Vibes (3 page)

"I don't care," I say.

Here we go again with the martyr routine,
I hear her thinking. "Okay. Where is the stomach?"

I point to the heart.

"No, Kristi. Where really?"

I point to the brain.

"No!" she says, already frustrated.

"I'm pretty sure that's it, Hil," I say innocently. "That's got to be the stomach. Yup. I'm one hundred percent sure." (One good thing about hating your former best friend is that you know
exactly
how to push her buttons.)

"It's the brain and you know it." She frowns as her crystalline eyes search the room.

"That's right. See if
David
can tell us.
David
will know.
David
is so
smart
."

She jabs her hand into the air, savagely arching her back for emphasis. If anyone else tried a move like that they'd look spastic, but Hildie executes it perfectly. An Olympic committee would give her all sixes.

David comes over and says, "Yes," as if he's so tired, he can barely utter the word.

"Kristi keeps saying the brain is the stomach and I can't work with her." Hildie pouts her pink lips at him.

I concentrate my beam on her. One of these days I'll figure out how to make her head explode with my psychic waves.

David nods wisely. "Do you need to start your contemplation early today, Kristi?"

"Yes. I need to go contemplate really, really bad," I say to him. He hands me a slip of paper with the assignment. I take the paper and leave the classroom. I don't even look at stupid Hildie because I can hear her thinking as I go:
Why is she such a bitch?

Absolutely no one is allowed to speak in the Contemplation Room. Brian once said he almost named it the Temple, but he thought that the word was too suggestive of religion and he didn't want to make any atheists or agnostics feel excluded from the educational experience here at Journeys.

I slide into my favorite seat next to the window. The tree Hildie mentioned in Morning Meeting looks pink and fluffy, like cotton candy.

I hear the click of a door and see Betty Pasternak, the Self-Expressions teacher, come out of the conference room with the new kid.

He looks around the room for a seat and spies me. I feel him thinking,
Interesting,
which is pretty unusual because most people have a negative reaction when they notice me. I would smile at him if smiling didn't make me look snide, so instead I blink at him. He strolls over.

I've never seen such skinny legs in my life. His knees seem to almost poke through his jeans, and his feet are huge. When he gets to my table he puts his hand on the back of the chair opposite me and raises his orange eyebrows.

I nod.

He sits down and leans forward on his elbows. Up close his acne is quite vibrant. Huge red bumps cover his entire face and neck. Where there aren't fresh pimples there are raised red patches. It makes me feel a little sorry for him. I smell hints of cigarette smoke on him, which I think is kind of cool. I like people who don't do what they're supposed to do. "This place is psycho," he whispers.

"Wait until Processing on Friday," I tell him.

"Processing. Is that when they grind us all into sausage and feed us to our parents?" He grins wickedly.

I stare at him, trying to decide whether he's a nice guy with a dark sense of humor or an ax murderer with a taste for chubby girls. I wait so long to speak, I feel him thinking,
What is her problem?
I'm already blowing it.

"My dad's a vegetarian, so..." I taper off. I have no idea why I just said that. My dad is not a vegetarian—at least he wasn't the last time I saw him, two years ago—and it has nothing to do with anything.

I hear a shushing noise. Betty Pasternak is holding her fingers to her lips at us. Some of the other students are looking, too. I hear them thinking,
They're perfect for each other.

It's not a compliment.

Without even asking, Mallory grabs my notebook and rips a piece of paper out of it. He writes with my pen,
What is the deal with this school?
and pushes it at me.

I write,
It's progressive. Like colon cancer.

He laughs.
How long have you been here?

Since ninth grade. I'm a sophomore. How did you end up here?

Got kicked out of my last two schools. I don't deal well with education.

You're in the right place. They don't really have that here.

We trade notes like that until the rest of my Explorations of Nature class gets here to write their daily contemplations. David sees me and comes over, stroking his beard, which means that he expects me to show him my Frost pastiche on anatomy. I show him the paper Mallory and I have been trading back and forth because I know he won't bother to read it. He nods and heads for Hildie's table, where she's staring prettily at her notebook, chewing on the eraser of her pencil with her perfect pearl teeth. David leans over Hildie and looks at her work. I'm pretty sure he's smelling her hair.

He's a teacher?
Mallory asks.

He seems to think so,
I write back.

By the time the lunch gong rings, I feel as though Mallory and I are almost friends. I even catch him thinking,
She's cool.
It's been ages since anyone thought that about me. Not even Jacob thinks I'm cool. He hangs out with me only because he's so uncool that he doesn't even consider coolness a factor when choosing friends. This is mostly why I tolerate him.

I lead Mallory to the World Bistro (a.k.a. the school cafeteria), where we get in line for the ratatouille. All the meals are cooked by the students in the Culinary Arts class, a requirement I'm putting off until senior year. The last thing my found wardrobe needs is exposure to an open flame. Every week they serve a different nationality of food. Last week we explored the Indian subcontinent; this week we're doing regional French. Next week is supposed to be Scandinavia, but no one is excited about the wonders of pickled fish.

"Uh. Hi, Kristi," I hear lisped behind me.

"Hi, Jacob," I say as I wipe spit droplets off my shoulder. "This is Mallory."

Mallory sticks out his hand toward Jacob, who doesn't even notice the gesture because he's staring at Mallory's acne with unconcealed awe. "How do you do?" Mallory says grimly.

"Hi," Jacob finally says, then looks at me, horror stricken.

I ignore him.

One of the student servers, a freshman with huge cheekbones and a tiny mouth, plunks a bowl of ratatouille onto my tray. "Nice attitude," I tell her.

"Get bit," she sneers.

"Hey, you have a nasty animal clinging to your head," Mallory tells her. "Oh, wait. That's your face."

She doesn't miss a beat. "There's this substance called soap?" She smiles meanly at his acne. "It's widely available in drugstores?"

Mallory narrows his eyes at her.

Her eyes get even narrower.

I like freshmen with spirit.

"Is there someplace where I can smoke?" Mallory asks me. He points at the slop on my tray. "I've lost my appetite."

"Smoking isn't allowed on school property," Jacob says over his shoulder. He heads for our table, expecting me to follow him. When he sees I'm still standing with Mallory, he stamps his foot.

Mallory rolls his eyes at me.

"Go behind the bushes by the parking lot," I tell him.

He walks away, his tiny butt barely moving. Everyone stares at him as he goes.

"He should really go to a dermatologist," Jacob says as we sit down.

"So?" I ask.

"Maybe his skin would get better if he quit smoking," Jacob says. "Plus, he doesn't look good in white. It creates too much contrast with his acne. And isn't Mallory a girl's name? Did you notice Eva Kearns-Tate looks kind of sick these days? She's ghastly pale and—"

I put on my Maria Callas headphones and tune Jacob out.

The best kind of practical joke is one that seems like an act of God. That is the first rule of shenanigans. The second rule is that you have to be present to watch the shit go down. What is the point of engineering a brilliant prank if you're not there to enjoy it? The third rule is that you have to make yourself known to your victim but present yourself as a helpful agent of good, which only heightens the pathos of the whole situation. Finally: never give the same name twice.

My favorite setting for practical jokes is this spot in the park right behind Journeys. The park is bordered by a super-busy concrete bike path. Right where the bike path makes a sharp turn is a spot that has been polished very smooth by lots of feet and tires. It is so smooth, it feels and looks like polished pewter. Just where the concrete is smoothest, there happens to be a very shallow puddle, and in the middle of that puddle, there happens to be an invisible layer of motor oil.

How do I know this?

Because I put it there.

I get a Dixie cup full of water, and I bring my pint of motor oil wrapped in a paper bag. First I pour the water around until it's a thin layer, and then I very carefully dribble oil over the water. Something about the way the water floats over the polished smooth concrete and the way the oil hovers on the water makes this spot the slipperiest surface known to man.

After my setup is complete, I sit under my favorite tree and watch for my next victim. It doesn't always work. Sometimes they're wearing shoes with good treads. Sometimes they miss the puddle. But sometimes everything lines up perfectly.

Today I get a very fat businessman who's walking toward Journeys superduper fast, his tummy jiggling with every step, a folder tucked into his chubby hand. I can see the perspiration marks under his arms as he jogs down the bike path in his fancy dress shoes with the smooth leather soles. He glances at his watch and speeds up. He must be very late for a meeting.

The last thing he needs right now is to fall down.

He doesn't even see it coming. As he rounds the bend, his foot slides out from under him, and he's splayed flat before he can say, "Aaaahh!" His folder goes flying, and suddenly all these papers are whirling around him in a white tornado. "Oh, Jesus!" he cries as he scrambles to his feet. He starts pawing at the air, but most of his papers are halfway to the street. He'll never catch them all.

After a minute or two quietly laughing, I get up to help him pick up the papers. I can move about ten times as fast as he can, and I run over to where the papers are lying in the street gutter. "Oh, thank you, young lady!" he cries. His face is fire red from the exertion, but he manages a smile as I hand him what I've gathered.

"They're probably all out of order, mister," I say. I add the "mister" just so I seem especially young and innocent.

"No matter, dear." He takes them from me, and then we both chase after the stragglers. I find a bunch of them tangled in the lilac bushes near the street corner. Once we get them all together, he smiles at me again. "You're a real peach."

"I like to help people." I beam at him like a cherub who has just dosed on ecstasy.

"What's your name?" he asks as he wipes his forehead with his sleeve.

"Daisy. Daisy Fawn."

He offers me his hand, and we shake. "Thank you, Daisy Fawn."

He walks away, bouncing and jiggling, feeling really positive about the goodness in people. He thinks,
What a dear heart she is. Such a sweetie!

The irony is delicious.

The house is quiet when I get home, but of course there's a note on the fridge. There's always a note.

Dear Kristi,

You could say good morning to your mother, you know.

Use the twenty under the phone and get takeout, but please no pizza. Get something healthy from Zen Palace, OK? I should be home by eleven tonight—at least that's when my shift ends. I have big news to tell you, so please stay up until I get home.

I know we haven't been able to spend much time together, and I want you to know how much I regret that. Soon things are going to get a lot easier for both of us.

Thanks for hanging in there, honey.

And please, order something healthy for dinner. I mean it this time.

I love you,

Mom

Mom might be a little overweight, but she's still an absolute health nut. For my fifth birthday party she got me an all-natural carrot cake from an organic bakery that sweetens everything with honey. Hildie took one bite of it and announced to the room, "Ew! This tastes like bird poop!" She actually knew what bird poop tastes like because she used to let her pet parakeet walk all over her face. She liked how it felt all tickly. Well, it takes only one time for a kid to learn why you don't let your parakeet walk on your face. Everyone at my party knew that story, too, so they knew that she wasn't just making up a colorful metaphor. So for the rest of the day they yelled at me, "Kristi eats bird poop!" You would think my mother would take all this under advisement when selecting the cake for my next birthday, but she did not. She got me a carob-raisin mocha chip, which was as yummy as it sounds.

Thank God at least Mom is even more addicted to coffee than I am. She buys only organic fair-trade beans, so she can rationalize it.

I've been bypassing my mother's health-nut notions for many, many years. My method is nearly perfect. First I call Zen Palace and order steamed broccoli and seared bean curd over brown rice, then I call up Pizza Pal and get the meatiest, treatiest pizza with extra cheese and a large Coke. When the food comes I let Minnie Mouse out of my room. She sits on the couch next to me and eats out of the Zen Palace container while I eat every last piece of cheesy, carby, tangy, saucy pizza. Then we settle in for a night of empty, meaningless, mind-numbing TV.

Usually I start with CNN to see if there are any trapped miners or babies in a well or puppies that have been abused by some crazed farmer in Arkansas. Then I go to the network news magazines to find out what minuscule advancement in cancer research is making headlines this week. Then I go to Fox News to find out how quickly and confidently good-looking retards can lie. And finally I end up on Comedy Central, where I get the news.