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  Checking that question off my list, I muttered, “I can’t imagine why.”

  “What?” Jazz glared at me.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You mean the way I dress?” she said. “How I look? So what? It’s a free country. My body is my temple. I can decorate it any way I want.”

  “Don’t expect anyone to worship at your altar,” I mumbled.

  She tossed her one side of hair over her shoulder and added, “My clothes are who I am. They make a statement.”

  Yeah: Stay back, I might be contagious. I didn’t say it. What I did say was “What you see is what you get.”

  Jazz shot to her feet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I was afraid she was going to attack me. Really. No telling what weapons she had stashed in that leather jacket. Switchblades, handguns. Before I could escape, Jazz shoved her chair away and clomped over to the heater. Folding her arms and staring out the window, she said, “I’m not an imbecile, you know. People shouldn’t judge other people by the way they look.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “But they do. Surprise!” I framed my face.

  She twisted around and glared at me, then twisted back.

  I checked my watch. Another twenty minutes to go? We were getting nowhere. “Okay, so you don’t have a favorite teacher.” What was the next question on my list?

  “Do you?” she said.

  My mind shifted back. “Mrs. Bartoli, I guess.”

  “That witch?” Jazz said.

  I shot eye-bullets at Jazz. “She’s a great teacher.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jazz clomped back to her chair. “First day of class I walk in and she sends me straight to the office.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  Jazz batted her eyelashes at me. “What’d I do? I was born.”

  Okay, it was a stupid question. Mrs. Bartoli didn’t put up with any crap. It was one of the reasons I liked her. Class was calm. We could learn without having to dodge spit wads or feel faint from nail polish fumes. Jazz must’ve said or done something, though.

  “I didn’t say or do anything,” she said, as if reading my mind. “She just hated me from day one. I got A’s on all my tests and she still gave me a C for my final grade. She said I had an attitude problem.” Jazz stuck out her tongue. Was that a stud glistening on the tip?

  It took me a second to stop shuddering. Wow, I thought. That didn’t seem fair. If Jazz had earned an A, she should’ve gotten one.

  “Teachers.” Jazz rolled her eyes. “They’re all alike. Every adult is. They always judge you on the way you look, not who you are.”

  “I thought you said the way you look is who you are.”

  She met my eyes and frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”

  My eyes dropped to my list. Next question?

  “I bet you get straight A’s,” Jazz said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, I figured. Just like Janey. Suck-ups rule.”

  That was it. I slapped my folder closed, got up, and stormed to the door. Wrenching it open, I snarled, “I earn my A’s.”

  “Yeah? Well, so do I,” she snarled back.

  Chapter 6

  A pink slip came for me during history class. The message summoned me to Dr. DiLeo’s office immediately. Good. It’d save me from having to stop by after school. I hated giving up so easily, but Jazz and I were never going to make it past step one. She was so crazy, she was making me crazy. Pretty soon that’d be the one thing we had in common.

  Dr. DiLeo’s door was ajar, so I knocked lightly. His voice carried through the crack. “Come.”

  When I pushed in the door, my chin hit the floor. Jazz twirled around in Dr. DiLeo’s chair. “Hey, Tone,” she said with a wave.

  I bristled.

  “Antonia, come in,” Dr. DiLeo said from the student seat. “We were just talking about you.”

  My whole body tensed.

  “Shut the door,” he added.

  I eased the door closed behind me. Turning back around, I began, “Dr. DiLeo—”

  He held up a hand. His eyes widened on Jazz.

  She smiled somberly. “I’m sorry about today. I was an ass. An assho—”

  “We get the picture,” Dr. DiLeo said.

  My eyes focused on him. He looked at me, sort of helplessly. “Okay.” He stood. “I’ll leave you two to work this out.”

  “No!” I moved to block his exit. “I can’t do this, Dr. DiLeo.” My voice lowered to a murmur. “She’s a psycho.”

  Jazz howled, “See, DiLeo? I told you she was good. She already has me figured out.”

  He pointed a stiff finger at Jazz. “That’s Dr. DiLeo to you. Show some respect.”

  Jazz curled a lip at me. She stood and saluted him. “Yes, suh!”

  Dr. DiLeo searched my face. He must’ve picked up on my panic, or sense of helplessness, because he resumed his seat and said, “Let’s set some ground rules. First of all, you both need to respect each other’s space. You’re very different people—”

  “No duh,” Jazz interrupted.

  He shot her a warning look. “But that doesn’t mean one of you is better than the other. Or right. Or wrong.”

  Jazz’s eyes hit the floor the same time mine did.

  “Second,” he said, “you understand the oath of confidentiality. There’s a reason for it. It allows you to speak freely. So speak freely. Be honest. Trust that whatever you say goes no further than your peer counselor’s ears.”

  Jazz snorted.

  “Third,” he said, ignoring her, “listen. Discuss. Don’t react. If you disagree with something the other person says or believes, that’s fine. Everyone’s entitled to his or her opinion. There’s no need to go running out of the room.” He locked in on me.

  My eyes burned holes in the knees of his khakis.

  He paused a minute, then added, “I have an assignment for both of you. I want you to answer this question: If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”

  Jazz’s eyes met mine and we both blinked away.

  Dr. DiLeo stood up. “I’ll leave you to think about that.” Somehow he slipped out around me.

  Jazz made a face at his back. “Stupid,” she said. “Does he think we’re in kindergarten?”

  “Apparently,” I mumbled.

  She shook her head. “Such a wasted question. If I could change the shit in my life, I would. What’s the use of talking about stuff you can’t change?” She looked at me. “So, what would you change?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  Her eyebrows arched.

  “But you’re right,” I added quickly. “What’s the use of talking about things you can’t change?”

  Jazz hoisted herself up onto Dr. DiLeo’s desk and spun in a circle on her rear. “You want to look through his confidential files? See who’s whacking out? I could probably pick the lock.”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “Just kidding. God, Antonia, you take everything so seriously. Wait.” She held up a hand. “Don’t get mad. Look, from now on if I’m joking, I’ll hold up two fingers.” She demonstrated with the first two fingers of her right hand. “Like, peace, man.”

  “And what if you have to go poopie?” Why’d I say that? Probably because two fingers is Chuckie’s signal.

  Jazz exploded in laughter. She hiccuped so hard she bounced right off Dr. DiLeo’s desk. “You are so bode, Tone. There’s hope for you yet.” She held up two fingers.

  What’d that mean? Before I could ask, the bell rang. As I opened the door to leave, Jazz breezed by and socked me on the shoulder. “See ya Friday,” she said.

  I missed three problems on my algebra test. Three problems. Mrs. Bartoli arched an eyebrow when she handed it back Friday morning. A big fat C pulsated from the top of the page. I’d never gotten a C in my life. Jazz maybe, but not me. For a long time, I just sat there and stared at the grade. While Mrs. Bartoli worked the problems on the board, my mind went numb. My whole body went n
umb. A C? A C meant average. A C meant failure.

  After class, Mrs. Bartoli stopped me at the door. “Antonia, is something wrong?” she asked.

  “I got a C,” I replied.

  “I know,” she said. “And you never handed in the problems from page one sixty-five.”

  My eyes widened. “I didn’t?”

  Mrs. Bartoli furrowed her brow. “I’m worried about you, Antonia. This isn’t like you.”

  No kidding. I’d had Mrs. Bartoli last year for beginning algebra, so she knew I was a straight-A student.

  “I’m just tired,” I said. “I have a lot of stuff on my mind.”

  “I’ve noticed that. Maybe you should talk to a counselor. I hear Dr. DiLeo—”

  “It won’t happen again,” I said, cutting her off. I had to get out of there fast. “I’ll do an extra page of problems tonight. Bye,” I said and ran.

  Jazz sat on top of the conference table, legs crossed Indian style. Her eyes were closed and her hands rested on her thighs, palms up. “Ohmmm,” she said, or something like that.

  “If you’re sick, we can skip today’s session.” My heart raced hopefully.

  “Ohmmm,” she droned again. Without opening her eyes, Jazz said, “Join me.”

  Was she nuts?

  She twisted her head and cracked an eyelid. “Come on. Why not?”

  Why not? Because after the age of two, there is an unwritten rule that says you are not to sit on tables. You are not to sit on tables and hum. We’d get busted if anyone walked in. Besides, it looked stupid.

  “Ohmmm,” she intoned.

  So far the day was a total loss. I felt tense as a tightrope, and I wasn’t getting anywhere with my list of questions. So why not? Setting my backpack on the chair, I used the seat as a step up.

  My legs didn’t cooperate when I commanded them to form a pretzel like Jazz’s. They were too long and stiff. It was unnatural. Jazz reached over and tucked my ankles over my thighs. “It’s called the lotus position,” she said.

  “Maybe on you. Ow.” I stretched my skirt down over my knees.

  “Ohmmm,” Jazz intoned again.

  Was I supposed to ohmmm?

  Jazz whispered, “Close your eyes. Relax completely. Hold your palms up, thumb and index finger touching, and start your mantra.”

  My mantra?

  “Ohmmm,” she droned.

  “Ohmmm,” I droned. Then again. “Ohmmm.” I couldn’t help it. I started to giggle.

  Jazz twisted her head and smirked. “My mother read that parents should spend quality time with their children. One way is to sign up for organized activities together. This month we’re taking meditation to free the mind. Last month it was Rolfing. Have you ever Rolfed, Tone?”

  “Only after the school’s shepherd’s pie,” I said.

  She laughed. She laughed so hard she lost her lotus. When she finally sobered, she said, “My father’s in on the torture, too. He took me to the driving range. Talk about mindfree.”

  I smiled. To me it sounded like heaven. “Belly dancing.”

  “What?” Jazz turned to me.

  Did I say that out loud? “I, uh, remember once my mom and I took this belly-dancing class at the rec center. She made me practice with her at home in the living room. It was hilarious. I was terrible, but she was pretty good.”

  “Your mom sounds cool. Think she’d teach me to belly dance?”

  My throat caught. “That was a long time ago. She probably doesn’t remember. What’s the problem with spending time with your parents?” I asked.

  She just looked at me. Then she sighed and said, “The problem is they don’t pick anything I want to do.”

  Ah. Like drug dealing? Body piercing? “Maybe you could get matching tattoos,” I suggested.

  Jazz jabbed me. “I’ll tell them my peer counselor advised it.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “So.” She swiveled on her rear to face me. “Who do you hang with?” She hugged her knees.

  Hang with? I hadn’t been convicted of a major crime yet, so no cell mates. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, friends. Girlfriends, boyfriends.”

  Hey, that was one of the questions on my list. Maybe this was working. “Can we get off the table now?” I asked —pleaded with my eyes.

  Jazz flung herself to the floor. I slid down after her. Once we were settled in our seats, Jazz removed her boots and flopped her bare feet up on the table. “Well?” she said, leaning back. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  Scraping my stare away from her striped toenails, I thought, Why do I always end up answering my own questions? Rummaging in my backpack for my folder, I replied, “You wouldn’t know my friends.”

  “Try me.”

  I met her eyes. “Okay. Lindy Meeks.”

  “Yeah, I know Lindz. I thought she moved.”

  Did she? I hadn’t talked to her since before Christmas break. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her around for the last couple of months.

  “Tamra Dundee-Kelso,” I said.

  Jazz frowned. “I don’t know her.”

  “See?” How could she? Tamra was my friend in elementary school. She didn’t even go to Oberon.

  “Is that it?” Jazz asked.

  “No.”

  But it was. I mean, there were a few people I talked to in class, if necessary. There was math club. But only four people had joined, and even though we met twice a week, we mostly played math games. You can’t have personal discussions when your mind is on math. Anyway, I’d quit math club in November.

  Every once in a while Mrs. Bartoli ate lunch with me. I couldn’t name her. “Who do you hang with?” I said instead.

  Jazz counted on her fingers. “D.J. Eakers, a.k.a. the Eeks; Animal Montrose; Martina Romero; Cam “the Ram’ Ramsey. Marisa Fabrero, except she has a death wish, so I try to stay out of her way.” Jazz paused to take a breath.

  “What do you mean, she has a death wish?”

  Jazz’s nose wrinkled. “She smokes. Not just cigarettes either, which are poison enough.”

  That surprised me. “Don’t you smoke?”

  “You think I’m crazy? Oh, yeah, you do. Psycho, wasn’t it?”

  My face burned.

  She went on, “My grandma Ruth died of lung cancer. If you ever saw anyone die that way, you’d never light up. Do you smoke?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Because if you did, I just couldn’t respect you, Tone.”

  I met her eyes. No mocking gleam; she was serious. “What do you and your friends do? When you hang?”

  Jazz shrugged. “You know, we steal and lie, set fire to small children.” She blinked at me. Almost in disgust, she held up two fingers. “We just hang. You know, hang.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Here, there. Ram’s old man built a wood shed in their yard before he split. We fixed it up.”

  “You mean like Gang Central?”

  Jazz laughed. “Right. Gang Central. Anyway, we meet there. Figure stuff out.”

  “Like what?” I was on a roll now. Pretty soon she’d confess to some major felony. Then her problem would be revealed.

  “Like how to present ourselves next week. What to wear, how to do our hair, makeup. We experiment with different looks. Or we talk about deep stuff, like how come Ram’s mom started drinking again. And what he’s going to do so he doesn’t have to quit school and support her, since she just stays home and boozes all day Or what authority figures we can torment this week. Last week we hung around the bank building by the mall. Talk about shanking out the suits. The security guards made us move, so we camped out at Walgreen’s. No one cronked, which was a drag. Then we tried to use the earphones at CDeez Happen until the manager told us to split.”

  Was that it? No drug deals? No gang bangs?

  Jazz snapped her fingers. “Oh, yeah. And afterward we went to the park and set fire to small children.” Jazz looked at me. She held up two fingers.

 
“I know you’re kidding,” I said. At least, I hoped she was.

  Chapter 7

  For dinner Sunday night I made eggs and bacon. Couldn’t let the bacon go to waste. It was the worst idea I ever had. The sizzle and smell of bacon brought back memories. Memories of Sundays when we were all together. The old days. The good days. Tears blurred my vision, and I blinked them back. So what? Forget it, I battled my brain. Those days were long gone. We’d never have another family Sunday.

  My eyes strayed to the calendar on the refrigerator as my vision cleared. Today’s date was blacked out with magic marker. March 19. Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary.

  A shiver raced up my spine. I turned off the stove, charged upstairs, and flung open Mom’s door. She was a lump again, but I could see the sheets rise and fall. My heart restarted.

  I wanted to rush over and crawl into bed with her, the way I used to when I was little. When nightmares would wake me up in the middle of the night and I’d run to my parents’ room.

  You’re not little now, a voice in my head said. Besides, there’s only her and it wouldn’t be the same. The nightmares didn’t scare me anymore. Not as much as waking up.

  While the boys watched TV, I took a shower then lay on my bed, memorizing my book talk for lit class tomorrow. The book was The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, which I had liked better the first time I read it, in sixth grade. The only part I could really get into was the ending where Charlotte runs away from her family.

  My mind wandered and pretty soon I was thinking about Jazz. I couldn’t figure her out. Yeah, sure, she was a psycho. She admitted that. But she didn’t seem all that troubled. Maybe the trouble was me. I was a poor peer counselor.

  No, I didn’t want to believe that. That would mean failure. I couldn’t fail. I wouldn’t. And I couldn’t let Dr. DiLeo down.

  But Jazz was so manipulative. She was probably using me. Showing up to put in her time. For some reason, I didn’t think that was true. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been made fun of. Tamra told me once we were called the ya-ya girls by everyone in school. I didn’t know what she meant. What’s a ya-ya? All I knew was I had responsibilities. People counted on me. People expected me to do the right thing. I had goals and ideals, too. Straight A’s were more than an achievement; they were a necessity. They were my escape, the only way I could graduate early and go to college. If all my college money wasn’t used up paying bills.