Jersey Angel (15 page)

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” She looks down the hall but doesn’t move.

“Well, some guy is interviewing us for the
Ocean Gazette
.” I grab my bag and point to the gym.

“For real?”

“Yeah. ’Cause of the contest.”

“You live the life, Angel.” Sherry smiles. “Okay then.” But she stays right where she is, and as I’m waiting for her to get a move on I can’t help but picture the baby again.

“Okay.” I put my arms around her and give her a hug, but she stays sorta limp. Then I hurry into the gym.

We’re supposed to have cheerleading practice because basketball season just started and our pyramid seriously needs work, but seeing how the newspaper guy is interviewing me, Inggy, Carmella, and Alyssa and we’re half the squad, practice isn’t happening.

The guy has cool hair—super-curly, and he’s grown it out into a kickin’ ’fro, but I have to say, he has an oily nose. “So,” he says to me as I join the group. “I was just asking how a Miss Merry Christmas nominee spends her day, her week.”

We give G-rated answers to his boring question, but he keeps circling back to Inggy and her many projects—her weekend in DC, her Career Spotlight column in the school newspaper and the careers she’s highlighting in the recent issue: dog breeder and phlebotomist. Can you believe there’s such a long-winded name for a person who draws
blood? I mean, really. Eventually he remembers there are three others girls here. “Is this simply a beauty contest or is it more?” he asks us.

“Who cares,” Carmella says.

“It seems like a beauty contest to me,” I say.

“Well, I have to confess that Miss Merry Christmas doesn’t exactly
do
anything,” Ing says. “She’s a local institution, but she doesn’t exactly have a mission.”

“Should she?” he asks, which you can tell he thinks is a deep question but for us is only a conversation stopper.

“The winner gets a hundred dollars,” Carmella says.

“What would you do with the money?” he asks.

“You know the Toys for Tots drive at the savings and loan? I would spend some of the money on toys … for the tots.”

Inggy and I smile at each other.

“I’d keep it,” Alyssa chimes in. “Look, I’ll be honest. I have college to think about. I’d put it in my savings account.”

He looks at me and Inggy. “Half for charity, half for my college fund,” she says.

“I’ll need to give it some thought,” I say. “The exact breakdown.”

And then he asks us what we think we’ll do with our lives.

“I’m going to Rutgers, maybe,” Carmella says. “To study broadcasting. I’d be good on TV. Or maybe I’ll be a makeup artist.”

“Journalism. Most likely,” Inggy says.

Alyssa smiles. “Teach elementary school. I love children.”

“Well, I’m not sure.” I don’t meet anyone’s eyes. “Maybe public relations or something.”

Then he’s asking us about colleges, where we applied, and I stay quiet, which is not a problem because it turns out he went to Syracuse, so he and Inggy get into a happy little conversation about that. Carmella roots around in her bag for a cigarette. “Are we done here?” she asks.

The guy sort of nods and keeps on talking to Inggy while Alyssa stares on, waiting for a chance to spring. Carmella and I wander outside and lean against the building. It’s a gorgeous day, mild and sunny for December, and I tip my head up to the sun. She looks around slyly before lighting up and taking a deep drag.

“Can I have one?” I ask.

“Seriously?”

I’m totally serious, which shocks me a little.

“Think about it. One puff and you’re a smoker again.”

“I won’t be a smoker again.”

She hands me a cigarette with a scolding look.

“You got a match?” I ask.

“You want me to smoke it for you too?” She digs in her amazing bag and finds a pack of matches from Lucky Louie’s Arcade. “God, that was highly annoying, wasn’t it?”

“Yup. But Toys for Tots. Good one.”

“I know, right?” She spots Joey talking to the coach
over by the field and quickly grinds out the cigarette. “Jesus. He’s everywhere.” She ducks around the side of the building.

I love looking at Joey’s back. I seriously do. He has such a sturdy back. Wide shoulders. His jacket hangs off him easily. How good it must feel to be him. Well, I don’t want him or anyone else seeing me with a cigarette, so I wander underneath the bleachers and contemplate lighting up.

I could just take a drag. Just one puff. But I bet I’ll want more than one puff, and then what if I do buy a pack? Carmella’s right. I sniff the cigarette. Maybe one little puff. I light the match and that gives me some satisfaction, the flame catching fire, the little sizzle. I blow it out, though, and toss the cigarette in a muddy puddle before I change my mind. Then I hear my name, so I walk under the bleachers toward two asses and two pairs of legs. It’s Kipper and this kid Adam Wasserstein, who plays some instrument in the marching band, I think. He’s an intense guy who always has a couple of big boily pimples on his forehead.

“I know,” Kipper says. “I’m not stupid. We really are friends, though.”

“High school bites. Fortunately there’s only seven months left. Then I’m home free, off to Princeton and the rest of my life, where I plan on making six figures and getting laid often. I’ll have the house, the BMW M3 convertible, the wife and kids, eventually. But first I spend college
and my twenties indulging in immoderate promiscuity and the consumption of libations. But Angel Cassonetti. She’ll be knocked up or dinging a cash register somewhere.”

“You bitter man,” Kipper says.

“Of course I’m bitter. Why shouldn’t I be bitter? But the joke’s on you.”

“I think the joke’s on you.”

“Fuck off,” Adam says. “So what’s she like, anyway?”

“Listen, dude, sex is more complicated than I thought. It can be tricky, especially with a new person. You have to kinda figure each other out.”

“New person? Bullshit. She’s the
only
person in your world.”

“Well, she’s one more than you got.”

“Fuck you.”

“And how do you know you’ll get into Princeton?”

“There are some things I know, like getting laid is only tricky for pussies like you, not for guys with a seven eighty math SAT score.”

“Seven eighty!” Kipper squeaks. “Holy crap. I got six ninety. Still very good, but—”

“Not seven eighty.”

“So let me get this straight. Your ninety extra points of wizardry, your knowledge of, say, binomial coefficients, is going to help your dick last longer than a Duracell.”

“My point is, smart is smart.”

“I can see how smart you are,” Kipper says, and laughs.

I walk back to the gym. A 780! A nearly perfect score. What would I have gotten if I’d finished, if I hadn’t lost heart and had concentrated hard? Could I have gotten a 600? A 500? Is a 500 even decent? Probably not.

Well, I guess Adam Wasserstein won’t be casting a vote my way. No matter, I predict his supremely lousy attitude is going to keep him from getting laid for a long time. And I will
so
not be dinging a cash register.

At the end of second period, Myrtle from the office comes on the PA and says, “The mayor’s office called. The votes have been tallied, and this year’s Miss Merry Christmas is—” My pencil flutters out of my hand. “Ingrid Olofsson.”

Then the bell rings and everyone gathers up their stuff and hustles on to their next class. Cork is one of the first out the door, but he looks back at me for a sec.
Oh well
, he seems to say. I take my time getting my stuff, letting the room empty. Of course Inggy wins. I knew that.

Down the hall Cork has an arm around her and she’s rolling her eyes. A couple of kids touch her arm as they pass. She doesn’t see me, neither does Cork—their heads are tipped together and it looks like they’re having a little moment. I hurry to the locker room and hide myself in a stall. I just a need a minute to let it settle, to not have anyone looking at me. I blow my nose. Why does she get everything?

Laughter and footsteps move through the room and out
into the gym. By the time I get to my locker the room is mostly empty. I change quickly as Inggy runs in.

“Hey, Miss Merry Christmas,” I say, tying my sneaker.

She leans down and hugs me. “Ack! We should have tied. I want to sit up there with you.”

I half smile.

“Get this.” She spins open her locker and chucks her gym clothes on the bench. “Cork is into it. Ha ha. I couldn’t get away from him just now.”

“That is funny,” I say.

She peels off her sweater and her little nipples show through her lacy bra. “He’s such a weirdo sometimes.”

“It’s sweet, Inggy.”

Her whole face lights up, with winning, I guess, but with Cork too. I hurry into the gym.

“Cassonetti, you’re late,” Mullen says. “We’re dancing today, people, so find a partner pronto.”

Kipper comes over and does a little bow before taking my hand. “It’s a travesty,” he whispers, spinning us in a circle as Mullen gears up the music. “You’ll always be my Miss Merry Christmas.”

“Cornball,” I whisper back.

“I will be as corny as I wish.”

“Arms, people. Remember the position.” Mullen demonstrates the hold and then grabs Joey and Carmella out of the traveling circle and rearranges them before shoving them back in.

“I told you,” Carmella snaps as Kipper and I glide past.

“Cool it,” Joey says.

“Feel the music,” Mullen yells.

Inggy and Cork are the last ones in. As the music swells, they run toward each other from opposite ends of the gym, right into each other’s arms, as if there’s nowhere else for them to be.

At midnight I buy Marlboro Lights at 7-Eleven. I ride home and sit on my back steps, huddled in my jacket, and rip open the pack. I sniff a cigarette, stick it in my mouth, and light the match. But then Cork comes around the corner and the wind blows it out. He sits beside me, takes the cigarette from my lips, and lights it. “Head rush,” he says, coughing a little. He holds it out to me, but I don’t want it now. He takes a drag and blows a thin stream into the cold air, his hand on my knee. When he’s done, he flicks it onto the stones, where it glows red. “Come on.” He stands and reaches for my hand.

“I don’t want to, Cork.”

“Huh?”

I shrug.

“ ’Cause Inggy won?”

“Don’t be an ass. I knew she’d win. She knew she’d win.”

He sits down again and puts an arm around me. “Sorry.”

I laugh. “You’re not sorry.”

“Well, I’m in a situation here, aren’t I? There’s my girlfriend and there’s you—”

I put my fingers over his mouth. “You should be happy for her. You did everything right today.”

“What does that mean?”

I stand and hand him the pack. “I’m gonna take a ride.”

“She doesn’t know, Angel.” He means about us, and I’m pretty sure he’s right. He tags along behind me as I walk my bike over the stones. When I get to the street he grabs the handlebar. “What’s wrong? She doesn’t know. Seriously.”

“But we know.”

Both Sardone cars are parked out front and it’s pretty late, so there’s little chance Carmella is here, but still, as I knock on Joey’s window I’m expecting her to appear. I have to knock three times. Little knocks, and finally Joey raises the window, looking sleepy, his hair mashed. He’s shirtless and shivers when the cold air hits him.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” I tell him. If you love someone there must be a moment that announces itself and your heart doesn’t wonder because it knows the things it knows. My heart hasn’t made any announcement, and yet here I am again.

“It’s freezing,” he says, hugging himself. “Come in. Go to the door.”

I shake my head and point at the open window. It seems better, less intrusive, to come through the window, so he opens it wide and I put my arms around him and he hauls me in, banging his arm on the sill.

“Jesus.” He rubs it. “You do everything the hard way, don’t you?”

“Oh, stop.”

He shuts the window and we sit on his bed, which is still warm from him. The lights over the lagoon fill his room with shadows. He sits close to me. “How about some fancy cheese?”

“I thought you were getting fat and all.”

“I’m weak. It doesn’t stop me.”

He trots off to the kitchen and returns with a cutting board of cheese. “Wait’ll you taste this gruyère and Camembert. A couple of my regulars.”

“Oh, nice,” I say, taking a slice of Camembert.

We don’t say much at all. We eat slowly, and this is exactly where I want to be.

I read this book once in middle school about a romance, first love for a bubbly girl who was always taking off her glasses each time she had some deep thought. Anyway, when her crush finally kissed her, “love pierced her with joy,” and she took off her glasses, of course. I didn’t like the book much but I remembered that part—being pierced with joy—because it fits with Cupid and his trusty arrow. I
look at Joey’s profile. A strong nose, stubble, lashes touching his cheek when he looks down, dark hair falling over his forehead. And I think how can I still not know if I love him when I’m so aware of him, when I’m still coming to his window, when he’s kind of alive inside me? But joy isn’t exactly what I feel about Joey. Maybe “piercing joy” is the Hallmark version, love moron-style. Quite possibly love is much more complicated.

He puts an arm around me as we eat cheese. “Sorry about Miss Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, it’s dumb.”

“I voted for you, for what that’s worth.”

“Thanks.”

He nods. “I didn’t vote for Inggy. Nothing against Inggy.”

“Just me and Carmella, huh?” He’s quiet and I nudge him. He stays quiet. “Whoa,” I say.

“I like my girlfriend, all right. But lately she’s pretty pissy. And I don’t think Miss Merry Christmas should smoke and have a bad attitude.”

I smile. “Because Miss MC is such an important local institution?”

“Come on. I can just see it. She’d be sitting up there, wearing the crown and lighting up and sending me pissy texts. I’m having none of that.”