Лиза Макманн - Fade

“No, no, no. Much worse. This is shocking news. Are you sure I should tell you while you’re driving?”

“I’ve got my headset on. Both hands on the wheel. Windows rolled up.

Go for it.”

“Okay, here goes…Principal Abernethy called me this morning to let me know I’m in the running for valedictorian.”

There is silence.

A rather loudish snort.

And guffaws.

“Congratulations,” she finally says, laughing. “What ever are you going to do?”

“Fail every assignment from today onward.”

“You won’t be able to.”

“Watch me.”

“I am so looking forward to this. Oh, and also? You suck.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Janie hangs up and laughs all over again.

Second-hour psych is a sleeper. Janie stumps Mr. Wang with a question on dreams, just for the hell of it. Leaves him stuttering, so she isn’t late to Mr. Durbin’s.

For the week leading up to the party, Janie continues to play the woman scorned in front of Mr. Durbin, and he appears to eat it up. In fact, the more she avoids him, the more he comes up with excuses to call her to his desk after class or requests she stop by after school.

She remains aloof, and he goes out of his way to compliment her—on the test, her experiments, her sweater….

March 1, 2006, 10:50 a.m.

“You still coming an hour early on Saturday?” Mr. Durbin asks Janie after class.

“Of course. I promised I would. Stacey and I will be there at six.”

“Excellent. Hey, I couldn’t do this big party without you, you know.”

Janie smiles frostily and walks to the door. “Of course you could.

You’re Dave Durbin.” She slips out and heads to English lit, with boring old Mr. Purcell. He is the epitome of moral character.

Study hall outright sucks. By the time it’s over, Janie has too much information about nothing important. And when she lifts her head, she sees the shadows of feet and legs next to the table.

“Are you okay, Janie?” It’s Stacey’s voice.

Janie clears her throat, and a crashing noise comes from the section of the library to the left. Stacey whirls around and gawks. Janie can’t see what’s happening, but once she can feel her lips, she smiles. Cabel’s up to something, she thinks.

She sits up as if she can see, and, indeed, her vision is returning somewhat now. She coughs and clears her throat again, and Stacey turns back to her.

“Sheesh. What a klutz. Anyway, I came over to make sure Saturday at six was right.”

“Yep,” Janie says. “That’s just you and me heading over to Durbin’s house to set up. Are you comfortable with that?”

Stacey gives her a quizzical look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I have no idea, but you can’t be too careful these days, can you?”

Stacey laughs. “I guess. Well, we’ve got the appetizers all figured out. I hope he has enough electrical outlets, ’cause there’s going to be a shitload of Crock-Pots. Of course, we could always use Bunsen burners.”

“Good one! Hey, I’ve got a list of desserts and snacks. Phil Klegg is bringing something called ‘dump cake,’ and I just don’t even want to know what’s in there.”

They chitchat a little about the party and about the chem. fair, and when the bell rings, Stacey hustles off. Janie peers between the bookshelves and, after the library empties out, sneaks over to where

Cabel’s sitting.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, giggling.

“Me? Oh sure. You might have to carry me out of here, though.”

“What happened?”

“I created a distraction.”

“I gathered that.”

“Step stool, encyclopedias, floor.”

“I see. Well, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Sure you can. Help me flunk enough tests, so I drop out of the ’torian range.”

“Can’t you just tell Abernethy that you have a reputation as a dumbshit to keep up, and you don’t want the attention?”

“Flunking is more fun.”

Janie shakes her head and laughs. “Maybe the first few times. But I bet you won’t be able to handle it after that.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

Janie puts her hands on her hips. “All right. After the fourth flunk of something quizlike or weightier, you will struggle and fail to flunk number five. That’s my prediction. Winner pays for our first real date.”

“You’re on. Start saving your money.”

SHOWTIME

March 3, 2006, 10:04 a.m.

Chem. 2 is buzzing with excitement, and the students goof around more than anything else. Mr. Durbin lets them. They all did relatively well on the most recent test, the chemistry fair garnered them higherthan-expected results, and everyone is jazzed for tomorrow’s party. Mr.

Durbin is practically giddy himself, and when Coach Crater stops at the door, because of the ruckus, he pokes his head in.

“Must be a Chem. 2 party coming up,” he remarks, eyeing the students one at a time.

“Tomorrow night, Jim,” Mr. Durbin says. “Stop by, if the wife will let you out.” They chuckle.

Janie’s eyes narrow at the comment, but she goes back to her text book. She’s looking for a formula—the formula for date-rape drugs.

Not that she’d find it in a high-school text book. There’s a recipe for disaster. Yet maybe a clue lies within.

But when Mr. Durbin starts walking around to the various stations, she flips her book to the current lesson page and pretends to read. Mr.

Durbin pauses for a moment behind her, but she ignores him. He moves on.

In PE, they’re in the weight room for four weeks, learning the machines and proper free-weight stance. Dumbass calls Janie up to the front to help demonstrate.

“How much weight do you want, Buffy?”

Janie looks at him. “Well, sir, I guess that depends on the exercise you’d like me to demonstrate.”

“Right!” he says, like it was a teaching question. Janie’s expression doesn’t change. “How about the bench press,” he says.

“Free weights or machine?”

“Oooh, aren’t you smart? Let’s start with free weights.”

She gives him a long look. “Are you spotting me or not?”

He chuckles for the audience, like he’s doing a magic trick. “Of course

I’ll spot you.”

Janie nods. “All right, then. One-twenty’s good.”

He laughs. “How about we start at, say, fifty or something.”

“One-twenty is fine for a single lift.” She bends down and starts adding the weights herself. The students are highly amused, at the encouragement of Coach Crater.

Janie tightens the caps and lies down on the bench, the bar above her chest. “Ready?”

She waits for him to get into spotter position, and grips the bar. Closes her eyes. Concentrates, breathes, until she no longer hears the distraction around her. She pushes up on the bar, holds it a moment, then lowers it evenly to just above her chest and presses upward with all her might. She holds it for a few seconds, and then lets it down slowly in the cradle. “Eighty-five for reps,” she says, making the proper adjustments. She presses eight reps, replaces the bar when she’s finished, and only then does she tune back in to the room. It’s pretty quiet.

Coach Crater is standing, looking down at her, amazed, stupid grin on his face. Janie turns to her side and sits up on the bench, and then walks to the back of the room. Later in the class, she’s getting in half her workout for the day. Bonus.

“Asshole,” she mutters to Coach Crater as she leaves at the end of class.

“What?”

She keeps walking.

Five minutes into study hall, a paper wad from Cabel hits her in the ear.

She rolls her eyes. Opens it up.

Stacey, it says.