Forever for a Year Page 2

  “Trevor. Now.”

  Lecture time. Yay. I climbed over the seat and slid headfirst into the front passenger seat before twisting around and seat-belting myself in.

  “I know the move, and all the stuff with Mom, has not been easy. But in four years colleges aren’t going to care how rough you had it, so you have to start buckling down. Work hard. Working hard can help you forget about things.”

  I almost said, Like working hard helped you forget your wife hated life so much she tried to off herself?, but I didn’t. Just because. Sometimes it’s easier to ignore my dad than argue with him, even though ignoring him makes him think I’m listening. Which makes him think he’s wise. Which annoys me. Because he’s not.

  He continued talking, telling me he’d put a call in to the football coach to see if I could play even though they’d started practice a couple of weeks ago. I used to love football. I have a pretty good arm. Played quarterback in eighth grade for the park district team. But football just doesn’t interest me anymore; it’s so serious and ridiculous at the same time. Dad just wanted me to make friends, which I suppose would have been nice if I could snap my fingers and have super-cool friends who weren’t full of crap. But the long-drawn-out process of making friends, being fake and generic so you don’t scare anyone off, just seemed like such a headache. I’d rather play video games and talk to Lily.

  When Dad stopped outside Riverbend High School, he said, “I love you, Trevor,” and for a second he seemed real and vulnerable and awesome, so I said, “I love you too.”

  But then he added, “Keep your head down and work hard,” which was a cliché and meaningless and pointless. So I didn’t hug him, just flung open the door and walked inside without looking back.

  * * *

  I had to go to the front office since I arrived after first period started. The lady behind the desk asked why I was late. I wanted to say something clever and over her head, but I couldn’t think of anything, so I just said, “Missed the bus.”

  The office lady asked if I had my class schedule. “Yeah, of course,” I said, only to realize that I didn’t. I had left my backpack at home. Or maybe in the back seat. “Actually, can you print it out?” She nodded and handed me a copy of my schedule, a map of the school, and a hall pass. Hall passes. So insulting. Just let kids go where they want and figure it out. Or give adults “life passes” so they can’t wander off. Because I guarantee you, right this second, more adults than kids are in places they shouldn’t be.

  Riverbend High School had two major wings, east and west. The east seemed to have all my classes, including first-period biology. Connecting the wings was a long hall, with the cafeteria and library on opposite sides. The gym, pool, and auditorium were north, down another long hall.

  When I found the biology classroom, I thought about not going in. What was one more day, right? Then I thought: Exactly. What was one more day avoiding the inevitable? Might as well get this crap started and over with. So I walked inside. All the kids, in eight rows that were four desks deep, turned to me. The teacher kept talking, not noticing or caring that I was entering or that the rest of his students had stopped paying attention to him. Mr. Klenner was old with greenish skin and a baggy neck, like some giant frogman. Maybe I just thought that because he was a biology teacher.

  There were two empty seats. Remember when I said all the kids looked my way? Well, that wasn’t exactly true. One didn’t. At least not for more than a second. A girl with brown hair. One of the two empty seats was next to her, and for some reason I decided to sit by her even though it was closer to the teacher.

  After I sat down, I realized everybody was back to taking notes. Which I couldn’t do. Because my bag was in some undetermined place. I didn’t care. I’d just daydream about better stuff.

  Then two sheets of paper and a pencil appeared on my desk. It was the brown-haired girl, but by the time I turned to mouth thanks she was already back to staring ahead. As pathetic as this sounds, what she did was one of the cooler things anyone had done for me in a long time.

  I felt I almost had to start taking notes or else it would be an insult to her cool thing. So I did, even though it made me a robot brainlessly writing down crap a teacher said so we could regurgitate it to him later. Pointless! Why can’t people see this? Someone should realize how absurd school is and make it better.

  I would do it if I cared. Which I don’t. But I do care about being cool back to people who are cool to me, like the brown-haired girl. I’d have to figure out a way to repay her.

  3

  Carolina’s first day doesn’t go according to plan

  Okay, listen: Even though science is my worst subject, first-period biology—my first class of high school ever—started perfectly. As it should have, since I had been envisioning it all summer. Most other classes come easy to me, like Spanish, or I find them really interesting, like history, but I knew I was going to have to work extra hard and pay extra attention in biology.

  Which I was totally doing until this boy showed up late to class and sat right next to me. He was a new student. Definitely didn’t go to junior high with us, which most kids at Riverbend High School did. And he didn’t have a bag or a notebook or anything, so I gave him a pencil and some paper to take notes with. Not because I cared about him—I mean, I’m nice, but the real reason I did it is I just knew if I didn’t give him paper, I would be thinking the whole class how he didn’t have any, and then I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

  So why couldn’t I concentrate now? This was sooo frustrating. It was the first day of classes; I needed to start off good! Start off WELL, I mean.… See, I was a mess! What was going wrong? I was so prepared! Wait a minute. I totally know what was happening: The new boy was staring at me. He had to be. Definitely.

  But when I glanced toward him, he was staring ahead at Mr. Klenner, even writing stuff down. Ugh. Why did I feel so weird? Was there something weird about HIM that made me feel weird? I stole tiny, bitsy glances out of the corner of my eye. Mmm. Okay, he was cute. That’s just a fact. He had dark skin and a chin that looked like a sculpture. Oh, what a corny thing to say. Though I guess it’s true. But there had to be something about him besides being cute that was making my brain unfocused. He probably looked like someone I knew. Or maybe I met him once. That had to be it, right? He just felt sooo familiar.…

  Oh my gosh. Wake up! Just listen to the teacher, Carolina! Listen. Listen. Listen.

  Which I totally did, except when I was thinking about the new boy and what his name was and where he was from and if he was going to thank me for giving him sheets of paper at the end of class.

  Which he didn’t. Because after class ended, I lingered there at my seat for an extra couple of seconds, even though I’m usually fast to leave so I can get to my next class on time. But he was even faster than I was, so he left and didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t care. I didn’t. Boys are horrible. All of them. New ones with nice hair and even nicer forearms. And old, dumb ones too.

  * * *

  “CARRIE!” my dad called out as I walked into the kitchen that morning at 6:40 a.m. More like he sang my name. Waving, with a big smile on his face. He liked to do this—sing your name when he was saw you, especially me—because he thought it would make everyone forget he was a big jerk. I would never forget. Never.

  “My name is Carolina now, and WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, DAD?” I screamed because his being here ruined everything. Everything, everything, everything.

  “Please don’t scream at me. What made you decide to start going by Carolina? I like it.” My dad talked like he was the mature one. Which he isn’t.

  “Why are you here?” I whined. I hate when I do that. I’m too old to whine now. Oh no, I could feel tears forming. No, no, no! I would not cry. I would not let him ruin this day. I’m strong. I’m amazing. I’m a grown woman now.

  He said, pretending to be a good parent, “It’s your first day of high school. I wanted to see my little girl off. I k
now your mom had an early shift, so I’m here.”

  For, like, maybe one tiny little second I thought this was true. I mean, maybe part of it was true, but for just that tiny second I thought it was the only truth. And I remembered when I loved him, before he hurt my mom. When he was my best friend who I could talk to about anything, and we flew to New York City, just the two of us, just to see a new musical, and he was so wise and interesting and funny and the best dad ever, and … NEVER MIND. I hate thinking about that stuff now. Because then I noticed he didn’t have shoes on. He noticed that I noticed.

  “Carrie … Carolina,” my dad started, smiling, always thinking he can smile away all the problems he causes. “You’re right. I don’t have shoes on. Which means I spent the night. You don’t miss a thing, do you?” He laughed really big. Like it was sooo cute that he couldn’t trick me. “Please don’t cry. Oh, my princess, please don’t.”

  I didn’t know I was crying until he said it, which made it worse. My motivational pep talk in my head didn’t work. This made me cry more. Why couldn’t I be perfect? I wanted to be perfect!

  I would be. I WOULD BE. I would be.

  Tears were wiped away. Big breath. Chin high. “Scott…”

  “Scott? You’ve never called me that before. So I’m Scott and you’re Carolina? High school already marks some big changes. I prefer Dad, but I respect your choices.”

  Ignore him? Definitely. “Scott, I will have a discussion tonight with my mother, your ex-wife, about her mistakenly letting you back into her life last night.”

  “We’re not divorced. We’re not getting divorced. Stop talking like that. So cold and stilted. That therapy-speak makes you sound brainwashed, not mature, like you think.”

  “I only saw a therapist because of youuu!”

  “Carrie, you’re being mean. You haven’t let me see you all summer. Can you please sit down and talk to me? I want to hear about your new school year.”

  “Scott, first off, I’d really appreciate it if I didn’t have to tell you again that I’m going by Carolina now,” I said, calm, perfect. “Second, I am going back to my bedroom, where I will get my bag, go over my checklist one last time, and then come back here to have breakfast. I am requesting that you be gone when I return so I may enjoy breakfast before my first day of high school in peace.”

  He looked down. My dad never cried when he was sad; he just looked down and stopped trying to charm you. I felt bad about making him sad, but then I remembered he ruined my life, and walked back to my room.

  After I closed the door to the bedroom, I looked in the mirror. I had been so proud of myself for regaining my composure and speaking to my dad the way I did, I assumed my reflection would show this amazingly powerful young woman. Like a beautiful TV lawyer in a tastefully sexy suit admiring herself before a big case.

  But the person in the mirror was just me. Red-eyed and puffy-faced me. Carolina Fisher. Calves too big. Boobs too small. Baggy clothes to hide both. The same shoulder-length brunette bob I’d had since the first grade.

  My brother had gotten my father’s good looks. I was athletic like my mom. It should have been the opposite. Only now that Heath was in college did his being terrible at sports stop mattering so much to the other boys. And junior high would have been so, so, so much easier if I was popular and all the boys liked me. I wouldn’t have liked them, but, well, you know.

  I called my mom. She wouldn’t pick up, I knew, because she was working, but I felt like leaving a message to let her know she was in trouble. “Mom, I just saw Dad. You and I are going to talk when I get home from school today. I love you, but … Okay. Bye.”

  After going over my checklist, which I had completed six days ago but kept because I liked seeing completed checklists, I walked back toward the kitchen, deciding whether I was going to use “therapy-speak” again on my dad or just yell at him. Thinking, thinking, thinking. I was going to yell. Definitely. It made me a bit excited, even. Which was weird and bad, I know, but it just did.

  Except when I got to the kitchen, my dad was gone. Aaah! Aaah! Aaah! I hated him for leaving before I could yell at him. Which was stupid since I had told him to leave. But you know what? You know what? I didn’t care that it was stupid. I still hated him.

  * * *

  “Who was that guy who sat next to you?” Peggy asked after we left biology.

  “Who?” I said, even though I knew she was talking about the new boy I gave the paper to. Why do people do stuff like that? Ask things like Who? even though they know exactly who people are referring to? I’m going to stop doing it. I really am.

  “You think he’s cute, don’t you?” she said. Sometimes it’s frustrating not being able to lie to Peggy. It’s also, obviously, amazing. No matter what else turns bad in the world, I’ll always have Peggy, the best best friend ever.

  I whispered so nobody in the hall could hear except Peggy. “Yes, but he’s a jerk. And a jerk can only be cute for a few days.” Then Peggy and I hugged good-bye, and I walked toward my second class.

  During Spanish and then third-period literature, I didn’t think about the new boy from biology at all. It probably helped that he wasn’t in either of those classes, but I was also sure I was back to my normal, focused self.

  But then, guess what? We had fourth-period world history together. I made sure to sit in the front center so he wouldn’t sit next to me. Because handsome boys always like to sit in the back. But then, guess what? He totally did sit next to me.

  Oh.

  Wait. A. Minute.

  Did this mean he liked me? It must, right? Why else would he sit next to me? What should I do? What should I say? This was impossible. I hated this. I wanted to go to an all-girls school so I could just concentrate on getting good grades and going to a good college and anything besides what a stupid new boy thinks of me!

  Wait a minute, Carolina. Silly, silly Carolina.

  Obviously he sat by you. Want to know why? Because he needs more sheets of paper. He wants to use you. Some girls get used for sex stuff; I get used for my school supplies.

  Without looking at him, I tore two sheets (a neat tear—I hate jagged sheets of paper) and put them on his desk. Only I did it just as he was putting down his own notebook. A new black one.

  Oh, my face must have turned sooo red. I felt sooo stupid. I looked like such a clueless geek, right? I AM a clueless geek. Never interact with any boy, ever, ever, ever again. Ever. But then the new boy said, “You’re awesome. Thanks. But I went to the school store after biology so I could pay you back.” Then he slid back the two sheets I just gave him PLUS two more empty ones to replace the ones I gave him during first period.

  Did I hear that right? He called me awesome, right? He totally did. My gosh. This definitely meant he liked me, right? I wanted to throw up. I wanted to move seats. I WANTED to say something back. I really did. But it needed to sound cool, fun, smart, amazing, and like something he would remember the rest of his life, and my brain couldn’t think of anything. Nothing. So I just smiled. It wasn’t even a good smile. I’m sure it looked like a mean smile. Like a Shannon Shunton smile. Which is the worst smile ever. The worst.

  And then the teacher, Mr. Rivard, started talking, so I couldn’t even whisper something simple back like thank you. Oh, why couldn’t I have just said thank you? That would have been so nice if I just could have said that. It would have made everything great; it would have saved everything from being ruined.

  Mr. Rivard talked for the whole class because that is what teachers do. Which I usually like in history, especially teachers who get so excited about all the stories from the past that they pace and even sweat a little bit. Mr. Rivard was definitely sweating too, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. I mean, I was writing a bunch of notes down, so I must have sort of heard it, I suppose, right? But it had to be only the tiny part of my brain that tells my hand what to do, because what I was really thinking about was what I would say to the new boy at the end of class to make up for my stupid,
snobby smile that I totally didn’t mean but was now the only thing he knew about me. Yes, he knew I gave him the sheets of paper, but that was sooo long ago. The terrible smile was the last thing he saw, and he was going to hate me just like all the boys in eighth grade.

  Maybe that’s why I was obsessing about him. Which was so against my rules to NEVER OBSESS ABOUT BOYS and so unlike me. But, see, he was new, you know? He didn’t know anyone from eighth grade. He didn’t know that all the boys didn’t like me or talk to me. He didn’t know there was, like, this secret rule that you couldn’t like Carolina Fisher.

  But I totally messed that up.

  Which was fine. Yes, Carolina, it’s fine. It’s better this way. School. Soccer. Peggy. No distractions. I was fine. It was fine. Everything was amazing. Always. Definitely.

  4

  Trevor follows orders

  “What up, Trev,” my cousin Henry said as I sat next to him and some other freshman football players at lunch. Henry is my uncle Hank’s son. He’s a year younger and always looked up to me when we were kids, even though we’d only see each other once a year. But now we were in the same grade. At his school. Where he knew everyone. Was friends with everyone. And I was this new, strange kid who everyone probably labeled as the boy with the mom who tried to kill herself. My dad said Henry promised his parents he wouldn’t tell anyone, but who knows. You know? The two times I had seen Henry since we’d moved to Riverbend, he’d acted strange. Like I didn’t really belong there. Which I didn’t. I don’t belong anywhere.

  Henry turned to his friends and said, “Guys, this is my cousin Trevor. But his last name is Santos, not McCarthy. My dad and his mom are brother and sister. So that’s why his last name is Mexican and not American.” What Henry said was true. I still wanted to beat his face in. In Los Angeles, I was half white and nobody cared. Here, I’d be half Mexican and everyone would care even if they pretended they didn’t. What nobody knew unless they met my dad was that he acts whiter than most white people. His name is Robert Santos. He was born Roberto but dropped the “o.” He’s a sellout like that.