Fringe Girl in Love by Valerie Frankel

Author:Valerie Frankel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.

Seventeen

Upon my return home, I gave my family a scathing critique of the movie I hadn’t seen (but had read a few reviews of). I responded to an e-mail from Liza, assuring her that Matt, who’d made himself scarce all day, wasn’t abandoning her but was dealing with their family issues in his own way, like most men, in solitude.

All that lying ruined my good night’s sleep. I tossed and turned, replaying the kiss with Matt, his soft hair against my cheek, how my heart nearly hatched when he got his hand under my shirt. As I flipped around on my bed, I twisted mentally, too, fully aware of my own contradictory impulses. Doing something bad felt good because it was bad. Would I have been as excited if Matt weren’t a secret?

By dawn, I’d done enough self-analysis to last the rest of my life. I threw back the covers, froze, turned blue, and dove back into bed. I counted to fifty, summoned bravery, and then got up, washed, dressed, wrote a note to Mom to explain my absence at breakfast and went to Brownstone.

I got there at seven in the morning. I kept my head down as I walked, not wanting to be noticed (although, with my sherpa hat, parka and scarf, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have been able to pick me out of a lineup). I climbed the steps of the school and pulled on the door handle.

Locked. Shit.

I pushed the security buzzer. No one answered. I leaned on it for thirty seconds. No response.

Double shit.

I started banging on the door, yelling to be let in. So much for stealth. After a few freezing minutes, the door opened. Mr. Contralto, the school custodian, stood on the inside, irritated and confused. “Ms. Benet? Classes are not for an hour.”

“Bright and early Monday morn,” I sang. “I can’t wait to learn, Mr. Contralto.”

“Learn what?” he asked, like he knew something.

He let me inside, and I started to regain feeling in my toes. “The truth is”—a good windup for another lie—“I left my books in my locker and I came as soon as I could to do my homework.”

Mr. Contralto, an honest, hardworking man who, I’d always suspected, resented the entitlement of some of Brownstone’s students (not me, of course), said, “I can’t let you loose in the school unsupervised.”

“I’ll just get my books and do my homework in the cafeteria.”

He nodded, suspicious. He checked his watch; he had things to do. “Okay.”

I jogged down the hallway to the upper school locker area, sure he was watching me. After gathering some books, I went straight for Chez Brownstone. Some cafeteria workers were already there, preparing what would be our lunch. I spread out my books and backpack on one of the long tables and waited. Sure enough, Mr. Contralto walked through ten minutes later, ostensibly to inspect the room, but I knew he was checking on me. I waved at him with both hands, and said, “Thanks ever so, Mr. Contralto.”

He barely acknowledged me and walked off, his key chain jangling on his belt.

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