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Authors: Deborah Blumenthal
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right.”
His eyes hold mine and for those few seconds, it feels like the air is as thin as on top of Mt. Everest because it’s hard for me to breathe and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fall.
“How come you were working there…at my school?” I ask, my eyes not leaving his. “Instead of, say, cruising around and giving tickets or whatever…”
“Extra pay.”
“That’s all?”
“What else?”
Even though it hurts, I get to my feet and walk over to him, perching myself on the arm of his chair. “To see where I go to school,” I whisper, my lips nearly grazing his ear.
He closes his eyes momentarily. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, Michael, you tell me.”
He doesn’t answer.
I lift his chin with one finger. “Maybe to see me?”
He opens his mouth to answer then stops, abruptly turning toward the door.
“ Gia ,” my mom bursts in, hurling her purse to the floor before grabbing me in a hug, nearly smacking Michael in the head. “Oh my god, I nearly had a heart attack over you!”
TWELVE
After a week goes by I’m feeling better, so I go to the bakery with Ro after school and meet Teddy, the manager, and stand behind the counter pretending I know what I’m doing while Ro sits at a table and sips cappuccino and makes faces at me because she’s enjoying this. Then I make them back at her, which makes Teddy mad because I’m not concentrating while he’s showing me all the cakes and cookies and telling me what they cost and showing me how to wrap them, blah, blah, blah. Then he covers my hair with a net and hands me plastic gloves.
“Am I handling plutonium?”
“This is a bakery,” he says, “you have to be clean.”
“I’m clean,” I say before sticking my tongue out at Ro. “I’ll start next week.”
“Fine,” he says. “Don’t worry. This a great place to work.”
“Umm, If you want to carbo-load and grow your ass.”
He shakes his head.
Back at school, the election is going to get ugly. In keeping with the tradition of Manhattan’s elite private schools, the race has nothing whatever to do with issues or values or ethics or how the school is run and everything to do with popularity.
I work at being nicer than usual to everybody. At lunch while we eat the gross chicken meatloaf, we pick out people and try to figure out who they’ll vote for so we can get some idea who is going to win and who they are going to wipe the floor with.
“The Tewl has changed her hair color,” I whisper to Ro.
She sticks her finger down her throat. “Yesterday it was light brown and now it’s bright red?”
That is off the charts weird in the middle of an election because you look like you don’t trust who you are and that you need help because you’re going through a serious identity crisis.
Jordan the jock is actually striding through the cafeteria working the room as if he’s relying on political advice about networking dating back to President Clinton’s campaign.
If all that’s not weird enough, even Domingo, the guy who cleans the cafeteria, passes my table and says, “you going to be the president?” And, whoa, I didn’t know even the kitchen staff is following this.
“I’m trying,” I say with an embarrassed laugh.
He smiles and picks up the trash on the table that people leave behind because some kids at Morgan feel they are so above carrying a single empty Arizona bottle to the recycle bin ten feet away in order to save the planet.
“President,” Domingo says again, like I’m in line for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I’d never admit it, but I’m feeling pretty good about my chances until someone comes up with the brilliant idea of holding a debate with the candidates to give the election more cosmic importance or something. I can’t exactly get to the bottom of who came up with that idea—because the school never did that before—but whatever, I can take the heat. Anyway, as everyone knows, I am a motormouth and good at thinking on
His eyes hold mine and for those few seconds, it feels like the air is as thin as on top of Mt. Everest because it’s hard for me to breathe and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fall.
“How come you were working there…at my school?” I ask, my eyes not leaving his. “Instead of, say, cruising around and giving tickets or whatever…”
“Extra pay.”
“That’s all?”
“What else?”
Even though it hurts, I get to my feet and walk over to him, perching myself on the arm of his chair. “To see where I go to school,” I whisper, my lips nearly grazing his ear.
He closes his eyes momentarily. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, Michael, you tell me.”
He doesn’t answer.
I lift his chin with one finger. “Maybe to see me?”
He opens his mouth to answer then stops, abruptly turning toward the door.
“ Gia ,” my mom bursts in, hurling her purse to the floor before grabbing me in a hug, nearly smacking Michael in the head. “Oh my god, I nearly had a heart attack over you!”
TWELVE
After a week goes by I’m feeling better, so I go to the bakery with Ro after school and meet Teddy, the manager, and stand behind the counter pretending I know what I’m doing while Ro sits at a table and sips cappuccino and makes faces at me because she’s enjoying this. Then I make them back at her, which makes Teddy mad because I’m not concentrating while he’s showing me all the cakes and cookies and telling me what they cost and showing me how to wrap them, blah, blah, blah. Then he covers my hair with a net and hands me plastic gloves.
“Am I handling plutonium?”
“This is a bakery,” he says, “you have to be clean.”
“I’m clean,” I say before sticking my tongue out at Ro. “I’ll start next week.”
“Fine,” he says. “Don’t worry. This a great place to work.”
“Umm, If you want to carbo-load and grow your ass.”
He shakes his head.
Back at school, the election is going to get ugly. In keeping with the tradition of Manhattan’s elite private schools, the race has nothing whatever to do with issues or values or ethics or how the school is run and everything to do with popularity.
I work at being nicer than usual to everybody. At lunch while we eat the gross chicken meatloaf, we pick out people and try to figure out who they’ll vote for so we can get some idea who is going to win and who they are going to wipe the floor with.
“The Tewl has changed her hair color,” I whisper to Ro.
She sticks her finger down her throat. “Yesterday it was light brown and now it’s bright red?”
That is off the charts weird in the middle of an election because you look like you don’t trust who you are and that you need help because you’re going through a serious identity crisis.
Jordan the jock is actually striding through the cafeteria working the room as if he’s relying on political advice about networking dating back to President Clinton’s campaign.
If all that’s not weird enough, even Domingo, the guy who cleans the cafeteria, passes my table and says, “you going to be the president?” And, whoa, I didn’t know even the kitchen staff is following this.
“I’m trying,” I say with an embarrassed laugh.
He smiles and picks up the trash on the table that people leave behind because some kids at Morgan feel they are so above carrying a single empty Arizona bottle to the recycle bin ten feet away in order to save the planet.
“President,” Domingo says again, like I’m in line for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I’d never admit it, but I’m feeling pretty good about my chances until someone comes up with the brilliant idea of holding a debate with the candidates to give the election more cosmic importance or something. I can’t exactly get to the bottom of who came up with that idea—because the school never did that before—but whatever, I can take the heat. Anyway, as everyone knows, I am a motormouth and good at thinking on
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