“Irrational decisions like . . . making a judgment about someone based on their appearance?”
“Yeah. Wait, no. Sometimes you can do that and it’s not irrational.”
“Like if someone has a serious case of fish mouth?”
“You know, there
are
other things to consider. Like personality? And how a guy treats you?”
“Okay, but what’s the point of all that if you’re not even attracted to him?”
“I hear you, but . . .” Aunt Katie scrolls down. “Sometimes attraction grows. Remember Campbell?”
How could I forget Campbell? The night Aunt Katie showed up with him for dinner I was like,
This is a joke, right?
Because Campbell was so not her type. He just wasn’t what you would call attractive. He was more like remotely passable. But Aunt Katie loved him. So my initial opinion of him gradually changed and I ended up thinking they were perfect for each other. They were together for a long time, almost two years.
The thing was, I liked Campbell. He was really funny. He’d make me laugh so hard that my stomach was killing me and my face hurt. And he’d always bring over a gift for me, like a Beanie Baby or a Slinky or one of those big lollipops with rainbow colors all swirled together. I’m still not sure why they broke up. Maybe Aunt Katie decided that she liked him more as a friend.
“But you guys broke up,” I say.
“I know. But it was still the best relationship I’ve ever had.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. And at first I wasn’t even attracted to him. But after a while, I thought he was so cute.”
I try to understand what she means. It’s a stretch. “So you’re saying that someone can become cuter over time?”
“Um-hm. But it’s not that they change. It’s that
you
change.” Aunt Katie shows me some more profiles. She wants to get married so badly. I can definitely relate. We’re both waiting for that one person who will make our waiting end.
When I think about how different my life will be when the waiting is over, it’s scary and exciting in that new-experience kind of way. Where you’ve never been there before, but you know you’re in the right place. Because your real life, after all this time, is finally starting.
10
There’s this rivalry between the orchestra and band geeks. Everyone in band thinks they’re just as talented as us. But actually? It’s way harder to play a string instrument. That’s because if you don’t put your fingers in the exact right places, whatever you’re playing will sound heinous. It’s nothing like being in band and playing a wind instrument, where all you have to do is press some buttons or slide some lever around, so the notes are never off-key. How simple is that? But the band geeks still think they rock hard.
Ignorance is a problem in this school.
I share a music stand with Andrea. Last year I was second violin, sixth chair, and now I’m second violin, third chair. My goal is to be concert mistress by senior year. That would be so sweet, with the entire orchestra following my cues. I have a lot of work to do if I’m ever going to get there, though.
We’re playing this impossible piece with thirty-second notes and all these random rests. So it’s not the best day to be cracking up. Like the way I’ve been doing for the past five minutes.
Once a week we have full orchestra. That’s when the band comes over to our room from their room and we all play a few pieces that we’ve been working on together. I like it better when it’s just orchestra. The intimate chamber music is calming. But with the band geeks all invading our territory, it’s a riot of loud toots and squeaks.
The trumpet solo blasts out this rude honking noise. I try to stop laughing. But the honking noise makes it even funnier.
Andrea whispers, “What’s so funny?”
There’s no way I can tell her and not get caught, so I whisper back, “Tell you later.”
Mr. Silverstein has radar for these types of things. Anyone who’s even remotely not paying attention usually ends up having to play the next ten measures alone. Which is like the most horrendous form of torture ever. We’re all scared of him. So when Mr. Silverstein focuses his laser-sharp stare on me, I freeze up. He doesn’t say anything.
We start playing again. The thing I’ve been laughing at is still funny and I can’t get it out of my head.
It happened last period in chem when we were learning about pressure on gases. There was this diagram of a flask and some other stuff on the board. Mrs. Hunter was doing a practice problem. She labeled parts of the diagram and we were copying it down. Because, you know. We’re going to use this information later in life. So Mrs. Hunter was standing in front of the diagram and lecturing and I looked up at her and she was standing right on the other side of this arrow that was labeled GAS EMISSION. And the arrow was pointing right at her butt. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen in class.
I’d like to be able to look back on that class and say, “Yeah, I was mature about it. I was just like, whatev, and kept on copying the diagram.”
But that’s not how it was.
I laughed so loudly that someone walking by in the hall actually looked in to see what was going on. Every single person in the room turned to stare at me. Mrs. Hunter stopped lecturing and stared at me. Behind me, Nash coughed.
No one else was laughing.
How could they not think this was funny? Could they not see? But then I figured out that I was the only one who could see exactly where the arrow was pointing from the angle where I was sitting. And that’s why I was making an ass of myself, bordering on the edge of hysteria.
Everyone kept staring at me.
And then Mrs. Hunter gave me a crushed look like she expected more from me. She started lecturing again.
I could feel the sharp point of a folded note Nash was pressing against my back, but I didn’t turn around. I’ve never been in heavy trouble and I didn’t want to start then over something so stupid.
So when the image of the gas emission arrow pops into my head again, I laugh. The shaky motion yanks my bow across the E string. There’s this loud squeak when we’re supposed to be playing a quiet part.
Mr. Silverstein motions for everyone to stop playing. And there’s that laser-sharp stare again. Directed right at me.
My face burns.
Mr. Silverstein goes, “Marisa. Would you care to let us in on the joke?”
I shake my head. My face burns hotter.
“No?”
I shake my head again.
“That’s a shame. I could really use a good laugh today.”
I look at my sheet music.
“In fact,” he says, “I insist you tell us.”
I glance up at him to check if he’s serious.
He’s serious.
There’s no way I can tell him. It’s too stupid and embarrassing. And if Mrs. Hunter finds out what I was really laughing at, because of course Mr. Silverstein would tell her, I’ll be toast.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him.
“Really? Nothing?”
Please don’t make me play ten measures by myself.
“Well then,” he says. “I guess you can contemplate the hilarious nature of nothingness tomorrow in detention.”
So
unfair. There’s no way I can get detention over this. I’m not the kind of girl who gets detention. I’m not one of those burnouts who’s disruptive and a loser and everyone treats her like a reject. Teachers think those kids are the biggest waste of time.
See, right now? I’m supposed to be using my relaxation techniques to remain calm. If I let this get to me, I could turn into an emotional wreck, reliving this scene over and over until I’m convinced that no one will ever accept me as a functional human being. That’s why I’m supposed to control any crazy thoughts by reminding myself that they’re unrealistic. And I’m supposed to do it right when they happen, or else the thoughts expand until they’re too huge for me to tame them.
Except it’s not really working. I’m convinced that everyone thinks I’m deranged. It’s like whenever I hear someone laughing, even if they’re all the way on the other side of the room, I’m convinced that they’re laughing at me. It’s one of my irrational assumptions that come with having an anxiety disorder. And sometimes I feel like nothing will ever make them go away.
Andrea gives me a sympathetic look. I know she feels bad for me. But everyone else is looking at me the same way I’d be looking at anyone who did what I did. Like that person is a total freak.
11
No matter how outrageously wrong life gets, I can always count on Sterling to make me feel better. She’s my rock. And in a different way from my dad, since I’d be mortified to admit things like this to him. I don’t want him to think I’m an idiot. So after school, I go over to Sterling’s and try to recover from the humiliation of orchestra.
“At least you didn’t have to play ten measures by yourself,” Sterling says. “How embarrassing would that have been?”
“I know. But detention? Me?”
“I guess you really have changed.”
“Oh, yeah, into a total loser who gets detention for laughing. I can’t believe this is my life.”
“Here. Try this.” Sterling takes a tiny piece of something off a tray filled with other tiny pieces of something. They look like mini versions of the finger food that was at this wedding I went to, except these are more colorful and complex. She puts the strang est one on a napkin and slides it across the counter to me. “You’ll feel better.”
“What is it?” I ask, secretly horrified. I’m suspicious of tiny food. And it has a little green sprig sticking out.
“Amuse-bouche.”
“A what now?”
“It’s French. It means ‘mouth amuser.’”
“You made these?”
“Of course. There are four different kinds—want another one?”
I watch the
amuse-bouche
on the napkin in front of me.
“What’s wrong?” Sterling says.
“Isn’t it . . . sort of . . . small?”
Sterling laughs. “That’s the point. It’s a pre-appetizer. You’re supposed to eat it before the hors d’oeuvres.”
“Oh. It’s cute.”
The green sprig dares me to eat it.
Over at the stove, Sterling suddenly gasps.
I go, “What’s wrong? Did you burn yourself?”
“I just remembered! Guess what I have for later.”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“I really have no idea.”
“Guess anyway.”
Sometimes Sterling can be so annoying. But she can also be a lifesaver, so I let her get away with it. She was my lifeline last year. She was always there for me when I needed her, even when it was really late and she had to get up for school the next morning but I didn’t because I was too messed up to go.
I’m waiting for a good guess to arrive at my brain. “Um . . .”
“The box set of
My So-Called Life
!”
“Get out!”
“I know!”
My So-Called Life
is this show that was on in the mid-’90s. It was only on for one season, but it’s supposed to be genius. I read about it on a blog and we’ve been hunting it down ever since. It was one of those random DVD releases where you could only find it on eBay for, like, five hundred dollars.
I’m like, “Where did you find it?”
“It just came out again.”
“Sweet!”
Sterling holds up a small pan and goes, “Like my new sauté pan?”
“Totally. Is that the Calphalon one?”
“Of course. What kind of ramshackle operation do you think I’m running over here?”
She really is the one who runs things. Sterling’s mom works for the United Nations, so she’s constantly traveling. Sterling’s alone a lot of the time. Her grandma lives down the street, so nights when Sterling’s mom is gone her grandma sleeps over. I’m usually not here when she comes over, but we’ve played cards a few times. She’s really nice.
“Aren’t you so excited about the DVDs?” Sterling shouts.
“Absolutely.”
“I heard Jared Leto is so smoking hot in this you can’t even look at him without your eyes burning off.”
“Okay, but um . . . we should only watch one disc.”
“Why?”
I have this thing where I can’t wait to see what happens next, but I can’t watch all the episodes right away. Because once you watch them, they’re, like,
gone
. Forever. It will never be new again and that first time can only happen once and you will never again have that feeling of excitement at seeing fresh eps. And that’s a sad and lonely feeling.
I’m all about the anticipation. Sterling knows this.
“Oh, no,” she complains. “This isn’t your weird obsession about saving some to watch later, is it?”
“Maybe.”
I’m expecting Sterling to try and convince me that we need to watch the whole season tonight. But she’s just like, “You’re so weird.”
I glance at the
amuse-bouche
. The green sprig quivers.
“Are you ever going to eat that?” Sterling says.
I decide not to let my irrational fear of tiny food prevent me from tasting something fabulous. So I try it. And it’s delicious. And then we get psyched for the year again and creating the lives we want and I feel all the excitement that’s been missing since the day I got back from camp when we made our reinvention pact.
The excitement is still there when I wake up the next day. I had a tingly dream where I was with my future boyfriend. It was the best feeling ever. I didn’t even know you could feel that intense in a dream and still remember it when you woke up.
So I’m having a really good day. Right up until I see Jordan coming down the hall.
This is it. This is when I’ll know for sure.
Nash took my advice about writing a letter to the girl he likes. We had this discussion about how there’s no way he can give it to her in person. He’d be way too nervous and then he’d get embarrassed because she’d see. But if he had a friend give her the letter instead, then he could watch from down the hall or something and not have to be directly involved. That way, if she doesn’t like him he wouldn’t have to stand there and find out the hard way, right in front of her, while her eyes tell him everything he never wanted to know.