Vibes

Houghton Mifflin Company
Boston · 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Amy Kathleen Ryan

All rights reserved. For information about permission
to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

The text of this book is set in Dante.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ryan, Amy Kathleen.
Vibes / written by Amy Kathleen Ryan.
p. cm.
Summary: Kristi, a sophomore in an alternative high school, thinks that
nearly everyone dislikes her but begins to doubt her psychic insights after
learning long-held family secrets and some classmates' true feelings.
ISBN 978-0-618-99530-1
[1. Self-perception—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.
3. Psychic ability—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.
6. Family problems—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R9476Vib 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008001865

Manufactured in the United States of America

MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FOR RICHARD,
WHO HAS MADE IT POSSIBLE
FOR ME TO WRITE
WITH AUTHORITY ABOUT
TRUE LOVE

It isn't easy being able to read minds. People think up some pretty nasty sewage. Like the other day—I'm walking home from school when I come across an old guy walking his smelly Doberman. He's definitely a candidate for this year's Stodgiest American Award. Black suit coat, gray pants, white stuff in the corners of his mouth. He takes one look at my thick legs in their fishnets and my skirt that I made out of Mylar birthday balloons and my tank top that barely contains my ginormous boobs and finally the eyeliner I cake over my eyes because it makes me look dangerous, and he thinks:
Ugly bitch.

Well, it's true. I'm a bitch. And I'm ugly.

I could shed a lot of light on human nature if people knew that I read minds. Scientists would study me. I'd be in some lab strapped to a table and they'd put a huge machine around my head to measure my brain waves, and they'd nod to one another and say, "Fascinating. Fascinating." And they'd all have really big pores and very white skin, because scientists never go outside. That's why I don't talk to anyone except for my Aunt Ann about my powers. The last thing I need is researchers sticking needles into my brain.

If you're wishing you were psychic, too, believe me, you do
not
want to know what people are thinking. People are mean, nasty, selfish slobs, and 99 percent of the time their brain vibes hurt your feelings and you have to go around trying not to remember that Gusty Peterson, the cutest guy in school, looked at you yesterday and thought,
Sick.

I don't like Gusty Peterson anyway. He always wears baseball caps backwards and extra-big jeans, and he tries to walk with a loose, tough-guy swagger that makes him look dumb. He's a jerk-off. Too bad he also happens to be so gorgeous that when you look at his perfect tanned face and blond curls your eyes water.

That's one more thing I can tell you about human nature: beautiful people are the last ones you want to befriend. Beautiful people float through life thinking that it's perfectly natural for others to gaze at them adoringly, and open doors for them, and defer to their opinion about whether or not the streamers for the prom should droop in the middle. Doesn't anyone understand that beautiful people are stupid? That's why nature made them beautiful, so they'd have some chance of surviving in the wild. And how do they survive? They use people and then they drop people, and they float away on the currents of their own gorgeousness to the next poor girl who thinks that being friends with a beautiful person will somehow make her beautiful, too. I've got news for you: Hanging around beautiful people just makes you uglier by comparison.

I learned all this from my ex-best friend, Hildie Peterson—Gusty's sister. She is one of the most gorgeous people in the whole world. She's skinny and petite. Her eyes are slanty like a cat's and her hair is light blond and glossy, so when you first see it you think that color can't be natural, but then when you get closer you realize that it's totally natural and you feel even worse about your mousy brown. She has never had a pimple in her entire life, and she's been doing gymnastics since she was four years old, so she glides like a swan. She's practically a freak, she's so beautiful.

I used to like her, when she didn't understand how pretty she was. That was until we hit high school and suddenly the entire lacrosse team was asking her out. They loved her so much, they practically carried her on their shoulders through the hallways of the school. Did Hildie ever look back at me—her big-breasted, psychic, slightly freaky friend—as she drifted into the stratosphere of popularity?

Would you?

Alarm clocks were invented by fork-tongued devils disguised as gremlins wearing snake masks. Today when my alarm goes off I nearly get whiplash, it scares me so much.

I roll out of bed. I can
literally
roll out of bed because I keep my laundry piled on the floor right next to my mattress. It's like my exit ramp. Today I execute the move perfectly, and I end up on my back next to my dresser. Right above my head Minnie Mouse is curled up in my open sock drawer. I have so many special socks I can't close it, which is fine because it's Minnie's favorite perch. All my socks are covered in hair, but I don't mind. It's part of my look. Minnie looks down at me and purrs.

I adore my cat. The only thing she ever thinks about me is "I love you. I love you. I love you." She's thinking it now as she crinkles her pretty yellow eyes at me. "Hi, Minnie," I whisper, and she purrs even louder.

Minnie Mouse never meows. This is very lucky, because if my mom ever found Minnie, the cause of her constant allergies would be obvious. Then I might have to fight an epic battle against the forces of evil, a.k.a. my mother, to keep Minnie. I would never let her go. Minnie is my best friend and my secret furry weapon all rolled into one. Who could give up that combination?

Hiding Minnie all this time has been a challenge, but it helps that Mom works sixty hours a week. Plus, when I first got Minnie, I gave Mom this whole elaborate speech about how I was suffocating and I needed her to respect my boundaries by not coming into my room. Once I got her to promise she'd never trespass again, I installed a padlock with only one key, which I keep on a chain around my neck at all times. Mom hated the lock, and it caused the worst mother-daughter war of all time, but I finally won because I'm younger, I have more energy, and I could hold out longer. Now my domain and my cat are protected.

I pull Minnie down from her perch and snuggle her in my pile of laundry before I finally get on my feet and stumble into my bathroom. Because my mom is a surgeon, we have a really nice house, so my bedroom has its own adjoining bathroom, which is my favorite place in the whole world.

I slide into my huge pink bathtub and wait for the water to slowly edge over my legs and up my belly, until it finally makes my ginormous boobs float. I sit in the hot water trying to psych myself up for the day. I have a mantra:
I am my own person. I am my own person. I am my own person.

That's why I don't have many friends.

I check my fingers for pruniness. I like to wait in the tub until my hands are so waterlogged they're practically white. Then I slip into my chenille bathrobe and sit in front of my vanity mirror to begin the makeup procedure: eyeliner, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and maybe eyeliner. I cannot upset the order in which I apply my makeup because otherwise I just don't look right.

Once I'm made up, I go to my "found" wardrobe. I call it "found" for a reason. Last year in Serf-Expressions and Language Arts class, Betty Pasternak, the only semicool teacher I've ever had, taught us about found poetry. You cut out words and phrases from magazines and make poems from them. I used clips from the playmate profile in
Playboy.
Betty said my poem was subversive. That is my favorite word.
Subversive.

Anyway, when Betty explained found poetry, I realized that's what my wardrobe is. I never buy material for my sewing; I find it—at the Salvation Army, in my mom's closet, even in dumpsters and abandoned buildings. Today I put on my potato-sack peasant skirt with my extra-thick petticoat so I don't itch and my black tunic that I made from the fabric of ripped-up umbrellas I found on the street after a bad rainstorm.

I look mahvelous—as mahvelous as possible for someone with watermelon-size gazungas.

Now it's time to venture out. I creep out of my room and, as I quietly lock the padlock on my door, listen carefully for signs of Mom. The house is quiet, which probably means Mom is already at the hospital, or maybe she never got home last night. Still, it pays to be cautious.

Slowly, so that the zippers on my purple go-go boots don't rattle, I creep down the plush carpet of our hallway until I can just barely look around the corner into the kitchen.
Please don't be there. Please don't be there.

She's there.

She's still in her scrubs, boobs sagging, her butt spread out on the stool. No wonder Dad left. She's let her hair grow out like brown weeds, and it's super thick like mine, so she always wears it in a big fat bun on her head. She never wears any makeup, and she's getting to the age where she needs at least a little blush, but I guess she doesn't really care how she looks. She's leaning her elbows on the counter, her face toward the polished granite, a steaming mug of coffee in front of her.

Mom must have worked all night. She has her back to me, and she's so out of it, I just might pull this off.

I slide around the refrigerator to the cabinet and carefully open it just enough to pull out the All-Bran Crunchy Tarts. I watch her for signs of life. She has not moved a muscle.

Now comes the hard part. I fish through my backpack for my travel mug. I haven't washed it in a while, so it's coated with a thick film of old coffee, but it doesn't matter because I drink my coffee black and the residue just adds to the dimension of the flavor. It's my special blend, if you will.

Carefully I slide the coffeepot off the burner and take it into the living room. I smell it to see what beans she used. It's got that slightly metallic, bitter warmth to it that I love. Colombian. I hold it up to the window, but the coffee seems to absorb all light. My mom is Greek, so she makes our coffee super thick, just the way I like it.

I pour myself a nice big cupful. There's enough to fill my whole travel mug, praise be to the gods. Not that they exist.

I quietly set the decanter on the end table and make a run for it.

"Kristi?" she calls as I open the door.

I close it behind me without answering, but I can hear in her thoughts that she knows I heard.

Why does my daughter hate me so much?
That's what she's thinking.

My walk to school isn't as bad as a perp walk to the courthouse for someone wrongfully accused of strangling her own children, but that's only because there aren't crowds of reporters taking my picture as I approach the institutional building of my doom.

I live in a suburb of a suburb. I'm surrounded by the offspring of professional people who attend parent-teacher meetings and volunteer on Election Day. They believe in a liberal education, and everybody who's anybody sends their kids to the nontraditional hippie-dippie school that offers children and teens a self-directed, cross-disciplinary, nonauthoritarian education in an emotionally safe environment.

It's excruciating.

They don't even call it a school. They call it
Journeys.

"Hey, Kristi," someone lisps from behind me. Jacob Flax runs to catch up, his eyes on my boobs. I get a flash of myself taking a bubble bath. He always imagines my boobs wet for some reason. Jacob waves over his shoulder at someone. "See you, Felix!"

Felix Mathers waves back. Felix is the cadaverous musical genius who plays nine instruments. He is a weird dude. He and Jacob walk to school together until they hit my block, and then Jacob breaks off to join me and Felix always hurries away.

Today I finally ask Jacob about it. "Why doesn't Felix ever walk with us?"

"He's shy."

"Shy about what?"

"Shy about girls, I guess," Jacob says, glancing at my cleavage.

If reading minds has taught me nothing else, it's that teenage guys are so horny that every moment of their lives is exquisite torture. Jacob is no exception. We'd probably be better friends if he wasn't always picturing my naked torso.

It doesn't help that he spits when he talks.

"What are you wearing today?" He looks me up and down.

"Umbrellas and a potato sack. The umbrellas symbolize the earth's love for her living creatures, and the potatoes represent the response of all living things to the healing waters of the sky." (I only half mean this. I enjoy blowing his mind.)

"Well, you look cool." He stares at his shoes, which have holes. He must have nine pairs of canvas high-tops, and every pair has holes in exactly the same place, right over his big toes. "I'm getting braces."