stash.
I c an’t help myself. I pull the lid off the top of the pitcher and shake out the money. I reach in with my fingers to make sure I ’ve gotten all the bills. He has mostly coins, but also a lot of ones folded neatly in half, two fives, and a twenty. T hey’re all old bills with dull faces. Maybe he inherited them from someone. I lay the paper money on the rug and count it. F orty-s ix dollars.
My purse still must be at Jake’s house. Gawd, I hope no one stole it.
I put the coins back in the bank and hold the bills. I w ouldn’t take Tyler’s money unless I absolutely needed it. He got me a towel last night, let me sleep in his bed without attempting a pass, found me that Tab drink and a toothbrush.
But it’s not like I have my own money here. Besides, how do I know Tyler d idn’t steal my purse? Maybe he kidnapped me yesterday and took me to his house. Maybe the nice-guy image is all just an act.
I hide the bills under Tyler’s mattress and return the pitcher to the back of the closet. To keep my mind off my guilt, I look through the closet again. I pick up an old junior high yearbook from 1976. Not my school, but a feeder to my high school. If it really were 1978 now, Tyler’s picture could be in the book.
I leaf through the yearbook, telling myself it’s only because there’s nothing else to do. The boys have hangdog hair. The girls wear theirs either long and droopy, or cropped to stick out like a wedge of hard cheese. Both sexes wear wide, clownish collars.
There are handwritten notes, though not anywhere near as many as in my middle school yearbook. Tyler, Thanks for all your help in geometry. From, Cindy; To Tyler Gray, one of the smartest guys I know. Louise; Tyler, Sorry about the spitwads. Thanks for the science tutoring. I hope I’m in more classes with you next year. Larry.
His picture’s with the n inth-g rade class, captioned Tyler Gray .
I’m getting even more freaked out.
Computer trick , I tell myself. Clever. Or maybe that’s his dad. The Tyler I met might really be Tyler Gray, Jr. Or Tyler Gray the Second. Whatever. It’s not his picture.
Or I could be on Punk’d. A new, n on-c elebrity version. I look around for cameras. Maybe t hey’re hidden in that oversized computer. “Is this a trick?” I whisper into the computer. “It’s getting old.”
No response.
A camera lens on the ceiling?
No. Just that ugly popcorn stuff which is probably crawling with asbestos.
“Jake? Mariel?” I call out softly.
Nothing.
I take three deep breaths, clutch the yearbook to my chest, and return to Tyler’s bed.
I flip through the book for more Tyler sightings. He was in Honor Society and backgammon club. There’s a long note next to a picture of a grinning,flat-c hested, skinny girl holding up a trophy. The sloppy handwriting is in orange ink. Here’s to lots more backgammon championships, it says. It lists all these geeky memories like I ’ll never forget that 7-hour backgammon marathon we played, or that time we snuck into the computer lab. Blah blah blah. Love, your best friend, Evie.
I c an’t believe I’m reading all this.I’d never hang with the guy, normally. But in this situation, whatever it is, I guess it’s better to end up at a semi-d ork’s house than, like, a felon’s. He even trusts me in his bedroom. Dumb of him.
5
“ You’d be a fool to cut classes for a girl,” Evie says as we walk to English class.
“Normally, I’d agree. But this girl is gorgeous. Need I remind you I saw her naked?”
“You needn’t. Please.”
I elbow her. “Oh, sheesh, look who’s coming.”
Plowing down the hallway is Rick The Dick, next to a guy who looks like a giant Weeble.
Evie shrugs. “I’m not worried.”
“Watch out!”
The Weeble’s globular leg sticks out in front of us. I stop walking just in time, but Evie topples onto her face.
I pull her up and hand her glasses to her. Then I glare at the laughing Weeble. “Be careful.”
“Sorry,” The
I c an’t help myself. I pull the lid off the top of the pitcher and shake out the money. I reach in with my fingers to make sure I ’ve gotten all the bills. He has mostly coins, but also a lot of ones folded neatly in half, two fives, and a twenty. T hey’re all old bills with dull faces. Maybe he inherited them from someone. I lay the paper money on the rug and count it. F orty-s ix dollars.
My purse still must be at Jake’s house. Gawd, I hope no one stole it.
I put the coins back in the bank and hold the bills. I w ouldn’t take Tyler’s money unless I absolutely needed it. He got me a towel last night, let me sleep in his bed without attempting a pass, found me that Tab drink and a toothbrush.
But it’s not like I have my own money here. Besides, how do I know Tyler d idn’t steal my purse? Maybe he kidnapped me yesterday and took me to his house. Maybe the nice-guy image is all just an act.
I hide the bills under Tyler’s mattress and return the pitcher to the back of the closet. To keep my mind off my guilt, I look through the closet again. I pick up an old junior high yearbook from 1976. Not my school, but a feeder to my high school. If it really were 1978 now, Tyler’s picture could be in the book.
I leaf through the yearbook, telling myself it’s only because there’s nothing else to do. The boys have hangdog hair. The girls wear theirs either long and droopy, or cropped to stick out like a wedge of hard cheese. Both sexes wear wide, clownish collars.
There are handwritten notes, though not anywhere near as many as in my middle school yearbook. Tyler, Thanks for all your help in geometry. From, Cindy; To Tyler Gray, one of the smartest guys I know. Louise; Tyler, Sorry about the spitwads. Thanks for the science tutoring. I hope I’m in more classes with you next year. Larry.
His picture’s with the n inth-g rade class, captioned Tyler Gray .
I’m getting even more freaked out.
Computer trick , I tell myself. Clever. Or maybe that’s his dad. The Tyler I met might really be Tyler Gray, Jr. Or Tyler Gray the Second. Whatever. It’s not his picture.
Or I could be on Punk’d. A new, n on-c elebrity version. I look around for cameras. Maybe t hey’re hidden in that oversized computer. “Is this a trick?” I whisper into the computer. “It’s getting old.”
No response.
A camera lens on the ceiling?
No. Just that ugly popcorn stuff which is probably crawling with asbestos.
“Jake? Mariel?” I call out softly.
Nothing.
I take three deep breaths, clutch the yearbook to my chest, and return to Tyler’s bed.
I flip through the book for more Tyler sightings. He was in Honor Society and backgammon club. There’s a long note next to a picture of a grinning,flat-c hested, skinny girl holding up a trophy. The sloppy handwriting is in orange ink. Here’s to lots more backgammon championships, it says. It lists all these geeky memories like I ’ll never forget that 7-hour backgammon marathon we played, or that time we snuck into the computer lab. Blah blah blah. Love, your best friend, Evie.
I c an’t believe I’m reading all this.I’d never hang with the guy, normally. But in this situation, whatever it is, I guess it’s better to end up at a semi-d ork’s house than, like, a felon’s. He even trusts me in his bedroom. Dumb of him.
5
“ You’d be a fool to cut classes for a girl,” Evie says as we walk to English class.
“Normally, I’d agree. But this girl is gorgeous. Need I remind you I saw her naked?”
“You needn’t. Please.”
I elbow her. “Oh, sheesh, look who’s coming.”
Plowing down the hallway is Rick The Dick, next to a guy who looks like a giant Weeble.
Evie shrugs. “I’m not worried.”
“Watch out!”
The Weeble’s globular leg sticks out in front of us. I stop walking just in time, but Evie topples onto her face.
I pull her up and hand her glasses to her. Then I glare at the laughing Weeble. “Be careful.”
“Sorry,” The
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