Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance (Creative HeARTS) Read online

  When the alarm goes off at six thirty, I turn it off and bury myself back under the comforter. The twins, Gia and Alé, however, pop out of their bunk beds like little jack-in-the-boxes. I hear Alé crawling over the rail of the upper bunk. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, Mariely! Time to go to school.” He’s six; school is still exciting for him.

  “Cállate, Alé, it’s too early to be so loud,” I mumble from beneath my protective fort of pillows and blankets.

  “But it’s time to get up,” he argues.

  “I’m not going to school today. Leave me alone.” I roll over and fold my pillow over my head.

  “Are you still sad because Jacen doesn’t want to be your boyfriend anymore?” Gia asks. She’s only three and a half minutes younger than Alé, but obviously light-years ahead when it comes to female psychology.

  A moment later, I hear the light switch flick on. “Everyone up,” Lita chirps.

  “Mariely says she’s not going to school today,” Alé tattles.

  Gia adds, “Because she doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore.”

  There’s a brief pause before she says, “Gia. Alé. Go brush your teeth.” I hear them rattle off down the hallway. I hold my breath and stay very still, hoping Lita is going to give me a pass on the school day and let me stay here. But then a whoosh of cool air hits me as the comforter is pulled off of my body. I groan and roll over, squinting against the ugly glare of light. Lita is already dressed in her teal scrubs for her job as a nurse’s assistant at an elder care facility and her hair is pulled firmly into a no-nonsense bun. Though only a little bit of gray touches her temples, the severe hairdo makes her look way older than fifty.

  Or it could be working three twelve-hour shifts in a row to keep a roof over all of our heads that makes her look older than she is.

  “Mariely, I let you stay in bed all day yesterday. You missed work, fine. I know you were upset. But what happened with Jacen is not going to change if you miss school. There’s nothing you can do but move forward.”

  Moving forward is pretty much the story of Lita’s life. There’s a picture of her in our living room at high school graduation wearing a cap and gown, holding her diploma in one hand and cupping her very pregnant belly in the other. Standing next to her is my grandfather holding my mom in his arms, who was two at the time.

  Four years later, having left behind her family in the South Texas cotton fields to move to Austin, my grandfather was killed in a construction accident. Alone with two young kids to raise and no money to do it, Lita worked two, sometimes three, jobs at a time rather than return home and pick crops for the rest of her life. Here she is thirty years older and she’s still raising young kids on her own, and there’s still hardly any money to do it. So I realize what I’m going through is ridiculous in comparison, but I can’t help it. I’m not that strong.

  “Please give me just one more day,” I beg. “One more day to figure out how to face everybody.”

  “Today or tomorrow, what’s the difference? Facing them is only going to be as hard as you let it be.”

  I pull the comforter back over my head again. “My boyfriend left me for another guy, Lita. Just imagine what people are going to say.”

  “Are you hiding under the covers because you’re heartbroken or because you’re embarrassed?” At this point both are all mixed up together for me.

  “Which one will let me stay home from school today?”

  “Neither. Boys will come and go, and this won’t be the last time you’re embarrassed, I promise. But an education stays with you forever, and you cannot afford to risk your scholarship over this.”

  I know, I know. My scholarship is the only way I could ever attend a school like NextGen. It’s my ticket out of sharing a bedroom with Gia and Alé for the rest of my life, my ticket out of this falling-down trailer and this crappy, hopeless neighborhood we live in. It’s my ticket to Los Angeles, to a better life, period.

  Still, the thought of seeing Jacen again…

  “Please, Lita, don’t make me go.” I feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes.

  But she’s done indulging my whining. “Get up, Mariely. The sooner you face this, the sooner you can put it behind you.” I wait until the door clicks closed behind her before I kick off the covers like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum and reach for my phone. After I ran out of the party on Saturday, I’d turned it off. When I power it back on I have thirty-six text messages and fourteen missed calls from Willa. There are some from Jacen, too, but I don’t count them. I just hit delete.

  I text Willa to wait for me at the bus stop because I don’t want to walk into school by myself. Then I drag myself out of bed, pull open the closet’s rickety bifold door, and stare at my carefully curated collection of vintage clothes scoured from the best secondhand stores Austin has to offer. The only way I’ll be able to make it through the day is with a killer outfit, something that screams strength and resolve in the face of adversity but also super cute.

  Luckily I have the perfect fashion icon in mind.

  The air brakes squeal and whoosh as the bus rolls to a stop. Finally. The timeliness of the Capital Metro buses can never be counted on, especially on a Monday, but if taking the number 9 instead of my usual number 36 means not running into Jacen before class, it’s totally worth my first tardy ever.

  Through the window, I see Willa waiting for me on the sidewalk.

  When I step off the bus, she tilts her head. “Rosie the Riveter?”

  My interpretation of the World War II poster woman for feminism and women’s power is a tad literal today, denim shirt and jeans cuffed over black lace-up boots. I reach and adjust the red bandanna wrapped around my hair. “What? I need armor today.”

  A frown crosses Willa’s face. “I swear I didn’t know. Himesh never said anything to me, I promise. All this stuff with my dad and Mia, moving into the new house, dealing with Finn, I’ve been distracted. You know I would have told you if I’d known.”

  I don’t doubt for a second she’s telling the truth; she would never let me find out something like this the horrible way that I did, not if she could have helped it. “I know you would, Wills. And I’m sorry I ignored your texts and calls all weekend. I just needed to be alone. Have you talked to Himesh or Jacen?”

  She nods. “They both feel horrible. Jacen especially.”

  Knowing this makes me feel slightly better. “Good. I shouldn’t be the only one.”

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Too bad. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “You can’t avoid him forever. NextGen isn’t that big. Also, you’re in theater together, and senior seminar, and about three other classes,” Willa rattles off all the reasons that make me want to run screaming after the bus to let me get back on.

  “Remind me next time not to sync my schedule with my boyfriend’s. Not that I’m having a boyfriend again. Ever.”

  Willa looks at her phone. “Let’s discuss your future dating prospects later. We’re going to be late for class.” She grabs my arm and drags me through the parking lot, weaving around the assortment of BMWs, Hondas, and Priuses.

  The Austin NextGen Academy campus is housed in a former automobile dealership that was transformed into an industrial marvel of steel and glass. All the classrooms are located in six buildings surrounding a grassy quad that’s crisscrossed with sidewalks and has a massive abstract sculpture in the middle that we use for shade when it’s really hot. A private school that runs more like a small college than a regular high school, the focus here is on curriculum for “creatives:” performers, writers, musicians, dancers, designers, and artists of all mediums.

  We enter through the double glass doors of Building A, called affectionately by the students as A-Plus, probably because it houses the library and a lot of the traditional academic classes. Inside Willa automatically turns left to go up the main stairway to the second floor. “No, no, the back stairs,” I redirect her.

  “Oh, for the love of—Ma
riely, we’re late enough as it is.”

  “I know, but…” My pitiful look must convince her because she turns and goes in the opposite direction. Right now, Jacen should be in government class on the other end of the building, but in case he’s waiting around trying to catch me beforehand, I’m hoping to outmaneuver him by deviating from my normal route, the one he usually walks with me, and having us go the extra-long way around.

  As we hurry toward the back stairs, I see paper banners hanging from the ceiling overhead announcing that tickets are going on sale for the fall dance at the end of the month. Our fall dance is a big deal. First, we do it Sadie Hawkins style, so the girls ask the guys, and we always have a theme. This year it’s Día de Los Muertos, the Mexican Day of the Dead.

  The theater track kids have a fall dance tradition of wearing costumes that match the theme. Not plastic, store-bought costumes, either. We design and sew our own like the legit theater people we are. Last fall, the theme was “Midnight in Paris” and we went as the cast of Les Misérables. Jacen was Jean Valjean and I was Fantine. This year we planned to go as skeleton flamenco dancers. I already have my dress, a spectacular red-and-black froth of ruffles and lace that I got for a steal from a thrift shop on South Congress Avenue. The zipper was ripped and the hem needed to be resewn, but you can’t live in secondhand clothes without knowing how to thread a needle. Now all that work will go to waste. My last fall dance and I won’t be going. Willa will lecture me, I’m sure, that not having a date shouldn’t stop me from going, but at the moment, even dressed in all my feminist glory, it seems too depressing to contemplate.

  There’re a few people still lingering in the hallway, so I keep my head down, eyes to the floor as we take the stairs. “Does everyone know?” I whisper to Willa.

  “Did you think they wouldn’t? There were a lot of people at the party. No way this was going to stay under wraps. Between you and Jacen and drunk Audrey broadcasting to everyone that she cheated on Cabot—”

  Willa swallows the last of her sentence and I look up to see why, coming face to face with Cabot, almost literally, on the landing. I come to a screeching halt to avoid running straight into him. Startled, his eyes lock with mine and they are the deepest, darkest, most stunning blue I’ve ever seen. I didn’t know human eyes could be that dark and still be blue. Sadly, the shadows underneath them are almost as dark.

  “Sorry,” he offers awkwardly, seeming as uncomfortable to be here as I am.

  “Me, too.” I barely know Cabot, but I believe at this exact moment no two people can relate to each other more.

  Willa keeps me moving, though, pulling me out of his way, and he disappears down the stairs. We make it to the second floor as the bell rings.

  “You can do this,” she assures me. “I’ll wait for you at lunch.” Then she gives me a quick hug before rushing off. Classroom doors click closed up and down the hall, and I breathe a little easier knowing Jacen is now behind one on the other side of the floor.

  With Ms. Bendy’s economics classroom only a few yards away, I begin to relax a bit. Now I only need to repeat a similar process for every class today, making certain that the ones I share with Jacen I slide into right after the bell so he can’t talk to me without interrupting class, then make sure I’m first out the door, and I should be able to survive today.

  I’m reaching for the doorknob when behind me an all-too-familiar voice says, “You can’t avoid me forever.” I nearly pee my pants. My hand starts to shake and I grab hold of the knob, about to fling open the door and throw myself into the drab asylum of economics class. Anything, even the study of monetary policy and the history of the Federal Reserve, would be better than turning around. I’m not ready to do this with him, not yet.

  “Please, Mariely. I need to talk to you,” he pleads softly, his voice cracking a little. It’s the cracking that gets to me, stabs right through the weave of my denim armor, and burrows into my chest, the point landing deep and sharp in the fissure that he opened in my heart. I have to lean my forehead against the door to steady myself and close my eyes. I hear Lita’s voice telling me that I can face this today or tomorrow, but I still have to face it. I wish she wasn’t right all the time. I count to three, take a really deep breath, and then turn around. I’m still holding onto the doorknob behind my back, though, just in case.

  Willa is right; he looks pretty miserable. His wavy hair is a mess, and he looks uncharacteristically rumpled, like he slept in his clothes, or didn’t sleep at all. Purple shadows rim his eyes, too, like mine, like Cabot’s.

  I check up and down the hall to make sure we’re alone because if we’re going to do this I do not want to have an audience. “Fine. Talk.”

  Surprised maybe that I didn’t actually run away, it takes Jacen a second to gather his thoughts, and when he does, he sputters at the beginning. “I-I didn’t mean for this to happen. You have to know that. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Honestly, I don’t know what I’d expected him to say. It was all a mistake, Mariely? I didn’t cheat on you with one of our closest friends, Mariely? I’m not gay, Mariely? But barring these, the ones he did say are definitely not the words I wanted to hear. These piss me off.

  I step away from the door because I’m afraid I may not be able to keep my voice down. “Which part? Which part didn’t you mean to happen? The cheating on me? Or the part where I discovered our entire relationship was just an act?” I start to slow clap dramatically. “Bravo, by the way. You gave a master performance as the adorable, doting boyfriend.”

  “All of it. I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry that I hurt you, that I put you through this. What’s happening with me and Himesh, I didn’t go looking for it.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks away, clearly uncomfortable. If I weren’t feeling so damn sorry for myself, I might have felt sorry for him. Until he says, “Mariely, it’s not like you and I were ever really in love.”

  “We weren’t?” This is news to me. I’m not saying we were Romeo and Juliet, but we were without a doubt comfortably compatible. We have the same life goals, come from the same side of town, and both have craptastic family issues that we try to escape through a mutual adoration for all things theater. Put all of this together and we sound like a perfect match.

  “You know the way you feel when you’re on stage and your heart is about to beat out of your chest and everything feels electric and alive?” he asks.

  I do know that feeling—the tingling in my fingers as adrenaline courses along every nerve ending in my body and sends me soaring to the edge between ecstasy and vomiting. I live for it. Thrive on it. Chase it like an addict. I’ve never found anything else in the world that comes close to matching it.

  “I want to feel that way about another person. Don’t you?” His tone is wistful.

  I’d never thought about it before, but if that’s what it feels like to be really in love…it sounds terrifying. It’s one thing to feel that way onstage because I have a script, I’m choreographed and I’m in control. How do you handle feeling that way about a person when you can’t ever be sure they feel the same way about you? Or know that at any moment they can walk out of your life and take it away? I don’t know if I’m built for that sort of daily uncertainty.

  “Is that how you feel about Himesh?” I ask him.

  Jacen thinks about it, and when he answers, he can’t look me in the eye. “Maybe, or at least, I think I could feel that way about him.”

  My throat tightens and I blink back tears. Even though it’s clear he never loved me like that, it hurts to hear him talk about having those feelings for someone else. “What about next summer? What about going to L.A.? We had a plan; we’re supposed to go together.”

  “I don’t know. This is a lot right now. I still haven’t told my parents about Himesh—that’s as far ahead as I can plan for the moment.” Jacen’s mom goes to Mass twice a week, and his dad is a total man’s man who runs his own handyman service and goes to the church of Sunday football. Telli
ng them about his new relationship is not going to be easy.

  I feel bad for him, but it’s too soon and I’m still too raw from what’s happened to be able to reach out and be the friend he probably needs.

  “I have to go. I’m late for class,” I mumble, but instead of turning back to the door of Ms. Bendy’s classroom, I walk by Jacen and make for the front stairs, the ones Willa and I avoided in the first place for all the good it did me. I skim the steps, trying not to fall as my vision begins to waver. By the time I hit the double glass doors at the entrance, I’m at a run, and I hope nobody sees me because I can no longer hold back the tears.

  Chapter Three

  I’m all the way at the edge of the NextGen parking lot before I realize I don’t know where I’m going. Having never actually skipped school before, I’m at a loss for what to do. I glance briefly at the bus stop, but I don’t want to chance a teacher or principal seeing me there while I wait for the next bus. I look up and down the street for a place I can be alone, somewhere I’m not the girl whose boyfriend left her for someone he could love for real.

  NextGen Academy sits along a busy business-residential mixed area of Austin, and there’s a dark, hip, free-trade coffee shop slash live-music lounge on every block. I head up the street till I hit the first one. It’s late enough in the morning that the tech hipsters who live in this neighborhood are already at work, but the University of Texas students down the road haven’t yet rolled out of bed, which means the shop is mostly empty.

  Coffee makes me feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, and since I’m already a mess this morning, I order a cup of herbal tea. While I’m waiting, I text Willa to let her know I’m taking a mental health day from school, but not to worry. With my steaming cup I head to the back of the shop, in case someone from NextGen happens to come here, and drop into a dilapidated club chair. I close my eyes and lean my head back, emotionally drained. Why can’t someone invent a time machine already so we can just jump ahead past all the crappy parts in life and skip to the good stuff?