The Inside of Out Read online

  Hannah’s eyebrows were about as high as I’d ever seen them. Then she smiled. “It’s not too late to switch, you know. I’ll teach you to play chess.”

  “You taught me four years ago. And I’m still horrible. All that strategy.” I shuddered.

  “Or you could skip clubs this year and . . . I don’t know . . . paint a ridiculously elaborate mural for the rec center?”

  I glared her down. Her mouth twitched.

  “Why would you even bring that up?” I shook my head as she snickered. “So mean.”

  “You’ve got options, is all I’m saying. The Foodies? As one example? I’m still mad I was wrong about that.”

  My stomach rumbled at the prospect of becoming a Foodie. And yet, all through bio, it was the Alliance I kept thinking about. So Hannah wasn’t exactly gung-ho about joining the yay-we’re-gay club. So what? Once she found out more about their . . . no—our plans, she’d get involved. I could just see her, swept up in our strategy sessions, devoting all her spare time to helping fight the school’s discriminatory practices, like a getting-stuff-done montage in an action movie.

  And if, say, Natalie Beck was too cool to join our cast, then she simply wasn’t going to make the final cut, now was she?

  Guessing that Hannah’s learn-to-drive directive hadn’t taken effect within the last seven hours, I waited after school as usual outside the hideous arts wing, its 1970s lime-and-orange walls especially garish under today’s overcast sky.

  It was still drizzling. Maybe we could hit the beach again on the way home and Hannah could help me brainstorm an action plan for Operation Bring-Down-the-School’s-Unjust-and-Antiquated-School-Dance-Policy.

  Step One: Come up with snappier code name.

  I knew better than to go to Principal Zimmer, at least. Mom had called him an “empty suit” enough during her school-lunch tirades that I knew who held the real power—the school board. They were having their first public meeting next Wednesday. As a member of the public, I would be there. I’d entered it into my little phone calendar and everything.

  Basically I was off and running. Hannah would be beyond impressed. I grinned into the sputtering sky. A raindrop landed in my mouth. Gross.

  I was staring at a dead hedge, watching a sparrow digging for twigs in its desiccated center, when it occurred to me that Hannah was late. A few minutes later, she still hadn’t shown, and then here I was, facing down a slow stream of fellow students squinting quizzically as they filed past.

  “Smurfette!” one of them shouted.

  Alert.

  I ducked away, hoping to get lost in the sparse crowd, but he found me. QB always found me.

  “Nice shirt,” he said, making fun of my Kudzu Giants album-cover tee. His friends weren’t swarming this time, so I wondered who he was performing for. He dug his hands into the pockets of his hunting jacket, his face clouding. “No, I’m serious. I like that band. And their . . . music.”

  QB Saunders looked, against all probability, awkward.

  The only possible response was to out-awkward him by blurting, “I like them too.”

  Before we could continue this scintillating nonversation, a neon-blue pickup pulled up and the football team’s actual quarterback, Darius, waved for him to get in. QB walked backward, dodging the rain, saying, “See you around, Daisy.”

  And then, dear Lord, he winked. Or tried to. His eye twitched shut, so he had to rub it to get it to open again.

  Also—hang the hell on—had he just called me Daisy?

  Chilled to my core, I hurried to the school parking lot to see if, against protocol, Hannah was waiting for me there.

  She was, thank God. She waved over the roof of her car.

  “I was about to leave you!”

  Odd. It wasn’t like us to get our wires crossed.

  But it only took me five steps across the lot to identify the gremlin in the works—Natalie Beck, curled up in the front of Hannah’s car, examining her nails with the door shut and the window rolled up, a celebrity waiting for her driver.

  “Do you mind the back? Nat got here first, so she called shotgun . . .” Hannah’s face started to flood. She was never any good at hiding her nerves.

  And although I was empirically better in that area, I wasn’t a cool enough customer to sit in a car with Hannah and the Beck making googly eyes at each other without launching into an impromptu intervention.

  So I said, “I’m meeting my mom. She’s on her way. Sorry for the confusion.” And turned on my heel so I didn’t have to field Hannah’s skeptical glare.

  I rounded the corner of the school to the rhythm of my thudding heart. What was wrong with me? Oh! Right! My best friend had been stolen by a scheming ice queen and not even a fun one who builds snow castles and sings power ballads.

  I called my mom five times and on the last try left a voicemail.

  “I need a ride home. Meet me at the Moonlight—” I winced. “Wait, no, Starbucks. Call me when you get this?” I almost hung up and then added, “I’m fine, by the way,” but in this intense tone that was going to freak her out even more.

  Inside Starbucks, I settled onto a wobbly stool near the window with a schmancy soda and a cookie. I’d just taken out my homework when, two seats down, someone pretended to cough. It was flagrantly fake. Almost insulting.

  From the corner of my eye, I made out a mess of black hair, tall, rangy, a restless hand tapping the edge of the counter, and the nape of my neck began to tingle. I ignored the second “ahem” for a full five-count before looking over. There he was, Mr. Power Cord, the guy from the coffee shop.

  What a delightful coincidence.

  He adjusted his laptop so I could spot the duct tape holding the screen’s corner together.

  “It didn’t completely break,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”

  “Did you follow me here to tell me that? How considerate.”

  “Follow you?” He pushed his glasses up. “I was here first.”

  “If you say so.”

  He actually had gotten here first. I would have noticed him coming in, since my chair was facing the entrance.

  “It has a blank spot in the corner now,” he was saying. “But the tape keeps it from spreading.”

  “Gotta love duct tape.” I turned a page of my French textbook, clearly very absorbed. Then a pesky wave of guilt hit me. I hadn’t adequately apologized for knocking his laptop to the ground, had I? I’d been too busy fleeing. I closed my book. “Do you want some money to fix it, or . . . ?”

  I let my voice trail off.

  “No no,” he said. “Actually, are you offering? My warranty’s expired and I could really use the—”

  I stared at him over my soda bottle. “Here you’re supposed to thank me for the offer but say that you couldn’t possibly accept.”

  “I was kidding,” he said, though he completely wasn’t. He squinted at his screen and started to attack the keyboard again, calling to mind my theories about him from yesterday.

  I managed to keep my mouth shut for thirty seconds before guessing, “Great American novel?”

  “Great American article.”

  Shocking exposé for the win! I mentally high-fived myself.

  Then he sank against the counter. “Actually, it’s not a great American anything. I’m reporting on boutiques that sell clothes for cats. Did you know that there are over twenty in the Greater Charleston area alone? This town is cat crazy.”

  I must have given him a funny look. He nodded at me as if he agreed.

  “It’s for class.” He rested his cheek on one hand, fingers tapping against his temple. “I’m a journalism major.” He groaned the word like it was a death sentence, not something he could transfer out of next semester. Still, he was more interesting than conjugating être and avoir, so I snuck another glance as he took a sip from the giant c
eramic mug in his hand. I was strangely impressed by the mug. He was the only one in this Starbucks not drinking out of a paper cup. He must have asked specifically. Who does that?

  “Are you okay?” he asked, and I looked away, realizing it was a little weird to have been watching him so closely. But he didn’t seem confrontational, just curious. Journalism major and all that.

  “Not great, actually. Sort of having a quiet meltdown.”

  “Oh.” He smirked. “Here you’re supposed to say, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’”

  “I’m fine,” I echoed. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Adam.” His smirk loosened. He extended a hand and without thinking, I took it, but instead of shaking it like a normal person, I held on, thinking, His hand is so big. Firm grip. If I were dangling off a cliff, he could pull me to safety.

  “I’m Adam,” I heard myself say. Then I blinked. “Wait. I’m Daisy. I—?”

  My mom’s car pulled up outside and I snatched my hand back, gathered my books, and shoved the rest of my cookie into my mouth in record time.

  “Sorry about your computer,” I chew-mumbled, scrambling away. “I really am.”

  He was still watching me through the window as I got into the car, a confused half smile on his face. It was hard to tell if “I’m Adam” was actually hot, or just hot by virtue of being a college kid, but what was I even thinking? If I saw him again, he’d probably get up the nerve to actually ask me for money, and then I’d have to ask my mom, and it would become this big thing. As it was, Mom was nudging me every stoplight.

  “Who was that boy?”

  “Adam. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know him.”

  “You don’t know him from Adam?” She had that mom-instincts smirk going on.

  Poor Mom. Of course she’d be hopeful. I was probably one of the only people in my school, let alone my grade, to have never had a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or a hookup. Or, you know . . . a date. Well, one date, back in eighth grade, culminating in an attempted hookup, but since it ended with me punching Seth Ross in his smugly face, I considered it struck from the record. And there had been nobody else, nobody real, no matter how many times Mom asked. She was just waiting for me to become normal. But her hope made me feel worse.

  “Mom?” I gulped. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Mom swung her head around. Amazing how quickly she could go from theorizing I had a boyfriend back to theorizing I was gay.

  “I think I’m . . .” I bit my lip for maximum drama. “Hungry. What are we having for dinner?”

  “Salmon,” she sighed, the trials of being my mother descending heavily upon her. “We’re having quinoa and salmon.”

  6

  By ten o’clock Saturday morning, I’d sent Han six texts:

  Whatcha UP to?

  GENIUS IDEA: Let’s meet up, do awesome weekend stuff ET CETERA

  Or are you working? You might be working.

  OMG Zelda has rabies. So sad!!!

  Kidding. It would explain a lot, tho, amiright

  I’m going to mess up these college brochures! I’m putting Northwestern in the no pile!

  When even the last failed to get a response, my phone became glued to my hand, thumb primed.

  It rang! I pressed.

  “Daisy? Oh.” The man on the other end coughed. “Have I got voicemail? I didn’t hear the tone, but—”

  Crapcrapcrap. I considered reciting my outgoing message, complete with beep, but, guilt sinking into my gut, I gritted my teeth and said, “No, hi, Mr. Murphy. It’s actual Daisy. Not voicemail.”

  Mr. Murphy guffawed. “I was all ready to leave you a message!”

  He was so nice. It made my soul hurt.

  Late last year, my school had taken part in a volunteer day at the James Island Community Rec Center. After weeding the parking lot alongside a seven-year-old who talked about mythology and Sour Patch Kids for two hours straight, the spirit of volunteerism swept through me like a stomach virus. I took Mr. Murphy, the director, aside and offered to do more.

  A lot more.

  And now, all summer really, I’d been trying desperately to stall for time, if not get out of it altogether. If I could take some private art lessons, maybe, or watch some instructional YouTube videos or check out some books about the history of public art, study some ancient Greek texts or maps or . . .

  “Glad I caught you,” he said. “If you’re free today, we’ve got some kids who’d love to help you with your project—”

  “That’s great!” My heart went thud-thudthud-thud. “I’m tied up this whole weekend, though. Unfortunately.”

  “Oh gosh.”

  “Yeah, I’m helping my mom with this . . . activist thing. For the, uh, Community Farmers of America.”

  I squinched my eyes shut, wincing.

  “Well, that’s great, Daisy, good for you. I just wanted to say, if you can make some time for this mural, that whale sure could use some company.”

  Oh God, the whale. The whale. The gigantic symbol of my ineptitude.

  I you-betcha’d my way off the phone and exhaled loudly only to see Mom standing in the doorway, one hand pressed to her heart, the other holding a fresh white expanse of poster board.

  “Did I hear right?” she asked. “Are you coming to the farm rally?”

  “Depends. Is it, by chance, being held across the street from my school?”

  “Yes! It’s the property we’re hoping to—”

  I rolled over and grabbed a book. “Then no. But thank you for the invitation!”

  Mom pouted, cradling her blank poster like the progressive child she would never have.

  “It’ll be fun,” she tried. “I promise.”

  “Mom?” I peered over my book at her. “I love you. But not enough to protest outside my own school. Seriously. I’ll be Angry Mob Girl until my fiftieth reunion. And since you won’t let me transfer to private school—”

  “Daisy, you know that abandoning the public school system only perpetuates the socioeconomic divide within the American educational—”

  “Exactly, not happening. Sorry.”

  Her face drooped. Residual shame from lying to Mr. Murphy rose in my throat like reflux.

  “Good luck, though,” I offered, and I meant it. “I’m sure whatever you’re protesting is really evil. And deserves to be eradicated.”

  “We’re not protesting.” She waved her poster board. It made thunder noises. “We’re rallying! Trying to get the city council to zone Lot 429 for a community farm.”

  “That’s awesome.” I shot her a thumbs-up. “But I need to . . .”

  . . . be here in case Hannah calls back.

  “. . . spend time with Dad. I’ve said like two words to him since school started.”

  In the end, father-daughter bonding warmed Mom’s heart more than collaborative chanting, so I was left waiting for my phone to beep, the quiet of the house growing thicker as the minutes ticked by. When the air conditioner clicked off, the only sounds I could make out were swords clinking and monsters roaring behind the door at the end of the hall.

  In the interest of fairness, I should note that this was my father’s job.

  Judging by the sound effects that had been coming from his “office” for the past day or so, this was some kind of sword and sorcery epic. After a few minutes of listening, curiosity overtook me, and deciding that I needed to make at least one lie true today, I knocked on his door.

  “Heya,” he called. “I’ll take a coffee!”

  “Not Mom,” I announced.

  “Oh. Okay. Come on in.”

  Dad paused the game and rolled back in his deluxe gamer’s chair to pull another over, while Zelda scrambled from the room to escape the sight of me. Up on the giant screen, an ogre dripped blood from one eye. An elf girl with abundant boobage was cli
mbing onto his back, preparing to finish him off with her electrical long-sword.

  Dad scratched his stubble, then waved a spare controller at me. “Two player? You can be the elf rogue, she’s pretty badass.” His face clouded. “Or is that sexist? You can be the hammer-lord and I’ll be the elf. I have no problem playing the elf.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, smiling at his continued efforts to coexist in a mostly female family. “I’ll just watch.”

  “Let me know what you think,” he muttered, launching himself back into a brutal unprovoked attack on a helpless beast. “Something’s not working with this game arc and I’m having the durndest time figuring out what it is.”

  Eight or nine years ago, my dad sold the indie video game company he’d started out of his parents’ basement when he was in high school, raking in enough money to support a family of three for, well, ever. But designing Bertie and the Bots and all those Farzone games had made him such an icon in the field that he’d been besieged by consulting requests ever since. He spent most of his waking hours playing beta versions of new games, then teleconferencing with other high-functioning nerds to find and fix problems.

  It was a pretty sweet job. Except for the never seeing sunlight thing. And the fact that his hands twitched involuntarily whenever he wasn’t gaming.

  I dimly remembered a time when his assignments were only occasional, leaving him enough spare hours to come with me to the park or the movies or even just the backyard play set. He was tanner, I seemed to recall. Athletic, almost? It was possible I’d only dreamed it. Memories were weird like that.

  I watched him play for twenty minutes. Once he’d defended the Kingsroad Bridge from an onrush of what looked like straight-up Lord of the Rings rip-offs, I decided I’d filled my quota of father-daughter bonding for the day.

  As I was slipping out the door, Dad muttered, “Have fun with Hannah.” I didn’t have the heart to correct him.

  She didn’t call until Sunday night.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said over low voices in the background. “This has been a crazy weekend. I can’t talk now, but . . . things went down. I’ll tell you later.”