WANTED: Love of my Life

16. Without a Scarebully

Now let me just take a minute to correct a gross linguistic error. Generally, a fight between two girls is referred to as a catfight. That expression is so wrong. Cats don't have claws which are that sharp or tough. How could they? As far as I know, they generally don't use Sally Hansen's Hard As Nails Extreme Wear Nail Color. In pink, can you imagine? I probably should have thought of that before I went Rambo on her, and, oh yea, the fact that she's most of the teachers' personal pet. Kind of funny when you think of her calling me a pekinese. Well, I can tell you this much: I didn't laugh. All I got out the fight were some extremely painful scratches on my cheeks and a two-hour detention for me and Sandra, although, as I kept repeating, she hadn't been involved in the fight at all.

They made us drop our backpacks in the secretary's office and go down into the church to polish the statues of saints (and probably martyrs) around the altar. If you look at them when you stroll by, they actually look quite pretty. But let me tell you, you can't imagine how ugly they've become when you've been polishing their ever-smiling faces for two hours nonstop.

“Sorry for dragging you into this,” I told Sandra. For a change, I had to look down to speak to her, because I was balancing on a ladder to reach the head of a particular gargantuan St. Peter statue. Or was it St. Paul? I never could tell the two apart. That's what the school founders get for naming their school after two saints whose names both happen to start with a 'P'.

“That's no problem,” Sandra said, conciliatory as ever. “What I don't get is why you exploded like that. There was no call for that.”

“I didn't believe you'd think so,” I muttered.

“And can't believe you did. You acted like Jen on steroids. What is the matter with you?”

She was right. Normally, I would never have acted as I did. But these weren't normal times. They were times of mourning.

“Oh, I don't really know... I just...”

Even I heard the quivering in my voice.

“Angela?” Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Sandra peek up at me, concern clearly visible in her enlarged eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses.

“Angela, what's wrong?”

I hesitated. Was this the moment to tell her everything? To tell it to all my friends? After all, it was over.

No, who did I think I was kidding? It had been over before 'it' ever had begun. Giacomo had never been interested in me. Why should he be? In his eyes, I was probably nothing more than a silly child.

And I ached to tell my troubles to Sandra, to the entire residual quantity. Perhaps, just perhaps it would take some of the pain away. But I... angrily, I bit my lip. I didn't want to admit, but I just didn't want anybody to know how big a fool I had made of myself! To have imagined that he... that he and I...

I swallowed.

“Oh, I'm just going through a difficult time right now.”

“Why? What's up?”

What could I say? Dammit, why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? Why couldn't I have said, brightly 'Oh, nothing's wrong. I'm fine, just fine!'.

I knew why. Because everything was not just fine. Far from it. In my desperation, I grasped for the one excuse that always worked.

“You know, Cathy has been getting on my nerves again.”

“Oh,” Sandra said, sagely. “I understand.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heaven that I had such a bitch of a sister! Then, it occurred to me that I actually could thank heaven. So I lent forward and gave St. Peter (I was pretty sure it was Peter) a peck on the nose. It tasted of polish.