Chapter Two
Colby sat in front of me in English class. At the start of the year when we were all laying claim to "our" seats, I hung back until I saw where he was planning to sit and then I pounced for a spot two rows back and one column over. I probably took out a few teeth with my elbow as I forced my way through the crowd and flung myself into the chair I wanted, but I considered it a small price to pay for the perfect vantage point from whence to watch the man of my dreams.
Mr. Griffith had asked Colby to read a poem to the class, and I closed my eyes in the deliciousness of the moment. Colby's voice was low and mellow, and he seemed to appreciate all the nuances that were supposed to go into a piece of poetry. Most other guys read in monotone, or seemed to think that they had to pause at the end of every line whether there was a comma or period there or not. Colby . . . Colby just got it.
"Jill, you seem to be enjoying this piece. How would you analyze the rhythm?" Mr. Griffith's much-less sonorous voice cut into my reverie and I realized I'd been swaying back and forth a little bit. Not a lot, not like I was drunk or anything-at least, I didn't think it was that much. Amanda would have to tell me later. I'm sure she saw the whole thing.
"I would say that the cadence is rather measured and even, but it doesn't have to be read that way. There's a flow from line to line that allows the reader to determine for himself how to approach it."
"Very good, Jill. As we just heard, Colby chose to let the rhythm move from line to line without forcing the beat of the syllables. Another reader might . . ." Mr. Griffith continued on, but I needed a minute to recover from being put on the spot like that, and another minute to get over my embarrassment about my little Colby love-fest.
"Hey, that was a good answer."
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Dylan sitting behind me. "Thanks."
"Poetry isn't my thing. I'm more of a sci-fi nerd."
He wasn't really talking to me in the middle of this class, was he? I mean, of all the classes to interrupt . . . and right while Mr. Griffith was praising Colby for his brilliance, too. I needed to be in on that discussion-at least to hear it, even if I couldn't add to it without incriminating myself further.
"Have you read Lloyd Alexander?"
"Yes. Several times. Now, we're not supposed to be whispering in class."
"Oh, right. Sorry." Dylan settled back in his chair and I turned my attention to Mr. Griffith. He was still discussing meter, so I guess I hadn't missed much. Still, I was annoyed-who just talks in the middle of English class like that? It was so bohemian.
Colby didn't say anything else for the rest of the period, but that was all right. I contented myself by studying his hair. See, his hair is not just blond. It's more of a sandy blond with caramel highlights. I don't mean that he dyed it-this was all natural, the tones blending from one to the other to create a perfect head of hair. I wondered who cut it, and hoped they realized how incredibly lucky they were to get to run their fingers through it on a regular basis.
When the bell rang, I gathered up my books and shoved them into my backpack, and then headed for the door. Amanda and I always meet at my locker after English-it's the best place for me to dish about my thoughts and feelings and every little word and exchanged glance. And yes, I realize how pathetic I sound, carrying on a whole love affair with a guy who only sees me as a cog in the newspaper machine, or a piece of the giant puzzle. But at least I'm not a dumb border piece-I'm right in the middle, making up a vital part of the picture. According to the latest student poll, and we all know how unerringly accurate those are, my column is the most read out of all the regular features.
"That class was awesome." Dylan fell into step beside me as I walked to my locker. "The teacher wasn't deadly dull, like I thought he'd be. My last English teacher made me want to poke my eyes out with a fork. Good thing they don't allow utensils in the classroom, huh?"
I threw him a smile. I understood that it was awkward, being the new kid and all, and he wanted to make some friends and start to create a place for himself here. But he was trying just a bit too hard, and while I was all for being compassionate and showing him the ropes, when it interfered with my Colby-watching time, I tended to get a little irate. There are some things you don't interrupt, and my Colby-watching time is one of them.
"Tell me what you're into," I said. Maybe getting him hooked up with some of the clubs at school would give him another outlet besides me. I could see him doing really well in the chess club, for instance.
Dylan glanced around. "To be honest, I'm into drama." Funny, because it was kind of dramatic the way he said it. Like he didn't want to be overheard or something.
"You are?" He didn't look the type. At all. Okay, he had the whole confidence thing down-he didn't seem to care what other people thought about him (except for that whole not-wanting-to-be-overheard thing) and that was good. You should always be yourself-I'd certainly given that advice often enough in my column. But he didn't strut around, like the drama jocks, or pose in the middle of the hallway and quote Shakespeare, like the drama nerds. I didn't know how to classify him.
"You should talk to Mrs. Gillis. She's the head of the drama department."
"Yeah, they gave me her name in the office. Are you in drama?"
"No. It's never really been my thing." Translate that to mean, I would rather die of some terrible disease in the middle of a mosquito-infested rainforest.
Dylan shrugged. "It takes all kinds, I guess-I mean, if everyone wanted to be in the plays, who would come see them?"
Sort of, again with the trying-too-hard. I saw Amanda waiting for me at my locker-how had she gotten through the crowd so fast? I didn't see her pass me in the hall-Dylan probably distracted me.
"Hey, I'll catch up with you later," I said to Dylan. "I think Amanda needs to talk to me for a minute."
"Sounds great. See ya." Dylan gave a floppy-armed wave and loped down the hall, presumably toward his own locker. I'd have to find out exactly where it was so I could avoid it when I was feeling irritable, like I was just then.
"Wasn't Colby great in class today?" I asked as soon as Amanda could hear me. "His interpretation of that poem was perfect."
"And what was the name of the poem? What was it about?"
I paused. "I actually have no idea. But didn't he read it well?"
Amanda sighed. "I'm starting to worry about you, Jill. Your obsession with this guy is getting out of hand, don't you think?"
"Isn't obsession where the seeds of true love are sown?" That was good. I'd have to use that in a column.
"And isn't becoming a stalker sort of illegal?"
Thanks, Amanda. Way to slam me back down to earth with logic.
"Okay, so I guess I could spend a little less time thinking about Colby. There are other things in the world, after all. Saving the whales, going green, the conflict in the Middle East . . ."
Amanda crossed her arms. "Listening to your best friend when she talks to you . . ."
"Right! Exactly. So, what were we talking about?"
"Never mind." She sighed, and we started down the hall again. "You're pretty hopeless sometimes, you know that?"
"Yeah, I know. But you still love me."
***
Strange. My dad's car was in the driveway when I got home. He usually rolled in around six, just in time to grab some dinner before heading down to his dungeon-or, as he liked to call it, his "office"-to get some more work done before bed. I should be fair and say that yes, it was an office, but it was dark and gloomy, and why anyone would purposely lock themselves in there for hours at a time was beyond me. He could at least spring for some lamps, or maybe be really wild and crazy and install track lighting.
My parents were sitting in the living room, their hands folded on their laps, and they looked up at me with grim expressions on their faces. I set my backpack on the bottom stair so I wouldn't forget to take it to my room. My mom had issues with tripping over it every time she turned around, so she'd lectured me to feeling an overwhelming sense of shame whenever I didn't take care of it. Then I sat down across from my dad.
"Did something really bad happen? Because you've got that 'something really bad happened' look on your faces."
"You could say that. You could also say it's been happening for a long time." My mom leaned forward a little, resting her elbows on her knees. "Jill, you know things haven't been right between your father and me. Not for years."
"Yeah, but you've been getting counseling. And counseling is awesome. In fact, I think every couple should get it. Relationships don't come with manuals, and if every prospective couple got some guidance-"
My dad held up his hand. "Jill, please step away from your advice column persona for just a second. We're talking about real life here, and this is a serious matter."
I didn't see anything wrong with relying on the wisdom I'd gained through over a year of running my advice column-after all, what good was experience if I couldn't pull it out when things got challenging? But I shut up. Not everyone was ready to hear their problems laid out in such a clear way. It took time to get to that point.
"We've decided to get a divorce," my dad said.
"You and I will be staying in the house, and your dad is taking an apartment across town," Mom added.
I blinked. That couldn't be right-people like my parents didn't get divorced. They had little tiffs and they sometimes ignored each other and they might occasionally take business trips and be gone longer than they planned, but they didn't get divorced. This was obviously a misunderstanding, something that could be cleared up with a little perspective.
"I'm not sure that's the most sound decision, coming from a purely economic standpoint," I said. "I think it would be much cheaper if Dad just stayed here." I turned to face him. "Think of the money you'd save."
"This isn't about saving money, Jill. It's about doing what's best for the family."
"But how is getting a divorce best for the family? I read some interesting statistics the other day that show that the majority of inmates on death row come from fatherless families. There's a burden on society to be considered, Dad."
"And are you planning to end up on death row?"
I rolled my eyes. "Does anyone plan to end up on death row?"
"I don't think she's hearing us, Bob," my mom said quietly, and he nodded.
"Jill, why don't you grab a snack and get your homework done. We can talk about this later."
"I'm not sure what there is to talk about. Once you and Mom have thought it through, you'll realize that this just isn't the right choice on several levels. I'll be in my room-you two talk it over some more, okay? I mean, think of the utility bills alone. Most apartments are poorly insulated." I grabbed my backpack and headed to my room, deciding to take a little extra time with my homework. They'd need that time to compile and fully analyze all the data. You couldn't draw a proper pie chart in a hurry, for instance, and bar graphs? Don't even get me started on how time-consuming those can be. Maybe if I was better at math.
I heard their voices from the living room, saying something about me being in denial. Good-they were talking about a common interest. That was an excellent first step toward reconciliation.