Claudia Gets Her Guy Page 6

  “I — I just want to talk.”

  “I have the feeling you’d rather talk to Alan Gray,” he said stiffly.

  I looked at him. “What? Alan —?”

  “I heard you two are … you know.”

  It was then that I realized two things. First, Jeremy must have heard that Alan and I were going to the dance together. Second, he was hurt. Very hurt.

  “But you don’t understand,” I said. “Alan and I are just friends. We’re going to the dance, but that’s because of this mix-up with a note I wrote for you. He got the note by mistake, and he thought it was for him, and I couldn’t figure out how to tell him it wasn’t, and —” I was babbling. Jeremy cut me off by raising his hand.

  “That’s your problem, not mine,” he said.

  “I’m sorry if —”

  “Sorry for what?” he interrupted. “Forget it, Claudia.” He turned and walked away.

  I felt terrible. Somehow I’d managed to mess up everything with Jeremy. Not that it was totally my fault. After all, if he’d wanted to go to the dance with me, he could have asked. But I still felt bad. I could see how hurt he was. (Was I a little bit — just the teensiest bit — glad he was hurt? Maybe. Because maybe that meant he liked me.)

  There didn’t seem to be much I could do about it, though. Jeremy didn’t want to talk to me, so I’d just have to wait until he cooled down.

  Meanwhile, it was time for homeroom. I headed down the hall, my head spinning. How had things become so complicated? My life used to be simple. A best friend, my art, a Ring-Ding once in awhile. Then I had to go and fall for some guy. Now things were messed up with my best friend, and while I still had my art and plenty of junk food to console me, nothing was the same.

  However, I had a feeling that Stacey and I were on our way to working things out. Once that was taken care of, maybe I could fix things up with Jeremy too. For now I was just going to have to forget about him.

  I tried, but I didn’t do a very good job of it. I spent most of my morning class time thinking about what to say to Jeremy. I forgot about Alan and the bouquet until he sneaked up behind me in the lunch line. “Did you like the flowers?” he asked shyly.

  “I love them,” I began, “but —”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Forget about that glop.” He pointed at the tuna-noodle casserole on my tray. “Come with me.”

  “Come with you? Where?”

  “Shhh,” he said. “It’s a surprise.”

  I looked down at my tray. I decided to take a chance. “Okay,” I said, shrugging. “Lead the way.”

  We slipped out of the cafeteria, Alan in the lead. I followed him through the halls. He led me to the same empty classroom in which we’d talked when he told me how much he’d liked my note.

  “After you,” he said, bowing as he opened the door for me.

  I walked inside, wondering what he was up to. I saw a flash of red in the far corner of the room. I looked closer and saw that two desks had been pushed together to make a table. A table covered with a red tablecloth — and set with silverware, nice china, and fancy glasses. In the middle of the table was a silver candlestick with a red candle in it.

  “Lunch, madame?” Alan said, gesturing toward the table.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Alan, I —”

  “Have a seat.” He pulled out a chair for me. He lit the candle. Then he went to a counter at the back of the classroom and returned with a bottle of Sprite. “Champagne?” he asked.

  I giggled. “Sure. Why not?” I held out my glass.

  Alan filled it, then sat down and poured some soda into his own glass. “To the Cupid’s Arrow Dance,” he said. We clinked our glasses and drank. “Ahh. This was an excellent year for Sprite.”

  I laughed. I’ve heard my dad say the same thing about fine wines.

  “And now for the first course,” said Alan, jumping up. He went to the counter again and came back with a bulging Burger King bag. “For you, madame,” he said, pulling out a Whopper and fries. “And, of course, we have extra ketchup.”

  “Wow,” I said, unwrapping the burger. “My favorite. And it’s still hot. How did you pull this off?”

  Alan shrugged, trying to look mysterious. “I have my ways,” he said. I had a feeling he’d had some help from Cary Retlin.

  I ate a fry. It was time to say something. “Alan, this is really sweet. I appreciate your effort, I do. And I loved the flowers. But you do know that we’re just going to the dance as friends, right?” I gave him a serious look.

  “I know,” he said quickly. “Friends. I just thought we could get to know each other a little better. As friends. Or — whatever.” He gave me a little grin.

  I couldn’t help smiling back.

  This new, improved Alan could turn out to be a pretty interesting guy.

  We ate our way through all the food Alan had brought, including a dessert course of Devil Dogs, Ho-Ho’s, and Twinkies. We talked and laughed, and you know what? I had a very good time.

  When the bell rang, Alan jumped up, blew out the candle, and started clearing everything away. I helped him fold the tablecloth and stow it and the silverware in his backpack.

  “Alan,” I said as we left the room together, “thanks. That was a lot of fun.”

  “Really? You liked it?” He smiled a big, goofy smile. “Cool!” He looked incredibly happy, as if he were floating on air.

  “See you later, okay?”

  He nodded. “Right. Later.” He headed down the hall, looking dazed. I had to smile as I watched him walk away.

  Suddenly, I felt somebody bump into me. Hard.

  I turned to see Stephanie Boxer, a girl I knew slightly from when I’d been sent back to seventh grade. “Hi, Steph,” I said.

  “Ha,” she said fiercely. “Don’t play innocent with me. And stay away from Alan Gray. I’ve had a crush on him for a long time. He doesn’t realize he likes me too — but it’s only a matter of time. So hands off!” She didn’t even wait for a reply. She just stormed off down the hall.

  I stared after her. Someone had a crush on Alan Gray? Life was getting more complicated by the second.

  “Banana?” Mrs. Yashimoto’s tone was unsure.

  “Yes!” I cried. “Very good.” It was Monday, after school, and I was tutoring Mrs. Yashimoto. We were working with a picture dictionary, a tool ESL tutors use a lot. It’s a really cool book, full of pictures of everything you can imagine. There are pictures of toothbrushes and raincoats, cameras and Laundromats, violins and plumbers. There’s a whole page about the post office and another about a restaurant, with every different item named: menu, waitress, fork, cashier.

  One way you can use it is just to point to a picture and say the word so that the person you’re tutoring can add it to his or her vocabulary. After all, most people have been to a restaurant before, even if it was in another country. So they know what a waitress is; they just don’t know how to say the word in English.

  Mrs. Yashimoto and I were working on a page that showed a grocery store and all its contents. She wanted to learn words for all the things she shopped for and used every day. We were working on the fruit section, and Mrs. Yashimoto was doing a great job remembering the words I’d already taught her.

  “Peach,” she said when I pointed at a picture. “Grapes.”

  The watermelon was harder for her. She paused when I pointed it out. “Juice fruit?” she asked finally.

  I shook my head. “That’s the right idea. It is a very juicy fruit. But it’s a watermelon. Watermelon,” I repeated.

  “Watermelon,” she said, smiling. “Good. Watermelon. I — I like watermelon.”

  “Excellent!” I exclaimed. Just then, Yoshi and Maiko ran to us, bored with the puzzle I’d given them to work on.

  “I like watermelon too!” said Yoshi, squeezing in between us to look at the picture in the book.

  “I like plums and oranges and grapes!” cried Maiko. “And strawberries. And —”

  “Yo
u like fruit,” I said, laughing. “I can tell.”

  Mrs. Yashimoto spoke to the children in Japanese. I had the feeling she was telling them to go back to their puzzle.

  “It’s okay,” I said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I think our time is up anyway.” I pointed to the clock. Mrs. Yashimoto nodded.

  “Thank you, sensei,” she said, bowing her head toward me.

  Sensei is the Japanese word for teacher. “Thank you,” I said, bowing back. “It was fun.”

  I was really enjoying our work together. And Mrs. Yashimoto had promised that as soon as she was better at English she would help me learn some Japanese. Hearing her talk to her children had made me think of my grandmother. I had started to think that learning to speak Japanese — at least a little — would be a way of honoring Mimi.

  Later, as Erica (who had been working with the Bosnian family) and I walked home together, she told me she envied me. “You’re so lucky to know about your heritage,” she said. “I don’t even know if I’m Scottish or Irish or Italian or what. If I could find my birth parents, I could learn more about my background.”

  “What if you found out you were a princess or something?” I asked, half joking.

  “I used to fantasize about that,” admitted Erica. “When I first found out I was adopted, I used to think maybe my parents were famous movie stars or royalty. Now I know that’s kind of silly. But I would like to know more about them.”

  I nodded. I used to love hearing Mimi tell stories about what life was like when she was a little girl in Japan.

  “Plus,” Erica went on, “I need to know about other things, like my family’s medical history.” She looked down at her feet. “I know, I know. You’ve heard this already. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about it.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I understand. It’s like there’s this huge mystery out there. And even though you’re happy with the life you have, the mystery still concerns you.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. It helps to be able to talk about it with you.”

  We had almost reached my house by then. I was a little nervous about The Talk with Stacey — nervous enough that I hadn’t even told Erica about it. I checked my watch. “Oh, no,” I muttered. “I’m late.”

  “Late for what?” asked Erica.

  “I’ll explain later,” I promised, breaking into a trot. “See you!” I waved as I headed for home.

  Stacey was waiting in my room for me. She was sitting in the director’s chair at my desk. “I let myself in,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is.” Stacey — and the rest of my BSC friends — let themselves into my house all the time. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem. I’ve only been here for a couple of minutes.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Well, I guess I’ll put my stuff away,” I said, slinging my backpack to the floor.

  “Let me move out of your way.” Stacey rose and stood in the middle of the room.

  In the old days, Stacey would have thrown herself on my bed. She spent nearly as much time hanging out in my room as I did. But now we were doing this polite thing.

  “You can sit on the bed,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, okay.” Stacey perched on the bed. She looked like a person who was only going to stay for a minute, someone who didn’t want to settle in.

  I unzipped my backpack and took out the books and notebooks I’d brought home, stacking them on my desk. Then I took a seat in the director’s chair. For a few moments, the room was quiet. I took a deep breath. The Talk had to begin somewhere.

  “So, I thought —”

  “What did you want to —”

  Stacey and I started talking at the same time.

  We stopped at the same time too.

  The room was quiet again.

  Then I started to giggle. I couldn’t help it. Something about the situation just seemed so silly. Plus, I was nervous.

  Stacey looked at me for a second. Then she started laughing too.

  That seemed to break the ice. Once we got our giggles under control, I felt ready to talk.

  “Look, Stacey,” I said. “I just want to apologize for everything that’s happened over the past few months. I’m not saying it’s all my fault. But I am really sorry for my part. And I want us to be friends again. For real. I miss you.”

  Stacey looked down for a second. When she looked back up, I saw that her eyes were moist. “Claud, I miss you too,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry too. Really sorry. I didn’t mean all those horrible things I said.”

  Suddenly, it was as if I heard the echo of our voices. We’d had the worst fight of our lives right here in my room. Would we really be able to put it behind us? We’d called each other the most terrible names.

  Brainless.

  Stuck-up creep.

  Liar.

  Loser.

  “I didn’t mean the things I said either,” I told her. “I really hate that we said them at all. Do you think we can forget them?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe not. But we can put that time behind us and move on.”

  “Moving on sounds good.” We smiled at each other — nervously at first, then for real. “And, Stace? I think we should agree to something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s never ever let a boy come between us again,” I said.

  “I swear.” She raised her hand. “Never again.”

  I stood up and we high-fived. Then I tumbled down on the bed next to her.

  “Claud?”

  “What?”

  “How come you’re going to the dance with Alan Gray — instead of with Jeremy?”

  I sat up. It was strange to hear Stacey say Jeremy’s name so casually.

  “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay,” she said hastily.

  “No, it’s just — well, Jeremy didn’t ask me.”

  She shook her head. “He must have been afraid you’d say no.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Hold on.” I reached beneath my bed and pulled out a giant-sized bag of peanut M&M’S — and a bag of pretzels for Stacey. “Now that we’re talking, I need some munchies.”

  Stacey took a pretzel. “I mean,” she said, after she’d taken a bite, “that he broke up with me because of you.”

  I stared at her. “Really? You think so?”

  She nodded. “I’m just about positive.”

  I looked down and noticed that M&M’S actually will melt in your hand if you hold them in a tight fist long enough. I didn’t know what to say. If Jeremy really liked me that changed everything. We could be going to the Cupid’s Arrow Dance together! But I had already agreed to go with Alan, and it was too late to cancel on him now. Unless — for just a millisecond I let myself picture Stephanie Boxer, who would probably be thrilled to go with Alan in my place.

  I shook my head.

  It was time to talk to Jeremy and straighten things out for real.

  Meanwhile, I thought, popping that handful of melted M&M’S into my mouth, it sure was good to have my best friend back.

  I stared down at Stacey’s note. It gave me a great feeling to see her handwriting once again. We used to write dozens of notes a day, and I had missed that when we were fighting. Now, even when we didn’t have classes together, we’d pass notes in the halls. We used to leave them in each other’s lockers, but I had learned my lesson about that.

  Still, even Stacey couldn’t help me figure out my life these days. On the one hand, Jeremy was avoiding me. I barely saw him at all on Tuesday. On Wednesday he passed me in the hall twice, but both times he just waved without even smiling. He acted as if it would kill him to stop and talk. By Thursday morning I was going out of my mind. That’s when the notes really started to fly between Stacey and me.

  Alan, on the other hand, wouldn’t leave me alone. Not that I minded, exactly. I loved getting so much attention. I don’t know what it is, but a lot of times I go after boys who a
re more, I don’t know, unavailable. Alan was the opposite. He was so available it was ridiculous.

  Every day he told me I looked great and commented on some specific part of my outfit. “I love that vest,” he’d say. “Did you really make the buttons yourself? Awesome.”

  And Stacey says boys don’t notice what we wear.

  He would smile at me in the halls, save me a seat in study hall, buy me treats at lunchtime. “I know you like the kind with walnuts better,” he said as he handed over a chocolate-chip cookie, “but this is all they had left.”

  He gave me presents too. Just little things, but they were carefully picked out. One day he brought me a magnet with a picture of a Michelangelo sculpture on it. Another day he gave me some charcoals. I knew he’d bought both at the art supply store I go to.

  Alan was really being nice. And I can’t explain it, but he did it without acting pushy or desperate or anything. He surprised us all with how normal he could act when he wanted to.

  At lunch on Wednesday, even Kristy commented on it. “Alan has — changed,” she said in a bewildered tone. Stacey and I had been talking about him, but I hadn’t thought Kristy was listening. She seemed too busy poking at her “mystery meat,” making faces as she tried to guess what animal it came from.

  “He really has,” I agreed. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I think Alan Gray may finally be growing up.”

  “Ha,” she said, putting down her fork. “We’ll see about that. I’m not about to stop checking for whoopee cushions when I sit down near him.”

  “Fine,” I said. “You do what you want. But I’m telling you, he’s different.” I had seen another side of Alan. A softer, romantic side. A side I had to admit I liked. Not that the old Alan was gone completely. Alan Gray was still a clown at heart. But I liked that too. He could always make me laugh just by pretending to slip in a puddle or by mimicking our principal.

  On Wednesday afternoon, as I was leaving school, I ran into Cary Retlin.

  “Hey, Claudia,” he said. “Are you in a hurry?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. What’s up?”

  He fell into step beside me. “I just wanted to talk to you about something,” he began. “Actually, about Alan.”