Head Case by Sarah Aronson

Author:Sarah Aronson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466874336
Publisher: Roaring Brook Press

Meredith Stein was holding my hand. My hand, holding my hand, she was holding my hand and we were talking, or rather, she was talking.

“My summer was great. At my camp, the summer before senior year, you get to be a CIT—I mean, counselor-in-training. I worked with eleven-year-old girls. I couldn’t believe it—all they wanted to do was wash and blow-dry their hair.”

We were nearly shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye, hip to hip, and she was holding my hand.

“Really.”

“I know! This one kid had scoliosis, and so she had to wear a brace, and it was so sad. For Fourth of July, I let her take it off, so she could hang with her boyfriend. Isn’t that cute?”

“Yeah.” She could talk all day, as long as she kept holding my hand.

She had freckles on every inch of her skin. Her face, her shoulders, her chest, her legs. She had muscular legs. Great legs. I tried to keep my eyes moving, head nodding, so she couldn’t tell how obviously excited I was to be standing there, looking at her, listening to her talk. Eyes, breasts, hair, breasts, tummy … she had a belly ring. Gold. A cloud obscured the sun, and she shivered. “Brrrr. When the sun goes in, it gets so cold.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.” Let the sun go in. Let it get real cold. Her nipples were visible through her top.

She stood there, making words, talking to me, like we knew each other, like we were friends. “What’s your favorite class?” She had great lips, too. Full, hot pink lips. Shiny. The bridge of her nose was starting to peel. Her shoulders looked burned, too. I wished I could concentrate on what she was saying. “Someone told me you like to play baseball.”

“Yes, I like baseball.” I didn’t understand why she was so interested in me. My internal alarm was clanging, screaming, telling me to run, get out of there, go to the bathroom, away. “But I don’t play for the team. Just for fun. What do you like to do?”

What is the thing that doesn’t go with the others? There was something happening here. She asked more questions: “Who’s your favorite band? Do you like art? Have you been to the MFA in Boston?”

“I like Sargent,” I said, but she didn’t hear me through the blast of a bullhorn. She pointed to her ear, shrugged her shoulders, and mouthed, “Later.” Then she tapped another guy on the shoulder.

“Nice meeting you,” I said. “Maybe I’ll call you sometime.”

“Huh? What did you say? You got a partner yet?” John Guttman introduced himself and started firing questions like bullets.

It was a mixer, a game meant for people like them to draw in people like me. After Guttman, I went back to the swings and watched. The bullhorn blasted again and again.

“Isn’t this great?” Harry asked. His cheeks were bright pink.

“You forgot to put on sunscreen.”

Harry laughed. “Jocelyn Manis talked to me for three separate rotations. Three times. She says I crack her up.

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