I had something to do with it.

“But, Eden,” I argued, “you’re always saying that the school paper is like a time capsule. When people look back on this issue in ten years, what do you think they’ll find more important? A student protest or a birthday party?”

“The protest,” Lan said. She knew there was no way she was getting an invitation to Tiffany’s party, and I think she wanted to diminish its social importance as much as possible.

Eden seemed to consider this. She pushed her disheveled hair off her face and sat up straighter. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “You’re right. Okay. I know what I have to do.”

Austin McDaniel, Eden’s assistant editor, came running up to our table a moment later. He plopped down in the chair next to her, out of breath. “Never. Believe. What. Happened,” he gasped, his face red.

Eden went pale. “No. Austin, I absolutely cannot handle anything else right now.”

Austin shook his head. “Huge. News.”

Lan passed her bottled water down the table. “Here. Calm down.”

Austin took a long drink. “Tiffany’s party,” he said as his breathing returned to normal. “It has to go on the front page.”

Eden sighed. “And why is that?”

Austin smiled. “Because it’s going to be on TV.”

THE SCHOOL WAS IN A KIND of pandemonium. The biggest party of the year was going to be taped for an MTV special. Anyone who had felt even a mild interest in attending was now foaming at the mouth, desperate for one of the exclusive invitations. Rumors flared up: no freshmen would be invited, all guests would be required to wear special wristbands, Tiffany’s parents were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars. For her part, Tiffany stayed quiet, simply smiling demurely and twirling her hair whenever anyone asked her about it.

Of course, the party was featured on the front page of Wednesday’s issue of the Cleary Chronicle while the student protest was demoted to the bottom corner. I was reading the protest article at Something’s Brewing when Eli showed up for work. I didn’t hear him enter at first, but then he cleared his throat and I looked up, startled.

“Sorry. Did you say something?” I asked. Eli had called in sick on Friday, so I spent my shift with Bonnie, who was trying to convince me to give crocheting a try. I already knew from my failed attempt at knitting that I was all thumbs with a pair of fat needles and a ball of yarn. I tried, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.

“I was wondering if you could make me a drink?”

“Sure, just give me a minute.”

I had read the article three times already, but I wanted to read it again.

“It says here that the protest was ‘mildly successful,’” I read aloud. “What does that mean, exactly?”

I gave the paper to Eli and turned to the espresso machine so I could make him my patented Katie Bar Latte. I wanted to pretend that nothing unusual had happened the previous Thursday, that he had not hurt my feelings in any way when he asked me to leave.

“It says that the protesters were able to delay removal of the mural. I guess that’s successful.”

“Mildly successful,” I said as I steamed the milk.

“Of course, if they were trying to make headlines, they were very unsuccessful,” Eli commented. “This party has everyone going mental.”

I stirred three kinds of syrup into Eli’s latte. “Personally, I would have liked more information about the gorillas.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

I handed Eli his drink. “Like, did they ever catch this guy? Has he struck again? Why gorillas? What’s the whole point?” I had searched online to find the answers myself, but since the last gorilla had been spotted in Beulah a week earlier, there hadn’t been anything new.

“Sounds like you’re heading up an investigation,” Eli joked. “Are you helping out your dad or something?”

“I do not work for my dad!” I shouted.

Eli looked at me like I’d just slapped him, which I suddenly had the urge to do.

“Sorry,” I said, lowering my voice. “It’s just that people seem to think that I snitch, which I don’t.”

“Okay,” said Eli.

I didn’t feel like he really believed me. “My dad and I have a deal—he doesn’t ask and I don’t tell.”

“I get it.”

I was embarrassed. Eli hadn’t done anything intentionally cruel, and here I was, going off on him as if he’d insulted my family.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” I said finally. “My dad’s job is kind of a sore spot with me.”

Eli smiled. “It’s okay, really. I understand. It’s my fault for making a bad joke.”

A minivan pulled up to the window. The driver was a haggard-looking woman and the backseat was full of shrieking kids. “Do you have anything non-caffeinated?” she asked wearily. Eli was already pulling fruit juice out of the fridge as I typed in the order. We prepared five cups of apple juice for the kids and a double espresso for the mom in record time and handed the woman her drinks along with a full stack of napkins.

“Looks like she’s having a rough day,” Eli commented. I could tell he was trying to lighten the mood and change the subject, and I decided to let him. “So, we were talking about the gorillas, right?”

I smiled. “Sure.”

“And you were about to tell me what you really thought of them.”

“Was I?” It was flattering, I thought, that Eli seemed to really want to know my opinion. The truth was, I wasn’t sure what my opinion was. Listening to the morning debates at school, I knew I didn’t agree completely with Tiffany, although I could see she had a point. I liked Brady’s ideas more, but I couldn’t say why.

“You know,” I said finally, “I don’t have much of an opinion about the gorillas. But I do have an opinion about the person who’s making them.”

“Really?” Eli leaned back against the counter. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, well, I was thinking about how someone decides to create something. I don’t understand why he did it, but obviously there’s thought and talent behind it, and it takes a kind of courage to do that, to just put something out there for everyone to judge.”

“So you think he—or she—is courageous?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” I waited for more of a response from Eli. I wasn’t used to blurting out my thoughts like that, and part of me worried that he’d laugh at me, but all he ended up saying was “Interesting.”

A car pulled up, we filled the order and things were quiet for a few minutes until I broke the silence between us.

“Eli, do you think everyone is naturally creative?” It was something I’d been thinking about a lot lately. Everyone seemed to have something outside themselves that made them happy. Mom had her cakes and Lan had her orchids. I watched the other students at school, all of whom seemed to have something they loved, whether it was sports or music or movies. Even Tiffany Werner, with all of her pretentious flaws, had a passion for jewelry. Lately, I’d begun to feel like I was missing out on something. I didn’t have anything, really, that I felt passionate about. I liked different things, but I didn’t really love any one hobby or activity or distraction.

“I don’t know if everyone has a creative outlet,” Eli said, looking thoughtful. “But I think everyone should have something they love to do. I don’t know if it has to be creative, though.”

“Like sports?” I asked.

“Yeah. I mean, playing football isn’t considered creative, really, but it does involve thought and feeling and dedication. That’s an outlet of expression, right?”

“Right.”

“Why do you ask?” He stood up in preparation for a car that had pulled into the parking lot. The driver was examining the menu posted just before the drive-through window.

“I dunno. It was just something I was thinking about. I don’t really have anything like that.”

“You make a great latte.”

“Pouring liquid into a cup is not a talent,” I muttered.

“There’s got to be something you love.”

I thought about all of the things I had tried to do in my life. There was ballet, but I wasn’t graceful enough and it killed my toes. I took a ceramics course with Lan once, but painting chubby little animals didn’t excite me. I tried music, but everyone told me I was tone-deaf. I couldn’t draw a circle to save my life and any time I tried to help Mom decorate a cake I just made a huge mess.

“There’s nothing I’m really good at,” I said finally.

“Except precalculus,” Eli said. “You really helped me out, you know?”

“Then why did you—” I stopped. Maybe I didn’t want to know why he had changed around Trent. Maybe he didn’t want to be associated with me, the sheriff’s daughter. Maybe it was better to let it go and not think about it.

“Why did I what?” Eli looked puzzled. I had a hard time looking away from him. His eyes were the color of dark, polished wood.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

I sighed. How do you ask a question when you don’t want to know the answer? I tried to think of something clever, then blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.

“Lan likes Trent.”

I immediately regretted my revelation. Lan would kill me if she knew. Eli looked both confused and shocked.

“Lan likes Trent?” he repeated.

“Please don’t say anything to him,” I begged.

Eli raised an eyebrow. “That could be a problem.”