Cindy and the Prom King Page 3

  “If your friend is referring to Cindy Ellis,” Lauren said, her pert chin tilted at a haughty angle, “she isn’t my sister except by a freak of circumstances.”

  “Whaddya mean, she’s not your sister?” he asked with his mouth full of potato. “I saw you come to school in the same car. You live in the same house, right?”

  Lauren didn’t answer. Instead she gave him a karate chop to the wrist when he reached for another fry.

  “Yeeow,” he said.

  “You can tell anyone who asks about Cindy that she’s got a social disease and she isn’t interested in guys anyway.”

  His eyes widened. “You mean …”

  Lauren nodded and headed toward a table where Brie and her boyfriend, Amos, were drinking cans of Red Bull they’d smuggled in inside their backpacks. The school had a “no high-fructose corn syrup” policy, but it was hard to enforce.

  Lauren slammed her tray on the table. “I’ve had it with orphan girl.”

  Brie looked up. “What did she do now?”

  Lauren took a deep breath. “It’s nothing she did, it’s just the way she is. Since she transferred, everyone knows she’s connected to us—how, I don’t know. But some teacher asked me about her. And the soccer coach. Now some retard is asking about her. Don’t ask me why. Maybe he recognized her from his support group. I’m gonna get a sign that reads, ‘Questions about Cindy will be forwarded to an automatic answering machine. I’m not related to her. I haven’t seen her and I don’t have her number. Give it a rest,’ and wear it around my neck. Just because our mother happened to marry her father doesn’t mean Cindy is our sister.”

  “The same thing happened to me,” Brie said. “Here’s what I do. I go, ‘Thanks for asking. Now go screw yourself and leave me alone.’ ”

  Brie bit into her grilled cheese sandwich and chewed it loudly like she’d gotten hold of one of Cindy’s arms.

  When her phone rang her new favorite ring tone, Brie glanced at the caller ID and made a face.

  “Yeah, what?” she snapped into the phone.

  “I need you both to help me after school,” her mother said. “I’ve got a full schedule at the salon today. All the Laguna Vista housewives are into keeping up their summer tans starting today.”

  “We’ve got cheerleading practice, and we can’t miss that. Good news—we’re definitely going to be co-captains this year. I mean, who else but us? It won’t be you-know-who, who spent the summer at fat camp because she came home fatter than ever.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mom, I’m in the cafeteria. I can’t mention any names, someone might hear me. Anyway this certain person was already too heavy to jump more than two inches off the ground before she went to that camp. And it can’t be a certain person who thinks she’s God’s gift to Manderley cheerleading now that she’s had a nose job. Because guess what? There’re more important things than a perfect nose, like maybe being capable of doing a back handspring? Yeah, we’ll definitely get it for sure if the team has any sense and Ms. Lard-Ass doesn’t screw us over.”

  “I thought Cammie Bowles was the captain.”

  “She was until she fell off the pyramid during the final home game last year. What a klutz. Surprised it never happened before. Everyone told her she should be a base. What are we, her personal support staff? They thought she was okay, but it turns out she cracked her neck vertebra. We just heard she’ll be watching from the sidelines in a neck brace this year. Bad news for her, good news for us. So we’re busy today and every day after school practicing and lining up the other girls to vote for us for co-captains. We should get it. We deserve to get it. We know more routines than anyone especially you-know-who-I-mean who thinks she can get by because she’s fucking the football coach.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell anyone I said that. It may not be true. But it probably is. Since she had her picture in Cheerleading Today she’s been a total bitch. When we’re captains it’s a cinch things will be different. We’ll call the shots. We’ll decide who does what routine and then we get the big scholarship for next year, wherever we want to go—UCLA, USC …”

  “Really?” Irina said.

  “Yes, really. So get Cindy. She doesn’t need to join the band or whatever else she thinks she’s going to do. Band is for dorks anyway. Yeah, get Cindy.”

  “I tried calling her but she didn’t answer. This is important. I don’t want to have to hire someone to help me.”

  “Try again.” Brie craned her neck. Cindy was nowhere to be seen. “She’s probably gone to the computer lab to play Nancy Drew games by herself. What a pathetic loser. And now …” She heaved a huge heavy sigh. “We gotta see her every day.”

  seven

  Italians were eating with a knife and fork when the French were still eating each other. The Medici family had to bring their Tuscan cooks up there so they could make something edible.

  —Mario Batali

  Marco Valenti walked through the cafeteria of Manderley Prep holding a tray with a sloppy sandwich and a bowl of so-called minestrone soup. He looked around at the kids in their tattered blue jeans and the plastic shoes they wore, which were hardly shoes at all, and felt a shaft of revulsion hit him like a soccer ball kicked at his gut. It wasn’t just the slobs, it was the food they were eating.

  He had yet to have a good meal since he’d moved here from Italy to live with his aunt and uncle last month. It wasn’t their fault. It was just that he hardly ever saw them. They were busy and so was he. They ate in high-class restaurants; he ate hamburgers at the In-N-Out or whatever he found in their refrigerator. There were no long, lively family dinners with five courses. Apparently no one in America had time for that.

  The house his relatives lived in was huge—what did they call them in English? A McMansion? And they didn’t even have any servants except for a cleaning service that came once a week. Sure, it was nice, but nothing compared to the ancestral home of the Dukes of Savoy where his family lived in Tuscany.

  All that history and all that money. Sometimes Marco felt it weighing him down like a load of Carrera marble. In California he felt free. Free to spend money on anything he wanted, like a new car. Free to fall in love with California and the California girls with their blond hair and their perfect bodies. Good food and people wearing the latest styles could wait.

  For one year he’d give up eating cannoli and linguini arrabbiata and drinking limoncello. Instead he’d eat hamburgers and do whatever he wanted without his father looking over his shoulder. If he spent more money than his father gave him, he’d earn his own playing online poker. It was almost too easy. Just last night he’d made fifteen hundred dollars.

  He felt a warm sweaty hand clamp down on his shoulder.

  “Hi, Coach,” he said.

  Oh, hell, he’d missed soccer practice this morning. He couldn’t get up at seven. Not after staying up half the night playing Texas Hold ’Em. No one in Italy practiced soccer at such an ungodly hour. They couldn’t expect him to get out of bed just to run around a field with a bunch of boys who couldn’t score a goal if the goalie fell over dead.

  “Missed you this morning, Marco.”

  “Sorry. I had a family, how do you say, urgency? Something about my visa was not regular so I had to take care of. Don’t worry, I’ll be coming there after school.”

  The coach slapped him on the back. “Want to talk to you about something else,” he said. “Wondered how you felt about coaching the girls soccer team?”

  “Girls?” he said. “Girls play soccer here?”

  The coach laughed. “I know. I know. We all wish they’d just do the cheerleading thing, if they have to do anything, but it’s something about the Manderley woman’s endowment and that Tide Nine crap.”

  Marco had no idea what he was talking about. Why did Americans talk so fast?

  “Never mind,” the coach said. “Just think about it.” Then he said something about how they were counting on him to power them into the championships
this year.

  “The new headmaster is gung-ho about sports, which means more money for the team. We’ve even got a new van to transport the players in comfort. Multiple cup holders, navigation system, MP3 players, video—you name it, we’ve got it.”

  Marco nodded and started toward the far corner of the room where some girl was waving to him. He’d never seen her before but what the hell, it was better than eating with a guy named Joe he’d met last week at orientation for new students. He’d made the mistake of asking Joe where the discos were.

  “Discos? You mean like clubs? You gotta go to the city to SoMa, but they’ll card you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask you for ID. Legally you can’t drink here until you’re twenty-one.”

  What kind of country was this anyway? Sure, maybe Italians consumed a lot of alcohol, but no one he knew had any problem. In his country kids learned to drink at home. Alcohol abuse wasn’t tolerated. Sex was something else he didn’t understand about America. Joe and his friends talked nonstop about getting laid. He suspected most of them were virgins from what they said.

  “So what do you guys do for fun?” he’d asked just to be polite.

  “I don’t know. Get some booze and go to the park.”

  Marco shuddered thinking about it. And now this Joe was heading his way with two other guys.

  “This is Marco,” Joe said when the coach left. “He’s Italian. Lives in a huge house in Atherton, with a pool and a tennis court.”

  How did he know that?

  “When are you gonna have a party, dude?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.” Actually his aunt and uncle said it was okay to throw a party for Marco’s new friends. Even if his aunt and uncle weren’t there, which they hardly ever were. They traveled a lot on business.

  When he said he didn’t have any friends, they laughed indulgently and said having a party was the way to get some. They were probably right.

  First he’d invite those girls at that table back there who were now all waving to him. That was the way to start. Not that any one of them had anything to wear to a party. No fashion sense at all. He wondered if he’d see anyone wearing any decent clothes while he was in California.

  One thing they didn’t have in Italy was women with red hair like the girl he’d seen that morning standing in front of the school with the sun shining on her. Amazing color, like the sunset over the Adriatic.

  The clarinet girl had made him think about music. His father had disapproved of Marco playing the piano. It reminded him of Marco’s mother. But if he played at school this year his father wouldn’t need to know. Yes, he was there to learn English and play soccer for the school. But life was more than learning those bewildering verbs and unpredictable prepositions and kicking a ball down the field, wasn’t it? His mother had thought so.

  He scanned the room across an acre of denim, looking for one single sign of style. Nothing. Niente.

  eight

  There was a young girl from Trinity

  Who solved the square root of infinity.

  While counting the digits,

  She was seized by the fidgits

  Dropped math and took up divinity.

  —Author unknown

  Cindy was surprised that the Italian had sat down at their table. After all, he was new and he didn’t know those girls waving at him even though they were falling out of their chairs to catch his attention. He must have all the confidence of Italian royalty because he pulled out a chair, set his tray down and sat in the middle of the girls at the far end of the table. He never even glanced her way. Either he was avoiding her or he didn’t remember her from this morning. Or both. No surprise there. She was used to being avoided and forgotten by guys.

  She tried to pretend he wasn’t there by nibbling at her salad and talking to Victoria or looking around the room, but all the time she was shamelessly listening to everything he said.

  “So you play soccer,” one of the girls said, bouncing up and down in eager excitement. Subtle she wasn’t.

  “Yes, a little. It’s a good game.”

  “So where are you from?”

  “Italy.”

  “Wow. That’s so cool.”

  “Not this time of year. It’s rather warm.”

  The girls laughed appreciatively and then all volunteered to give him lessons in American slang.

  He very charmingly declined, finished his lunch and said “Addio.” And still never noticed Cindy.

  She didn’t care. She didn’t expect to be noticed. The really surprising thing was that he’d stopped by her locker this morning, picked up her clarinet and spoken to her at all. After all, she was taller than most guys (but not him), she had flaming red hair and a pale freckled face, and she had no clue how to flirt.

  Besides, she was going to Manderley for the academics, not to hook up with guys—which she didn’t know how to do—and not to make new friends, because she never would find any to match those she’d left behind. She was there to learn something! Yes, she knew how nerdy that sounded, so she kept it to herself. Herself and her friends that she’d left behind at Castle. And now she was on her way to AP geometry.

  She pictured pages of triangles, equations and challenging problems that had solutions, like which sides of a polygon equaled the other sides. Problems unlike her lack of money and parents. Those were problems that were totally unsolvable. At least for now.

  Geometry was held on the second floor of Manderley Hall, the beautifully restored old mansion that was the face of the school. Cindy tiptoed reverently across the faded Oriental carpets and climbed the wide curved staircase to room 117. It was a small class with maybe twelve or fifteen kids. Yes, this was what she’d come to Manderley for. A small math class with a teacher who had time to teach instead of yelling at the kids in the back row. Time to share his or her love of math with Cindy. But these kids wore signs of boredom etched on their faces. The kind of boredom of people who’d already had too many classes together. A few even looked up when she walked in. But no greetings. Not a smile. No “Welcome to our school.”

  She sat down in the second row. Five awkward, silent minutes passed.

  “Five-minute rule,” said a guy in the front row as he jumped up and put his books into his backpack.

  “It’s ten minutes, idiot,” said another guy in the back row.

  But before there could be a stampede for the door, a tall, thin woman in a long dress, canvas shoes and ropes of beads like some hippie out of the long-ago sixties came through the door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “But I just got the call. As you may know, I’m NOT your real teacher.” She paused to give them a chance to react. But no one did. She cleared her throat. “I’m your substitute, Ms. Borrell. You can call me Anastasia.”

  More silence.

  “Well, I’ve got your schedule and we’re going to follow it just as if your regular teacher were here with you instead of me.”

  Call-me-Anastasia the substitute teacher stood in front of the chalkboard and closed her eyes. What did it mean? Cindy wondered. She turned around hoping to get clarification from someone. The guy sitting behind her who wore an amused expression and a gold hoop in each ear rolled his eyes and grinned at her.

  Anastasia proceeded to exhale out of her mouth at the same time as she raised her open palms to the class. After a few more seconds of silence she slowly opened her eyes and smiled serenely at the students.

  “I just need to get into a positive head space before I begin.” She sat down on a stool and faced them. “So how is everyone today?”

  Cindy murmured “fine,” but her voice sounded weak and lonely.

  “The first day of class is always so crazy,” the teacher said sympathetically.

  “Not as crazy as you are,” someone muttered.

  Cindy grimaced. She hoped the poor woman hadn’t heard.

  “I’m picking up some negative energy,” Anastasia said with a wave of her heavily ringed ha
nd. “And I’m guessing it has something to do with the subject matter. So here’s what we’re going to do. Something that works for me. Everyone take out a sheet of paper and write down all your negative thoughts.”

  No one moved. Everyone including Cindy stared at Anastasia as if she’d stumbled into their class from an alien universe. Apparently Cindy wasn’t the only one who thought this was weird behavior from a teacher. Nevertheless Cindy took out a piece of paper. One by one the others did too.

  “Go ahead,” Anastasia said. “Start writing. We can’t start class until you get rid of those bad thoughts. Every one of them. It doesn’t have to be good grammar. Write fast. Write whatever bad vibe that comes into your head. Don’t worry, I’m not going to collect them. I’m not even going to look at them. I’m going to show you how to get rid of everything that’s weighing you down. Studying is okay. But first things first. What I’m going to teach you is how to dump your negativity. This is a really useful technique you can use the rest of your lives. Believe me, you’ll thank me some day.”

  Okay, maybe this wasn’t the strangest thing that had ever happened to Cindy, but yeah, sure, she had some negative thoughts she’d like to get rid of. Maybe Anastasia was right.

  “Free association. Stream of consciousness. Just do it,” Anastasia said as she walked around the room looking over their shoulders as they wrote.

  Cindy wrote as fast as she could. She wrote about money and siblings and school and clothes and guys. When she finished, she did feel better. Almost as if she’d confided in a good friend. Like Lizzie. When it felt like she was alone in the world, she reminded herself her best friend was only a phone call away.

  The sub was back in front of the class. “Now, crumple your papers and throw them at the chalkboard. Come on. Everybody. Let’s see those balls of paper fly. One, two, three … heave!”

  The crumpled papers started to fly so fast and furiously that Anastasia had to duck. Cindy’s landed in the wastebasket.