Someone should invent that, he said. Ricky was lying with his head in my lap and it felt all coupley at first but it’s not like he thinks of me that way so it’s totally fine. I used to have a crush on him but whatever, it went away in like five minutes so it’s all good. It’s not weird or anything. I almost never think anything about it. Anyway, the only bad thing about his head in my lap is whichever leg it’s on ends up falling asleep. We watched this group of old couples doing tai chi in the park and Ricky kept calling it ching dong and I laughed so hard Diet Coke came out my nose. And right then is when Missy Delaney walked by. Fucking Missy Delaney. She’s such a bitch and the worst part is no one knows it yet. I feel like I have X-ray glasses on, like night goggles or something. Like I’m the only one who sees her face when their backs turn and her smile goes right into a frown. Not a fade-out but straight to black, like a scary movie and she’s the killer. She has big boobs so all the guys like her of course. Even Ricky. Normally we agree on everything but when it comes to Missy it’s don’t ask don’t tell.
I’m wiping the Diet Coke off my nose on the shoulder of my shirt, so I don’t see the look he always gets when she walks by. He’s all cool and shit and there she is Miss Priss only she’s a total slut. Thank God I didn’t see his face get all red and blotchy like he’s been slimed at Nickelodeon. I can’t take it anymore.
“I heard she got with some Lane Tech guy on Saturday night,” I said.
I kinda feel bad about saying that because even though I did hear it I know it’s probably not true because we saw her with her family when we went for family dinner at Giordano’s. My mom stopped by their table and tried to get me to stop there too but no way. I just went to the table and waited for her to do her little social-butterfly thing.
“Bullshit, she did not,” Ricky said.
Here’s the thing—if it’d been someone he didn’t have a crush on he’d have laughed and agreed with me or he would’ve blown it off or something but he got all pissy so that’s how I know he’s crushing on her. Big-time. Plus, the minute he saw her he sat bolt upright out of my lap like we’d been caught having sex. Whatever. Of course he sticks up for her.
“Why do you even like her? I mean, seriously?” I asked him.
“I don’t like her like her,” he said.
“Yeah, right.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I don’t hate her like you do so sorry.”
I wonder if he dreams of her sucking him like I do to Will. I wonder if he’d still be friends with me if I told him how last night Will said “go faster” and pushed himself so far into my mouth I gagged. I wonder if Ricky’d call me a bitch like Will did. I wonder if Ricky even knows about me and Will.
So I said, “I just can’t believe you buy into all her shit. Little Miss My Father’s Been on the Cover of Fortune Magazine and Yours Hasn’t. Jesus, like that’s something to be proud of. He’s like Mr. I Own the Universe and I’m Going to Save the Environment.”
“He knows Bono and shit,” Ricky says.
“Everyone knows Bono.”
“I mean he knows him. Like, personally. They’re friends.”
“Yeah, well, big fucking deal.”
“Goddamn you’re a bitch these days,” he says.
“What’re you talking about? I’m exactly the same as I’ve always been.”
“It’s like you’re in this cult with Monica or something. You, like, copy her.”
“Fuck you, I do not!”
“Yeah? Well, you always swore you wouldn’t pierce your nose.”
“That was when we were in, like, fourth grade,” I say. “Besides, you’re the one who’s all hot for Monica.”
“Whatever.”
“You know what I did last night?” I changed the subject. “I took two Benadryls. It was awesome. Seriously. Get the Severe Cough and Flu ones. It says to take one but whatever. Take two.”
“You’re a freak,” he said.
Then he tried to dummy-wrestle with me ‘cause that’s his way of saying sorry and I knew it was only because Missy was way out of sight so there was no danger of her seeing him being all over me. Then it hits me—I’ve got to go to the friggin’ movies with my mom … the last thing I want to do.
About a month ago my mom and I were in the car trapped like rats in a line at the place where they test how much exhaust your car puts out and the line was like a million cars long so there was pretty much nothing to do. Nothing good on the radio and my iPod was out of juice. I had finished my homework in study hall last period because Ricky was out sick ‘cause his parents wanted him to have a day with his grandfather visiting from Phoenix so there was no one to pass notes to and I pretty much had to do my homework because Mrs. Cummings was staring holes into my head. It was the longest day of my life, swear to God.
Anyway, there’s Mom babbling about how when she was young she and her mother would go to the drive-in movies on Sunday nights, just the two of them. I said that was what they did in like the fifties—like all Grease the movie and she said they still had drive-ins in the seventies. Whatever. She’s all we should have a mother-daughter tradition, too and I used to love Sunday nights with my mom. Then she got all quiet like she was going to lose it and I don’t know how it happened but next thing I knew I was saying yeah, sure, and she was off and running like she won the lottery. I feel bad I’m such a bitch and so hard on her—it doesn’t take that much to make her happy if she’s all freaked up about a Sunday-afternoon movie matinee. She looked at me like it was the best idea anyone had ever come up with since the dawn of friggin’ time. She’s all it means so much to me that you’re suggesting it. I didn’t suggest it but she wanted me to think it was my idea so I couldn’t take it back. Whether she knows it or not, she’s always made a show of overloving me, like she’s keeping me from noticing how her love came so naturally with the boys. She’s not so polite with them. She’s careful with me. I’ve always felt this way. It’s like she thinks I’m temporary. The boys can’t up and leave but I can. I’m not her blood. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t feel this way.
All my life I’ve felt them watching me. Like a rat in a lab experiment. They threw me into their mix of DNA and they’re curious about nature and nurture. We’re talking about that in school now. Nature versus nurture. They’d never in a million years admit it but they treat me differently. I’ve always felt no matter how hard they hug me, when the boys came along they hugged them closer. Their hugs lasted longer with the boys. Like they were relieved. Like they were thinking: phew—for a second there it looked like Cammy was the best we could do.
Out of nowhere, this morning I wanted to tell my mom how pretty she is. She’s so pretty it almost hurts to look at her. She never really wears makeup. She doesn’t need it. She’s naturally pretty. I really wish I looked like her. She must look at me and wonder what she would’ve gotten if she’d had her own daughter.
Samantha
The first time we heard Cammy’s voice she was screaming mo peas over and over, crying so hard she was practically choking. The social worker told us it meant “more please” and wasn’t it great, she yelled over Cammy’s two-year-old voice, wasn’t it terrific she already had manners. She says thank-you, too, the lady told us.
Cammy’s foster mother was bobbing her up and down, wrenching her bottle away so we could get a better look at her face. The more she pulled at the bottle, the harder Cammy cried. Isn’t she beautiful, she yelled over her. Here, now come on, Cammy,