Mom dropped one of the shopping bags on the couch. “Consider it our way of stimulating the economy.” She turned to me. “Show your father what we bought.”
Dad put on a good show of being impressed. He said, “Ooh,” and “Ahh,” and “Very nice.” But in actuality, he had no fashion sense whatsoever. He would have said the same thing if I had held up things from the clearance rack at Goodwill.
“I’m sure you’ll look great in them,” he said. I was his little peach too.
He winked at my mom. “But as it turns out, you didn’t need to take Cassidy shopping at all.”
Mom sat down on the couch and kicked off her shoes. “Oh?”
“I have such good news for her, she’ll forget all about clothes.”
“You’re doubling my allowance?” I guessed.
“Wrong.”
“You’re buying me a Jeep for my birthday?”
“Wrong, wrong. Really wrong.” Before I could guess at anything else that was expensive, he said, “While I was mowing the lawn, the Lopez’s realtor came by and took down the for sale sign in front of their house. It sold.”
That didn’t feel like good news. I had faintly hoped that the house would never sell and Anjie’s family would hate Virginia so much they would decide to move back. I sat down with a thud on the couch and didn’t say anything.
“It sold to the Benson family,” Dad went on. “They’re moving here from California in about a week and they have a daughter your age.”
I frowned at him. Anjie wasn’t a pair of shoes that I could just replace when I needed new ones. What were the chances that the new girl would be someone I liked, someone who liked me? It was just as likely she would become fast friends with Samantha and the two of them would spend the remaining years of high school doing eye-rolling relays at my expense. I didn’t even crack a smile. “I’d rather have a jeep.”
“The family also has a teenage son,” he said. “A senior.”
My mother made a disapproving sound as she gathered up my purchases. “Don’t give Cassidy ideas.”
I didn’t comment about that. I already had ideas. I just had them about Chad Warren.
Mom handed me the shopping bags. “When they move in, you’ll have to go over and introduce yourself to the girl your age. You could volunteer to show her around.”
I told myself that I wouldn’t get excited about her. I wouldn’t expect her to be like Anjie. But once a seed of hope is planted, you don’t need to water it. It grows by itself. By the time I went to bed, I was already wondering what ‘about a week’ meant. Six days? Nine? Maybe five. Hopefully five.
* * *
The only good thing about having Anjie gone was that I didn’t have to worry about her getting jealous if I flirted with Chad—not that I had ever flirted with Chad before. Last year it had seemed too presumptuous. He was one of the most popular guys in the sophomore class, and I’d been a freshman who still looked like I belonged in junior high—five foot four, string-bean thin, no clue what to do with my dirty-blond hair, and a smile decorated by braces.
A year later, I’d grown three inches, filled out, discovered Clairol highlights weren’t that difficult to apply, and finished my monthly excursion to the orthodontist. The next logical step was flirting. So this year, I would attempt it. I called my scheme “Operation Chad.” First goaclass="underline" get him to notice me.
Chad was gorgeous. He had wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could melt ice. But the thing I liked about him was that he looked clean-cut—like someone who would be polite to your grandparents. He got good grades, which meant he was smart, and a smart guy had to want an intelligent girlfriend. I was clearly qualified for the position. We would be able to talk about anything and everything. Life. The cosmos. What to name our first child.
With this in mind, I set “Operation Chad” in motion. This consisted of doodling his initials next to mine in my Spanish notebook, planning to go to all the football games—he played wide receiver—and arranging my schedule so I passed him in the hallway three times a day. It was a slow start, admittedly, but I wasn’t sure he even knew my name. I couldn’t just go up and talk to him. With all the hall time we spent together, I somehow hoped he might notice me, wonder who I was, and say something to me. Okay, it was a really, really slow start.
Upon evaluation of the first week of school, I decided I needed something to help me stand out. Maybe I was too colorless to get noticed amongst all the students milling through the hallways of Pullman High School.
On Monday I wore a form-fitting red skirt and a pair of three-inch red high heels. I’d always preferred sandals to high heels, and it took me half an hour of trundling around my bedroom before I felt like I could walk in them without wobbling.
Armed with my fashion-model heels and a skirt that looked perfect on me—even if it was so form fitting that I could only take small steps—I set out to capture Chad’s attention. Sometimes he studied in the library before first period. I strolled in, trying to ooze sophistication.
Luck was with me. Chad sat at a table doing homework with his best friend, Mike. I walked by and purposely dropped my English book next to Chad. I had visions of him reaching gallantly for it. Our eyes would meet as he handed it to me. Maybe he’d even smile and say something.
But he just sat there, his head bent over his book. He didn’t even look up from his trig problems. Awkwardly—my skirt wasn’t meant for bending—I reached down and picked up the book myself. It was then I noticed a table full of junior girls close by. They were glaring at me. They knew what I was up to. In fact, they’d probably tried the same thing themselves. No wonder Chad didn’t move. He was probably showered with objects daily.
I had planned on sitting down at a nearby table and studying, but suddenly it seemed like a bad idea. I didn’t want to look like I had no friends to hang out with. I scanned the library for a group I could sit with.
The only person I really knew was Samantha. She sat at a table with the rest of the cheerleading squad, talking and smiling. Being anywhere in Chad’s vicinity apparently makes the neurons in my brain misfire because it suddenly seemed like a good idea to go over and tell Samantha that a new girl was moving in on our street. For those few moments, I completely forgot that I’d been put on the peasant list.
When I walked over to her, Samantha put on an expression of perturbed patience.
And then it all came back to me, but it was too late to turn around.
“Hi,” I said.
The other cheerleaders stopped talking and stared at me, waiting to find out why I’d disturbed them.
“Did you hear about the new family that’s moving in on our street? They’ve got a girl our age.” I had been watching the house for signs of the new family, checking it impatiently ever since my dad had told me the news.
“Yeah,” Samantha said without emotion. “My mom told me. Mr. Benson drove up last night and the rest of the family is coming this afternoon. They’ve got, like, six kids. The one our age is named Elise.”
I should have known Samantha’s mother, Mrs. Taylor, would already have twice as much information about the family as my parents did. Mrs. Taylor was what some people would have called “involved in the community” and less-kind people would have called a busybody. In elementary school she had always been room mother; in junior high she’d been on the PTO board; and last year the Taylors not only donated the materials for the freshman homecoming float, but Mrs. Taylor had basically designed the thing and helped build it.
“Elise,” I said the name out loud, trying to conjure up an image of the girl it belonged to. “What else do you know about her?”
Samantha hesitated. Her lips pursed together slightly. Whatever she knew about Elise, she didn’t like. “Nothing really.”
The fact that Samantha wouldn’t tell me probably meant it was something that wouldn’t have bothered most people. Elise didn’t have a fatal disease or a third leg. She just didn’t meet Samantha’s qualifications as a worthwhile person. She wasn’t homecoming court material.