Imaginary Enemy (13 page)

Priorities

I
t was the third week of high school, which wasn’t significantly different from middle school, except the kids were older, the student body was larger, and the social scene was even more rigid. Luckily, Emma and I had computer technology and PE together, and Madison was in four of my classes.

“So Jenny Danielson’s still playing the same old games,” Madison said as we claimed a table (I wasn’t able to identify the “geek table” I had worried so much about) in the lunchroom.

“Yeah. Just with a new supporting cast. Wonder what happened to Chase?” Samantha asked.

“He’s going to Harmon Academy,” I told them.

“Looks like Jane’s going to have to find a new superman,” teased Madison.

“Oh please,” I said, “don’t remind me of those days. That whole thing was so middle school.”

Emma just laughed and shook her head.

Carmella and Harmony came into my room and sat on the bed. My mattress sank beneath their weight. Now that they were almost twelve, I suddenly realized they took up a lot more room than they used to. “Want to know a secret?” asked Carmella.

“No,” I said.

“It’s a juicy one,” Harmony told me.

“I don’t want to hear your secrets. Or more accurately, someone else’s.”

“You’ll want to hear this. It’s about Chord.”

I wondered what Chord could have done that was so enticing and scandalous. Curiousity got the better of me. “What about him?”

“We heard him telling Sharp all about it,” said Carmella.

“They didn’t know we were there,” added Harmony.

“He’s going out with a girl from his school.”

“Her name is Ashley, and she has big—”

“Boobs,” whispered Carmella. They both giggled at that as if it was risqué.

Harmony broke in. “And a nice butt. And she’s in the theater track, which means—”

“She likes drama.”

“You got all the dirt, didn’t you?” I asked.

“There’s more. Chord wants Sharp to go out with Ashley’s friend.”

“Named Meagan.”

“But Sharp isn’t sure if he wants to. He says she’s too pushy. We’ll update you when we know more.”

“You two little spies really need a new hobby,” I said, reaching for my math book. “Have you considered stamp collecting? Quilting? Drowning each other?”

“You just wish you knew everything we know. Like about the Blackshires,” said Carmella.

“The Blackshires?”

“They got a new dog,” added Harmony.

“A golden retriever puppy.”

“Named Kenneth.”

“Jason walks him all the time.”

“And Mrs. Thomson claims that it barks all night long.”

“Jason walks Kenneth by her house on purpose just to rile her.”

“Enough, already,” I cried, sticking my fingers into my ears. “Scram.”

“Can I make dinner tonight, Mom? I’m supposed to cook a lot, according to my nutrition teacher. It’s my homework. You’ll have to sign my menu so she’ll know I actually did it.”

“If Jane’s cooking, I’m going to Waffle House,” said Zander.

“If it’s Jane’s homework, then Jane cooks,” said my mother.

“I’m eating next door,” called Carmella.

“Very funny,” I said.

I followed the recipe Ms. Parker had handed out. We didn’t have any Swiss cheese, so I substituted cheddar. And I used garlic in place of onions because of Carmella’s allergy. Later I realized I forgot to add the basil but put the pepper in twice.

“Mom, how will I know if I get food poisoning?” Zander asked, slipping into his seat.

“You’ll know,” said Carmella. “You’ll turn green. And your stomach will lurch.”

“She doesn’t know anything. You won’t turn green,” I said. “But this dinner is going to be good and you won’t get food poisoning,”

“How far is it to the hospital, Mom? Just in case? Can you get me there in time?”

“Enough, Zander,” said Dad. “Looks delicious, Janie.” He sounded like he had reservations.

“Smells safe,” admitted Carmella tentatively.

“I can’t believe you people!” I exclaimed.

“Hey, this is good,” said Zander in shock after taking a bite.

“What did you expect?” I asked, but I was relieved that he was eating and couldn’t answer.

I sat in my computer tech class, ignoring both my teacher and the keyboard. Instead, I text-messaged Emma (who was sitting across the room banging away at the keys like a concert pianist) to remind her that we were supposed to meet some other kids at the bookstore after school. I personally thought the bookstore was a strange place to hang out, but that was the plan, and I wasn’t about to get left out simply because I wasn’t exactly bookish. “Besides,” Madison had assured me, “last time we listened to music the whole afternoon, remember?”

“Emma,” I whispered, trying to get her attention, and signaled her to check her messages. She glared at me and kept working. Sometimes Emma exasperated me. For over three years I had tried, without success, to influence her with my slacker mentality. She didn’t comprehend how much easier life could be without such an overblown work ethic.

I met her at the door when the bell rang. “Why’d you ignore me?”

“I was working. Doing the assignment, which I know you didn’t do.”

“I did part of it.”

“You’re not even a
real
slacker,” she said, hitting me at the core of my being.

“What?”

“You do expend energy—tons of it—on stuff. You just pick useless things like text-messaging me about the same thing six”—she checked her cell—“make that
seven
times in one day. A real slacker wouldn’t bother repeating herself.”

I felt like I’d been slapped. All these years I’d carefully cultivated an image that she was now calling a sham. I gaped at her, unsure how to respond.

She grinned. “You know I’m right.”

Was she?

“See you after school. Bye, Jane.” She walked away, and I knew she’d won that round.

Dear Bubba,

What does an overachiever like Emma know about the basic tenets of slackerism? Nothing, that’s what. Emma’s my best friend and I’m grateful to have her in my life, but sometimes I wish she’d loosen up and live a little. I mean, what kind of person would stay home and study for a biology test when she could be at the movies with Madison, Samantha, and me? That’s just not normal behavior. She needs to learn to prioritize.

Complacently,
Gabriel

The Entrepreneur

“J
anie,” my father said when he sat down.

“Yeah, Dad?” I clicked the remote, changing the channel to
Iron Chef,
my current favorite show.

“You interested in making some cash?”

“Doing what?” I hoped it was nothing too strenuous. As a slacker (I still claimed that title, in spite of Emma’s declaration), I am a firm believer in energy conservation, especially when it comes to
my
energy.

Dad crossed his arms. “At least give me the courtesy of turning off the TV and looking at me.”

I reluctantly punched the Power button. The secret ingredient on this episode was grouper, which our freezer was packed with after my father and Uncle Grayson’s last fishing trip on the
Annika Elise.
“What’s up, Dad?”

“There’s a tournament at the marina on the twenty-second. Thought I had everything covered, but apparently there was a communication breakdown. Mr. Castle, who usually brings in his trailer, is already committed to the swap meet at the fairgrounds. I’m not sure I can get someone else on such late notice.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Grill hot dogs, hamburgers. Maybe sell drinks and chips. Nothing fancy.”

“And you’d pay me? How much?” It was one of those Einstein E=mc
²
deals. Income – (output + energy spent) = net gains or losses. For me to commit, the gains had to be significant and risk free.

“I’ll buy the products. You cook them and sell them. Pay me back what I fronted and you keep the rest. Although you’ll probably need help, so you’ll have to split it with your partner. I thought Zander could join you.”

“Zander?” That was something I hadn’t written in to the equation. Another drain on energy expenditure—a huge one.

“It’s a big event. You could make some decent money.”

“Yeah, maybe. What if we don’t sell enough to cover your expenses? We get nothing?”

“We’ll work it out. Calculate a fair wage based on what you do sell. But we’ve hosted this tournament for years, so I doubt that will be an issue.”

“If Zander’ll help, I’ll do it,” I agreed with some reluctance. “Emma’s got a soccer meet in Orlando that weekend anyhow.”

Sharp was loading Elliot’s van with some equipment. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Elliot and I are going out to Sage Creek. He wants to record the wind in the saw grass and the water flowing over the stones. Stuff like that.”

“You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t it get boring?”

“No. It’s pretty exciting, actually.”

“It’s kind of weird, you know. Regular people don’t do stuff like that.”

“So what do regular people do?”

“I don’t know…watch TV, eat, work, sleep. The usual.”

“Well,
that
sounds pretty boring to me.” He shoved the last box of tangled wires into the back of the van and shut the doors. “See you later.”

“Zander, I told you to chop the onions. We’re almost out.”

“I will when I finish this, Jane. Don’t be so bossy.”

I flipped the burgers on the grill. “You’re lucky I let you in on this deal. Dad asked me, you know.”

Zander capped the jar of pickle relish and set the cutting board on the table. “I don’t see why I always get stuck chopping the onions.”

“Quit your whining,” I snapped. My demeanor changed completely as a man approached. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?” I smiled like a model in a toothpaste ad.

“Two cheeseburgers,” he said.

When he paid me, I held his change over the tip jar on the table just long enough for him to get the message.

“Score!” I said, nudging Zander as the man disappeared into the crowd. “I’m good at this.”

“
We’re
good at this,” he corrected me, wiping away the tears streaming from his eyes. “And you’re doing the onions next time.”

“You smell like a barbeque grill,” said Carmella, wrinkling her nose.

“Go away. I’m taking a shower after we count our profits,” I said, raking a handful of quarters across the table. “Okay, Zander, we still owe Dad another fourteen dollars and eighty-seven cents.”

“You’re paying him in all change?” asked Zander.

“Don’t have enough change. We’ll have to give him some of these ones.”

“But he probably doesn’t want all those loose coins.”

“Money’s money,” I said, dumping Dad’s share into a vinyl bank bag.

“So, Dad, when’s the next tournament?” I asked when I handed him the front money. The bag was quite heavy because of all the change rattling around inside.

“We have one next month,” he said. “The Elks Lodge is raising money for St. Jude’s.”

“Can Zander and I do the food again?”

“You think it was worth it?”

“Heck yeah. We each made two hundred twelve dollars. And eighteen cents.”

“You should put some of that in the bank. And put some aside for supplies for the next tournament.”

“You could front us again.”

He laughed and held up the bulging bank bag. “I don’t think so. I might need a dump truck to get this to the bank.”

“Maybe I’ll add potato salad to the menu next time,” I said. “And brownies or cookies. I love to bake.”

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” he warned.

“Me?” I asked in disbelief. “I’d never do that.”

Dad didn’t comment—he just grinned and started stacking quarters on the table.