Cameo (17 page)

He licked his lips. “Don't let this stupid chick get in your head. 'Cause you are much bigger than her,” he said.

It was like he was almost proud of me for standing up for myself. I felt like a better person around him.

“You're special.” I started to walk away immediately. How could I have said that? He pulled me back to him. Oh, man, I wish it was like a phone call that I could abruptly hang up or in which I at least could make up an excuse to go.

“I, I have to go. It's … getting late.”

Somewhere between my brain and my mouth, words were getting lost for no reason. Sometimes when he touched me, my mind just went haywire.

“All right. Me, in the car waiting for you. And … yeah, I might feel the same way. I think you're kind of special,” he said. He abruptly turned around. I watched him walk to his car, but I didn't want him to know it.

I walked slowly back to the house, thinking about him the whole way. I wanted to turn around to see his face again. But the chance that he was watching me and would see me look back at him was pretty high—80, maybe 90 percent. Gosh! This was crazy. This is what happened when an over-thinker fell in love.

I had to shake off this Jason stuff and focus. This time, I was really going to kick in some spy techniques. I wondered if I'd have to scale a wall to her bedroom. I crept around the side of the house doing the obligatory 007-style scoping and probing about the scene bit. I spotted a window to the upstairs hallway, right next to what looked like Michelle's bedroom—unless she had a younger sister that had teddy bears in the window. Anyway, I needed to operate surreptitiously. Entering a window was the best bet. I was looking for a window to a room somewhere that someone wouldn't be sitting in. A hallway would do. How auspicious! There was an old tree right by the upstairs hallway window, which was right next to the window that had all the teddy bears.

Using one leg and then the other, I climbed that tall tree to the highest second-story window on earth. I hadn't climbed a tree since I was seven. And I didn't have fond memories of that, but I did have a scar on my arm to remember it by. What the heck was I thinking? I reached out almost three feet between the tree limb and the window. I didn't dare look down. I knew better than that. One look
down, and I might've freaked out and toppled to the ground. Next thing you know, I'd wake up to Michelle's face laughing over my broken body.

Unexpectedly, I was able to just slide the window up and open. Does anybody lock anything around here? This is New York! At my house, we practically have a padlock on every window except the basement, which I didn't know about until today.

I slid through the window head first. At this point, I didn't care if anyone did see me. My whole body was making it into that window. There was no way I was going to leave any part of me dangling outside. The mere thought creeped me out.

There I was in the middle of the hallway, practically face-down. I could tell that the muscles in my arms and shoulders would be hurting in the morning. Climbing through that window was like doing fifty push-ups. A hand helped me up. The first thing I noticed were the Fred Flintstone–style, open-toed, dollar-store slippers that the round-bellied, five-foot-five little boy had on.

“Hey, you. I've seen you before?” he whispered.

Where? At Chucky Cheese? He was, like, twelve. I stood up and made my way to Michelle's room.

“Is she in there?” I asked. He shook his head, no. I slid the super-mod frosted-glass door back, prepared for a confrontation.

I stood there scoping out her room. There were like fifteen teddy bears on the window seat. A huge sultan bed and a powder area, and the color scheme was lavender and electric blue. Surprisingly, they went very well together. Of course she had a canopy bed and double doors that looked like they led to the holy grail of walk-in closets. She had a pair of skis in the corner. I could feel my blood pressure going up. I had spent four years fantasizing about going skiing with my boyfriend. Just before Craig—the only black guy I knew who liked to ski—and I were going to go cross-country skiing,
Michelle had intercepted. One might see how I found myself grinding my teeth at the sight of those skis. I felt a short, rounded object poke me in the gut. I looked around to find this little boy at my side again. I stared at him for a moment.

“Hurry up,” he said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You're very pretty,” he said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Leonard,” he said. Was I supposed to care what his name was?

“Why are you here?” That was a better question. Sometimes you had to ask the right question to get the right answer.

“Follow me.” He opened the doors to the mini-loft of a walk-in closet. Every designer outfit from every teen magazine printed that year alone hung in that closet. Each outfit was perfectly matched together with accessories—handbags, tights, shoes, and bangles. It was like she had a personal stylist. I lost him somewhere at the second turn around the spinning clothing rack of dark rinse jeans.

“C'mon! She may be back.” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and continued to talk in a faux-deep voice. “Look here.”

He pulled back five different styles of white, cotton button-down blouses to reveal a tack board full of pictures … of me! Correction, me in eighth grade? Even I don't look at pictures of me in eighth grade. This was completely ridiculous and wrong. Very, very wrong. I mean, who the hell has a collage of pictures of another girl from eighth grade, uh … and tenth grade? There were a couple of pictures of me in the eleventh grade, too. This was officially my worst nightmare. I had never felt so
violated and furious in my life! She had a picture of me and Craig ripped down the middle and taped back together! And then my half was cut into shreds.

It's one thing if I ripped up a picture, but this was like some witchcraft stuff. Man, the average person sheds like 100 hairs a day. I'd been in and out of this house twice already, and at least ten of my hairs were lurking around somewhere. What would she do with them? Hold some kind of ritual? I made the sign of the cross across my chest and hightailed it out of there.

Of course I found the sliding doors closed. That was strange, unless Leonard had closed them. And where had that little leprechaun gone anyway? Had he abandoned ship? I tried to quietly slide the doors back, but Michelle had my number. She was on the other side. She yanked me by the arm out into the hallway. I pushed her off me. I was so freaked out that she would be collecting sample hairs off my shirt, I didn't want her touching me.

“What were you doing in there?” she snarled.

“Afraid I saw your altar full of my pictures?” I asked.

“That is not an altar!”

“Denying it does not somehow make it sane!”

There would be no reasoning with someone like her. I brushed past Michelle. I was heading to the front of the house. I just wanted to get out of there. She jumped in front of me.

“April 5, 2003. I was minding my business, trying to return sour milk. You accused me of trying to cut the line and called me Marshmallow Girl in front of the entire student body. I was a few pounds overweight or whatever. You were gross, and nobody nicknamed you. People called me Marshmallow Girl for the rest of junior high,” Michelle said.

“Are you out of your f-ing mind? Get over it! That was how many years ago?”

“Ken Walker,” Michelle said. Was this some sort of delusion?

“Who?” I said.

Suddenly she slammed me against the wall and had her forearm pinned under my chin. “I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and you know what his friends said? He's waiting for Nia to ask him.”

“Get off me.”

I yanked her hair as hard as I could. She shrieked.

“I don't even remember this alleged guy, and so chances are I didn't go anywhere with him. Sue me if he liked me, and you liked him. We weren't even in the same class.”

She let her arm down, and I turned her around and slammed her against the wall. “This psychotic obsession is going to stop tonight!”

“See, first I skipped a grade. We're in the same class now. Had you not taken four years to get a decent boyfriend, we could've met sooner.”

“School is over in four weeks, get a life!”

“Oops! My bad! It took you four years to find any boyfriend at all!”

“I don't care what you say. If this is about revenge, you're not getting any,”

“My current job is to make your life a living hell like you made mine. I couldn't get a boyfriend. I couldn't make friends. I was nobody, thanks to you! One cameo, and you ruined my life!”

Michelle kicked me in the shin then took a swing at my jaw. I ducked back. That kick in the shin felt like someone was driving a nail through my leg.

“Did I mention I've been in kickboxing since seventh grade for my aggression and to keep the baby fat off?” she continued.

Her ranting on and on created the perfect opportunity. It took all the strength I had to ignore the mind-numbing pain radiating through my bone. I kicked her in the shin. She crouched down to the floor and swept her foot underneath me. I flew to the ground faster than I'd like to recall.

“The thing was, you weren't even popular and he liked you. Everything you did mattered. I am so sick of people like you! Now I'm a somebody, and I made you a nobody.”

I jumped back up. “Five years, and you're still stuck in eighth grade! See a therapist, loser! This is not my problem! Stop sending me text messages and viruses! Now I know it's you sending me that stuff!” I backhanded her with my left hand. I just happened to be wearing this huge crystal ring. But it was too soon to claim victory. Her hand had passed across my face in the worst way.

“It was sweet, wasn't it? Hope your computer works,” she said.

My face was burning. I could feel the welt forming on my cheek. She reached out to grab my throat. I poked her in the eyes with my two fingers. Her hand waved around my face as she tried to fight back with her eyes blinded. Leaving like this, knowing she'd harbored these ill feelings for so many years led me to be suspicious that she wouldn't leave me alone after this. I walked toward the front of the house to the stairs. I was still leaving without anything concrete. What if she moved that board when the police came to raid her house? The police raid was probably wishful thinking. In my mind, I hoped they would come with a paddy wagon for the insane and reel her away. This was not good sleuth work. Yet I felt compelled to get the hell out before another cat fight ensued. Steps away from the top of the staircase, I was struck in the back of the head. I guess I should've been looking over my shoulder. Whatever she hit me with felt like a rock—much like the thing that beat inside her chest.

I don't know how many hours later it was, or maybe it was just twenty minutes. Somehow, twenty minutes always felt like an hour. I was shaken awake by this tall, skinny guy from my AP English class. “You may not know it, but you have the most gorgeous hair I have ever seen.”

What a great way to wake up—a guy wearing a computer logo shirt, and thick glasses showering you with compliments while you're tied up. I started to try and wiggle my hands free. Seeing me struggling, after copping a feel of my hair, he finally untied the stockings that tied my hands together. I ripped the piece of Scotch tape off my lips. What the heck else had she done? Given me a barrage of paper cuts?

On second thought, I shouldn't joke like that. Paper cuts hurt more than gaping wounds, especially when they're on your hand. Such a scenario would be extremely excruciating for someone like me, who washed their hands, like, fifty times a day.

“How did you get in here? The hallway window?” I asked.

“Secretly, underneath this computer science T-shirt I have an S on my chest and inflatable muscles,” he said.

“What?” I was so confused. Was this actually happening, and why was he joking at a time like this?

“Ha! Girl, do I look like I can climb through a window?”

He had a point. I quickly stood up to find that she had me tied up underneath that freaky photo board. I shoved all the shirts back and took out my cell phone.
Click
. I jumped back a couple of steps for a panoramic picture.
Click
. And I took one more close-up.

“What are you doing?”

I studied his face. “Gary, right?” I asked.

He threw his hand up in the air as if he were about to testify. “That is I. Child, please tell me this chick has not made a suspect collage of you. This is like a missing person's timeline!”

Oh, my goodness! He watched crime show dramas too!

“Since we're under oath, I cannot lie,” I said.

“Girl, I am so sick of Michelle's bullshit. You know, she raided my house with her Neanderthal boyfriend and, of course, her sidekick. They gagged me!”

“What!” I said.

“Yes, they gagged me for a page in the yearbook. I'm here to stop that bitch in her tracks and get my photos back. The last straw was when she stole my Internet ID.”

“And I thought the dropkick was bad.” I laughed. This whole thing was so preposterous, there was no other reaction more befitting.

At this point, I was scared of this psycho. I was sure she'd get some much-needed psychiatric help once I reported all of this to Detective Smart. Gary led me through the labyrinth of a closet. That bad boy had like 1,000 square feet. I couldn't understand why Michelle would spend her time obsessed on adolescent happenings when she had everything … except a soul, that is.

“How did you know I was here?”

“This doll saw me in the kitchen and whispered to me to get you out of here.”

“Did she say why?” Like being tied up underneath cut-up pictures of yourself in someone else's room wasn't reason enough.

“No. She was like ‘Don't tell Michelle, and do it now while Michelle is in the basement. Be quick.' I knew she was on point because I heard ‘Bitchee Michee' yelling at somebody about fonts,” he said.