You and Me and Him Read online

  We’re nodding, but it’s clear we aren’t getting it.

  Tom sighs. “I was in sort of a Dungeons and Dragons stage, pretty much obsessed with the Middle Ages, weapons, armor, all that. Every guy goes through that, right?”

  Tom and I both look at Nash, realizing at the same time that this phase of adolescent manhood passed him by.

  “Okay, maybe not everyone, but I grew out of it. I’m not into D&D anymore. I quit after I got passed over as Dungeon Master.”

  “Dungeon Master?” Nash and I ask at the same time, but Tom holds up a hand.

  “That’s a story for another time,” he says. “I’ve already humiliated myself enough for a first day of school, and I should know—I’ve had nine of them.” He points his finger back and forth at Nash and me. “Besides, now you both owe me.” He leans back, crossing his arms like he’s won some kind of prize.

  Nash and I exchange glances.

  “Owe you?” I ask.

  “An embarrassing story or fact about yourself. One each.”

  Nash starts to protest, but Tom puts one hand on Nash’s arm and holds up his other one to silence him. Nash stops talking. Typically nobody can shush him.

  “Not now, but soon,” Tom says.

  Nash looks at Tom’s hand on his arm and nods. They start talking about other things: plans for after school, which teachers to avoid.

  I keep watching Tom. He’s pretty, but there’s something more going on under there, something different. He’s really listening to Nash, leaning in, keeping eye contact. He’s not looking around for an escape route or scoping out his other options. Not yet. A guy who’s been to that many schools knows that hanging with Nash and me is not the best he could do. Yet here he is. Why? That’s what I want to know. I stare at Tom, mulling over his motivations, when I hear my name.

  “Maggie?” The voice comes from behind me.

  I recognize it right away, even though I haven’t heard it in a while: Kayla Hill.

  “Maggie, is that you?” she says, like we haven’t gone to the same school for a decade.

  “Kayla,” I say, my voice cautious. Kayla is at the top of the food chain, no mistake. Her end-of-summer tan stands out against a bright yellow sundress that hugs her curves. Her whole being screams popular. I wonder why she’s decided to go slumming by talking to Nash and me—then I see her wide brown eyes laser-focused over my head at Tom.

  “How have you been?” Kayla coos. “It’s been so long!”

  “Yeah,” I say. “About four years.”

  Kayla laughs this little laugh that sounds like a bell ringing and kind of swats at my arm like I’m a real kidder. But we both know it’s been at least that long since Kayla and I spoke.

  “Hi, Nash,” she says, polite but not friendly, then reaches out her hand to Tom. “And I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says. “I’m Kayla.” Tom shakes her hand.

  “Tom.” He smiles that killer smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re new, right? I’m on the new student orientation committee.” Kayla smiles back at Tom, and their combined wattage is overpowering. “If you need anything, you let me know.” Her voice is warm and inviting, like caramel, and I remember for a moment what it feels like to bask in Kayla’s glow.

  “Will do,” Tom says.

  “Bye for now,” she says, waving, and sashays over to some long-lost friends at another table. We all watch her walk away. This is her superpower. It’s like she excretes some sort of mind-numbing pheromone that encourages lesser beings to follow her every move and forget everyone else around them. What surprises me is the bristle of anger and jealousy that runs across my scalp as Tom checks her out.

  Kayla and I were sort of friends through sixth grade. I guess everyone in our class kind of got along until then. But around that time, someone made the decision that Kayla was boy-girl party, A-list material and I wasn’t. Lines were drawn, and I landed on the wrong side of the cool/not cool divide. Kayla decided to go along with the horde and dropped me like I was a rabid hedgehog. She just stopped knowing me. And she stopped being the kind of person I wanted to know.

  “Maggie,” Nash says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Maggie.”

  “Huh?” I say. They are both looking at me.

  “Tom was asking you about your afternoon schedule,” Nash says through somewhat clenched teeth. He’s irritated that I haven’t been hanging on their every word.

  “Oh, um, honors bio and PE.”

  “Me too,” Tom says, bumping me with his shoulder. “Cool!”

  I wince at the thought of another tortuous semester of PE, and Tom’s expression changes. Nash kicks me under the table.

  “Sorry. It’s not you. One of the PE teachers loathes me.” I kick Nash back. Tom nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.

  Chapter 3

  By the time lunch is over, I’m ready to escape to my locker, but Tom asks if he can walk to bio with me. People stop to look at him, so we have to navigate the halls by dodging gawking clusters of the curious.

  “Small town,” I say by way of explanation.

  He hovers his hand protectively near my back and leans in so he can hear my running commentary. I see why Nash laid claim to this one.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been the new guy a lot.” We sit down at one of the back lab tables.

  “No way!” I hear Kayla Hill’s voice for the second time that day. “We have another class together, Maggie?” We had history together before lunch. Kayla ignored me in that class.

  “Yeah.” I dig in my bag for a pencil. “Cool.”

  “Hey, Tom, I don’t have a lab partner yet.” Kayla indicates an empty table up front.

  “Oh, thanks, but I’m going to partner with Maggie,” Tom says.

  “That’s great.” Kayla smiles at me but wilts a little. “As long as you’re taken care of.”

  “I think Maggie will take good care of me,” Tom says. Now they are both smiling at me like it’s my turn to say something.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “Totally taken care of.”

  “Okay, well, see you!” Kayla waves her little wave and takes her perky little butt back to her seat. I rummage around in my bag again, this time searching for my calculator. When I look up, Tom’s eyes are on me, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

  “What?” I say, rubbing my face and running my tongue over my teeth in case I have remnants of yogurt lingering.

  “Nothing. Just trying to figure things out.”

  “Figure things out?”

  “Yeah. New town. New school. It takes a couple days to put it all together.”

  “Only a couple days?” I’m hoping Tom won’t be one of those guys who decide who you are in the first five minutes.

  “Usually,” he says. “Sometimes a little longer.”

  “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’m still trying to figure things out. Must be nice to understand it all in less than a week.”

  “I didn’t say I’d understand it all. But schools start to look alike after a while, and so do the people.”

  “Flattering,” I say. “So we’re all just clones of people you knew at other schools?”

  “Not exactly clones. And there are always exceptions. Nash, for example. And you. You’re definitely not a clone.”

  I stare at him, wavering between pleasure at not being lumped in with the other Cedar Ridge robots and irritation that he thinks he’s already figured me out.

  “Maybe if you took longer than thirty seconds to get to know people, they might surprise you.” I open my notebook, flipping through the pages. The pen sitting on the notebook flies up, arcing over Tom and hitting the floor.

  “Good.” Tom picks up the pen and hands it to me with a flourish. “I love surprises.”

  Tom falls into step beside me as we swing into the hallway after class. “Look, I’m sorry if I—”

  “Don’t sweat it,” I say, smiling and speeding up a bit. I can’t be late to PE on my first
day.

  “You in a hurry?” Tom says, matching my pace. “I thought you hated PE?”

  “I do. But I hate detention more, and Ms. Perry despises me. If I suit up late, she sends me straight down—do not pass ‘go,’ do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  “Ah, the bitchy PE teacher. A high school archetype,” Tom says.

  “The skinny, bitchy PE teacher who exercises excessively to make herself forget that what she really wants is a brownie. With nuts.”

  “So, why does she hate you?”

  I know why Ms. Perry hates me. She hates me because I’m one of those girls who eat the brownie. I glance at him, squeezing my science notebook tight against my body. Nash claimed Tom, so there’s no need for me to impress him. That doesn’t mean I’m going to freely discuss my flaws and nutritional choices with a cute guy I just met.

  “Who knows? Maybe she’s scared of my intellectual prowess. Maybe she can’t handle my epic dance moves. Who cares? She’s crazy.” I stop at the entrance to the girls’ locker room. “You’re down there. Next door on the right. The one that says ‘Boys,’” I add.

  “Good to know.” Tom backs down the hall a few paces. “See you inside.”

  He pauses at the next door, pointing; his eyebrows raise in question. I give him a thumbs-up and descend into the PE locker room, which may not be actual high school hell, but it’s certainly one of its waiting rooms.

  The locker room is already full of half-dressed hard-bodies when I get there. I make my way to a semi-hidden corner behind some lockers and heft my backpack onto the bench. Next comes my best version of what my old swim team coach used to call a deck change. I put the gym clothes on, then wriggle my street clothes out from under them, thereby exposing the least possible surface area of skin and undergarments.

  This may seem like a lot of effort to avoid a few seconds of vulnerability, but it’s a necessary survival mechanism. We’ve been dressing down for PE for four years, but it only took two weeks to figure out that the girls’ locker room is fraught with dangers. And don’t even get me started on the subtle art of using technology to reveal other girls’ dirty little secrets. Cell phones are officially banned but constantly in use. Expose your body in that room, and you better be sure that the only thing that gets out there is that you are perfect in every way.

  Once changed, I file out with the other girls, tugging my shorts and shirt over my widest parts. Tom stands with some sophomore and junior boys, and he waves when I walk in the gym. I wave back but line up near the door.

  Ms. Perry grimaces when she sees me, checking my name off the list on her clipboard. She raises her whistle to her mouth with a skeletal arm. One shrill blast and the chitchat dies down. We line up, count off, and go to our respective corners. I look around for Tom. He’s headed right for me, grinning. He gives me a thumbs-up and plants himself next to me. Some of the other kids are looking at him and whispering, but that comes to an abrupt halt at the sound of Ms. Perry’s whistle.

  “These will be your activity groups for the semester,” Ms. Perry shouts. The four teachers begin to move to the four corners.

  I close my eyes and say a silent prayer to the PE gods: Not Perry. Not Perry. Not Perry . . . When I open my eyes, Ms. Perry is standing in front of our group, her clipboard out, whistle clenched between her teeth, and her eyes on me. She blows the whistle. I flinch.

  “This group’s with me. Fall in for three laps around the field, and meet me by the north soccer goal in eight minutes. Go!”

  Students leap into action, streaming around Ms. Perry and filing out the door and into the sunshine. In Ms. Perry’s presence, I am like a hunted rabbit, frightened and frozen. Tom and I end up at the back of the pack. By the time we pass her, she is already shaking her head and making marks on her clipboard.

  “Wow, she really likes that whistle,” Tom says, loping beside me.

  “You have no idea.” I try not to pant as I lumber through the first few hundred yards of the run. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I am actually a pretty active person. I was a competitive swimmer for four years, until the end of eighth grade, followed by a brief, obsessive volleyball phase during freshman year. I walk and hike for hours in the cedar and fir forests that surround our town and hardly break a sweat. But running has always been my downfall. Any fitness or strength I gain through other activities exits my body the minute I accelerate to even a slow jog. Watch me run and you’ll assume I’m one of those kids who lie on the couch eating Cheez Doodles and watching reruns of Saved by the Bell. When I run, I sweat. I wheeze. I clump around like my legs are formed from lead.

  I do not want Tom to see me at my worst. “Hey, listen, save yourself! She said eight minutes, and we’re already behind. Running: not my forte. Making Ms. Perry like me: also not my forte. No reason to hitch your wagon to my falling star. That’s PE suicide.” I am breathing heavier now, and beads of sweat start to form on my forehead, under my bra, behind my knees.

  “No, I’m good,” Tom says, jogging beside me, not a drop of perspiration on him.

  I look around. We aren’t at the very back of the pack—some of the girls are walking—but we aren’t going to make the eight-minute mark either. I put my head down, working to keep my breath even and think of a way to avoid becoming a panting, red, sweaty mess in front of Tom. No go. Even if he ran ahead, he would be there waiting at the end. Oh well. If the sight of me post-exercise grosses him out, he can suck it. “You really should go faster. There’s still a chance Ms. Perry won’t hate you.”

  “Nope. I’m fine. Just enjoying a leisurely run with my new best friend.”

  “New best friend? Seriously? Doesn’t all this new-kid-with-a-heart-of-gold shit get old?”

  Tom laughs. “Too much?”

  “Yeah. Maybe a little. Are you always this friendly?”

  “I guess so. It sort of becomes automatic when you’ve moved as much as I have. You learn to make a good first impression.”

  “Ahhh, so this isn’t the real you? After a few days, you’ll turn into a total jerk?”

  “Maybe not a total jerk. I think I’m only occasionally jerky.”

  “Doesn’t it wear you out to be so charming?”

  “You have no idea.”

  We jog for a bit without talking, the only sound my laboring lungs sucking in air.

  “If you lift your chin up instead of looking at the ground, you’ll get more oxygen,” Tom says.

  I pretend to ignore him, but after a minute I lift my chin and find my breathing sounds and feels a little less desperate. After a few hundred yards of actual oxygen intake, my legs feel stronger too. And with my chin up, I can see the hillside of evergreen trees sloping behind the school and smell the late summer blooms from the hedge of heather growing along the fence line.

  We finish the run in silence, and in spite of how it began, it isn’t the worst three laps I have ever run. We don’t make it in under eight minutes, and most of the rest of the class is waiting in the bleachers, bored, watching us down the home stretch. Some varsity wrestlers moo when I cross the finish line.

  Tom stops, staring at them. He glances at me to see if I heard. I roll my eyes and sit on the bottom row of bleachers.

  Tom climbs a couple rows up the bleachers toward the wrestlers. “Hi,” he says. “Did you just moo at me?”

  The wrestlers look confused.

  “Is this some sort of Northwest welcome? Should I moo back?” he asks. “Or maybe some other farm animal sound is more appropriate. A pig, maybe? Or a chicken?” Tom clucks at them, and they shift from confused to pissed off. A couple people snicker. Tom turns his back on them and sits down on the bleachers next to me. Ms. Perry says nothing, but I can see her draw two large zeroes on her clipboard.

  Chapter 4

  It is almost seven when my mom walks in the kitchen that night. She kicks off her heels, drops her keys in the owl-shaped bowl on the counter, and hangs her bag on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. It tips over backwards, spilling he
r files out on the kitchen floor.

  “Bring a little work home?” I say, watching her gather the folders and shove them back into the bag.

  She puts it by the living room door, rights the chair, and collapses into it, rubbing her feet through her stockings.

  I pour her a glass of wine and bring it to the table, kissing the top of her head.

  “Thanks, honey. Yes, a little. I take the files for a ride in my car, then take them right back to work the next day. There’s never enough time to get all my students’ papers graded. Not if I want to do it right.” She sips the wine, closes her eyes, and sighs.

  Her eyes pop open. “How was your first day? Tell me all about it. Who’d you see? What did you learn?” She watches me pull a pan of my homemade mac and cheese from the oven. The bread crumbs are golden, and the pale cheese bubbles around the edges of the glass baking dish.

  Mom frowns. “Mac and cheese? It looks great, honey. But I think we need to start eating healthier, don’t you?”

  I pull a bag of mixed greens from the fridge and pour them into a bowl. “Salad.” I turn my back on her and start banging around the kitchen, getting the rest of the meal ready. “Could you tell Dad it’s time to eat?” I say, not looking at her. I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I am so grateful that you made dinner, and that you help out so much. But I know how hard you worked this summer. And you lost a little weight. I don’t want you to slip back into old habits.”

  I turn to face her. “Mom, I lost four pounds this summer. Four pounds! Not exactly a before-and-after story!” I slam the plates on the counter and toss the forks down next to them. They skitter across the orange Formica, banging against the backsplash.

  “Maggie, don’t . . . Come on.”

  “Mom. Listen. I know you’re trying to help. You’re always trying to help. But I think it’s best if we accept the inevitable and stop talking about this.” I move the casserole from the stovetop to a trivet on the counter and shove the serving spoon into it. “Daaaa-ad! Dinner!” I yell.