A Dazzle of Zebras, page 2
Eventually Mr. Teakman notices we’re on our sixth or seventh out and calls for us to switch positions.
Penny slaps her thighs as she stands up, then gives us a little wave. “See ya later, then.” Rahi tosses her the bouncy ball and she stops to chat with him.
“Yep, see ya.” As soon as she’s out of earshot, I whirl around and jab a finger into Nick’s chest. “J’accuse!”
“What?”
“You love her so much.”
“What!” he says. “Whatever, man. You were the one who kept vomiting words at her. Maybe you love her! J’accuse you back!”
I sweep an imperious look his way. He can deny it all he wants, but he’s got that squirrely look of someone with something to hide. Which is a look squirrels actually get sometimes. And usually what they’re hiding is a secret acorn stash. Either that or MURDER.
***
10:10 a.m.
Track.
Five hours left of summer school P.E.
The kickball game ended in a draw, with a score of something to whatever. The exact score is unimportant; what matters is, we all had fun.
Well. Except for Rahi, who had to suffer through thirty-eight outs and only one run. That guy hates his life so much right now.
We progressed in a great herd to the football field, where we’ve been walking around the track for…five, six hundred laps now? Nick keeps a running tally of how many laps we’ve walked over the ten days of summer school, but I won’t let him tell me. It depresses me. I’m sure he’ll tell me once it’s all over anyway, and then I’ll be bummed that the number isn’t higher. It feels like we’ve made one million trips around this stupid track in the past two weeks, and any number lower than that will be a huge disappointment.
At least we get to wave at Alfie every time we pass his bench. He responds with cheery little tuba toots whenever the band isn’t playing, but he still looks sad there, sitting on the sidelines all by himself while the rest of the band marches. He’s like the Little Match Girl. If the Little Match Girl played tuba and had terrible luck with Slip ‘N Slides.
Nick gives a tremendously loud yawn. He sounds like one of the trumpets. “How do you say ‘sleepy’ in sign language?”
“Um. I can spell it?”
“What! I thought you’d been practicing.” He cocks his head with mock concern. “How’re you going to keep up during All-Language Senior Year?”
“It’s level one ASL,” I say as I work slowly through the letters. “I think I’m already ahead just knowing the alphabet.” I pause, squinting. “I can’t remember what P looks like.”
Nick smirks but doesn’t comment.
“It’s either like this or…” My fingers flounder in the air until I decide to skip over it. “The best I can do is SLEE–Y.”
“Good thing you’re taking a class. You’re terrible at this.”
I hip check him into the grass.
On lap number seven, Penny catches up with us.
“Oh, hey,” she says. You know. Like you’d say to your friends. Caaasually. Nick nods at her and we settle into a silence that’s only slightly uncomfortable. She does this happy little shuffle-step every few feet. It’s weird but kind of endearing.
The silence means we can hear Parker Rhoads huffing along even before he reaches us. “Never—let them—see—you sweat,” he pants as he jogs past us. He’s the only one running, and something about his skinny legs seems to activate my maternal instincts. I have to fight the urge to offer him a lasagna.
“So,” Penny says cheerfully, and I wonder if she’s ever broken a sweat or if she always looks this refreshed, “how would you feel about me joining your group?”
Just like that. No mincing words. No beating around the bush. The way we did it in kindergarten. Well—not me, because I have always understood that the social contract clearly prohibits you from walking up to someone and blurting out your intentions to befriend them. However, I did witness someone else doing it. Right before they were ostracized fully and forever.
“Why?” I say. “Are you dying or something? Is this like a bucket list kinda thing?”
Laughing, she says, “Okay, fair, I might be getting ahead of myself. Listen, why don’t you just think about it and get back to me? You know where to find me…” With a sneaky wave, she skips ahead and starts marching around the track like she’s leading a very sad parade.
Okay. I know Penny Nickel is candid (I don’t even hang out with her and I’ve heard her talk about her period no fewer than three times), but this is ridiculous. No one just says what they’re thinking like that. This isn’t the way you do things. You become friends with someone in kindergarten when you sit next to each other on the first day of school. Then, in junior high, you each make one more friend the same way, and then that’s your friend group. Forever. Done. You don’t have random people asking to join your group the last year of high school. I repeat, THAT IS NOT THE WAY ANY OF THIS WORKS.
Except, I guess, for right now.
“This is so weeeeird!” I squeak.
Nick kicks a pebble off the track. “I dunno. Could be cool.”
I stop walking abruptly. “What?”
“Well, it’s not like people are knocking down our door begging to be friends with us.”
“You think we need more friends? I didn’t know that. All this time, you’ve been pining for more friends. Or maybe just a particular kind of…friend.” I waggle my eyebrows at him.
He sighs noisily and I scramble to catch up with his long gait.
“Nick, she’s obviously kidding. Calm down.”
“You don’t think she’s serious?”
“Nicholas. This is Penny Nickel we’re talking about. We can hang out during summer school and whatever, but no, I absolutely do not think she wants to be friends with us during the school year.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him either way, but he ducks his head, looking almost disappointed.
***
12:24 p.m.
Donut shop.
Two and a half hours left of summer school P.E.
The air in the cramped donut shop is sticky with the scents of yeasty dough and sugar glaze. My curls are hanging limp around my face and I’m covered in a sheen of sweat from the walk over here, but now that I have a pink-frosted donut caked with rainbow sprinkles in my clutches at last, the heat isn’t bothering me at all. Plus there’s a fan behind the counter that’s nudging the heavy air around the shop, so I guess that helps a bit, too.
Since all the booths are taken, Nick and I stand near the trash cans, by the drinks fridge, to enjoy our most precious donuts on this, the first and final Donut Day.
“Could you grab me a napkin?” he asks. “I don’t know how I always get so sticky.”
“We need to get you some sort of face bib,” I say. As I reach over to the counter, Speedy Parker Rhoads whisks past to grab a drink. It’s already a tight squeeze with forty kids crowded inside this tiny shop, and he jostles my arm. The arm that has my donut balanced precariously on my open palm.
Before I can react, the donut soars out of my hand. I fumble for it—knock it up into the air—it arches back down—I swipe for it and miss—it turns in the air—and lands with a slight bounce, sprinkle-side down, on the questionable linoleum floor of the donut shop.
“Nooo!” I shout, probably more intensely than the situation merits, but THIS IS WHO I AM.
Nick starts at my outburst. “What?”
“My donut fell.”
He examines it. “Still good.”
Maybe from his vantage point, thirty feet up in the air.
“Gross!” I say. “It fell sprinkle-side down. Contamination issues aside, that means the sprinkles are no longer soundly adhered to the icing. The entire sprinkle-to-icing ratio is compromised. It’s basic donut engineering, Neederson!”
“Get another one, then, and calm down. Also you never got me a napkin.”
Quieter now, I say, “I only brought a dollar.” This may be the single greatest tragedy of my young life.
“Oh, man. That sucks.” He takes a bite of his donut, savoring it. “No donut for Donut Day. What a sad state of affairs.”
I sigh softly. “It’s okay. I’ll just take half of y—”
He shoves—literally, shoves—the rest of his bear claw into his mouth. And he had a lot of claw left. His eyes widen as he realizes what he’s done, but he looks pretty pleased with himself overall.
“I bet you didn’t even enjoy that.”
“Iff worf it,” he garbles.
I give the donuts a long, lingering look of farewell, a look which unfortunately is intercepted by Rahi Nepram, who has just ordered his own donut and is still standing at the register. Because a girl can’t catch a break today.
Rahi turns back to the man behind the counter. “And another sprinkled for Tra—” He does a tiny shake of his head, as if to say, You don’t know who Tracy is, Donut Man. “For the lady.”
I honestly did not realize Rahi knew my name. Although I kind of like being called “The Lady.” It makes me sound mysterious and exotic. As if I own many fancy birds.
The man gives Rahi two donuts, one of which he holds out to me.
“Oh. That’s…nice of you,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Really, you didn’t have to do that.” My tone isn’t exactly ingratiating. I’m trying to be polite, but random kindness, from a stranger—a guy—from a popular, male human person I’ve spoken to maybe twice in my life…I don’t mean to be paranoid, but this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I’m no Miranda Wrathbone. Not that I know her personally, but it isn’t hard to imagine the type of girl boys would skip class for: shiny hair, cheekbones you could cut glass with, white teeth with very strong enamel. Boys probably buy her donuts every day. Just buy ‘em by the dozen. By the baker’s dozen.
Plus, I’ve gone to the same school as Rahi for years, but I don’t know him. We’re not friends. And if we learn anything in this rough and raggle-taggle world, it’s to put up walls and expect the worst from everyone we meet. Nobody just buys someone else baked goods out of sheer kindness. That is absurd. I suspect it is a trick.
Still. Pink-sprinkled…
Hesitantly, I take the donut.
He smiles without meeting my eyes and goes to join a table. Doesn’t say a word to me. Doesn’t start laughing about it with his friends. I guess he was just being nice.
What a weirdo.
Oh, crap. He’s looking at me. He’s repositioning himself in the booth and moving his head infinitesimally to peek out of the corner of his eye. He definitely sees me, still standing here. Holding the donut on my palm. Staring brazenly at him. It’s too late to recover and pretend I was looking past him, so instead I do a very casual about-face. Now, though, I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or not, and I don’t know how to go about eating this donut. Should I relish it to show due appreciation for his gesture? Or should I eat it meekly, to demonstrate the care I will take with this and all future donuts, should I be fortunate enough to acquire them?
“Are you gonna eat that?” Nick reaches for my donut.
I yell something incomprehensible. If Rahi wasn’t outright staring before, he probably is now. Nick jerks his hand back as if I bit it. I’m not convinced I didn’t.
“I mean…” I say, a tinge of desperation in my voice. “No. I mean, yes. I am. I was just…saving it. For a minute.” I take a bite out of the donut like a toddler eating a sandwich. The bite is too big. I can barely chew, and it slides like a mossy boulder down my throat. The stress of it all has made me hasty, and now I’ll never enjoy this, the One and Only Donut Day of Summer School.
Like a mosquito bite after a day in the sun, Penny is suddenly upon us, scrubbing jelly filling off her hand with a scrunched-up napkin.
“That was sweet of Rahi,” she says. “Looks like he’s more than just a pretty face, huh? He’s like a donut hero! Saving the day, with donuts!”
“Watch it, Nickel.”
“Easy,” Nick mutters.
“Sorry.” I sigh. “It’s been a difficult Donut Day.”
I take another bite. It helps.
***
2:02 p.m.
Pool.
Fifty-eight minutes left of summer school P.E.
Swimming laps isn’t as fun without Nick. One time he got caught in a rip tide at the beach, and ever since then he’s been skittish around water. So he spends the hour standing in the shallow end with two other non-swimmers, eyeing the water suspiciously. I swim a few laps doing the ol’ frog-kick-breaststroke and then turn onto my back to float. With my ears under the water, I can’t hear any of the splashing or yelling from the rest of the pool. I close my eyes. The sunlight shades red through my eyelids. I feel like I’m part of the water, fluid and translucent. And saturated with chlorine. It’s nice.
Something cuts through the light. I blink open my eyes to see Penny in the next lane, grinning and waving an arm over my face. Her top half is slung sideways over a kickboard, her elbow on the board, her ear on her palm. She says something I don’t hear.
I fold like a jackknife and shake the water out of my ears. “What was that?”
“I said, do you not like me?”
Penny Nickel is nothing if not direct, I’m finding.
“No!” I say. “Wait. The wording of the question confused me. I…yes. I don’t not like you. I don’t even know you, really.”
“But you don’t want to be friends with me.”
“That’s not it.” But I don’t know how to explain what it is. You can’t just tell someone you think their offer of friendship might be disingenuous. That would be insulting, and paranoid, and sad.
“Ohhh,” she says knowingly. “Am I…intruding on something?” She looks pointedly at Nick, who has begun randomly slapping the surface of the water.
There it is.
“Definitely not,” I say coolly.
“You two aren’t dating?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Not ever?”
“Not even a little bit,” I say. “Nick was my first friend and he’ll probably be my last, but there’s never been anything even vaguely romantic. We’re just…Nick and Tracy. Best buds forever and stuff. Although—just…please don’t tell him I said that. I don’t want him getting a swelled head.”
Thoughtfully, she gathers her hair over one shoulder. “So then why don’t you want to be friends?”
I grab hold of the lip of the pool. This girl is persistent. But not annoying, exactly. In fact, something about her feels sort of reassuring, in a way. Maybe it’s her blind self-confidence.
“I just don’t get what you expect to happen,” I say. “My friends and I…we’re really not that interesting. We just sort of hang out and make fun of each other. Like, I can pretty much guarantee that you would get bored of hanging out with us within a week. If not sooner. So I just don’t get why you would want to be friends with us.”
“I told you—”
“But really, though. Like, I get it if this is just a joke or whatever, but Nick’s kind of—”
“No, no! That’s not it at all.” She folds her arms over the kickboard and rests her chin on them. “I guess…I don’t really think friendship is all that different from falling in love. It can happen slowly, over time, or it can hit you all at once, like lightning. Or a bus.” She smiles wryly, revealing a gap in her two largish front teeth. “Just based on this conversation I’m guessing you probably won’t believe this, but I’ve seen you and your friends around school, and y’all are special. And I have simply fallen in friendship with all of you.”
Huh. I feel like she put into words something I’ve felt only a few times in my life. I felt it when I met Nick the first day of kindergarten, and in seventh grade when I asked Alfie if I could borrow a pen and he shouted back, “I’M SORRY, STRANGE PERSON, BUT I DO NOT HAVE ANY BEES TO SELL YOU,” and then again when Nick introduced me to Sophia and we not only had the same backpack, but we were wearing the same shoes (albeit in very different sizes).
It felt like a thunderbolt. Le coup de foudre, as the French would say. Like for a single instant, all my outsides became my insides and my insides became my outsides, and when everything went back to normal I was changed. By the POWER of FRIENDSHIP.
“Okay, but like…have you met Alfie?”
“Just think about it,” Penny says, smiling, before she mermaid-kicks away.
“Yep,” I say. But I probably won’t. Just the idea of adding a person to our friend group feels extremely strange, like putting your underwear on backward and walking around like that all day (not that I’ve ever done that—what an outlandish notion!).
***
2:58 p.m.
Two minutes left of summer school P.E.
As people wrap themselves in towels and squeak about in wet flip-flops gathering their things to leave, Nick sidles up to me with a conspiratorial air.
“So.” He nods at Penny, who is talking animatedly to Mr. Teakman. “Whattaya think?”
“Oh. I don’t—I dunno.” I cringe as he stuffs his damp feet—sockless—into his shoes.
“I think she’s pretty cool.”
I shade my eyes with my hand to study his face. “I guess so.”
Mr. Teakman dismisses us for the last time ever. By which I mean he gives a short statement about how this credit will show up on our transcripts and ends with a curt, “That’s it. Enjoy your last week of freedom before school starts.”
“I thought his parting words would be a little more sentimental,” Nick says.
“Maybe a few tears?”
“It’s as if we meant nothing at all to him.”
