Infinite (Strange and Beautiful, Book 1) (9 page)

“Hi,
sweetie,” she said. “Did Tierney drive you home?”

“No,
not today.”

Her
eyes rose. “Then who drove you home?”

“Jackson.”

“Jackson
who?” Mom questioned, turning toward me while drying her hands on a dishtowel.

I
realized I didn’t actually know Jackson’s last name, so I shrugged. “I don’t
know his last name. He’s someone Skylar knows.”

I
thought this would reassure her, but Mom only looked more concerned. “How old
is this boy?”

“I
don’t know. I think he’s in Luke’s class. Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Silly,
I don’t know if you should be taking rides from boys you hardly know,” she
said. “You never know what they’re intentions might be.”

I
made a face and forced myself not to roll my eyes. “C’mon, Mom,” I sighed,
“Jackson’s nice.”

“Most
boys who have ulterior motives are,” she said. “You can’t be too trusting these
days. You could be raped or murdered just because you took a ride from someone
you don’t really know.”

I
sighed. I couldn’t count know how many times I’d heard this very lecture. For
some reason Mom thought I didn’t know these things. I was fully aware. It
wasn’t as if I got rides from strangers on a regular basis either. I understood
her concern and took it seriously enough, but she needed to give me a little
credit.

“Well,
Mom, I thought if Skylar could bring Jackson into our house and hang out with
him, then it would be okay to accept a ride from him,” I explained. “We talked
about the
Bible
on the way home, so I don’t think he’s plotting to kill
me. Also, I have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, so unless Jackson has a
thing for little boys, I don’t think I need to worry about being raped,” I
said. “And if Jackson
does
have a thing for little boys, then I think
you need to start talking to Skylar about her choice in friends,” I added.

With
that I turned on the heel of my foot and headed upstairs. It seemed my news
about writing for the school newspaper would have to wait until later.

Sunday,
October 22
^nd
, 2006

I got the best early birthday
surprise from the Tylers. I spent the night with them Friday. Then Saturday
morning we got up early and went into the city to visit The Art Institute of
Chicago. It was so awesome (and I know Skylar will be so jealous when I
rub
it in her face
tell her about it). We stayed there all day. There was so
much to see. Sadly, I didn’t get to look at everything. I probably spent more
time than I should have looking at stuff. I guess Mom’s right about me
over-analyzing things. It was really nice and felt so calming. Aside from a few
crying babies, it was so quiet in the museum.

I really didn’t talk too much
either. That’s what I like so much about Tegan and her family. I feel so
comfortable sitting around with them and not saying a word. Yet, at the same
time, I feel comfortable enough to tell them anything. They’re just really
great people. I wish I knew more people like them.

I always feel so out of place at
home. Whenever I open my mouth, it feels almost like I can see the wheels
turning in my family’s heads. They’re probably thinking, ”What
is she going to start rambling about now?” I never feel that way with the
Tylers. Perhaps I should start pushing again for them to adopt me.

After the museum, we went to The
Bean for dinner. It’s a great little coffeehouse, but they also have the best
sandwiches. It’s so cozy. It was also poetry night. We got to hear a few people
read. It was nice. I think those people are so brave to put themselves out
there like that. I wish I could be that brave.

The idea of reading some of my
poetry out loud for other people to hear makes me feel so uncomfortable. Tegan
always says the stuff I let her read is good, but, then again, she’s my best
friend. She’s not going to tell me I suck when she knows it’s something I’m
already insecure about.

There was this one girl who read
a poem. Everyone else’s was okay, but hers was really sad, yet bold at the same
time. It’s hard to describe, and I can’t remember all of the words either, so I
won’t even try to relay it. I’d butcher it. But the gist of it was about
putting up a fight, and not giving up or going back to the way things were even
if she had to die.

When people write things like
that, it makes me wonder what happened to them. What would make them feel so
strongly? The things I feel strongly about often seem so minuscule compared to
the things other people have actually
lived
. Not that I necessarily want
to live all of the pain other people have, but I’ve had such a good life I
don’t really feel like I have the right to complain about a lot of stuff.

I wish Skylar shared that
philosophy. Any time something doesn’t go her way, she throws a fit and acts
like the world is going to end. It’s very annoying, and it strikes me as odd
that people like her are considered adults just because of their age. Maybe
there should be a maturity test or something to determine adulthood. Of course,
a lot of people would probably be considered children for the rest of their
lives if they did that.

-Silly-

Even
though I actually hated the song thanks to American Idol, “Bad Day” by Daniel
Powter officially became the theme song of my life.

Though
I was able to blend in with the crowds often, my number of bad days had
increased significantly since my registration on Mark Moses’ radar. On the days
I wasn’t able to dodge him, he menaced me into handing over my lunch money.
Even though Tegan was nice enough to share her food with me, it was hard to
find my appetite.

While
having my money and appetite stolen and subsequently worrying and stressing out
were not okay, I could deal with it. What I couldn’t deal with, though, was
Mark Moses stealing my copy of
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
and ripping the binding and then, as if to add insult to injury, throwing it
onto the water fountain and hitting the button to release the water, soaking
the pages into an unsalvageable mess.

I
shed more tears than I cared to admit, and I also begged Mark to stop. While it
was just a book to most people, it was so much more to me. It was memories and
my childhood, and watching Mark demolish what was nothing more than a useless
book to him felt like having a part of me destroyed.

As I
inspected the damage, determining it was beyond repair, Tegan tried to console
me, but the sobs were unstoppable. I almost ditched Journalism to weep in the
restroom, but Tegan dragged me to class, where Annabelle tried to talk to me
about how my review was coming along. Most of her words didn’t register. I
couldn’t stop wondering how I was supposed to think about writing a book review
when all I could think about was watching that stupid, greasy haired, wide
bottomed git tearing
Order of the Phoenix
from my hands and taunting me
gleefully as he killed a piece of me.

Rationally,
I knew I could easily go out and buy a new copy of the book, but that wasn’t
really the point. What gave him the right to take my things and ruin them? Who
was he to steal people’s money and cause so much distress in their lives? What
had I ever done to him? I didn’t know him, and he sure as hell didn’t know me.
We just crossed each other’s paths by some terrible chance, and he’d done
nothing but try to make my life miserable ever since. This was where I wanted
to throw a temper tantrum, like I would have when I was two, and scream ‘that’s
not fair!’ I sincerely doubted that that would have changed things, but I had
no other way to channel the hatred I felt toward Mark Moses. There was a part
of me that wished him a slow and painful death, and it scared me to feel so
horribly toward another person because that was not who I was.

I
normally wasn’t vindictive, but if I could have thought of something to do to
retaliate against Mark Moses, I probably would have. Although, not being
devious was probably a good thing. If I were to try to get back at Mark Moses,
I could only imagine the ways it could go wrong. Then where would I be?
Probably in the same hospital room Parker McGarvey stayed in.

The
only bright side of my terrible Wednesday was I was saved from going to Miss
Barkley’s class. All through Journalism, between fretting about Mark Moses and
my damaged book, I kept dreading the idea of sitting through English
Composition for the last hour and a half of the day and trying to concentrate
on whatever Miss Barkley planned to teach. If she called on me, I knew without
a doubt I wouldn’t have any of the answers. My stomach was all tied up in knots
thinking about it, so when a voice came over the intercom, when the bell was
supposed to ring, and instructed everyone to take his or her things to his or
her lockers and then go to the auditorium, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Everyone
murmured about how we must be having a motivational speaker or something, so,
of course, Tegan brought along a pen and small notepad so we could write notes
back and forth if it was something really boring.

In
the auditorium, I spotted Mark Moses being reprimanded by one of the teachers
and then led off to the other side of the room and forced to sit by said
teacher. Another wave of anger (and also relief) washed over me. At least he
wouldn’t be causing trouble for the time being.

Tegan
and I found a couple of empty seats towards the middle of the left side row. We
waded our way down the aisle, and as we sat the principal stepped up to the
podium to introduce our speaker, Maggie Rogers.

As
soon as she started talking, it was clear the lecture would be about drugs. The
gist of it was she started smoking weed and drinking at the age of fourteen.
She graduated quickly to harder drugs, trying several different things, and
became hooked on cocaine.

“My
world quickly spun completely out of control,” she explained. “I’d wake up and
have no idea where I was or how I even got there. Sometimes I’d wake up next to
a stranger; other times I’d sleep with guys, who I knew were carrying, in
exchange for my next fix.”

I
was somewhat surprised she was allowed to talk about these details. Most of the
time the lectures were meant to scare everyone straight but were just so lame
because it all came out as a bunch of vague warnings about how it would screw
up your life.

“My
wake up call came when I was seventeen,” Maggie explained. “I was at, yet
another, party, partying hard as always, but I was so coked up, and then
someone offered me heroine. I thought ‘hey, why not?’ Next thing I know I’m
waking up in the hospital, and being told that not only did I almost die of an
overdose, I’m also pregnant.”

She
said she had no idea who the father was, and the doctors weren’t sure if the
baby would be okay.

It
was kind of baffling to think about someone my age becoming a drug addict. In
only three years, she went from being a normal teenager to almost dying. On top
of that, she was a parent by the age of eighteen. 

It
seemed so surreal. I’d never even smoked a cigarette. I’d never even been
tempted, probably because the whole, “say no to drugs” thing stuck with me from
being a star pupil in D.A.R.E. Of course, I’d never really been around any kind
of drugs. Sure, my parents drank on occasion, but they didn’t keep alcohol in
the house, and, as far as I knew, they never got drunk.

I
knew Luke had been drunk before. Some of his friends dropped him off on our
front porch one night after a party. He threw up on the welcome mat before he
passed out in the doorway. It was terribly disgusting because he actually
passed out in the puke. Our parents were livid. Luke was grounded for a month
and hadn’t ever come home drunk since, or if he had, he just hadn’t been
caught.

Skylar,
on the other hand, was slyer than Luke. I knew she smoked. Sometimes she’d do
it in the car on the way to school, which I hated because she wasn’t at all
considerate about it. She smoked Marlboro Reds like Jackson, and, even though I
wasn’t particularly fond of smoking, I had to admit that Jackson looked a
hellava a lot sexier smoking than Skylar. Although, I suspected she used
smoking as a way to curb her appetite because she’d smoke more when she was on
a diet.

I
also knew that Skylar did more than just smoke. Her curfew was later on the
weekends, and our parents weren’t the type to stay up and make sure she got
home. One particular occasion, she came home after Mom and Dad were already in
bed. I just happened to be awake and down in the kitchen when she got home.
Stevie was with her, and Skylar was acting really funny.

At
first, she was laughing and acting silly, but then she started freaking out,
crying and covering her face like she was hiding from something. It scared me
so much that I wanted to get our parents, but Stevie begged me not to and
pleaded with me to help her get Skylar upstairs.

“What’s
wrong with her?” I whispered, surely wide-eyed and pale.

“She’s
just having a bad trip,” Stevie muttered. “She’ll be okay once she sleeps it
off.”

It
wasn’t until I was a few years older that I understood that she had been on
acid. Thankfully, she never came home acting like that again, but there were a
few times when Stevie woke me up by throwing rocks at my window and told me to
come down and help her get a very loopy, drunk Skylar up to her room.

While
I didn’t like the drinking anymore than the bad trip, I could at least handle
it better. I wished Skylar wouldn’t drink or do drugs at all, but I was
grateful that she had Stevie looking out for her. I’d like to think that if I
were ever, God forbid, stupid enough to end up as incapacitated as Skylar,
Tegan would do the same for me.