Vivian lantzs second cha.., p.12
Vivian Lantz's Second Chances, page 12
“Well,” I say, turning back, “she’s one hundred percent wrong.”
Gemma shrugs. “I like drawing for myself. Anyway, I won’t have as much time for it once I’m in high school. I want to do International Baccalaureate, which is gonna murder my schedule.”
“International Bac-a-what?”
“It’s this program for, like, nerdy kids.”
Oh. I get it.
“You mean smart kids,” I say.
“Whatever.” Gemma rolls her eyes. “But I’m planning on being a pediatrician. I want to go to Vanderbilt for med school, so that means I have to think ahead, and IB looks great on résumés. Then there’s PSAT tutoring, so hopefully I can be a National Merit Scholar, and I need to start shadowing doctors my sophomore year at the latest. School is basically a full-time job, you know? So I wouldn’t want to get distracted with something else, like drawing.”
“But you like drawing,” I say, trying to understand.
“Well, yeah. But I like school, too. And the better I am at that, the better I can be at helping kids. I’ve wanted to be a doctor since, like, second grade. My mom got me this kit when I was little, and she still jokes about how I’d run around trying to listen to everyone’s heart through my stethoscope. I was super annoying about it.”
Gemma laughs. These past few minutes, she’s been aglow about school, which is sort of strange to me. I get okay grades, and language arts is fun, but I don’t light up like the Fourth of July when I talk about college and tests.
I’ve figured out something: Gemma is an original Master Planner. She’s got her entire life planned out—not just eighth grade—and it sounds like she’s been planning since she was a kid. Me? I’ve needed two whole magical do-overs just to work on three measly goals.
“You make happening to life seem easy,” I say wistfully.
Gemma frowns. “I—What?”
“Um. Nothing.”
“What I mean about drawing,” Gemma says, “is that I like doing something that doesn’t have a point. You know? It’s not like school. Nobody’s grading my drawings. I can just make them.”
I have to chew on Gemma’s words, but in the end, I think I get it. Writing last year’s book report for Bridge to Terabithia felt very different from writing my Relevane stories. When I wrote for Cami, I wasn’t worrying about if my spelling and grammar were perfect. I was just creating.
I’m still lost in my thoughts when, suddenly, I’m hit by a cold sensation. I gasp, realizing that I’ve been drenched by a giant splash of water. Gemma is soaked, too. I turn, and there is Alex Fernandez, laughing his head off in the shallow end of the pool.
“Sorry, ladieees,” he calls, as the soccer guys around him cackle and whoop.
“Now that was a cannonball!” Neil shouts, slapping Alex’s back.
Then the whole lot of guys start splashing water up at me and Gemma, shouting, “Get in the pool! Get in the pool!”
“Stop!” Gemma yells at them, rising to her feet. She storms toward the pool, and by the time she reaches the edge, she’s scared the guys off.
Alex calls back, “Calm down. It was just a joke!”
If that’s the case, Alex has a rotten sense of humor. My canvas tote is soaked, and so is Gemma’s towel. Frantically, I pull out my phone from the tote pocket, relieved to see that it’s stayed dry.
“Man,” Neil hoots. “You girls are so freaking emotional about a little water.” His face contorts, and he calls out in a high-pitched baby voice, “Is your poor wittle phone okay, Vivian?”
I glare back at him. “Yeah, luckily. No thanks to any of you.”
He and Alex share a look. They burst into wheezing laughter.
“Whoa,” says Alex, raising both his hands. “Jeez. So hostile.”
“See? This is why you shouldn’t invite girls to parties,” Neil proclaims.
I glower at the two of them. “In case you hadn’t realized, you’re at a girl’s party.”
“Whatever,” says Alex, waving off me and Gemma and turning to Neil. “They’re probably on their periods.”
Uh. What?
I stare at Alex, phone gripped in my hand.
He didn’t say that. He couldn’t have.
But the guys in the pool are roaring with laughter, like Alex just made the joke of the century.
Gemma storms past the pool to a wicker bench stacked with fresh towels. She grabs two, and then, on her way past the snack table, I hear her growl at Amberleigh, “You’ve got a real ass of a boyfriend.”
Amberleigh’s been talking with her choir friends, but at Gemma’s comment, she snaps to attention.
“What was that?” she calls.
Gemma stops in her tracks and whirls around. “You heard me. I don’t appreciate coming to a party where I have to deal with your boyfriend and the whole soccer team acting like two-year-olds.” Gemma pauses. “But wait. That’s way too unfair to two-year-olds. At least their impulse control is still developing. They’ve got an excuse.”
Amberleigh crosses her arms. “Wow, so you’ve got a problem with Alex now, too? This summer really did change you.”
Gemma’s a few yards off from me, but I can see that her hands are shaking. She crosses the distance to Amberleigh, tossing the towels on the snack table and knocking over a bowl of Doritos. Then she says something too low for me to make out.
Amberleigh’s reply is as loud as ever: “Cool. Why don’t you find a new friend who will take you on spring break skiing trips to Vail. Good luck with that.”
Then she shoves Gemma—actually shoves her—away from the table. It’s so forceful that Gemma stumbles a full five steps and then topples, careening into the giant drink cooler. The cooler slams over, ice chips scattering everywhere and soda cans rolling across the patio. Gemma is sprawled in the wreckage, a look of total shock on her face, and that split second feels infinite. No one moves. No one speaks. Even the party music seems to fade away.
Then it’s over.
Gemma gets to her feet and hurries off—past Amberleigh and past me. She runs through the open gate, and the last I see of her is a stray frizzy curl.
I watch with an open mouth. All this time, I’ve assumed that Gemma and Amberleigh would patch things up. They’ve been friends for so long, one fight wouldn’t end that, right?
Maybe I was wrong.
“What’s going on?” Tate is back from the bathroom. She stands at the patio door, looking around at the tense scene. Her eyes land on me as she asks, “Where’s Gemma?”
“She’s gone, thank god,” Amberleigh announces, grabbing the Bluetooth speaker and cranking it up till a Dua Lipa song is blaring.
I wait for Tate to say something like “That’s not cool” or “Why’d she leave?” I watch as she stands motionless at the sliding door. It’s like she’s considering. Deciding.
Then, she moves. She walks up to Amberleigh and her friends, grabbing a handful of chips and plopping down on an ottoman. “So,” she says, “what else did I miss?”
It’s like Gemma has ceased to exist.
I stare in disbelief—first at the guys in the pool and then at Amberleigh, who is smugly chomping away at a piece of pineapple pizza. I feel light-headed. It’s like I’ve imagined the past five minutes, and Gemma and I weren’t splashed, and Alex wasn’t a total jerk, and she and Amberleigh didn’t fight, and the whole thing didn’t end with Amberleigh shoving Gemma. Everyone else sure is acting that way.
But I reek of chlorine, and Gemma isn’t here. I’m not the one who’s got this all wrong.
Back in seventh grade, when Cami and I would hang out on the turquoise benches before school, I’d watch Alex chilling with his friends by the bike rack and wonder what it’d be like to be on the inside of Amberleigh’s group. Gemma and Tate would be laughing about something, and I’d want to know what. Alex would be holding hands with Drea, and I’d want to be that close. I was curious. What was it like to be one of them? It looked so nice. It looked fun.
Turns out, it’s not.
Alex’s words are still ringing in my ears:
It was just a joke.
Jeez. So hostile.
Probably on their periods.
I dig my nails into my palms.
I came to this party hoping for the best. I wanted to know Alex better. I thought I’d get to know Tate. I was ready to give Neil—even Amberleigh—a second chance. Well, now? I’m out of chances to give.
Alex has clearly moved on from the gross stuff he shouted at me and Gemma. He’s busy dunking Neil underwater, cackling hysterically. Amberleigh and Tate don’t seem the least bit bothered, either. They’re onto another subject, Amberleigh chatting loudly about the choir’s solo auditions next week.
Then—“Vivian!”
Tate waves, motioning for me to join the rest of the girls at the snack table. For a moment, I see possibility. I picture Amberleigh’s group by the bike rack—only now, where there was once Gemma, there’s me. I’m the one sharing the joke with Tate. I’m holding Alex’s hand.
Then the possibility fades, like a wisp of campfire smoke.
Why would I ever want to be friends with people who’ve treated Gemma like dirt?
Now that I know what it’s like on the inside? I want to get out.
I ignore Tate, grabbing my sopping-wet tote and standing up. Maybe I’m ruining my social reputation all over again. Maybe I’m throwing away the perfect end to my perfect first day.
Too bad.
I set off toward the open gate, running as fast as my flip-flops will let me and praying to the second-chance magic that I can catch up to Gemma.
13
I FIND GEMMA one block down from Tate’s house.
She’s sitting on the sidewalk, hunched over. Tear tracks stain her cheeks, and she doesn’t look my way, even when I’m right beside her, saying, “You okay?”
Gemma jolts, staring up at me.
She doesn’t answer, but I don’t blame her. It was a bad question.
“Can I sit with you?” I try instead.
Very slowly, Gemma nods. I plop down on the damp concrete. It’s still misting, and teensy droplets have collected in Gemma’s curls.
“Ta-da.” Gemma’s eyes are dull, but she lifts her hands, making spirit fingers. “It’s me, the instant party pooper. Guaranteed to ruin your finest soirees in five minutes flat.”
It takes me a second to realize that Gemma is making a joke. I decide to play along.
“It’s a miracle product!” I say, in a TV announcer voice. “Just add water!”
I poke Gemma’s rain-slickened shoulder, and she huffs out a laugh. Then her expression changes. She slumps her shoulders, dropping her face in her hands.
I don’t know what to say anymore, but I have to try something.
“I’m sorry that happened,” I tell Gemma. “Amberleigh shouldn’t have pushed you.”
Gemma peers up at me. “Yeah, well, that’s not the worst thing Amberleigh’s done.”
The unanswered question screams inside me: What was your fight about? It would be rude to ask that again, though, and I don’t want to pry.
Gemma rests her chin in the palm of her hand. “You don’t have to sit with me. I called my sister. She’s coming to pick me up.”
“Well, you didn’t have to sit with me in—”
I catch myself. I was about to say in Ms. Wendy’s office. But of course, that hasn’t happened in Gemma’s version of Monday.
“Uh,” I say. “I mean, in Ms. Lally’s class.”
Gemma scrunches her nose, and a dozen brown freckles collide. She looks confused, but instead of elaborating, I say, “For what it’s worth, I’d rather be having a party with you than with them.”
I could tell Gemma that she was the main person I thought of as I got ready tonight. I could tell her I think it’s cool that she wants to become a doctor. I could say that I’m curious if Princess Ruth has a backstory.
I could say all that, but I don’t. It doesn’t feel like the right time.
Quiet settles on the street—Mariposa Drive, according to the sign across the road—and Gemma and I sit silently in the dusk. There’s a purply glow around us as streetlights buzz to life, and I look up, tracing the swoop of power lines.
“It wasn’t always this way,” Gemma mutters. “I mean, yes, Amberleigh was prickly. When we were little, I was scared to touch her Play-Doh, because she got so pissed if you mixed the tiniest bit of two colors together. I knew she was mean to other people, but she wasn’t too bad to me. Not till this summer.”
Gemma’s eyes flit to me. “You have two dads. So . . . you’re cool with that, right?”
“What, being queer?” I say, surprised. “Of course.”
My heart is pounding in my ears. I have a feeling that Gemma is about to share something important. Something big.
“Last November,” Gemma says, “I told Tate and Amberleigh I’m gay.”
Gemma’s voice catches. There are new tears on her cheeks.
This is big, but not the kind of big that topples me over. Instead, I feel stronger—strong as the marble columns of the ancient Elystrian Temple. I want Gemma to know that she’s okay. That’s why I reach out and squeeze her hand.
Gemma’s gaze flicks up to mine, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. Our palms stay clasped as she goes on talking.
“I thought things were fine. She and Tate both said they supported me, and we were cool. They even said it would be fun to go on triple dates together one day. But then in July, we went to camp together in Dallas. It was Amberleigh’s idea. She’s been dying to go to a performing arts camp, but she didn’t want to do it alone. Tate and I just thought it’d be fun to get away for a month. There’s a big musical you rehearse for all camp-long and perform at the end for the parents. We all auditioned, but I got cast in one of the lead roles instead of Amberleigh. She was pissed. At first, she said it wasn’t fair because I’m not even into music, and then she said that the part would be too hard for me, because I don’t have the vocal range.”
My hands are forming fists for the hundredth time today. I imagine the scene—Amberleigh raising her scorpion’s stinger, aiming for the heart. Going in for the kill.
“Then,” Gemma says, “after campfire session one night, Amberleigh pulled me away from the others and said she knew for real why I’d been cast. She said the director had found out that I was a lesbian, and she was afraid that if she didn’t cast me, she’d be called discriminatory. Amberleigh said the only reason I got the role was for ‘diversity.’”
New tears gather in Gemma’s eyes. I squeeze her hand again, and this time, she squeezes back.
“Tate heard us talking,” she says unsteadily. “At first, she took my side. She told Amberleigh that she was just jealous. But then Amberleigh said . . . she said I was probably pretending to be gay to get attention.”
I stare at Gemma. “What?”
Amberleigh Allen has said some real crap in the past couple of days, but this? Pretending to be gay? Where does she get off telling Gemma that?
More words rush out of Gemma: “It was a bad fight, but the next morning, Amberleigh acted like nothing had happened. She never apologized. Tate didn’t bring it up again, either. Sometimes even I think it was a dream.”
“But it wasn’t,” I say.
“No.” Gemma shakes her head. “It just feels that way, because it doesn’t make sense. I’m not out. The only people at camp who knew about me being gay were Amberleigh and Tate. So there’s no way the director would know unless one of them told her. And why would I want the attention for that? Like, I think my family would be cool with it, but I don’t want them or anyone else making it a big deal. It’s just who I like. Amberleigh’s the one who turned it into something.”
I study the concrete, shaking my head. “That is so messed up.”
Then I feel a jab of guilt. I’m remembering the mean things I said about Gemma yesterday, at lunch. You’re like them, she told me. Tate and Amberleigh. Now her words have a whole new meaning.
“I’ve been mad at her since camp,” Gemma says. “She’s gone on acting like she didn’t say this horrible thing. Now I don’t trust her. I’m worried that if she gets mad enough, she’ll tell anyone she wants about me liking girls. I don’t want to be around her anymore, and I’m mad at Tate, too. But losing my friends in eighth grade? That’d be the worst. Everyone’s already found their crowd at Bluebonnet. Who am I going to make new friends with—the sixth graders?”
I crack a smile. “Definitely not them.”
“I know, they’re like toddlers.” Gemma chokes out a laugh. She sweeps a hand beneath her eye, leaving a mascara trail behind. “It’d be easier to stick with Amberleigh, the way it’s always been. But I don’t think I can do that for a whole year. I hate the way she makes me feel. It’s like Amberleigh is this giant star, and no one else can shine as bright as her. If you do?”
Gemma lets go of my hand, pushes her fingers together, and spreads them apart like an explosion: pow.
I nod. “I get that. I get what you mean about starting over, too.”
Gemma toes a patch of crabgrass poking through the sidewalk. “I heard about Cami Ruiz moving. I’m sorry. You two seemed really close.”
I’m surprised. I never thought that someone like Gemma noticed what people like me and Cami were doing. Now I’m starting to see that I haven’t had any idea who Gemma is.
“I can’t wait for middle school to be over,” Gemma concludes, heaving a raspy sigh. “I wish I could just move to Boston.”
I scrunch my nose. “I thought you wanted to go to Vanderbilt?”
“Oh! That’s for med school,” Gemma explains. “Brandeis for undergraduate. That’s my dad’s alma mater.”
I’m awestruck. “You’ve got it all planned out.”
“Well, plans don’t mean much compared to reality,” Gemma says glumly. “I know what I want for my future, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now, in eighth grade.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter.
“Vivian?”
I look up. The gleam of a streetlight catches on Gemma’s face, and suddenly all the breath leaks out of me.
