“Oh, honey. I'm rich, but not this rich.” Trent winked.
Jolie sat down at the table. “He lives in a brownstone a few blocks away.”
“Right near where the
Sex and the City
tour bus stops. My home may not be as posh, but it's trendy.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “How was your first day? What'd I miss?”
“Nothing, I just said it was different.” I walked toward the steaming food.
“Oh, no,” Trent moaned. “Different, like all the guys have tattoos that say MOM and insist on teaching you how to hock a loogie?”
Jolie rolled her eyes and mouthed,
His college years,
under her breath.
Trent snarled toward Jolie. “Don't dismiss my awful, damaging experiences.”
I smiled.
Jolie opened a carton of pad Thai. “That was twenty years ago; will you let it go?”
Trent quivered. “I still have nightmares about my freshman roommate, Bobby Joe, and his obsession with tractors.”
Jolie rolled her eyes, then opened the plastic silverware from the wrappings.
I set the paper plates out. “No tattoos and no loogies,” I said. “Just . . . different.”
Jolie raised her eyebrows at me.
It was so hard to pinpoint. Darlington seemed like a whole other universe. At my old high school our girls didn't carry Prada bags and have modeling jobs on the side. Our lunchroom didn't have a fireplace and Starbucks Frappuccinos in glass bottles. No one knew parental employment histories or compared whose apartment had the best view of the river.
I looked at Jolie and Trent's eager eyes and decided to narrow my focus to something they could relate to: appearances. “They all looked effortless,” I said, scooping up some rice.
“But Em,” Jolie said, setting her spoon of tom ka ga back in her bowl. “Look at you. You look effortless too.”
“It took a whole TEAM of people to make me look this way,” I protested.
“Life is about teamwork,” Trent said, slurping up a rice noodle.
“Yeah, okay, but today was my first day. I was aiming high, trying to make a good impression. These people just showed up on an ordinary day looking . . . perfect.”
Blank stares.
“You mean I have to do this EVERY DAY?”
“It's all about maintenance, sweetheart.” Trent reached for a summer roll. “Like, when a chestnut brown comes in waving a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow, I say platinum blond is all about commitment. Either you do it religiously, or you don't venture there in the first place.”
I sighed and looked out the window toward the river.
“Did you meet anyone nice?” Jolie asked, looking anxious, like she was afraid I'd say I was shoved into my locker or tripped in the hall.
I tried to act relaxed. I didn't want her to be more stressed about my transition than I already was. “I met two girls, Andi and Lindsey,” I said casually. “And I met some guys: Aidan, Ethan and Owen.” I felt myself get a little flustered remembering Owen's deep green eyes. “It's so weird, I mean, all the boys' names start with vowels. It's like a big vowel cluster,” I blabbered.
“
Your
name starts with a vowel,” Jolie said, her forehead crinkled in a look of suspicion.
“You're blushing,” Trent said, pointing his fork at me. “Why are you blushing?”
“I'm not blushing; it's just, um, the food's a little spicy.” I fanned myself with a napkin.
“You talk about some boys and suddenly you're all giddy.” Trent's eyes narrowed on me. “Spill.”
“Well, there was this one guy . . .” I confessed.
Trent's ears perked up. “Do tell,” he said.
“His name is Owen . . .”
“Owen is a hot-boy name,” Trent interjected.
I bit my lip.
“Knew it,” Trent said, shaking his head.
“Yes, he's . . .” I sighed.
“Stop swooning,” Trent said, “and describe.”
“Tall, athletic, blondish hair with really green eyes and this amazing smile . . . But it's more than just that,” I said. “It's like, I don't know, he's justâI can't put my finger on it. He has this magnetism. Like he just lights up a room and everyone wants to be near him.”
Trent held up his hand to stop me. “No, honey, sorry,” he said. “Stay away.”
“Away? Why?” I asked.
“I can smell his charm from here and that charisma means one thing. PLAYER. PLAY-ER. You know what Stevie Nicks says:
Thunder only happens when it's raining. Players only love you when they're playing.
You're too innocent; he'll have you swinging from the rafters in a matter of weeks.”
“Emily would not be
swinging from the rafters
,” Jolie said.
“Trust me,” Trent continued, “he's
dangerous
.”
“Really?” I asked, and wondered if it could be true.
“PLAY-ER. Ask Jolie,” Trent said, pointing to Jolie, who was cracking open a fortune cookie. “She has plenty of experience with PLAYERS, don't ya?”
“Trent,” Jolie said with exasperation. “This is my
niece
. We're not at The Odeon discussing
my love life.
” She collected our paper plates and headed into the kitchen.
“Come on,” Trent teased Jolie. “Maybe Emily can learn from
all
your mistakes. Tell us about Leo. Ooh, or what about, who was that financial guy? Parker! Or how about Honey Buns? Tell us about
Honey Buns
!”
“Trent!” Jolie stomped around the bar into the main part of the kitchen. I didn't know if she was upset with Trent for bringing up all her failed relationships or whether she was just uneasy discussing my crush.
Trent waved his hand through the air.
Touchy
, he mouthed behind her back.
I smiled and collected my books. “I'm going to my room to finish my homework.”
Every year, after the first day of school, my parents and I would sit around and make predictions: Which class would be the hardest? Which teacher would become my favorite? It felt strange that with Jolie and Trent we discussed none of this, only boys.
I looked out my bedroom window. A red light flickered on the dark water. I looked up and saw an airplane flying. Maybe it was descending toward Newark Airport or maybe it was an optical illusion from the waves, but either way, to me the plane looked like it was going down. I turned away from that dreadful river, the haunting image making my heart thump. I collapsed on my bed and started talking.
Hi, Mom and Dad. It's me, Emily,
I whispered.
I'm sure you know that, butI just wanted to clarify in case you're, like, getting vibes from elsewhere. Anyway, I miss you guys. I miss you guys so much. You don't even know what it's like. It's like a whole different life now. I know I'll make new friends, but everyone seems so different here. I miss my old school. I miss our house. I miss real dinners with metal utensils. Mom, I really wish I understood what your apology meant. What were you sorry about? You were the perfect mother. You never did a single thing wrong. The only thing I hate you for is being gone.
At this my voice choked up, and I couldn't keep my whisper rant going.
But I wanted to know they heard me. “Mom, Dad, move something!” I demanded. I searched my room for any evidence of their presence. I pointed to a picture frame. “If you can hear me, move this frame! Come on, you've seen
Ghost
!” But the frame remained immobile.
I flopped my head back down on the bed, the soft fibers of the new cream-colored comforter (Jolie had gotten rid of the pink one already) caressing my cheek.
I felt the familiar tingly sensation I'd felt all summer. Like my body was full of pins and needles, and pretty soon I knew it would be impossible to move my body at all. I'd be paralyzed, like I'd been for months, unable to get up from the couch for hours, even days.
I rolled over quickly and picked up my cell and looked at all the missed calls from Georgia. I decided not to call her. It was too late anyway.
I thought about my day. Meeting Owen was the first time in three months that I didn't think about the accident or the m ystery apology. But then Trent told me that Owen was probably just insincere and going to break my heart. And Jolie didn't disagree.
And maybe they were right.
Then again, what heart did I have left to be broken?
chapter five
EVERYTHING BECOMES MORE CHAOTIC,
I jotted into my notebook before glancing back up at the blackboard.
“It's the second law of thermodynamics,” Mrs. Klein explained. “The universe becomes more disorderly. This law doesn't come from complicated theory and equations; it comes from human experience. An ice cube melts in a warm room. Air in tires will blow out if the tire is punctured. Energy disperses from being localized to becoming more widely spread out. This is a powerful aid to help us understand why the world works as it does.”
I sat, mesmerized by this concept. Maybe my life in Pennsylvania was too contained. Maybe my family was “too perfect” and this crazy law of thermodynamics forced an explosion into my natural course of events, propelling me into this world of chaos and uncertainty.
“Is that okay?”
I whipped around. “Huh?”
Anthony was staring at me. “Do you want to be my lab p artner?” he repeated.
“Oh, sure.” I followed him to the side lab bench. Mrs. Klein had covered the board with chemistry equations and calculations while I was daydreaming.
“You do realize that you'll be shackled to me for the rest of the semester.” He ran his fingers through his dark curly hair. He laughed at my blank face. “So this is how it's going to be, huh? I'll be the only one paying attention.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Brain fart.”
He pushed over his notes. “Well, let me know when your mind is done breaking wind, because apparently a lab write-up is due every week,” Anthony said. “And then a final report with all our calculations and findings is due at the end of the semester. And we need to, like, pick a topic.” He twirled his number-two pencil in his hand, and I noticed the pencil had bite marks on it.
The classroom door swung open, and everyone turned their attention to the front of the room. A new girl walked in. She handed a slip of paper to the teacher and adjusted her weight awkwardly from leg to leg.
Mrs. Klein scanned the sheet and said to no one in particular, “Transfer student.” Mrs. Klein looked up and said, “Class, this is Carly Stroud. She transferred from a school in Connecticut.”
I had been at Darlington for a couple weeks now and was starting to feel a little less like a fish out of water. It was now almost the end of September, and I wondered briefly why Carly had just transferred, a month into junior year.
Carly looked innocent, doe-eyed, and hopeful as she yanked her too-tight green shirt down to cover her midriff better. I cringed. Even in my old school filled with imperfection, she wouldn't stand much chance. She was clearly trying too hard, wearing a uniform that was probably several sizes too small. The worst things about this new girl standing in the front of the room, worse than being a little chubby, worse than her mousy brown hair and lack of makeup, were her huge plastic tortoise shell glasses with diamonds on the sides.
There was no applause for Carly. No school-wide request for a “warm welcome.”
The teacher continued, “Let's see, you'll need a partner.” As she scanned the room, Mrs. Klein's eyes fell on a group of three, nestled in the corner.
“Ethan,” Mrs. Klein said, “I'd like you to pair up with Carly.” Then she turned her eyes to the new girl. “Stay after class and I'll bring you up to speed on the project.”
I recognized Ethan as the beanpole basketball star from the lunchroom.
As Mrs. Klein pointed her finger at Ethan, he collected his things slowly, reluctantly, and I saw him exchange an unmistakable expression with his buddies. He was not happy about this switch. With his books in his hand, Ethan dragged himself toward Carly, his basketball pendant bouncing on his chest with every long stride.
I looked toward Carly. As she stood there, witnessing his lack of enthusiasm, she had to know she was unwanted. I willed her to look toward me so I could smile. But her head slumped down, fixated on her shoes.
I shook my head and turned back to Anthony, who was already at work. Whoa. “I've got to be honest,” I said, watching him jot down notes. “Science has never been my strongest subject.”
“Not a wiz kid, huh?” Anthony asked. “So what's your specialty, then?”
“Well, I don't know, maybe English. I like to read. You actually
like
chemistry? Or are you just showing off?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He raised his eyebrow at me. “Actually, I do. I like that there's only one answer, and if you do the calculations and follow the instructions, you will eventually find what you're looking for.” He thought for a second. “Really, it's a lot like baking.”
“And you bake?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah. I guess I've just always been around it. My mom owns a bakery,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yup, CornerShop Bakery. Just around the corner! And by corner I mean it's nine stops from here on the F line.”
“And you help her out?”
“All the time,” he said as he lined the test tubes into a row, and pointed for me to hand him a cup and a club-shaped thing.
“What do you mean,
all the time
?” I handed him the items.
“I do the morning shift,” Anthony said. “Mortar and pestle,” he said, holding up the cup and club, then laughed at my face. “They're for grinding.”