At Face Value (14 page)

Linus eats a cracker and looks amused. “You learn something new every day.” Then he winks at me.

The days fly by in a haze of more emails—lines from them stick with me:

Would you rather eat one chocolate-covered beetle or a pile of ants?

… I’m not sure I believe in God necessarily, but I believe in something …

… I used to wish I lived by the beach so I could wake up everyday and be in the sand and by the water but now I’m glad I don’t because it makes summer that much better …

So are you saying you can’t be with the thing you love all the time because it gets stale?

No, not at all. More like I appreciate it more because I’m not growing immune to it every day.

I’m the opposite. I enjoy things
—
beaches, people, songs
—
even more when I’m around them a lot. When I know them.

You’re pretty incredible, you know that?

You know that? Do I know that? I do know that, even if I know it about someone else. And I’ve managed to retain enough brain power through all the writing to recall that all of his words, his beautiful, thoughtful words, are not really meant for me. They’re meant for—

“Leyla! Hi!” I wave to her by the rows of lockers and she saunters over in her new jeans and bright orange sweater. (I’d never wear a color so bright—not just because I look ill in them but because I feel more comfortable, less noticeable, in darker colors.) I wouldn’t say Leyla’s guilty of plagiarizing my thoughts, because all I really did was make the words flow a bit more smoothly, doused the letters with a bit of humor to break up the getting-to-know-you stuff, to keep Eddie interested. Added a little bit of my mental musings. And the emails are saved in the account so she can read them—and so far, Leyla hasn’t protested my additional verbs, nouns, and adjectives.

“Could I be any more leafy in my sweater?” She plucks at the wool. “Not green leaf, but …”

“Autumnal. Yeah. You look nice.” I smile at her and ignore the stares from a few underclassmen who walk by and point at me.

“You all set for tonight? Here.” She hands me a piece of paper shaped like a pumpkin.

I study the triangle eyes, the jagged mouth. “I can’t believe she makes you actually bring the invite.” In an attempt to be even more elitist and annoying, Wendy asks her waxy, accessorized mom to print up invitations to her infamous get-togethers, including tonight’s Halloween festivities, lest the underlings and wannabees show up.

“Well, believe me, if you don’t have a pumpkin, you can’t get in.” Leyla’s smile freezes; down at the other end of the corridor, Eddie is tacking a poster for the auction on the wall.

“A little to the left!” I yell at him. His smile is visible from quite a distance and he gives me a thumbs-up in the most sarcastic way possible. I adore him.

Leyla swallows hard and breathes as though she, too, has a jagged mouth. I pocket the pumpkin. “What’s wrong?” I slam my locker shut.

“Nothing. Everything.” She pauses. “We’ve had so many emails.”

I give her a hard look. “Um, I know that. I’m the one sending them, remember?”
And writing them,
I think but don’t say. Either Leyla’s not reading them too closely, or she’s too caught up to notice my slight add-ons and retouches. Then again, I’m the editor. She’s used to being staff and just working on the project at hand.

“Well, it’s now or never,” Leyla says. I wait for her to say more. Eddie holds the masking tape in his mouth and I think back to our last email—how he defined his favorite dessert as being lemon meringue pie the color of melted butter. How it was so clear I could taste it. How now that we’re writing more, the details mean everything.

“He’s going on his college tour starting Sunday,” Leyla finally says. She clutches her books to her chest. “So I’m going to kiss him tonight.”

The sweet taste of imagined desserts fades instantaneously, replaced with only lemon. Something bitter.

“I
’M GOING OUT!” I
shout, hoping my parents can hear me from their room, where they’re tucked away nursing colds and watching black-and-white movies.

My dad’s head appears at the top of the stairs. “I thought it was Halloween?”

“Last time I checked, yeah.” I shuffle the candy around in the bowl, searching for malted milkballs. Finding none, I put the bowl back by the door. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home and deal with the trick-or-treaters?” Our street is heavily trafficked by little ghosts, goblins, the latest fad costumes, and a pod of parents making sure all goes well. Later, the slightly-too-old-to-be-doing-this crowd comes out to clean up the remaining sweets and pester those whose porch lights are switched off.

“We’re fine,” my mom yells down, but her nose is stuffed up so it sounds like “beer twine.”

“Good name for a band, beer twine.” I smirk. “I won’t be late.”

“But, Cyrie?” Dad’s face is flushed, his voice scratchy. “You’re not dressed.”

I survey my attire. “Unless jeans, boots, and a clean black turtleneck sweater count as not dressed, then I’m confused.”

“Boo yuk mice.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You should have a costume,” Dad insists.

I sigh. “Every day’s a costume, what can I say?” My parents don’t try to make me feel differently. They know better by now. I grab a Kit Kat (not even on my second tier of favorite candies) and head out the door.

By the time I park my parents car with the herd of others at the end of Wendy’s long driveway, the party is in full swing. Couples are entwined on car fronts, a few guys are playing glow-in-the-dark Frisbee, and a plethora of vixens in sultry outfits parade the grounds. I should have dressed up—but in what? “Hey—finally!” Leyla’s the world’s most adorable ghost. “I couldn’t find anything else, so I went with simple and elegant.” She twirls so I can admire her white sheet as we head inside.

“I feel dumb in normal clothes,” I say, stepping onto the oversized floor mat that reads
Welcome
in such heavy, bold letters that it makes me feel anything but.

“Nice mask!” Beef spews at me as he sips a beer and laughs.

“She’s not wearing a mask!” Leyla defends me before realizing she’s made it worse.

Beef laughs again, and begins to rehash his Night of Knights jousting using the fireplace tools in Wendy’s living room.

“Well, this is a recipe for disaster,” I say, pointing to the sharp objects, but also meaning my face on this night of costumes and creepiness. “Did I ever tell you how much I loathe Halloween?”

“Why?” Eddie saunters up and hands one caramel-covered apple to me and one to Leyla. He’s dressed in a ruffled shirt and tights, recycled from Night of Knights, but enhanced with a quill pen and a scroll made from a paper-towel roll. “Get it?” he gestures with the quill. “I’m the Bard. As in Shakespeare.”

“Toil and trouble,” I say, feeling my whole body respond to him. I want to hug him and laugh with him and sit on the roof of a car and watch the parade of costumes in the moonlight with him.

He stares at Leyla. “Aren’t you going to try the apple?”

“Are we getting biblical now?” I ask and try to laugh. Then I think about Leyla’s decree—that tonight’s the night their lips will meet—and feel sick.

Leyla shakes her head. “I’m not … I don’t really like …” She pauses, as if she has to gather her strength to say the word. “Apples.”

Eddie looks confused. “But I thought you said …”

I kick Leyla. “You do. You do like apples. A lot.” She pulls the billowing sheet closer to her and flinches. When she elbows me back, and I can see the edges of the sheet start to shake from her wobbling legs.

“I do?” She looks at me. “Oh, I do. Only …”

“Only …” I fill in for her. “Only I didn’t have dinner so I’ll have both apples.” I grab hers and begin to eat it and my own with more gusto than I should, because with the sticks and the shape of my nose, I can’t actually get my mouth on the fruit without tipping my face awkwardly to the side or approaching the bite from above like a plane trying to land on a too-small airstrip. They both watch, horrified.

“Do you need …?” Eddie starts.

Leyla wrinkles her face. “Do you want to cut it?”

At first I think she means my nose—to which the answer is yes—and then I see she means the apple. I nod, so she goes off to retrieve a knife from Wendy’s enormous kitchen.

Wendy chooses this moment—my time of glory—to emerge from the shadows and cast her glare on me.

“No costume needed, I see?”

“Well, if it isn’t the wasted witch of the west,” I say as she totters up. Caramel sticks to my teeth and apple juice drips onto my chin, but I do my best to keep it together.

“Show me your invite or get out.”

I plead with Eddie to reach into my back pocket and get the dumb pumpkin paper. He does, and I feel his fingers on my back. Shivers prick my skin and I could fall into a swoon if it weren’t for the mess on my face and the company of witches. “Satisfied?”

Wendy laughs at the slop on my sweater, the stick in my hair, and nods. “Absolutely!” She leaves.

I head off to the bathroom to clean up, disrupted once in mid-pee by an elf who has over-imbibed and then by Leyla, who has borrowed a pumpkin costume that barely fits through the doorway. She pushes her padded orange self through and looks at me with teary eyes.

“I spilled fake-blood punch on my sheet,” she moans.

I shrug. “It’s not that big a deal. You’re a decent jack-o’-lantern.”

Leyla shakes her head, sad, and the stem of her pumpkin-top hat wilts. “I can’t do it.” She wipes her dripping mascara with a tissue, then adds, “Sorry to invade your privacy, by the way. But we’re close enough to pee in front of each other, right?” She takes off the hat and puts her head in her hands.

“I’ve never seen such a sad squash.” I pull my pants up and wash my hands.

“I’m not a squash!” she yells with more force than necessary. “I’m a pumpkin. You know that.” I look at her as if to suggest, yeah, and … “Oh—a pumpkin is a squash. God, I am the dumbest creature on the planet.”

Hearing her say this makes my eyes well up. “You’re not! Don’t say that—Leyla! You are not dumb.”

“It was going well until … he said something about the stars of Orion and I asked who Ryan was.”

I laugh. “You’re funny! See?”

“No, really.” Leyla’s hair is matted, her cheeks streaked. “Who’s Ryan?”

“Orion.” I adjust my shirt and wonder why I’m the only person at the party without a costume, except for a girl named Virginia Clapham who dresses in all black every day and doesn’t wear costumes for “political reasons.” “Orion, the constellation?”

“I thought he was like, ‘Oh, Ryan.’ Then it got worse—he says stuff I don’t get and I’m standing there and he asks my opinion about locally harvested food and I’m …” She looks at me in the mirror. “I thought he was going to kiss me. I really did.” Then she begins to bawl. “It’s so hard to be with him. I just want it to be … like putting on your favorite sweater.”

I stare at her. “
That.
Right there. That was poetry, Leyla.” She doesn’t believe me, so I go on. “So you mix up words. So you don’t always lead the pack when it comes to figuring things out.” I pat her on the back of her felt-padded costume and look at our reflections in the mirror. “You always know what to do when someone feels down. You give amazingly thoughtful gifts. You make funny faces—and hey, I’m the queen of the funny face. And … and you rock with layout.”

She sighs, reeling in her emotions. “But I can’t talk to him. Not face-to-face, anyway.”

Right then, I make a decision. “Come with me,” I tell her. “And get rid of the squash suit. Grab us two sheets and a pair of scissors.”

We hide out in Wendy’s cavernous upstairs bathroom amidst a startling array of every potion, lotion, cream, and makeup known to mankind.

“Think she’s got enough here?” I ask, holding up a bottle labeled
Firming Serum.
“Here’s one called ‘Sweetness.’ Dream on, Wendy.”

Leyla takes it from me and pools the sheets by her feet. “She has this? You wouldn’t believe how much two ounces of this stuff costs. ‘Sweetness’ has a waiting list a mile long.” She shakes her head and puts it back. “Must be a gift from her mom.”

I stick out my tongue. “I wouldn’t know whether to be thankful or hurt if my mom got me cover-up or something.”

Leyla pauses, thoughtful, before she slides the scissors into the matching floral sheets (swiped from the back of the massive linen closet) and cuts out eyeholes. “Maybe Wendy doesn’t, either.”

We try on our matching outfits. In the mirror, now, we’re no longer at opposite ends of the spectrum of teenage looks—we’re not beauty and the beast. We’re just girls in sheets. Two ghosts heading downstairs to get what we came for—a kiss.

“Call him over!” I tell her. Leyla and I try not to giggle as we hatch our scheme out by the thickly landscaped back garden. The air is crisp, verging on cold, and when Leyla shouts for Eddie, I can think of nothing better than warming myself in his arms.

“Now, go for it.” I duck into the prickly topiary. Leyla stands with her arms inside the sheet, motionless.

“Hey.” Eddie has his sword out, but uses it like a cane as he approaches. “Thought you’d gone.”

“Um, nope.” Leyla’s voice quavers. “I’m here. Right here.”

“Good.”

They stand there without saying much, their silence highlighted by the nearby noise from the party. Whoops, shouts, and laughter only make the awkwardness between them more evident.

I cough to stir things along, and then hope Eddie didn’t hear me.

Leyla acts like I’ve kicked her into gear. “So … do you like pirate movies or anything like that?”

From between the thickly set branches, I can just make out Eddie’s face. He looks half-confused and half sad. “They’re okay. Not in my top ten.” He shrugs.

“What is your top ten?” Leyla asks.

I breathe a sigh of relief—at least now they’re talking.

“Movies? Well, you gotta have the whole
Fletch, Groundhog Day, Caddyshack
thing in there.” He waits for more from Leyla, then goes on. “And then, just so I don’t appear totally humor-obsessed …
The Philadelphia Story
.”