"Don't bring my reputation into this!" I yelled. "Whatever rumors are going around have nothing to do with the bake sale, nothing to do with how much money we're raising
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for charity, nothing to do with anything. I staffed the thing well enough, didn't I? People are buying the food, aren't they? And maybe those CHuBS moms will love it that boys are getting involved. Maybe they'll be thrilled to eat actual food rather than marshmallow art projects."
"I hardly think so," said Archer. "Cute is a tried-and-true approach, Oliver. It's what people like. It's what brings in the money. And it's what CHuBS is all about. I'm sorry I ever gave you this job."
"I'm sorry too," I told her. "But you did. And I worked really hard on it, and so did Meghan, and I'm not letting you and your friends waltz in here and take over."
Just then, Finn came back to the table with four soccer muffins, all bearing trays of amateur baked goods that at the very least aimed for deliciousness. "We have plenty of supplies, thanks," I told Archer. "You can take yourselves and your cuteness elsewhere."
"Fine." She grabbed her tray of marshmallows and turned on her heel, her friends in pursuit.
As I looked at her retreating back, all the fury of the past couple weeks surged inside me. Not just at Archer, but at everything. I picked up a piece of carrot cake and lobbed it at her retreating back. It hit her head, stuck in her hair and then slid down her back in slow motion, leaving a thick white trail of cream cheese frosting.
***
The Parents' Day Handicap was won by Mr. Fleischman, though he himself knew nothing about it. Instead of the allotted four minutes about the activities of
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the science department, he spoke for a record fourteen, waxing enthusiastic about his new kitchen science unit and how the eleventh grade now had a vital appreciation of the ways chemistry affected our daily lives. He was hoping his new way of connecting the sciences to the world in which we live would serve as a model for the courses taught in the other grades. He even got out ajar of mayonnaise "made by our own Katarina Dolgen during a lesson on emulsification and the stability of mixtures" and spread it on a piece of whole-grain bread he had stored in his pocket, then took three bites of it in front of everybody.
Some parents grumbled that this cooking in the classroom sounded like elementary-school work, while others complained that mayo alone on bread was disgusting, and a third group pointed out that as head of the science department, Fleischman was supposed to be lecturing not just on Chem but on Biology, Sex Ed, Physics and various electives.
Still, in terms of the Handicap, Fleischman was a clear winner, even before the head of the English department spoke, so I snuck out of the auditorium and went back to the Baby CHuBS table to set up for the final hour of the day. Meghan was still inside, sitting with her mom, and the hallway seemed eerie and empty.
There was a white sheet over the bake sale table to indicate it was temporarily closed. I pulled it off and began clearing crumbs, consolidating pastries, and setting out napkins. I got the cash box out of the locker we stored it in and began to count.
Four hundred and sixty-six dollars. In one day.
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We had raised four hundred and sixty-six dollars! I had banked on three hundred, maybe three fifty.
I sat there, glowing. By the time the day was over we'd probably have five hundred dollars to give to Happy Paws. With no cuteness, a roly-poly leader and a campaign against antiquated notions of masculinity.
"We have a winner, eh?" It was Jackson, likewise cutting out of the auditorium early after Fleischman's victory. "Good for me, too, as he was no long shot."
"What were his odds?"
"Four to one, but Kline was the favorite, and way more people bet on her than on Fleischman. I think mainly juniors bet on him, 'cause you guys have had him for all the kitchen science stuff." Jackson came and sat next to me, pulling a large wad of cash from his pocket and shuffling through it under the table, putting twenties on the bottom and singles on top. "I shouldn't have to pay out too much. Kyle's gonna be mad. He bet a pile on Harada at twenty to one."
He touched my leg and a jolt went through my body.
"Hey there, you," he said, as if he'd just noticed we were alone.
"Hey."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah. But you're not getting a free molten chocolate cake. Those are selling for four dollars each."
"It's not about baked goods." Jackson's thumb rubbed a small circle on my thigh.
"Oh," I said. "What's it about?"
"You." Jackson looked into my face with his beautiful
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clear eyes. I knew each freckle on his nose, the square angle of his jaw, the way one bottom tooth overlapped another. "You and me."
"Isn't that ancient history?" I asked, but I didn't move my leg out from under his hand. "Or maybe Greek tragedy?"
"Does it have to be?"
He was so close. The center of my treasure map. "What are you saying?" I asked.
"I'm saying, will you go to Spring Fling with me?" He looked down shyly. "Do you want to give me another chance?"
I was so shocked I didn't speak.
This was Jackson Clarke, my first boyfriend.
This was Jackson Clarke, who looked so good without his shirt on.
This was Jackson Clarke, who had met my parents and made me laugh and picked me up every day after swim practice.
This was Jackson Clarke, who had stomped on my heart, jerked me around, run off with my best friend and then turned into a pod-robot.
This was Jackson Clarke, looking vulnerable and nervous. This was Jackson Clarke, who was such a good kisser.
This was Jackson Clarke, who wanted me back. "I mean, I know the dance was a disaster last year," he said. "But I was hoping I could make it up to you." I still couldn't talk.
"Maybe I can make a lot of things up to you," Jackson
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continued. "Will you let me try, Roo? Because I'd really like to. I've been thinking about it since that day I ran into you with Dempsey at Nordstrom. And then I heard something about you and Noel DuBoise, probably just a rumor, but-I don't know. I couldn't stand that it wasn't me."
Here was the moment I'd been fantasizing about in my less mentally stable moments for almost a year: I could have him again. We could be in love. I could go to Spring Fling and wear a corsage and slow dance and look at the moonlight on the water.
Everything bad that had happened since Jackson dumped me could be erased, and I would finally be happy again.
Except.
Ag-Hello?
I am insane, but I am not that insane. I had had nearly a year of therapy by now, and even though Doctor Z was the lover of an aging hippie with horrible foot fungus, I couldn't help seeing her patient brown face looking at me as those thoughts ran through my mind. She'd see the holes in my fantasy as fast as I could verbalize it.
Even as I felt the warmth of Jackson's hand on my leg, even as part of me wanted to kiss him and give him a free molten chocolate cake just for wanting me, I had to admit the following:
1. I would not "finally be happy again." I don't have a predilection for happiness. I have a predilection for anxiety. Maybe it was easy for me to be happy once, a long time ago, but something shifted in my brain. Now
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it's hard. And there is no simple solution to getting happy if you're not wired for it. As Doctor Z has told me again and again: no happiness fairy is going to fly down and make everything fine; and just because the happiness fairy seems to be six feet tall and desperately cute and touches your leg, that's no reason to believe he really exists. 2. If I went to Spring Fling with Jackson, all the badness that had happened in the past year would not be erased. The words about me on the bathroom wall would still be there. I'd still be without my zoo job. I'd still have panic attacks and have to go to the shrink and eat almond-pumpkin pate for dinner. Same me, same life.