Bombshell Read online

  “Oh my God. You do,” I said.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he muttered.

  “I want to know everything. Does she have good taste in music? Are your genes compatible? Did you meet her at that robotics club thing in Yuma? Mary-Kate said she saw you with someone.”

  My phone vibrated in the pocket of my uniform skirt and I quickly checked the message.

  Rhiannon: w/ Shane, back row, all the way on the left

  Mr. Lauren walked to the door and turned the lights off.

  “Hey,” I protested. “Answer my questions.”

  “Shouldn’t you get going?”

  I approached the doorway. “Are you ashamed? Did you meet her on Craigslist?”

  He cleared his throat. Standing next to him, I felt a kind of energy pass between us, the kind of energy that exists between any two humans, the kind that has neutral on one end of the spectrum and electric on the other.

  You’re just imagining it, I thought. You’re desperate for a way to make school less boring.

  Just in case it was real, though, I gave him a little knowing smile as I walked away, texting Rhiannon.

  Me: On my way. Big news re: Mr. Lauren

  To Jimmy Grace,

  I have astral plane jet lag. Are you affected? It’s a low-sitting heaviness right above my eyebrows, pressing down. Worse when I turn my head too quickly. I’m going through the motions, but everything has dulled. Colors, sounds, movements, all covered with a grey transparency. The astral plane felt right. Being here feels wrong. I’m just vamping now, but what if the world is the projection and where we were, together, was real?

  After we said good night, I fell asleep and dreamed I was at a high school pep rally. What were you like in high school? Did you get laid? I slept with my English teacher at the end of senior year. I had three friends and hated everybody else. I don’t know if I wasted my time or not. Probably.

  There were more scary texts this morning. I’ve thought about trying to trace the number, but I don’t know how. Guess I could look it up. Or text back.

  I wanted to write you a letter. Texting is thrilling in its immediacy, but we started out with letters, and I miss them. Has it really been a year? Here’s a secret: When I get a letter from you I pretend that I’m a Brontë sister receiving a soft paper envelope sealed with wax, written on by her beloved’s hand.

  Do you sometimes see things that aren’t there? Now that you’ve successfully experienced the Dream Palace/Astral Plane Rosie Experience I feel comfortable confessing. I see things—animals, mostly. Lately a jackrabbit, but he’s turning into something else. A coyote, I think. And he isn’t really an animal. He’s a trickster. I’m not schizophrenic or anything, I know this is my imagination. Daydreams bleeding into the scenery. I only mention it because it’s happening a lot lately. The texts are bringing it on.

  Tell me what I would be if I were an article of clothing. You, my constant James, would be an Old Jacket.

  Where are you right now?

  xx

  My finger hovered over the J key for a brief moment before shifting up and over to press R very precisely.

  xx Rosie

  I have a recurring nightmare where I sign all the letters with my real name. It didn’t help that Rosie had begun borrowing thoughts and experiences from my actual life.

  “No, it’s cute! He likes this girl so much he spends all day sketching her in his little notebook,” Rhiannon was saying. She and Shane were deconstructing the gossip I’d fed them about Mr. Lauren and his mystery woman.

  “Yeah,” Shane said incredulously. “I don’t know how not-creepy that is.”

  “It’s not creepy,” I said, casting the deciding vote. “And even if it is, it adds to his mystique.”

  “Mr. Lauren has mystique?” Shane asked.

  “Why do you think we’re even talking about him?” Rhiannon teased.

  “Shrug,” Shane said, watching as I finished typing the letter to James. When I caught him, he pretended like he was looking past me, across the bleachers, down at the gleaming basketball court.

  I pushed send, launching the words into the void, where they would ride the aether as shimmering particles before reassembling, full of light, to find James—my electronic offering. I was taking a chance, telling him so much, but I had to. I could always backtrack.

  “Joss would do bad things to Mr. Lauren if she wasn’t so busy with her imaginary friends,” Rhiannon said.

  The doors at the far side of the gym opened, revealing a line of uniformed flag team members holding a banner: CONGRATS ON A GREAT SEASON BROPHY BRONCOS / XAVIER PANTHERS. The sound of stray cymbals and last-minute practice drum reps leaked into the gymnasium, heralding the start of the pep rally.

  “In what world does this make sense?” I asked. “How is this part of my education?”

  “At least this one’s coed,” Shane said. “You don’t want to know what an all-guy pep rally is like.”

  I thought for a minute. “Ha! Yes I do.”

  Rhiannon said, “Girls bring the pep. That’s why they invite us.”

  “They put it in the drinking fountains and hot lunches,” I agreed.

  Rhiannon giggled. “We’re laced with pep.”

  “So full of pep,” I said, holding my stomach.

  “My pep baby hurts,” said Rhiannon. “I think it’s angry.”

  Shane had to laugh.

  We were sitting in the last row, as far away as possible from the actual athletes. It was just us and a few of the really hard-core Catholic girls sitting nearby—skirts droopy and below the knee, hair down to their butts like sister wives.

  “I feel like I’m inside a bad cartoon version of high school,” Shane said.

  “They’re forcing the cliché on us,” I said. “And everyone here who’s actually enjoying themselves is complicit.”

  The band started up, for real this time, and they all marched out, accompanied by the seriously demented flag team and Bronco Bill, the tumbling, manic Brophy mascot.

  Bronco Bill was actually Cody Majors, who asked me out every day in eighth grade. I never said yes. I never said yes to anyone who asked me out, not that it happened very often. But saying yes seemed out of the question. I couldn’t picture meeting a boy at the mall and walking around for an hour, getting boba tea or stealing from the candy store. I couldn’t possibly have anything in common with an earnest, rosy-cheeked youth like Cody Majors. I hoped that was true, and not the other possibility—that we’d have tons in common, that we’d be perfectly matched, that I was just another normal girl, the sum total of years of learning to smile politely and not make anybody feel uncomfortable.

  I zoned out and tried to daydream, picturing a great, thundering tidal wave crashing through the roof, washing us all away.

  “Joss, you are literally grimacing,” said Rhiannon.

  “This is my face now.”

  “Where is Mary-Kate?” Rhiannon asked. “She was here this morning, but she wasn’t at lunch. Did she go home sick?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t in bio, either.”

  I checked my phone, hoping briefly that James had already responded to my e-mail. He hadn’t. I sent a message to Mary-Kate.

  Me: Where aaaaaaaare youuuuu?

  A few messages down, I opened a draft I’d been working on since Friday night.

  What do you say in your very first text to Kit Behr?

  Me: Hey, it’s me, Joss. I’m texting you now.

  Boring.

  Me: Is Conor Oberst way too 10 years ago for you? Do you only like Japanese jam bands and vaporwave?

  Too many questions.

  “And now, please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance,” commanded the Brophy principal, voice booming over the loudspeaker.

  Everyone stood up, leaving me and Shane and Rhiannon in a nice little enclave of anti-authoritarian peace.

  “Countries aren’t real!” I shouted. One of the sister wives turned around and scowled.

  “I hate the way
he says ‘under God,’ ” Shane mumbled.

  Swoosh—everyone sat down.

  The principal announced the pep squad.

  Shane waved to Leah Leary, who bounced onto the floor like a caffeinated squirrel.

  Like she can even see him way back here.

  “2-4-6-8 who do we appreciate, Broooooophy!” Leah yelled, leading the chant. Her shrill voice carried through the gym, reverberating off the wall behind my ears.

  “Yep, that’s my girlfriend, chant leader,” Shane said.

  I patted him on the back. “You are king of the cliché.”

  The Brophy principal’s mustache hairs bristled against the microphone. He said something about the cheerleading team.

  A screechy recording of steel drums started over the loudspeaker. Leah Leary and her pep squad shuffled off the gym floor as the lights dimmed and two spotlights swirled over the bleachers and basketball court.

  I stared down at the blank text.

  Me:

  Send him something real.

  Me: I hate pep rallies.

  I pressed send before I could second-guess myself.

  The cheerleading team burst out of the wrestling room to a roar of applause and catcalls.

  Now, put the phone down. Don’t check it for at least five minutes.

  I caught Shane staring again as I slipped the phone into the front pocket of my backpack. He quickly looked away, peering down at the cheerleaders.

  “Is that?” he said. “No way—”

  “Holy shit.” Rhiannon gasped. I followed her gaze.

  It was Mary-Kate. The roving spotlight landed on her, and the cheerleading coach called out her name like she was competing at a beauty pageant. Mary-Kate raised her pom-poms over her head, shouting something that looked like Woo-hoo!

  Rhiannon was laughing hysterically.

  “Oh my God,” I said, turning to her. “Did you know about this?”

  Rhiannon shook her head and stood up, shouting, “Go, Mary-Kate, yeah!”

  I couldn’t watch. All I could think was that my friend hadn’t told me. She’d kept a secret. I thought back to Friday night, when she and Leah Leary were talking by themselves.

  Rhiannon sat down, and the team moved on to their next cheer.

  “I didn’t know she could do any of this stuff,” Rhiannon said in awe.

  But she could. And she looked like she fit in, not like she was in bizarro-world. She looked like a real cheerleader.

  “Why didn’t she tell us?” I said, not really asking Rhiannon or Shane.

  Shane spoke up. “She probably thought you’d be dismissive or horrified.”

  “Oh, come on, like she’s afraid of me? I’m her best friend,” I said.

  “No, Shane makes sense,” Rhiannon added unhelpfully.

  “Great,” I said. “Now I feel horrible.”

  From the backpack at my feet, the chime of a new message.

  Be Kit. I summoned the flexible forces of nature and karma.

  Instagram Beanbag (Kit): Hmm. This has to be Joss.

  Everything fell away like I needed it to.

  Kit has entered the web.

  CHAPTER 6

  Instagram Beanbag (Kit): You’re in high school?

  Me: Come on, you knew that

  Instagram Beanbag (Kit): How old are you?

  Me: 16

  That was weird, saying the real answer.

  I was editing his contact info, changing his name to just Kit, when Mary-Kate walked up.

  “Go ahead, get it all out,” she said.

  The rally was over, Rhiannon and Shane were gone, and I was sitting on a picnic table outside the gym, oblivious to the activity of my fellow stragglers. And there was Mary-Kate, in her cheerleading uniform, carrying an Xavier duffel bag with her name monogrammed on it.

  “I don’t have anything to say,” I said as she sat down next to me. “I mean, okay. It was kind of a shock. You coming out, pom-poms a’twirling—”

  “Joss—”

  “—since I had no idea, that’s all.”

  A breeze sent a smattering of pollen drifting onto the table. My phone buzzed.

  Kit: I was going to ask you out. But you’re jailbait.

  He’s not Cody Majors. But he’s not James either.

  “Caroline was a cheerleader,” Mary-Kate said.

  Caroline is her sister. Mary-Kate and Rhiannon get these cool older sisters who pave the way for them. All I have is Dylan. Dylan isn’t even on Facebook. Dylan doesn’t believe in voting.

  “And my mom is pretty into the idea of me being one too, for some reason. So I figured I’d try out, just to make her happy.”

  Me: How old are you, 40?

  Kit: 19

  Me: Pshhh

  “I really didn’t think I’d make the team. That’s why I didn’t tell you at first.”

  “At first?” I asked.

  “Well, then I started liking it.”

  “Shane said you didn’t tell me because you thought I’d think you were stupid.”

  She laughed. “Aww, Shane. He’s so observant.”

  New message from MOM.

  Mom: Where are you?

  Me: Oh. In front of the Brophy gym—sorry.

  “I would never think you’re stupid,” I said.

  “I know,” Mary-Kate said. “You do think it’s lame though.”

  “Mary-Kate!” someone shouted, saving me from having to answer. It was Mae Castillo, cheerleading captain. She was standing at the gym entrance with two other girls, Carmen Farrow and Nora del Toro, all in bright, crisp uniforms and identical curly ponytails.

  “If those three are an alternate-universe version of us, I’m Mae,” I said, scanning them carefully. “For sure.”

  “I think you’d probably really like each other.”

  “Mary-Kate!” Mae yelled, a bit more forcefully.

  “Are we okay?” Mary-Kate asked, standing.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  She reached in for a hug and I patted her back, phone in hand.

  “Just don’t forget your roots,” I said.

  “Want to come talk to them with me?”

  My mom’s black Lexus rounded the corner.

  “I can’t. Therapy time,” I said, pointing at the car.

  “Text me?” Mary-Kate asked.

  “Sure,” I said, watching as Mary-Kate walked over to her new teammates, the girls I’d assumed we mutually disdained. She stepped up to them easily, smiling.

  What else isn’t she telling me?

  My mom was talking to her assistant as I climbed into the car—his nasally fry barked out from the speakerphone as she ended the call.

  Kit: What are you doing Saturday?

  I felt like I was going to throw up.

  Me: I was thinking of going to a show

  Me: Conor Oberst

  “Joss, I said ‘how was your day’?”

  I rolled the window down and hauled my backpack onto my lap, searching around in it for the iPod Mr. Lauren had returned to me.

  “The usual,” I answered. “Flirting with the teacher, nachos for lunch, mandatory-attendance pep rally, Mary-Kate’s a cheerleader.”

  She was wearing sunglasses, but I felt her giving me the side-eye.

  “I appreciate your phrasing, by the way. Thanks,” I added.

  “You get so angry when I ask ‘How was school?’ ”

  “It’s like instead of hearing the words, I hear this horrible screeching sound coming from your mouth.”

  “That’s nice, honey.”

  Something changed recently. I mean, obviously, lots of things happened. My dad dropped dead in his studio like it was no big deal. Dylan freaked out and went to South America to trek through the jungle and blow through his insurance money. But even if they were both back home waiting for us, I think the thing between my mom and me might’ve evolved anyway. Maybe the bad stuff helped it along. That’d be really twisted. She’s funnier now than she ever was before.

  iPod plugged in to the
car’s stereo, I skipped through shuffle until I found the song I wanted to hear.

  Kit: Me too

  Me: Yeah right

  “Nachos for lunch?” my mom was saying, as she sped up to race through a yellow light before deciding, at the last possible moment, to slam on the brakes.

  “Maybe if I had a nice mom who packed a healthy lunch for me, I wouldn’t be forced to eat delicious nachos every day.”

  She was horrified. “You eat them every day?”

  “Only on the days I eat.”

  Her phone rang, saving her the trouble of trying to decide whether or not I was kidding.

  “This is Nina,” she said, turning the volume down. I turned it back up as soon as she looked away.

  Kit: Can I come with you?

  Kit coming to my house, picking me up. Having to consider what he’d think of how I looked, the words I said, how I acted. Having to say “I’ll be right back; I have to go to the bathroom.” Having to maybe eat something in front of him. Having to scratch my nose. What if I sweat? What if mascara flakes onto my cheek? What if my lip balm gives me the white crud at the corners of my lips and I don’t even realize?

  I slid my finger across the screen, closing Kit’s chat thread, opening one between Rosie and James.

  Me: I know I just wrote you, but, James—

  Me: A guy just asked me out and I don’t know what to do.

  Me: We’ve avoided this. I know you must see girls, etc. . . . a year of talking, but we’re not celibate. What should I say?

  “One second, Tim,” my mom said. We’d pulled into an office park, the kind you pass every day and never really notice, until it becomes the place where you go for acupuncture or teeth whitening—or therapy.

  “Left here,” I told her.

  She jerked the steering wheel around. “This place is a maze.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was talking to Tim or to me.

  “Over there, two oh six,” I directed.

  It wasn’t quite four thirty, and the sun was brighter than it seemed it should be, in an unsettling early-summer way. Cicadas screeched from the top of the palo verde tree planted in the rocks outside Dr. Judson’s office.

  Inside, I walked past a burbling plugged-in waterfall, signed my name on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard, and sat down. Nobody else was there—my mom was still in the car, finishing her phone call. I pretend that I’m thirty. I pretend I am there because my marriage is slowly killing me. I pretend I am there because I’m a hoarder who keeps miscarried fetuses in jars in the freezer. I pretend I am there for many reasons, but not the real one.