The Art of Adapting Read online

  “I gotta run,” he said, stepping forward and lowering his voice, out of Caitlin’s hearing range. “But look, if you ever want to talk about stuff or maybe study together, we can, you know, hang out.”

  Abby’s heart sped up. She felt so dizzy her hands went numb and her face got all tingly. “Really?”

  “Gabe!” Caitlin barked.

  Gabe sighed and turned. “Jeez, Cait. I’ll be right there.”

  “I’m hungry. You know how cranky I get when I’m hungry.” Caitlin pouted and whined, gave her boobs a little bounce.

  “Sorry,” Gabe said to Abby. “Duty calls. See you in chem.” He gave her a quick salute before turning and catching up to Caitlin, who was now walking away from them.

  “Trotting after her like a little dog,” Emily said. Abby turned to see her a few feet away, shaking her head. “But he talked to you for a while. What did he say?”

  Abby watched Gabe and Caitlin cross the field. Caitlin did one of those flirty sidesteps to bump into Gabe a few times, but Gabe didn’t do anything back. He kept his hands in his pockets and walked with purpose. This gave her hope.

  “He said we could hang out sometime,” Abby whispered. Had she heard him right? Had he really said that?

  “Seriously? When?”

  And that’s when reality came back. “We didn’t exactly make plans. We were interrupted.”

  “No accident. He looked way too happy chatting with you. That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen her move, when she was booking it over here to get him.”

  Abby smiled, but she didn’t feel happy anymore. She was back to feeling invisible. “Maybe he was just being nice.”

  Em nudged her. “Maybe he likes you.”

  “How, when he has her flopping all over him?”

  Gabe climbed into the driver’s seat of his old blue Honda Civic, and Caitlin stood next to the passenger door like she was above opening it herself. Gabe leaned over and pushed the door open from inside, nearly hitting Caitlin with it. Abby smiled as she watched Caitlin sulk. Gabe didn’t move, and eventually Caitlin got into the car. Abby was pretty sure she could see the animated hand gestures of an argument inside the car as they pulled out of the lot.

  “She’s built, but she’s dumb and annoying. You’re the full package,” Em said.

  “Ha. The full package wouldn’t have a C in chem.”

  Em, straight-A student, patted Abby’s arm sympathetically. “When’s your meeting with Mr. Franks?”

  “Wednesday morning, before school,” Abby said. She was a bundle of nerves, half worried about Mr. Franks and half angry at the whole world. She felt like this more and more lately, and wasn’t sure why. While Em meant well, having her around suddenly irritated Abby. Emily was sweet, but simple. Book-smart, but not people-smart. She thought the world was a rosy place and everything always worked out for the best. She didn’t even understand dirty jokes unless Abby spelled them out for her. Abby looked for something to do, some excuse to get away from her, but of course there wasn’t anything. School was over, soccer was over, everyone was heading home.

  Emily’s mom’s car pulled into the lot and Emily grabbed her duffel bag of soccer stuff and her backpack of school things. Emily’s mom was the director of a preschool, and even more annoyingly peppy than Emily.

  “Ready?”

  “Maybe I’ll just do some studying here,” Abby said. “Take the bus home later.”

  Emily laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. My mom’s expecting to give you a ride.”

  It was ridiculous. Ridiculous to hate her best friend for being happy and perfect, especially since Emily had no idea how pretty she was. Abby forced a laugh.

  “Yeah, right. Never mind.”

  “I know! We can get frozen yogurt on the way to your house,” Em said, giggling. She was the same exact girl inside that she’d been when they became best friends in third grade. Only now she had the figure of a budding Victoria’s Secret model. Life just wasn’t fair.

  The thought of sitting down across from gruff Mr. Franks and hearing how she’d disappointed him with her chemistry ineptitude made Abby’s stomach hurt. She knew she couldn’t eat, but she smiled and nodded. “Sure, frozen yogurt sounds great.”

  Abby picked up her duffel bag and the spots behind her eyes danced and spun. Her face surged with heat and she got a clammy feeling all over her body. She felt a wave of nausea. A dark fuzzy feeling in her head. Her hands and feet disappeared. She was numb, dizzy, cold, but sweating. She tried to call out to Em, but she had no voice. And then the lights went out.

  Abby opened her eyes to the bright sunlight above, and a crowd of faces around her. She was lying on the field, the cool grass beneath her, still in her soccer uniform. She recognized Em, Emily’s mom, Coach, and a couple girls from the team. She tried to sit up and the world spun and started to go dark again. She felt like she was going to throw up.

  “Easy, there!” Coach said. He was inches from her face, but he seemed farther away. He cupped her shoulder and pushed her back down. “Don’t get up too fast. You fainted.”

  “What?” she asked. “What happened?” Abby’s bag was under her left leg, her right arm twisted beneath her, still holding the strap. She wanted to let go but couldn’t. Her body was too heavy to move.

  “You feeling ill?” Coach asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, even though she knew she wasn’t. “A little thirsty, maybe.” Her mouth felt like sandpaper.

  “Probably dehydrated,” Coach said. He disappeared from Abby’s view for a moment, then came back holding up a bottle of orange Gatorade. “You need to drink up before and after. Try something with electrolytes instead of just water. Drink it slowly, and finish it all.”

  Abby accepted his advice with a nod, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to see the worried, prying faces above her. But the fireworks display was still going on in her dark and fuzzy brain, and the world felt lopsided in there, so she opened her eyes again, squinting in the brutal sunlight. “I’m so embarrassed. I’ve never fainted or anything before.” Everyone was still watching the humiliating Abby show.

  “Oh, god, you scared me!” Emily said. She started crying, nearly hysterical. “You were right behind me and we were talking, then down you went into a big heap. Like you were dead or something.” She wept into her hands until her mother reached for her, and then she cried into her mom’s neck. Abby was grateful for being upstaged.

  The feeling had come back into Abby’s arms and she slowly propped herself up on her elbows. The world tipped dangerously to one side, and Abby tipped her head with it to line her vision up with the tilting horizon, which didn’t help one bit. It just made the world tip more.

  “Take some deep breaths,” Coach said. He checked her pulse against his watch and nodded, satisfied with whatever he found there. Abby focused on breathing and it helped a little. The feeling in her face was coming back, but her lips were still numb. Coach handed the Gatorade to Abby and she drank a few sips. Her stomach roiled in response. She was definitely going to throw up. As if fainting weren’t mortifying enough, she was going to throw up in front of all these people, too. She was beyond humiliated, but so grateful that Gabe was already gone. No doubt he’d hear about it, though. Fainting was the kind of thing people talked about. The kind of story that morphed into an epic tale about falling and striking an object, a cracked-open head and stitches and a near-death concussion, any embellishment necessary to keep the story interesting as it propelled itself down the school halls. Abby realized she was thinking clearer now, and her stomach had stopped threatening to lurch. She sipped a little more.

  “Please don’t tell my mom,” she said, surprised at how small her voice sounded.

  “Oh,” Coach said, shaking his head. “Now, this is the sort of thing us parents need to know about.”

  “But I’m fine,” Abby said. “I mean, doesn’t this sort of thing happen sometimes in sports?”

  “Sure, sure, I’ve seen it happen. Athletes, especially good one
s.” He nodded at Abby and she felt a warmth toward him. He had noticed her after all. “Well, they push themselves harder, sometimes to the point of fainting, throwing up, collapsing in exhaustion . . .”

  “And I won’t do it again. It’s just that my mom, she’s under so much stress already,” Abby said. Yes, she was thinking very clearly now. “I don’t want to upset her more. Please.” She looked to Emily’s mother for backup, because she knew the whole separation story, and got a reassuring smile. “I’m not sure she could handle this in her current state.”

  Emily’s mom rubbed Abby’s arm. She leaned in toward Abby and whispered something about “that time of month?” Abby had no idea when her last period had been. She’d only started maybe eight months before and it was pretty irregular, maybe only three cycles since then. But it seemed like as good an excuse as any. She nodded, lied and said she’d been having cramps earlier. Emily’s mom patted her like a pet.

  “We need to tell your mom something,” she said. “That you got dehydrated to the point of being dizzy, really dizzy. That you need to bring something with electrolytes instead of just water from now on. That you need a little more rest, certain times of the month?”

  Abby wanted to hug her but she couldn’t move that much yet. Her arms were still too heavy. “Yes. I think she could handle that.”

  Coach shook his head in disagreement, but Emily’s mother touched his arm, whispered something to him. His face flushed red, and he sighed.

  “Okay, okay. But I’m keeping a serious eye on you from now on,” he said. “Electrolytes.”

  “Electrolytes,” Abby said. “Got it.”

  8

  * * *

  Byron

  Byron caught a ride home from school with Paul. Paul was one of the guys Byron had hung out with a little during summer, someone he’d known since kindergarten, but they weren’t close. He was a means to an end. Byron needed to be liked by Paul’s rebel group of stoners so he wouldn’t be labeled a jock jerk, and Paul needed a straightlaced friend to show his parents, proof he wasn’t running with the wrong crowd anymore. Which he still was, but whatever. They rounded the corner onto Byron’s street, and there was a police car in Byron’s driveway, freshly polished and gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  “What the hell?” Paul said. He ducked down in his seat, slowed to twenty-five miles per hour on the dot, and cruised right past. “You in trouble?” he asked Byron.

  Byron laughed. “No. I’m never in trouble.” But as Paul dropped Byron off around the corner, Byron wondered.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” Paul said. “Don’t tell them I gave you a lift, okay? Good luck.”

  Byron got to walk the block back toward his house imagining all kinds of terrifying scenarios that’d land a cop in his house on a Friday afternoon. A break-in? Something with Matt? Byron hadn’t broken any laws. He’d hidden some weed for Paul over the summer once, but it was long gone. He checked the cop car to make sure it wasn’t a K-9 unit. As long as there wasn’t a drug-sniffing dog, he should be fine, right?

  He stepped into the house and the cop and his mom were laughing on the sofa together, sitting with their knees just a few inches apart.

  “Hey,” Byron said, aiming for casual and striking a note just shy of panicked.

  “Oh, hi, sweetie,” Lana said. She never called him sweetie anymore, which either meant he was in serious trouble or none at all. “How was school?”

  “Um, fine. Good.” Byron stared at the cop and the cop stared at Byron.

  “He looks just like you,” the cop said.

  “Does he?” Lana asked. She tilted her head and gazed at Byron lovingly. So then not in trouble, it seemed.

  “Everything, um, okay?” Byron asked, regretting it the moment he’d said it. Why call attention to something if he didn’t need to?

  Lana and the cop laughed, turned toward each other, and laughed some more.

  “Occupational hazard,” Lana said, and they kept right on laughing. “Byron, this is an old friend of mine. Nick Parker. You remember he called the other night?”

  “Right,” Byron said, although he didn’t remember the name at all. “Okay. Nice to meet you.” He gave a half wave at the cop, but Nick Parker wasn’t having any of it. He marched over to Byron, his hefty leather belt full of guns and clubs and something in a snapped leather pouch creaking as he made his way across the room. He reached for Byron’s sweaty hand and grinned at him as he shook it.

  “Nice to meet you,” Nick Parker said. He had the high, tight haircut of an asshole. The buff build and movie-star looks of someone used to intimidating people without saying a word. Byron didn’t like him. Or how cozy he seemed with Lana. The cop’s radio crackled to life and he listened to the call, indecipherable mumbling to Byron, then shook his head and sat back down on the couch, this time about a foot from Lana.

  “Hey, I was going to run down to Trent’s, if that’s okay,” Byron said. He usually didn’t bother to ask permission, but the cop made him feel like he needed to be on his best behavior.

  “Of course,” Lana said. “Have fun. Tell him hi for me.”

  Byron couldn’t wait to tell Trent that he had competition. From a guy who looked just like the liquid metal guy in Terminator 2. Interestingly enough, that guy had also worn a cop uniform. Byron bailed and booked it over to Trent’s, where he completely forgot to tell Trent about the cop because as soon as he walked into the house he saw Betsy’s bags of laundry in the kitchen. That changed everything.

  Byron was still agitated from seeing the cop, but as soon as he spotted Betsy lounging out by the pool, the feeling started to go away. He settled into a chair and half watched Trent scour Craigs-list for a car. Never mind that Trent didn’t have a license. Not even a driver’s permit. Or the cash to buy a car. Byron sat sideways across the plush purple chair, one leg over its arm, so that he could look both over Trent’s shoulder and out toward the pool. Betsy had on a new swimsuit: red with a chain of little gold rings for straps and a little skirt around the bottom. It was very low-cut. She was reading a magazine and talking on her phone at the same time, tapping her foot with its hot pink toenails and tiny gold toe ring. Byron was sketching doodles in the margin of some take-out menu he’d found on the table: an eye, a gentle curve of wavy hair, the corner of her lips. He’d just started the outline of Betsy’s shoulder when he got struck in his left ear.

  “Dude,” Trent said, waving the rolled-up newspaper he’d used to smack Byron upside the head.

  “Knock if off, jerkwad,” Byron said, striking back with a thick National Geographic from the table.

  “This is important stuff. Pay attention.”

  “What?” Byron leaned over to see the laptop screen.

  “El Camino or Ranchero?”

  “Seriously? You think that’s a serious question? El Camino, no doubt.” He shook his head. “Ranchero. You’re a moron sometimes.”

  “Your mom doesn’t think so.”

  A flash of anger blew through Byron’s gut. “Don’t talk about my mom.”

  “Don’t ogle my sister.”

  “Ogle?” Byron started laughing. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I like it. It’s a good word. Say it over and over and it becomes nonsense.”

  “Ogle, ogle, ogle, ogle,” they both repeated until they were doubled over laughing.

  “Are you jackasses stoned or something?”

  Byron stopped laughing and looked up at Betsy standing before them in her red swimsuit, hands on her curved hips, long pink nails tapping in irritation. Man, she was hot.

  “No, but you are,” Trent said.

  “Don’t act like a three-year-old,” she snapped. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Hiding from your shitload of laundry,” Trent said.

  “Or buried under it,” Byron suggested. They both laughed until Betsy swung at Byron with a catlike swipe, smacking him in the back of the head. Hard.

  “I expect him to be an idiot,” she said, pointing at Trent. �
�But I had higher hopes for you.” She directed a pink nail at Byron.

  “Sorry,” Byron said sheepishly.

  “What a wuss,” Trent said, rolling his eyes. He turned back to the laptop, back to listings for cars he’d never own.

  “Is that . . . ?” Betsy was looking at Byron’s doodles on the menu. At the sketches of her. Byron flipped the paper over, but she had crazy-fast reflexes and snatched it. “Wow,” she said. “You actually have talent.” She looked from the menu to Byron and back again, and he felt himself blush like a damn girl. “Can I have it?” she asked, barely a whisper.

  “Of course you can have it,” Trent said. “It’s our fucking menu.”

  Betsy hit Trent with the same newspaper he’d used on Byron. Trent glared at Byron, as if he were to blame. Betsy sashayed over to the fridge, menu of Byron’s sketches in hand, and peered inside. She leaned way over, her back arched, her round left butt cheek peeking out under the short skirt of her swimsuit. It took all of Byron’s will not to stare. He focused on the back of Trent’s shaggy head.

  “Where’s the lemonade that was in here?” Betsy asked.

  “Your boy toy drank it,” Trent said, chucking a thumb at Byron without looking up from his computer.

  “Sorry,” Byron said, hating how pathetic he sounded. “I can make more.”

  “Could you?” Betsy asked, hand on her hip. “And bring me a glass?” She pointed toward the pool.

  Byron shrugged and launched himself out of the chair, over the arm, and into a standing position with surprising ease. He was getting better at this. He headed toward the kitchen, kicking his legs up and swinging his lower body over one barstool, then another, without even breaking stride. He was on a roll. He looked up and Betsy was watching him with her eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side.

  “Parkour?” She nodded toward the stool.