Almost Alice Read online

  “I’ll think about it” was all she said, which is one step up from “No, I’d never make it,” which is where she was last week.

  And speaking of Sylvia, I’m getting along better with her. Even Annabelle, her cat. Our cat. The cat I’d said such awful things about last year. Sylvia and I are both trying to communicate more. If she wants my help with some big household project, for example, she doesn’t descend on me some weekend when I have a ton of homework or something else planned. And if I want to use her or Dad’s car, I try to remember to tell them in advance, not just spring it on them.

  I guess you could say that for me and my friends, cars and driving are a big part of our lives. They were sure a big part of Brian Brewster’s, whose license was just suspended last week in court because he hit another car in December and badly injured a seven-year-old girl. She was in the hospital for three weeks with a broken pelvis and other injuries, but I think Brian would have to break his own pelvis before he’d worry more about her than about the fact that he can’t drive for a year.

  I don’t hang around much anymore with Brian and his crowd. Patrick seems able to move in and out of a crowd whenever the spirit moves him; if there’s one thing Patrick Long is not, it’s a label. But mostly I go places with Pamela, Liz, and Gwen.

  The four of us have different interests much of the time, but we still tell each other a lot of personal stuff. Liz and I used to go running together on summer mornings and sometimes after school. But I wasn’t fast enough for her, so she joined the girls’ track team this semester. Pamela was taking voice lessons; Gwen got a job as a receptionist in a clinic twice a week after school; and I promised my friend Lori that I’d join the Gay/Straight Alliance at school to show my solidarity with her and her girlfriend, Leslie.

  But there was one secret I hadn’t told anyone: I had a crush on Scott Lynch, a senior, the editor in chief of The Edge. Last fall I’d done everything but beg him to take me to the Snow Ball, but he’d asked a girl from Holton-Arms. So when another senior, Tony Osler, asked me, I’d gone with him. And because Tony seemed more interested in getting into my pants than anything else, that didn’t last very long. Now I was going to the prom in May with Patrick and was wildly excited about it, but Scott was still on my mind. Is life ever simple?

  I have to say that Jacki Severn, features editor for The Edge, is not my favorite person. She’s got an eye for copy layout and she’s a good writer, but she isn’t easy to work with. When I got to the staff meeting on Wednesday, she was on one of her rants.

  “I think we ought to change the name!” she was saying. “It’s historically inaccurate.”

  Now what? I wondered, exchanging glances with Don Spiro, one of our photographers. Hissy fit, he scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it across the table.

  “What’s up?” I asked the others.

  Scott was balancing a pencil between two fingers and offered an explanation: “Remember that last year the school decided to replace the Jack of Hearts dance in February with something more casual?”

  I nodded. “Something fun and silly and utterly retro, like a Sadie Hawkins Day dance.”

  “Right. Well, the dance committee has scheduled it for February twenty-ninth, because the twenty-ninth happens only once every four years, sort of a nice kickoff for the first Sadie Hawkins Day dance. But Jacki wants to call it the ‘Turnaround Dance.’”

  I gave Jacki a puzzled look. “And if we call it ‘Sadie Hawkins,’ the world will end?” I asked, making Scott smile.

  But Jacki sure didn’t. “I’ve researched it, and Sadie Hawkins Day first appeared in a Li’l Abner comic strip in November 1937. If the whole rest of the country celebrates Sadie Hawkins Day in November, it’s ludicrous to hold our dance in February unless we change the name.”

  “I doubt that the whole rest of the country even knows who Sadie Hawkins is,” said Don.

  “It doesn’t matter!” said Jacki. “Besides, there’s another SAT scheduled for March first, the day after.”

  “But not at our school,” said Miss Ames, our sponsor. “And the newspaper has no authority to change the name of the dance. ‘Sadie Hawkins’ still lets people know that it’s girls’ choice.”

  “But—,” Jacki began.

  I was sitting at one of the computers and had Googled the term Sadie Hawkins Day. “Hey!” I interrupted. “Here’s a West Virginia school that holds a Sadie Hawkins Day dance every February twenty-ninth.”

  Scott jokingly banged his notebook down on the tabletop. “Sold!” he said. “Next topic …”

  Jacki gave me a long, hard look and angrily picked up her pen.

  The topic may have been closed, but it sort of sealed the antagonism between Jacki and me. I guess I never quite forgave her for trying to do a story on Molly and her leukemia without any thought as to how Molly might feel about it. And Jacki probably never forgave me for being there with some of my friends, sitting on Molly’s bed and eating a pizza with her—Molly in makeup, to be exact—when the photographer arrived to take a picture of a pale, limp girl in a lonely bed. Not exactly the story Jacki had in mind.

  When I got home that night, I waited until I’d finished my homework before calling Patrick. I’ve always had the feeling he’s out most evenings, because—in addition to his accelerated curriculum with all the extra homework—he’s got band and track and probably other activities I don’t even know about.

  The phone rang three times before he answered.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “Hey, it’s me. You busy?”

  “Always, but I need a break. What’s happening?” His voice was welcoming. Encouraging.

  “We had a staff meeting after school—the newspaper,” I explained, “and the big discussion was what to call the dance that’s replacing the Jack of Hearts on February twenty-ninth.”

  “Pretty momentous. Right up there with the Mideast,” said Patrick. Patrick always thinks global.

  “Yeah. Jacki Severn’s bummed because she says that most places celebrate Sadie Hawkins Day in November, so she wants to change the name of the dance.”

  Patrick laughed. “A slugfest between the Sadies and the non-Sadies? Glad I won’t be there.”

  I was quiet for a moment. “Where will you be?”

  “The band’s quintet is playing for a big Kiwanis Club charity dance. They hold it every leap year on February twenty-ninth, and Mr. Levinson asked us two months ago to play.”

  “So … you won’t be able to go?” I said, sounding stupid.

  “Unless I’ve got a clone,” said Patrick. And then he must have sensed what I was thinking, because he said, “You don’t have to sit at home, Alice. You could invite someone else.”

  I guess I didn’t want to hear that, either. I wanted him to sound disappointed. Jealous, even, at the thought of me in someone else’s arms.

  But Patrick went on. “I don’t want you to feel that because we’re going to the prom, I’ve got a clamp on your social life.” Now he sounded like a sociology professor. “I mean, I’m going to be away next year.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling a heaviness in my chest.

  “So I don’t want you sitting around waiting for me.”

  When somebody tells you he doesn’t want you sitting around waiting for him, it means he won’t be sitting around in Chicago waiting for you. And maybe I wanted to hear that, maybe I didn’t.

  “Well,” I said. “I just … wanted to make sure. You were my first choice.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Patrick, a chuckle in his voice, and I could just imagine his eyes laughing then. “I’ll think of you at the Kiwanis Club that night.”

  I asked him what instruments made up the quintet, and he said a clarinet, a bass, a trumpet, a sax, and drums—the drummer, of course, being Patrick. But I didn’t really care. I was thinking, Sadie Hawkins; I was thinking, Girls’ Choice; I was thinking, Scott Lynch.

  2

  Making the Call

  I knew I shouldn’t wait. If
I was going to invite Scott, I had to do it now. My guess was that he had already been asked. How could he not have been asked—Scott, with the topaz blue eyes and the squarest chin I’ve ever seen; the tall, slim guy—taller than Patrick, even—with that special Scott smile for everyone, not just me.

  My heart began to pound, and I wiped my palms on my jeans. Maybe he hadn’t been asked. The dance committee had only recently settled on the date. I think Jacki Severn likes him too, but after she was shooting daggers at everyone at the staff meeting, Scott included, I doubted he was her date.

  I stood up and went to the bathroom, then made my way back through the disassembled furniture in the hallway and sat down again on my bed. I stared at my cell phone. It was the scariest thing around.

  What if he just put me off? That was almost more frightening than if he said no. What if he said, You’re kidding, right? Then I’d have to say, Uh … no, I really mean it. Do you want to go? And he’d say, Alice, I’m sorry, but you’re just not my type.

  I let out my breath and went over to the window, feeling perspiration trickling down from my armpits. How do guys stand this? How do they get up in the morning wanting to ask a girl out, then watch the minutes tick by all day, knowing that every hour they wait, the girl is that much closer to going with someone else?

  The phone in the hallway rang, and I jumped. Maybe Scott was calling me! Maybe he was calling to say that if I was thinking of inviting him to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance, please don’t embarrass myself.

  It was Lester.

  “Did I leave my scarf there when I came by the other night?” he asked.

  “Oh, you scared me!” I said. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  “I sound different?”

  “No. But listen, Lester, if a girl asked you out and you didn’t want to go, how would you tell her?”

  “What does this have to do with my scarf?” he said.

  “Nothing. But I won’t look for your scarf unless you tell me what to expect.”

  I heard him sigh. “Who are you asking out? What’s the matter with Patrick?”

  “He can’t go to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance because his quintet is playing for a Kiwanis thing, and I want to ask somebody else, but I’m positive he’ll turn me down.”

  “Well, if you’re positive, then save yourself the trouble,” said Les.

  “You’re not helping!” I bleated. “I want to ask Scott Lynch, and I don’t know how he really feels about me. He’s nice to everyone.”

  “Then he’ll be nice to you, even if he turns you down,” said Lester.

  “But tell me how you’d do it,” I said. “I want to be prepared. How do guys do it without hurting a girl’s feelings? I don’t want to hang up not knowing whether he said yes or no.”

  “It’s impossible to do it without hurting somebody. It always hurts to be turned down,” said Lester. “But if I had to say no to someone and didn’t have a good excuse, I’d make up something.”

  “You’d lie?” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Lester. “Now, about my scarf …”

  “But what if you wanted to make sure she never asked you again? What do guys say then?” I insisted.

  “I suppose they could say, ‘I’m not that into you,’ but I’d probably say, ‘I’m flattered, but I just don’t think it would work out for us.’”

  “Oof,” I said, feeling sick already. “I don’t think I can take this, Les. What would I do if he says something like that?”

  “I guess you could sue him for mental anguish, but it wouldn’t make him like you any better,” said Lester. “Hey, Al, where’s your spunk? I thought you were braver than this.”

  “I’m not,” I told him. “I’m terrified. And every minute I don’t call him, some other girl probably will.”

  “Okay, then. Call the guy! But before you do, have you seen my scarf?”

  “Is it cashmere? Extra long? Sort of creamy beige?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “It’s in my locker.”

  “What?” he yelped. “That was a gift from Lauren.”

  “Lauren!” I exclaimed. “Les, you broke up with her two years ago.”

  “So I can’t wear her scarf? I like that scarf. Why is it in your locker?”

  “You left it here, and I thought I’d wear it to school the next time I drove Dad’s car, then deliver it to your apartment afterward. But I forgot and left it in my locker.”

  “I want it back, Al. They’re predicting snow for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll bring it, Les! Calm down! I didn’t lose it or anything,” I told him.

  After I went back in the bedroom, I picked up my cell phone and punched in Scott’s number. A woman answered on the second ring.

  No! No! What was his mom doing on his cell phone? Then I realized I’d dialed the second number I’d scribbled in my staff notebook, his home number.

  “I … I wonder if I could speak to Scott?” I said, wanting to die. I know you’re supposed to identify yourself when you call, but I didn’t want her announcing it.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not in right now, and I see he left his cell phone here. I expect him back in twenty minutes, though,” she said. “Should I have him call you?”

  The phone felt clammy in my hand. I had to go through this a second time?

  “Uh … no, that’s okay. I’ll call back,” I told her, and went to the bathroom again. Geez! Why hadn’t I just told Scott’s mom to ask him to the dance for me? Then, when he said no, I wouldn’t have to hear it from him.

  Why are boyfriends’ mothers so scary? I wondered. Mrs. Long always sounded so elegant and polite that I usually used the wrong words. Sam’s mom was positively terrifying. Scott’s mom sounded okay, but how did I know what she’d tell him?

  Forty minutes later, though, at 9:50, I called his cell phone number.

  “Hi, Alice,” he said.

  I was afraid I would faint. “H-how did you know it was me?” I asked.

  “Um … caller ID?” he said, and I could almost see him smiling.

  “Oh. Right,” I said. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  “No. I just got back from the gas station. What’s up?”

  “About the Sadie Hawkins Day dance …,” I began.

  “Not you too!” he said.

  I was stunned. What? A dozen girls had called so far?

  Then he said, “You want to change the name?”

  “No!” I said. “Actually, I’m calling to see if you’d like to go with me.”

  Was it one second before he answered? Three? Five? “To the dance? Uh … sure,” he said. “Sounds like fun! Thanks.”

  I was speechless.

  “Alice?” he said.

  “Oh, that’s great!” I told him. “Great! I’ll buy the tickets and everything.”

  “Okay. We can figure all that out later,” said Scott.

  “Great!” I said again. Was that my third great? “Okay, then, I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  “Right,” said Scott. “G’night.”

  “’Night,” I said, and I think I actually wet my pants a little.

  The first person I told was Liz, and I wished I hadn’t. Wished I’d told her at a different time, maybe, or in a different way, and with less emotion.

  Elizabeth Price is gorgeous. Of the four of us—Pamela, Liz, Gwen, and me—I think she’s the beautiful one. Long dark hair, dark eyes, creamy skin.… But it’s funny about Liz. She must know she’s gorgeous, but she doesn’t act as though she knows. In fact, Liz is definitely on the shy side.

  She had a serious boyfriend, Ross, from the summer before last when we were counselors at a kids’ camp. They got together a few times after that, but Ross lives in Pennsylvania and we live in Maryland. It was just too hard, I guess, to keep a long-distance romance going. But she hasn’t been out with anyone since, and she absolutely refuses to let us set her up with anyone.

  One of the problems is that a lot of guys mistake her shyness as being stu
ck-up or something. They figure a girl as beautiful as Liz must have a dozen guys calling her every weekend. Little do they know that Liz would love to go out, but no one asks her.

  So when I called and breathlessly told her that Scott Lynch—our senior newspaper editor, a great-looking guy everyone notices when he walks down the hall—would be my date for the Sadie Hawkins Day dance, I didn’t get the squeal I thought would follow.

  “You’re going with someone else? Not Patrick?” she asked.

  I explained where Patrick would be that night and how I’d secretly been crushing on Scott. But she still didn’t sound too excited. “Well, gosh, Alice! You’re doing okay,” she said, and somehow her voice sounded flat. “Two guys.”

  And then I felt awful.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” I said. “Ask somebody.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll just pick a name out of the student directory,” she said.

  “No, but there must be some guy you’ve got your eye on, Liz. I was amazed that no one had asked Scott yet, so other guys must still be available.”

  “Well, I can make that decision myself,” Liz said, and I couldn’t believe that this was Elizabeth Price, one of my best friends since sixth grade, sounding envious of me.

  “Liz, are you mad or something?” I asked.

  “Why should I be mad?”

  “I don’t know, but you don’t sound like yourself,” I said, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.

  “I just don’t need a cheerleader for my social life,” she said.

  “Liz, I—!”

  “Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Not okay!” I said. “If I said anything to upset you, Liz, I’m sorry!”

  “I said I’m not upset.”

  “All right,” I said, and we hung up.

  I sat there staring out the window at the big white house across the street, wondering if she was over there looking out at me. Why did I think everyone should be as excited and happy for me as I was for myself? They’d already cooed and carried on when I said that Patrick had asked me to the prom, and now, a few weeks later, did I expect them to turn cartwheels because I had a second guy? It even surprised me. Yet, just because we were best friends, couldn’t I understand that Liz might be a little jealous? Tired of me, even?