My Life in Black and White Page 16

“Nothing,” I said.

  Ruthie smirked into her coffee.

  “That’s right,” I said, “keep it up.”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “And for the record,” I added, taking a sip of juice and setting it down with a bang. “I am not wearing any of your clothes. This is my sweatshirt, and these are my jeans.”

  “Congratulations,” Ruthie said.

  My father glanced from me to my sister and back again. I guess he read something in my expression because he didn’t push it. He just walked over and kissed the top of my hood, wishing me a great day at school.

  Unfortunately, “great” is not the word to describe it.

  At my locker, there was a surprise waiting for me.

  Initially, seeing the triangle of orange paper sticking out made me smile. It made me think of junior high, when Taylor and I used to leave each other notes all the time. She wrote the best notes, always on the orange paper that she kept in her backpack. Multiple-choice questions like, If there was a nuclear war and you could only choose one boy to share your bomb shelter, who would it be? And fill in the blanks using dirty words. Sometimes she drew cartoons of our teachers, with thought bubbles rising over their heads, saying things like, I’d rather be cleaning litter boxes. Taylor’s notes always cracked me up.

  This time, not so much.

  Alexa [not Lexi, not Lex; Alexa],

  Thanks to you, I am forced to write this letter on a piece of paper instead of in a text or e-mail. Thanks to you, my father threw my cell in the pool and locked my computer in his car. He also called my coach, so now I am off the field hockey team for the rest of the season, even though we could be heading to sectionals—so again, thanks. By doing what you did on Saturday night, I can only assume you were trying to punish me for Ryan. Well, guess what? It worked, because I am grounded until Christmas and my parents are barely speaking to me. So congratulations! You have officially ended this friendship. I’d hoped for a while that we would be able to get past what happened, but now I know we never will.

  I tried. I really did, to explain about the night of Jarrod’s party. But you wouldn’t even let me talk. So I am going to set the record straight right here and now. Not for your sake (I’m so mad at you right now I could punch a window) but for mine. I’m tired of feeling guilty. Guilty, #1, for getting drunk that night. (This is not an excuse for what happened, but it is the truth.) That is what gave me the courage to do it.

  I don’t expect you to understand this because you don’t have a brother, but I was actually trying to help Ryan. You don’t know the things guys make each other do, especially in football. And the new recruits HAVE to do it if they want any chance of making the team. When Jarrod was a sophomore, the seniors were a-holes and he got it even worse. He got stripped, shaved, covered in eggs and shaving cream and had to sit in Scotty Fieron’s tree house all night in the freezing cold. All Ryan had to do was get a BJ, and he had too much respect for you to ask you to do it, so … that is what happened.

  I know you hate me, and I know you probably think I’m a slut and a horrible person, but I was only trying to help Ryan’s chances of making the team, which I thought is what you wanted for him, too. No matter what you think, I was NOT trying to steal him away. Do you really believe I would do something like that to you? Anyway, Ryan would never go for me because I am, well, ME, and you are YOU and there is just no comparing. I know better than to ever try to compete with you, Lexi.

  I am crying while I write this because I still can’t believe that the girl who used to be my best friend in the entire world, one of the best overall PEOPLE I have ever known, would turn me in to my father. You know how he is. You know how mad and crazy he gets. How could you do that to me???

  I guess you could say that we are even now. (Although what you did was for spite, whereas my actions—however drunken and misguided—were from the heart.) You got what you wanted, at least. I hope you are happy.

  —Taylor

  P.S. I’m not even going to get into what you did with my brother, except to say that it’s pretty ironic how mad you got at Ryan when you were doing the exact same thing that night.

  I felt like I’d just opened a letter from a terrorist. Taylor had hijacked my anger and made it her own.

  By the time I finished reading my hands were shaking. I just stood there, staring at the paper, stunned.

  Ryan had too much respect for me? How much respect could he have? He’d never even told me—his own girlfriend—what the seniors asked him to do, let alone given me the chance to say no. And Taylor thought she was helping? Like hooking up with her best friend’s boyfriend was some kind of sacrifice? Her way of “taking one for the team”?

  It was too mind-boggling for words.

  I hate her. That was all I could think.

  I was in the girls’ room, between first and second periods, when I ran straight into Taylor’s guard dog, Heidi.

  “It wasn’t enough to get her grounded, was it, Lexi?” she said in a voice loud enough for all of sophomore hall to hear. “You had to humiliate her, too?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  Heidi sneered at me. “Did you really think you could get away with taking those photos?”

  “Get away with it?” I said in astonishment. “I had nothing to do with it!”

  Heidi’s arms were crossed over her chest. Her face had the pinched look of disgust, bordering on pure hatred. “You’re the only one with a motive.”

  Two girls at the sink exchanged looks and left. Another skittered out of a stall and out the door without even washing her hands.

  “Heidi,” I said with as much calm as I could muster, “you had better check your facts before you go accusing people of things they didn’t do.”

  That’s when Taylor walked out of the handicapped stall, her eyes redder and puffier than I’d ever seen them.

  I looked straight at her. When I spoke, my words were like shards of glass. “You know I had nothing to do with those photos. I’m the one who got you out of there! You should be thanking me!”

  “I don’t know what I should be doing,” she whispered, more tears welling up. Then, “I think I’m getting a migraine.”

  Taylor had been getting migraines since fifth grade, right around the time her parents started fighting 24/7. Stress brought them on, the doctor said. I used to feel bad for her. Not anymore.

  “Come on, Tay,” Heidi said, swooping in and throwing her arm around Taylor’s shoulders. “I’ll walk you to the nurse. Some people should lock themselves in a stall all day so they don’t ruin any more lives.”

  I nodded. “Good one.” To Taylor I said, “You’re a piece of work, you know that? Nice letter.”

  Taylor said nothing, just blinked at me with those red eyes.

  After she and Heidi left, I collapsed against one of the sinks, feeling my heart thump and my head spin.

  Did Heidi really think I took those photos? What if she told everyone? Then I wouldn’t just be the girl with the fucked-up face, I’d be the girl with no morals.

  Could this day get any worse?

  I found out the answer to that question after school. Somehow I’d managed—by hiding behind my hood and steering clear of anyone who might confront me—to make it to the final bell. I was about to step onto the bus when I suddenly remembered my bike, which I’d ridden to the dance but forgotten to put in Ruthie’s car.

  Minutes later, standing at the bike rack by the parking lot, I wanted to scream. There was glass all over the ground—which of course I’d failed to notice on Saturday night. Now both my tires were flat. Not just soft. Completely, undeniably flat.

  I knew that Ruthie would give me a ride after band, but that would mean swallowing my pride and letting her rescue me, which I was not about to do. The second-worst option was calling my mother.

  Which I would have done.

  If my cell were in my backpack where it was supposed to be.

  Instead of at home, on my bedsi
de table, charging.

  Arrrrrgh!

  I wanted to punch the brick wall of the school building. That’s how mad I was. But the rational part of my brain took over and marched me back inside in search of a pay phone, which I finally found in senior hall, wedged between a bank of lockers and a trophy case. I scavenged my backpack for quarters and was just starting to dial when something made me jump.

  “No!” a voice barked. Then, “Whose life do you think this is?” Followed by, “It’s not your decision!”

  It was none of my business. I knew I should keep dialing. But I was too curious.

  I hung up the phone and crept toward the nearest classroom—the one with its door half open. I stepped inside and, there, sitting at a desk piled high with newspapers, laptop balanced on his knees, was Theo. He was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and some kind of weird hat—like a baseball cap only puffier, with a shorter brim. On the wall above his head was a quote: JOURNALISM IS THE FIRST ROUGH DRAFT OF HISTORY.

  “You’re not listening to me!”

  At first, I thought he was arguing with the computer screen, but then I saw the cell clutched to his ear.

  “Bullshit!”

  I started to back away.

  “Complete bullshit!”

  Theo slammed the phone on the desk at the same time the strap of my backpack snagged on the doorknob and I stumbled.

  When Theo looked up, his mouth was a grim line. His eyebrows were two black slashes.

  “What?” he snapped as though I was the one he was mad at, which threw me.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You want me to go to college, too? Huh? Get in line!”

  I paused for approximately one second, then whipped around and started walking away, straight past the pay phone.

  I thought I had problems? This guy had problems.

  I made it all the way down the hall and out the double doors before I heard footsteps behind me. Another yard before I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a plaid shirt.

  “Hey.”

  Theo’s voice was calm now, but I didn’t respond.

  “Sorry about that … back there … I was mad at my dad. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  I kept walking. Straight to the bike rack. Ignoring him.

  “Hey,” he said again. “Did you hear me? I just apologized.”

  “I heard.”

  I knew how I sounded, but I didn’t care. After the day I’d had, I was too pissed to be nice.

  I yanked my bike out of the rack.

  “Whoa,” Theo said, looking down. “What happened there?”

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “You’ll ruin your rims if you ride on them.”

  I shrugged, throwing one leg over the seat.

  “Seriously,” he said. “It’s not good for the metal. It’ll warp.”

  I turned to face at him. “What are you, some kind of bike whisperer?”

  Theo shook his head, and I saw the flicker of a smile appear on his lips. “Just a concerned citizen.”

  “I didn’t ask for your concern.”

  He shot me a look, halfway between puzzled and annoyed.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. Then, “It’s not you. I just had a crappy day…. I mean a really crappy day. I think I might need to punch something.”

  “Really?” Theo said. “Because I could arrange that.”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “My dad … the horse’s ass I was talking to on the phone? He owns a boxing ring. I work there after school.”

  My expression must not have changed because Theo raised both fists to his chin. “You know”—he threw a jab in the air—“boxing? Muhammad Ali? Oscar De La Hoya?”

  “I know boxing.”

  “So if you want to go hit something, my truck’s over there. Your bike’ll fit in the back.”

  I squeezed my handlebars. “I don’t know….” I pictured what was waiting for me at home. English essay. My mother. Celery.

  “Come on.” Theo jerked his head toward the parking lot. “We’ll have fun.”

  We’ll?

  Like a doofus, I felt my face grow hot. To cover it up, I shrugged and said, “Okay, whatever.”

  Theo started to lift my bike over his shoulder, then stopped. “Just so you know … I don’t invite any old girls to do this.”

  “Oh no?”

  “Nope. Only the ones who dress as Catwoman and perform daring rescues … and you know … bust into darkrooms in their spare time.”

  He grinned.

  And I don’t know why, but my face got even hotter. As we walked across the parking lot together, I thanked God once again for inventing the hooded sweatshirt.

  The First Breath Is the Worst

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, Barbuto Boxing Gym looked more like a warehouse, but when you walked in, the smell gave it away. Pungent was the first word that came to mind, followed by hockey gloves, which Ryan once forced me to smell. Everyone in there—pounding on bags, jumping rope, dodging each other around the ring—was male and sweating bombs. You could almost taste the testosterone.

  Theo must have seen the look on my face because he said, “The first breath is the worst.”

  Within seconds, a man who could only be Theo’s father came bounding up to us. He was a few inches shorter than Theo and barrel-chested, but he had the same wiry, black hair and green eyes. When he embraced Theo and kissed him on the neck—not just once, but three times—Theo tried to pull away. “Get off me.”

  But his dad wouldn’t let him go. “Still mad at your old man? Huh? Still mad?”

  “Off!”

  “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Arrrr.” He pretended to bite Theo on the shoulder. “Arrr.”

  “Pop!”

  This went on for some time, the two of them wrestling around, until Theo’s dad finally let him go and turned to me. “You believe this kid? Who doesn’t want to go to college, huh? He’s a smart boy. Talented. He’ll get a scholarship. His guidance counselor says—”

  “Jesus, Pop.” Theo’s voice sounded strangled. “Don’t drag Lexi into this.”

  “Lexi?” His dad jumped back suddenly, eyes widening. “The Lexi?”

  He knows who I am?

  I glanced at Theo and saw, to my complete shock, that he was blushing. “Pop, this is Alexa Mayer…. Lexi, this is my dad.”

  Theo’s dad pumped my hand up and down. “Vince Barbuto,” he said. “Father to this stubborn son of a gun who won’t listen to reason. In this financial market—”

  “Pop,” Theo groaned. “For Christ’s sake.”

  “Okay, okay,” his father said, holding up his hands in surrender. Then, “Where are your manners, Taddeo? Get the lady some gloves!”

  “Oh, I’m not a boxer,” I said, and immediately felt like a moron. “I mean … I just came to watch.”

  “There’s no watching here,” Theo deadpanned.

  And his father said, “That’s right. Everyone suits up.”

  Before I could open my mouth to protest, I was whisked off to a room that smelled—thankfully—more like detergent than sweat, and Theo handed me a pile of clothes.

  I took a quick inventory: shirt, shorts, boxing gloves. Nothing to protect my face.

  “Are you serious?” I said.

  “I am.”

  “You really want me to…” I hesitated. I knew Theo had seen my graft, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention it. “…put these on?”

  “I do.”

  I took my time getting ready, making sure the door was locked behind me so no one could barge in while I was changing. The room didn’t have a mirror. All I could do was look down at my standard-issue, gray T-shirt and navy mesh shorts and grimace at how big my boobs had gotten and how my thighs—which used to have an inch of space between them—now rubbed together when I walked. I decided to put my sweatshirt back on. The hood, I told myself, tying it tight around my face, made me look more like a prizefighter.

  Theo knocked just as I was op
ening the door.

  “How’d you do?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I shrugged. Then, holding up the boxing gloves, “You don’t really expect me to wear these.”

  “Yup. But not until I wrap your hands.”

  “What?”

  “A handwrap goes under your glove,” Theo explained. “It keeps the joints aligned and protects you from the most common boxing injuries.”

  I reminded him that I was not a boxer.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered, feeling a weird flurry in my stomach as his fingers gripped mine.

  “Okay,” he said, flipping my hand over and patting the palm. “I’m going to teach you how to do this so next time you can do it yourself.”

  Next time?

  “Are you paying attention?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Okay, see this little strip of cloth? This is what you use. First, you wrap it around your wrist a couple of times like so … wrap, wrap … then, you do the palm … wrap, wrap, wrap … then, the base of your thumb … wrap, wrap … and at the end, there’s this little Velcro tab thingy that you just press here … and … voilà!…. How does it feel?”

  “Tight,” I said.

  “That’s by design. The compression lends strength to your hand when you punch and secures your thumb so you don’t sprain it. Most important, it keeps you from fracturing one of your metacarpals—these bones here….” He squeezed my hand between his forefinger and thumb. “We want to protect them, especially the fifth metacarpal. This little guy.”

  “Oh,” I murmured. “Uh-huh.”

  His touch was gentle, warm, but all this talk of bones made me think of the hospital. This is the zygomatic bone. This is the malar. The lachrymal. The maxilla. Suddenly, I felt dizzy.

  “We use the nonelastic handwraps,” Theo continued, taking my other hand and starting the process again. “My dad’s pretty old school. Some boxers like the Mexican-style handwrap, which has a little give to it…. And then there are these gel insert things you can use, too…. Personal preference, really … Hey,” he said, looking up, “you okay?”