Claudia Gets Her Guy, Page 2

  But I did. I tortured myself. All day long, I kept thinking about Jeremy. I pictured his soft brown eyes and the way his hair (also a delicious brown) flops across his forehead. I thought about the leather shoelace with one red bead that he wears on his right wrist….

  By dinnertime I was a wreck, and I couldn’t hide it. I tried to act normal, but I was too distracted. Finally, after I passed the butter when Janine had asked for the salt, my mom asked me what was wrong.

  “Wrong?” I repeated. “Nothing’s wrong. I just — I was just thinking about —” Suddenly, I remembered something I’d forgotten to tell my parents on Friday. “ — the project I volunteered for. It starts tomorrow.”

  “What is it?” my dad asked.

  “It’s a new program where kids from SMS are going to work with people who just moved here from other countries,” I told him.

  “Immigrants?” my dad asked.

  “Right,” I said. I’d forgotten the exact word. “Immigrants. Anyway, most of them don’t speak English very well. They need help, not just learning English but also learning how to live in this country. Like, how to shop for food and stuff. So Erica and I volunteered.” Erica Blumberg is a new friend of mine.

  I could tell my parents were very impressed. So was Janine. All three of them offered help if I needed it. As I helped clear the table, I was glad I’d remembered the project. Maybe it would take my mind off —

  The phone rang, just as I was putting my plate into the dishwasher. Janine answered it as my heart started knocking around in my chest.

  “It’s for you.” Janine handed me the phone.

  “H-hello?” I said, hoping to hear Jeremy’s voice.

  But it was Erica. And that was the only phone call for me that night. I went to bed knowing I’d have to wait until school the next day to find out where things stood between Jeremy and me.

  I may have gone to bed, but that doesn’t mean I went to sleep. Instead, I tossed and turned for hours. I probably dozed off now and then, but mostly I just lay in bed thinking.

  Somewhere between eleven and midnight I thought about the way Jeremy walks with a little swing to his step and his habit of flipping back the hair that hangs down over his eyes.

  From midnight until two I thought about how lucky I am to have Jeremy as a friend. I know he would stand by me, no matter what. With most people, it can take a long time to create a friendship that strong. But Jeremy and I seem to have a special bond.

  I must have slept for a while between two and three, but then between three and four I thought a lot about the meaning of Jeremy and Stacey’s breakup. Now that they weren’t a couple anymore, everything would be different.

  But — different how? That was the question.

  From four until five I started to think about what it would be like to see Jeremy at school the next day. What would we say? How would we act?

  Once I started to think about that, I gave up on any thought of sleeping. Why? Because I had to figure out what to wear. It’s not that I’m shallow. I know that it’s what’s inside that counts, and that appearances mean nothing. I know that a positive attitude and a friendly spirit are much more meaningful than the way a person dresses.

  Still.

  Clothes are important to me. Very important. Think of it this way: We all have to wear clothes every day, right? So we might as well let those clothes make a statement. Clothes are one way we have of telling the world who we are.

  I am an artist, a person who values creativity. My clothes reflect that. For me, deciding what to wear can be an art form, just like drawing or painting. And deciding what to wear for a special occasion is like creating a painting for a big museum. The stakes are higher, and you have to make an extra effort to do your best.

  Monday was a very special occasion. I wanted my outfit to reflect the true and total essence of Claudia. When Jeremy saw me, he would know exactly who I am. It was a lot to ask of a bunch of fabric and thread.

  By the time my alarm went off at seven, I had a pretty good idea of what I might wear. I’d come up with an outfit that was attractive yet informal. Relaxed but not grubby. Offbeat but not too weird.

  In other words, perfect.

  But when I got out of bed to pull together the items I’d need, they didn’t look right after all. I tried on outfit after outfit.

  “Claudia, breakfast is ready,” my mom called from downstairs.

  “Coming!” I called back, pulling off a dress. It looked too fussy, too much like I was trying. The perfect outfit should look effortless.

  “Claudia,” my mom called again a few minutes later. “Your eggs are cold. And you should be leaving in five minutes.”

  Five minutes! I panicked. I opened my closet and pulled out armloads of clothing, sorting through it quickly and tossing things into three piles: “yes,” “no,” and “maybe.”

  The “no” pile was the biggest. Next was the “maybe” pile. And the “yes” pile? Practically nonexistent.

  “What, may I ask, are you doing?”

  I looked up from my sorting to see Janine leaning on the doorframe.

  “Just trying to figure out what to wear,” I said, feeling exhausted.

  “Special day?”

  I nodded, surprised that Janine would understand that a special day demands a special outfit. She’s not at all into clothes.

  “How about that blouse you made from Mimi’s silk kimono?” she asked. “You look beautiful in that.”

  I stared at her. Then I ran to the closet. The blouse was hanging there, clean and pressed. I pulled it on, then headed back to the “yes” pile for a swirly, short black rayon skirt. Janine, still watching, nodded.

  “Excellent,” she said.

  I checked the mirror. The black chopsticks in my hair complemented the kimono blouse perfectly. I was all set.

  Just then, my mom passed my door. “Claudia!” she said. “I thought you’d left already. You’ll never be able to walk to school in time now!”

  She glanced into my room and saw the mess I’d made. A little smile crossed her face. “You look nice,” she said. “How about if I give you a ride?”

  Fifteen minutes later, my mom dropped me off in front of the main entrance to SMS. I bolted for my locker, hoping that Jeremy hadn’t already passed by. His homeroom is in the same hall as my locker, so I see him nearly every morning.

  I put my jacket away, then leaned casually against my locker, waiting. What would I say to him? I practiced a few possibilities in my mind. So, I heard you broke up. How does it feel to be free at last? Looking for a new girlfriend, by any chance?

  I decided to be quiet and see what Jeremy had to say. I waited, excited and very, very nervous.

  Finally, I spotted him walking down the hall in the middle of a crowd of boys. His hair looked shiny and clean, and he was wearing a red corduroy shirt that went beautifully with his eyes.

  He saw me at the same time I saw him.

  He smiled.

  He gave me a wave.

  Then he walked on by.

  I felt one of the chopsticks fall out of my bun. And I felt my heart drop to the floor.

  That wasn’t what I’d expected.

  All the time I had figured that now Jeremy and I would either be:

  A) Friends, or

  B) More Than Friends.

  I hadn’t even considered possibility

  C) Less Than Friends.

  Why hadn’t Jeremy stopped to talk?

  Why, why, why?

  I worked this question over all morning. First, during homeroom, I convinced myself that he’d broken up with Stacey because he wanted to go out with someone else — but that someone else was not me. I always like to get the really negative thinking out of the way first.

  During my first class, math, I managed to start thinking more positively. Maybe he’d been late for class. Or he had been preoccupied with thoughts about some project he was working on. Maybe he didn’t want to talk unless we could really talk.

  Al
l through social studies I made up conversations in my head, conversations that Jeremy and I might have. In my imagination, he and I talked so easily about the situation.

  By lunchtime, I had decided that the only reason he hadn’t stopped to talk was because it was just too early in the morning. He’d looked sort of sleepy, when I thought about it. Most likely he just hadn’t been in the mood to talk.

  As I entered the cafeteria, I scanned the tables for Jeremy. When I saw him across the room, I felt a little jolt in my stomach. He was sitting with a bunch of guys, guys I’ve known for years. Pete Black was there and Alan Gray (the most obnoxious boy in our school — maybe in our universe) and Trevor Sandbourne (an old boyfriend of mine — very cute). Cary Retlin, who has lived in Stoneybrook for only a while, was there too. Cary’s very mischievous, and always has a few tricks up his sleeve. I wondered how much those guys knew about what was going on with Jeremy’s love life. Do guys talk about stuff like that? It’s hard to imagine.

  I caught Jeremy’s eye and gave him a wave. He smiled at me and waved back.

  But did he stand up and start walking toward me?

  No.

  And did he wave me over to sit at his table?

  Nope.

  He turned back to Alan and started talking again, ignoring me completely.

  Whoa.

  I just stood there for a moment, staring. I was having a hard time understanding what had just happened. But it was obvious. Jeremy didn’t want to talk to me now any more than he had in the morning.

  “What’s the matter, Claud?”

  Erica was behind me.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost,” she continued. “What are you looking — oh.” She followed my glance and saw Jeremy.

  Erica knew how I felt about him. And she knew he and Stacey had broken up. She tugged at my sleeve. “Stop staring, Claudia,” she whispered. “Come on.”

  I shook my head in order to clear it and followed her to the hot-lunch line. I don’t even buy hot lunches, but I followed her anyway. I was in a daze.

  “Have you talked to him?” she asked as she accepted a plate of macaroni and cheese.

  I shook my head.

  “So you don’t know what’s going on yet?” She chose an orange from the fruit display.

  I shook my head again.

  Erica nodded and picked up a carton of chocolate milk.

  “What about Stacey? Have you talked to her?”

  One more head-shake.

  She raised her eyebrows. “No wonder you’re a mess,” she said. “Although, I must say you look awesome today.” She gave my outfit an appreciative glance. “Come on, let’s sit down.” She paid for her meal and picked up her tray. Then she turned to scan the cafeteria again. “There’s Stacey, sitting with Rachel.”

  I spotted Stacey. She was talking and laughing with a new friend, Rachel Griffin. She didn’t look like someone who had just gone through a devastating breakup.

  “I — I don’t think I’m ready to talk to her,” I said. My feelings were so complicated. I was still hoping to work things out with Stacey and be her friend again, but that was going to take some time.

  “Then let’s sit with Kristy and Mary Anne and Abby,” suggested Erica. She led me through the cafeteria to their table.

  “Beautiful outfit, Claudia,” Mary Anne said as she moved over to make space for me. “Have you talked to him yet?”

  “Talked to who?” Kristy interrupted. “Jeremy?”

  “Shhh!” I said.

  “What?”

  I looked around. “Somebody might hear you.”

  “So?” said Kristy. “Everybody knows they broke up.” Mary Anne gave Kristy a Look. “What? Come on, it’s common knowledge. And it’s not like Stacey’s too upset about it. After all, Ethan was there to comfort her,” said Kristy.

  I glanced at Mary Anne.

  “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Ethan was at the party.”

  “That must have been interesting for Stacey,” Abby put in. “Wasn’t that math teacher there too? The one she had the humongous crush on?”

  “Mr. Ellenburg?” I asked.

  Mary Anne nodded. “It sounds as if he’s going to be teaching here again. And guess who else turned up at the party. Toby, that guy she met in Sea City.”

  “Get out,” I said. I glanced at Stacey. She must have had one very wild night. I would have loved to hear about it from her. But we weren’t talking that way yet. Maybe someday soon I’d hear the whole story. And maybe I’d find out what was going on between her and Ethan. Were they back together? Was that why she’d broken up with Jeremy?

  Jeremy. For a few seconds I’d been able to forget about him. But just thinking of his name gave me a knot in my stomach. I glanced at his table and saw him laughing and pounding Alan on the shoulder. Alan had probably just done something gross or stupid, like throwing a pat of butter up in the air so it would stick on the ceiling.

  Then I glanced at Stacey again. She and Rachel were deep in conversation. She was probably telling Rachel what had happened at the party.

  I had thought my troubles would be over if Jeremy and Stacey broke up. Instead, I felt even more mixed up. And I missed talking to both of them.

  Just then, the bell rang. As soon as Erica and I left the cafeteria, she turned to me. “I have to tell you something,” she said. “I had another fight with my parents last night.”

  “About the search?” I asked. Erica was adopted, and lately she has begun to wonder about her birth parents, especially her mother. She loves her adoptive family very much, but she is curious about her biological roots. Her parents (the ones who adopted her) understand, but they think she should wait until she’s eighteen to search for her birth mother.

  Erica nodded. “I know they mean well. But they can’t understand what it’s like. Only other adopted people can.” She looked upset.

  I reached out to pat her shoulder. “So what will you do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Last night I even went online and checked out some of the adoption-search sites. They have all these stories and pictures of families who were reunited. Not every story has a happy ending, but I still want to try.”

  “Do the sites help you find birth parents?”

  She nodded. “They can. But you have to fill in all this information about yourself. I’m not ready to do that behind my parents’ backs. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Wow, that must be so hard,” I said, trying to put myself in Erica’s place. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “It’s great to be able to talk to you about it,” Erica replied. “That’s enough for now.”

  We’d reached the computer lab by then, and I followed Erica in. I was glad at least one person wanted to talk to me.

  “Is pretty. So pretty!”

  Mrs. Yashimoto was nodding at my kimono blouse. “Thank you,” I said. “It was my grandmother’s.”

  She smiled, but I could tell she didn’t understand.

  “Arigato,” I said, remembering one of the few Japanese words I learned from Mimi. Arigato means “thank you.”

  She beamed at me. We’d gotten off to a good start.

  It was Monday, after school. And for the first time in what seemed like days, I wasn’t thinking about Stacey or Jeremy. Instead, I was concentrating on getting to know the Yashimotos, the family who needed my help learning English and adjusting to life in America.

  As soon as the last bell had rung, Erica and I had headed for the home economics room, where we were going to meet our families for the first time. During our training sessions, Ms. Beckwith had gone over the basics of how ESL (that’s English as a Second Language) is taught. She’d explained that our job would be to help the families use what they were learning. It would be less threatening, for example, for immigrants to practice English with us than with strangers in a store or a restaurant or a state office. We were helping them polish their skills for the “real world.”

  The adult volunteers —
some of them were teachers from SMS and some were parents or other community members — were responsible for the real teaching, Ms. Beckwith had assured us. Each SMS student was paired with one of the adult volunteers. I’d be working with a woman named Mary Buckley, who had been teaching ESL for years.

  That was a relief. I’d been more than a little nervous about what was expected of me. After all, I barely knew any Japanese. Mimi, who spoke it fluently, had taught me to count to ten and say a few other words and phrases, but other than that I knew nothing.

  Ms. Beckwith reassured me. “You’ll be surprised,” she said. “People are people all over the world, and language is not as much of a barrier as you would think.”

  Ten minutes into my first session with the Yashimotos, I had to admit she was right.

  Ms. Buckley — who had told me to call her Mary — had already met several times with the Yashimotos, so she had handled the introductions when they arrived in the classroom.

  “This is Mr. Yashimoto,” she said, gesturing toward a handsome man in a gray suit. He nodded to me — sort of a little bow — and I nodded back.

  “And this is Claudia Kishi,” Mary told him, gesturing toward me.

  “Please meet you,” he said.

  Mary smiled at him. “Good,” she said. “Almost right. Want to try again?”

  He thought for a second. “Please to meet you,” he said with a question in his voice. He was looking at Mary, not at me.

  “Better,” she said. “But say ‘pleased’ instead of ‘please.’ ”

  “Ah!” he said. “Okay. Pleased to meet you,” he told me with confidence.

  “And I’m pleased to meet you,” I said, remembering to speak clearly but in my normal rhythm. I also made an effort not to shout; during our training we’d been reminded that our students are not hard of hearing. (Many people have a habit of raising their voices when they speak to someone who doesn’t speak English.)

  Mr. Yashimoto smiled and nodded again.

  “And this is Mrs. Yashimoto,” Mary said. “She speaks less English, but she’s learning quickly.”

  Mr. Yashimoto was a small, very pretty woman with shiny dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. She smiled a quick, shy smile that lit up her face. “Hello,” she said in a soft voice. Then she gestured toward her two children.