Maybe he just likes you, p.9
Maybe He Just Likes You, page 9
“Is tumbling summer salts?” Hadley asked.
“Somersaults, and yes,” I said.
“That one!” Hadley yelled, jumping. “Okay? Mommy? Okay?”
Mom laughed. “Sure, baby. What about you, Mila?”
She pushed the brochure across the table so I could see it. All her nails looked raw and chewed, not just her thumb. And that surprised me, because mom nails weren’t supposed to look like that.
“Is there something here you’d like to do, sweetheart?” she asked me. “Remember, it’s still the trial period, so we get to take all their classes for free.”
But only for two weeks, so what was the point? You couldn’t learn anything much in two weeks.
I looked at my little sister, who was still jumping, and Mom, trying hard to act cheerful. Whatever was going on with her at work, she didn’t want us to know about it, which made it seem worse. She also seemed like she needed to burn some energy, to quote Zara.
And of course, quoting Zara made me think about everything that had happened at school—and after school—with my friends. The weirdness with Tobias. Zara scolding the boys in town. Our fight afterward. How Max had wandered off at lunch, and Omi had told me I needed friends.
But what good are friends when they don’t listen?
Or, when they do listen, don’t understand?
I need to take care of myself.
By myself.
And suddenly I had an answer. Maybe not a solution, but an answer to Mom’s question.
“Karate,” I said.
STRETCH
Ms. Brennan, so glad to see you again.” Ms. Platt was smiling. Also waiting for something, apparently.
But what? My shoes were already off.
“Um, hi,” I said. “I’m only here for the trial membership, so that’s why I don’t have a uniform.”
“You mean a gi.”
“Right, a gi. Or a belt.”
“That’s okay,” Ms. Platt said. Her eyes twinkled. And she still didn’t move.
Behind her, Samira caught my eye. Bow, she mouthed. She made a bowing motion.
Oh, right.
I bowed at Ms. Platt, who bowed back.
“Ms. Brennan, we always start class with some stretches,” she said. “I’m going to pair you with Ms. Spurlock; she’ll demonstrate for you on the mat.”
My heart sank. I hadn’t even been here for a minute, and already I was supposed to follow Ms. Spurlock—Samira—who was apparently teacher’s pet here, too. Or sensei’s pet, or whatever we were supposed to call it.
But right away, Samira explained she’d been studying karate at a different dojo for the past two years, so she really did know what to do. She showed me a bunch of stretches—sitting, kneeling, standing—that she said warmed up hamstrings, side muscles, and knees. And she didn’t act all look how great I am about it; it was more like she cared that I learn the right way.
“Try not to jerk or bounce, Ms. Brennan,” she told me. “Be gentle and slow.”
Okay, I thought. But I’m not here for gentle and slow. And are you really going to call me Ms. Brennan? Because seriously.
A few more kids arrived—an Asian-American girl who looked about eight, a redheaded girl around my age, a tiny dark-skinned boy with a chirpy voice, a scary-pale teen girl with a nose ring.
“All jewelry off, Ms. Nathan,” Ms. Platt told her. Her voice was friendly, but stern.
“Oh, come on,” the girl begged. “It won’t be an issue, Ms. Platt, I promise.”
“Ms. Nathan, you know the rules of the dojo. Let’s not waste time. Remove the jewelry, and then I’d like to see Mr. Chowdhury and Ms. Spurlock lead the first three shobus. Ms. Spurlock and Mr. Chowdhury, get your distance, please.”
The other kids lined up on the mat, so I did too. And we watched Samira and the chirpy-voiced boy do some moves, over and over, while Ms. Platt narrated. (“Step back, arms in, Ms. Spurlock, remember to lead with the top two knuckles; now parry-block, Mr. Chowdhury, very nice, now reverse.”)
Then Ms. Platt lifted her arms. “Now, the rest of us, let’s develop some muscle memory. Hajime.”
The other kids started doing the moves, and by now, after all those repetitions, I could do them too. Well, pretty much. Ms. Platt made herself my partner, the whole time saying things like “Bend the elbow forty-five degrees, straighten that leg, bigger step.” But I didn’t feel embarrassed or helpless or singled out. Just like when Samira had paired with me for the stretches, Ms. Platt seemed to be cheering me on, happy when I finally did a straightforward punch “clean and sharp.”
After that we all practiced front kicks and side-blade kicks while Ms. Platt counted in Japanese. We did the kicks over and over, until my thigh muscles ached and the soles of my feet tingled.
* * *
I got sweaty. I even did a kiai so loud that Ms. Nathan, the no-nose-ring girl, high-fived me. Afterward Samira came over. “So? Isn’t karate great?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s really fun.”
“And Mila, I think it’s such a good idea that you’re taking it,” she murmured. “Because of all that stuff with the boys at school.”
I nodded. “Yeah. That was pretty much the idea.”
But I couldn’t help thinking:
What does any of today—
the bowing, the counting in Japanese,
even the moves on the mat
which kind of look like dance steps—
have to do with
the laughing on the blacktop
the comments
the contact on the bus
at the lockers
in the band room?
BUSINESS
Mila, wake up.”
I didn’t want to; I was in the middle of a dream. Not a fun dream—I was racing around a complicated train station, lost and late for something—but it felt too real to turn off the switch.
“Mmf,” I said. “Why?”
Mom gently shook my shoulder. “I need to talk to you, honey,” she said.
I sat up. My mouth was sour and pasty, like I’d swallowed a slug. “What time is it?”
“Eight thirty.”
“Aren’t I late for school?”
“No, honey, it’s Sunday. But I’m going into work—”
“Wait, what?” My brain swirled. “I thought you said—”
“Yes, but now my boss says I need to go in. For a special meeting.”
“On a Sunday?” I rubbed my crusty eyes. She wasn’t even wearing her worky clothes. “Mom, that’s crazy. And not fair.”
“I know.” She paused. “I told Mr. Fitzgibbons to check if you needed anything, and Molly Ames says she’ll stop by for Hadley—”
I groaned. “Please not her. I’ll just watch Hadley myself.”
“Well, Molly’s already agreed to come, and she’s bringing Cherish. Unless I’m back before lunch, which could very well happen. I don’t know.”
Slowly the whole thing was coming into focus. “Mom, why would you be back before lunch? I mean, if you’re going all the way to the office—”
“Because it’s possible I’m getting fired, sweetheart,” Mom said quietly. “You know, my boss really has it in for me these days.”
“But how come? You never talk about it.”
She sighed.
“Mom, I’m not a baby,” I said.
She reached over to smooth my bed head. “I know you aren’t, sweetheart. All right, really fast, because I need to leave: I noticed some figures in the financials that weren’t adding up, so I reported it to my boss’s boss. And of course when my boss found out, he got furious. At me.” She did a small sideways smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “But let’s not worry about stuff before it happens. Okay?”
“Okay,” I told her.
But by now I was sure of one thing: the way she kept telling me not to worry, there was definitely something to worry about.
JACKET
About an hour later the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Ames and Cherish, who was holding a floppy yellow terry-cloth bunny in her right hand and sucking her left thumb. Mrs. Ames was wearing bright red lipstick and a black motorcycle jacket with too many zippers.
“Good morning, Mila!” Mrs. Ames exclaimed. “Is Hadley ready?”
“For what?” I asked. It definitely didn’t come out as polite as I meant it, and for a second I thought she’d threaten to report me to Mr. McCabe.
But she did her too-big smile. “It’s so great out—I thought we’d take a walk over to the park and bring Delilah. And of course you’re welcome to join us, Mila.”
“No thank you,” I said. “I’ve got homework.”
“Another project?” Mrs. Ames actually winked at me.
I pretended not to notice. “Hadley!” I yelled.
My little sister shuffled to the door. She was all dressed to go, except she was wearing faded pink pj bottoms.
“Hadley, you can’t go out like that,” I said.
“Oh, sure she can,” Mrs. Ames said in a drippy voice. “It’s totally fine, honey.”
“Well, Mom likes us to dress normally,” I said, glancing at the motorcycle jacket. “Hadley, don’t you have any leggings—”
“No!” Hadley shouted. “Mommy said she’d take us shopping to buy some. And she isn’t here.”
Hadley’s lower lip was pouting, and the way her voice wobbled, I thought she might have a meltdown.
So did Mrs. Ames, I guess, because she grabbed Hadley’s hand. “Well, Mommy had some important business to take care of this morning, muffin. I’m sure she’ll take you shopping as soon as she possibly can. Where’s Delilah?”
“I’ll go get her,” I muttered.
I went to the living room. Delilah was sleeping on our old sofa, the way she did most of the time these days. I threw my arms around her, inhaling her burned-toast sort of smell. Then I poked her belly to wake her up. She snuffled, stretched her back legs, and kept on sleeping.
And the whole time I was poking our old dog awake, I was thinking how lucky she was, to be dreaming doggy dreams for a few extra seconds before she had to get up and face the non-sofa world.
OMI
Alittle while after Mrs. Ames left with Hadley and Delilah, two things happened.
The first was that Omi showed up—without calling or even texting first. Apparently she was coming straight from church, so she was dressed in a way I’d never seen before: a pale blue dress with a white cardigan, ballet flats, her hair in a neat little bun, with barrettes. She looked like a second grader, but pretty.
“Mila, can I talk to you?” she asked at the door. She seemed out of breath, even though her abuelo’s car was in our driveway, so she couldn’t have walked over. “I mean, in private? Now?”
“Actually, yeah,” I said. “Nobody’s home. Not even Delilah.”
“I just need to tell my abuelo.” Omi ran over to the car, said something in Spanish through the open window, then came running back. “I can only stay ten minutes. We’re on our way to Tía Rosario’s house.”
“Does your grandpa want to come in? I can make some tea—”
“He says he’ll wait in the car.”
The way Omi’s face looked—pinched and pale, the opposite of her regular expression—made me not ask questions. I led her into our tiny kitchen.
“We can talk here,” I said, suddenly embarrassed about how messy the counter looked and how the dishes were piled up in the sink. Mom hadn’t even cleaned up breakfast before she left for work, which was extremely weird for her. “Or we could go in my bedroom,” I added. “Or the living room, but it smells like dog—”
“Here is fine. Mila, I have to tell you something. It’s really bad.”
My stomach tightened. “Okay.”
“After church just now, Hunter came over to me. And he showed me something on his phone.”
“Wait,” I said. “Hunter Schultz? Max’s enemy?”
“Yeah, but he’s not like that anymore. He’s different now.”
“Okaaay,” I said doubtfully.
Omi twisted her hands. “So anyway, what he showed me was this sort of game the boys are playing. Like a scorecard.”
“Uh-huh.” My mouth dried up. I felt cold.
“And Mila, it was about you. The points were for saying things to you, touching your body, your clothes—” Omi’s hand flew to her mouth, and she started crying. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” I said. “You didn’t do anything.”
I grabbed a paper towel and handed it to her. Part of me was in shock. Another part of me wasn’t surprised at all. The way the basketball boys had cheered Tobias after the thing at my locker—it really had seemed like a game. A sport.
“So can I see this scorecard?” I asked.
Omi dried her eyes as she shook her head. “No. I mean, I asked Hunter to send it to me, but he wouldn’t. He said he didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Wow, what a nice friend.”
“Well, but it was nice to show it to me, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to.”
“I guess.” I swallowed hard. It felt like there were pebbles in my throat. “So does everyone else know about this?”
“I’m not sure. But I’m not telling anyone. Not even Zara, if you don’t want me to.”
Zara? But I couldn’t think about her right then.
And now my mind was racing. What exactly was I supposed to do with this information? Even if I wanted to report it to Mr. McCabe, I didn’t have any evidence. The boys could just deny this game even existed. And Hunter wouldn’t be any sort of witness, if he refused to send the game to Omi.
As for Omi, she was a great friend, maybe my only true friend left. But I couldn’t imagine her accusing anyone. And risking Zara’s anger—not to mention taking on all those boys.
“Mila, I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” Omi was saying, “and from now on you really shouldn’t be by yourself at school, okay? Try to walk next to other people, don’t go to the lockers all alone, always have a witness—”
“Omi, that’s impossible!”
“Probably, but you need to try.” She threw her arms around me in a hug. “And maybe soon it’ll stop, anyway.”
“Why would it?” I asked bitterly.
“Because it can’t just keep happening,” Omi said.
FINE
The second thing that morning:
An hour later, at eleven forty-five, Mom burst through the front door, her arms full of groceries.
“Where’s Hadley?” she asked.
“At the park with Mrs. Ames. And Cherish. And Delilah.”
She started throwing things into the fridge—and out of it. I mean literally throwing, not carefully placing, the way she usually did.
“Mom, are you okay?” I asked as she tossed an old head of romaine lettuce across the kitchen, missing the trash can by a few feet.
“I am absolutely fine,” she declared. “And I have big news. Guess what, Mila—I quit my job!”
I stared. “You did? I mean, just now when you went to the office?”
“Yes! And we’ll be fine, so don’t worry. Will you please hand me that sponge?”
I gave it to her. “That boss was a jerk to you, anyway, Mom. Right?”
“Yes, he was! And I deserve better. This whole family deserves better!”
She started scrubbing the counter, the whole time talking about how great she felt, how positive this was, how she was absolutely going to find another job right away, with a better boss who was a decent, honest person. And for more money, too, probably.
A few minutes later Mrs. Ames, Hadley, Cherish, and Delilah walked in, and Mom repeated the whole speech. Even louder the second time.
“Mommy?” Hadley said when Mom finally took a breath. “Does this mean we can go to Old Navy today? And I can get purple leggings?”
Mom threw her head back and laughed, as if this were the funniest, cutest thing any kid had ever said. “Of course it does, baby. And afterward we’ll go to E Motions, and then out to dinner at Junior Jay’s!”
GAME
Mom insisted on buying lots of clothes at Old Navy, not just for Hadley, but also for me. And even though I was definitely freaked about Mom quitting her job, which meant we’d have even less money than usual, I was also really glad for a few new things—three loose-fitting cotton sweaters in dark purple, navy, and black. Two pairs of jeans that fit without tugging. So I didn’t resist, although when we were back in the car and Mom started complaining about the price of gasoline, I wondered if maybe I should have.
We got to E Motions at three forty-five. Mom had checked the Sunday schedule on her phone, so we knew there was an exercise class she could do at four, and Hadley could try something called “jazz dance” at four fifteen.
As for me, I didn’t feel like moving much anyway. I was still sort of in a daze. Not only about the Mom-quitting-her-job-and-would-we-starve thing. Also about the boys-playing-a-game-about-me thing. Even more about that one, to be honest.
And the more I thought about it, the angrier I felt.
I’m a game?
You score points by bumping into me?
Maybe the hug is five points.
And the butt grab is twenty-five.
What are the comments worth?
Maybe a point if I don’t respond.
Or a point if I do.
And also:
Who else knows about this stupid game?
If Hunter knows, he can’t be the only one.
Maybe all his friends know.
Maybe the whole seventh grade.
Even—
For example,
Liana Brock, who makes her face go blank—
the girls.
BREAKFAST
Monday morning was weird. Usually Mom spent all of breakfast urging us to hurry up, eat our breakfast, get out the door. But today she was sort of drowsy, still in her pj’s and robe, even though Hadley needed to get to her bus stop and afterward I needed her to drive me to school.
