Thank you, Joe, for again taking the time to give me some feedback. . . I'm not entirely sure why no one's reviewing, either. Maybe they're like us, unlikely to review even the stuff they like. Or maybe the combination of the words, "stars," "universe," and "fantasy" in the summary is scaring people off. I hope not. At any rate, I'll probably finish this regardless, 'cuz I'm stubborn like that. . . but I will say it'd be nice to hear how I'm doing a little more often. Thanks all the more for your encouragement. :)
Chapter 3: Acid Burn
If she ignored the guilt—and the occasional flare of unprovoked anger—the rest of the day proceeded fairly close to normal. Normal, that is, save for Lizzie's fervent defense of poor Ophelia during her English class's discussion of Hamlet. (Had the words, "Insanity is not an unreasonable reaction to being abandoned by your ambitious, politics-obsessed, too-smart-for-his-own-good boyfriend!" really come out of her mouth?) And normal, that is, but for her intense attention to limits and asymptotes in Trigonometry. (The crease between her eyebrows had been so deep Jon Dukov had actually asked, albeit with bright red cheeks, if she needed some Midol.)
Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut and clutched her backpack closer to her chest, trying to revel in the jostling of the bus. Normally it made her just a little queasy to ride the bus with her eyes closed, but considering what was probably awaiting her at home.... Well, Jon told his girlfriend just about everything and since Miranda already had part of the Lizzie McGuire freak-out story, the phone would likely already be ringing as she set foot in the door.
What a horrible day. There wasn't much more to say than that. As if a soccer ball to the head, a science paper, and an English assignment weren't enough, her best friend had to go and get all grown up on her. And she had to go and get all juvenile in response. Admittedly, not anything new in the Lizzie McGuire reaction repertoire—in fact, it was almost an old stand-by—but usually she was at least able to talk about it with her best friends.
Now, talking about it was the last thing she wanted to do.
Talking required some sort of clarity, some sort of grasp on meaningful words. Lizzie's head felt like mush, a jumble, a snarl, of thought-threads and emotions. All she was certain of was that today had been horrible. And that her biggest problem arose out of that UCLA thing Gordo was doing. And that she really, really wanted to cry.
At last, and too soon, the bus rumbled to a stop. Lizzie eased her eyes open, stood, and shuffled off the bus behind a handful of other students. It was beautiful outside—sunny, warm, with just a hint of April moisture in the breeze—but Lizzie barely noticed. Head down, she fiddled with the nylon strap of her backpack the whole of the short walk to her house. Stomach heavy with dread, she opened the door and walked in. No telephone ringing, just a deep, ominous voice and the occasional triumphant cry drifting in from the living room—Matt playing some computer game, probably.
Relieved, even if that phone call might come at any moment, Lizzie blinked away at the hot blur in her eyes and ran up to her room. The theory of evolution. Nice, scientific theory of evolution. She had a paper to research...focus on that, McGuire.
And for a while, she did. Lost in archeopteryx fossils, mind bent on tracing the intricacies of evolution vs. adaptation anomalies, she was startled by the knock on her door, Matt's muffled voice announcing dinner. She glanced at her clock. 7:09. Making one last note in her spiral, she stood, then closed the books and stacked them to one side of her desk. She'd actually made a lot of headway, fortunate since she did have other homework to do, and Miranda hadn't called, after all.
Lizzie stretched and yawned. That wasn't like Miranda. Why—oh. Right. Tuesday's were the dance troupe's long rehearsal days. Miranda had probably only gotten home a little while ago. Given time for some homework, a chat with Jon, and dinner, she probably wouldn't call until around 8 o'clock or so. Lizzie smiled. Now that she'd had some peace and quiet, she found herself looking forward to talking to Miranda. She was even ready for some quality family dinner time. Still smiling, she opened her door and headed down to the table.
"Ooh, that's quite the shiner, kiddo," were the first words out of her dad's mouth. Immediately, both her mom and brother turned to look.
"Queen Klutzo trip over another soccer ball?" Matt snickered. Lizzie could barely believe he was actually fourteen. She couldn't possibly have been so immature at his age. Her only consolation was that he was still in that puberty, voice-changing thing: every once in a while, in the middle of some teasing diatribe, his voice would crack and then it was Lizzie's turn to laugh and point.
"Oh, no," clucked her mom, "that looks more like you got hit with a soccer ball."
"Does everyone know about that?!" Lizzie demanded, twitching her face away from her mother's cold, probing fingers. Suddenly, family time looked a lot less appealing.
"Well," chirped Matt, tapping a diabolical finger against his chin, "I do have my sources."
"As do I," Jo McGuire admitted, turning away to place a basket of bread on the table. "But I have to say that I think this was more mother's intuition."
"Yes," Sam McGuire nodded, "that's the highly developed, state-of-the-art version of women's intuition, isn't it?"
"Hot off the assembly line," Jo agreed.
Lizzie rolled her eyes, then shrugged. Well, at least they weren't talking about her ill-fated encounters with soccer balls anymore.
"Maybe you should order some for Lizzie, Mom," Matt suggested. "Nothing short of psychic ability will make her a good soccer player."
So much for that idea. "Mom!" she cried, dropping into her chair with a heavy sigh.
"Enough, Matt," Jo chided, "your sister is in pain. Leave her alone."
"All right," he grumbled, taking his seat. He made one last face across the table at Lizzie, but that was the end of the soccer conversation.
The rest of the dinner passed mostly in peace. There was the usual April discussion about having a garage sale to get rid of most of the stuff currently sitting in storage—and the expected protests from both Lizzie's father and brother that there was "important stuff in there." And then there was the nightly mention of the school day's events. Matt had suspiciously little to say on that front, and Lizzie, having decided to stick to just the academics, merely mentioned the science paper and the English project.
"Oh," Jo interjected as Lizzie finished explaining the assignment, "speaking of Gordo, I had a very interesting conversation with Roberta Gordon today."
Lizzie's stomach flipped over. "Oh?" she asked, her voice oddly thin to her own ears.
"Yes." Her mom leaned forward. "It seems Gordo's been accepted to a very competitive film summer program at UCLA."
Like Lizzie didn't know that was coming. Her hand slackened around her fork. "Oh, yeah," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "He told me at lunch today about it."
"Well, that's exciting," her dad smiled. "What a great opportunity for Gordo. Before we know it, he'll be world famous and inviting us to his Malibu home to swim in his Olympic-sized pool." He snapped his fingers. "Say, do you suppose he'll need garden gnomes?"
Jo gave her husband's arm an indulgent pat. "Well, maybe, honey, but I think that's a few years off, yet."
"Who cares if it's a few years off, Mom!" Lizzie turned to see Matt's face glowing, eyes bright with some distant glory-filled scene. "We all know Gordo's going to be a huge success. Just think of the story! I could write an exclusive for the middle school paper, all about the local boy before he's famous. Think of the publicity! I could own the first by-line on the first article ever on David Gordon, Director!" His hands had risen to frame an invisible article title and he dropped them to the table with a bang. "Lizzie," he begged, bending closer to her over his nearly empty plate, "do you think you could ask Gordo to do an interview with me? Please? A favor from a beloved older sister for her dearest younger brother?"
Lizzie wanted to say she'd lost her appetite at the sticky sweetness in Matt's voice, but the truth was she barely even noticed it. All she could think of was getting away from the table, away from this discussion, away someplace where her stomach could just settle down. Gordo's so great, Gordo's going away, Gordo will be famous, sniped some high-pitched voice in her head. She pushed at it, pushed at the anger rising hot in her chest.
"Um, yeah, Matt, sure," she said at last, only distantly aware of the words stumbling from her mouth. The shocked looks on her parents' and Matt's faces registered, though. "Um, well," she hurriedly explained, "Gordo deserves an article, you know. I mean, he's my best friend." Yeah, right, snorted the voice again. Lizzie ignored it, looked down at her empty plate. "Uh, do you mind if I excuse myself?" she asked. "Miranda's probably gonna call soon and I have a lot of homework still to do."
Her mom nodded slowly, eyeing Lizzie out of the sides of her eyes. "Sure, honey. You're excused. Tell Miranda hi."
Lizzie forced a smile. "Sure, Mom. Thanks."
She managed to carry her dishes into the kitchen calmly and even walk slowly up the stairs, but the instant her bedroom door closed behind her, she collapsed to her bed, head in a pillow.
She wanted to scream! Just scream and let it all out, all this nonsense inside her head. What was going on with her? Was she angry? Scared or betrayed? Was she sad...or was she happy? She should be happy, right? Gordo was reaching for his dream. She was happy, wasn't she? Surely that was inside her somewhere. She just couldn't feel it, with everything else there too.
Miranda was right. There was no reason to feel upset because Gordo knew his future and Lizzie didn't. Miranda was absolutely right. There wasn't any rush. Lizzie had time to figure herself out. She didn't need to resent Gordo's certainty just because of her own uncertainty.
Resent? Was she feeling resentment? Well, guilt was probably there—and shame—if she truly resented Gordo.
Her fingers dug into the edges of the pillow, her mouth opening in a scream. But her throat was so tight, no sound came out.
What was wrong with her?
Maybe Jon wasn't so far off when he asked her if she wanted a Midol. Maybe she was just PMSing. What a horrible excuse, but she had to admit there were times of the month where she just felt a little more out of control. Maybe that was all this was? Just a hormonal downtime?
Lizzie shifted to her side, curling around the pillow. She drew in a long breath, released it slowly. Just hormones. Okay. Okay. Then all she needed was a little time to work things out. Just a little time to get her head straightened up and let the hormones do their thing. Just a little time.
When Miranda called that night, demanding to know how she was doing, that was exactly what Lizzie told her. "I'll be fine," she said. "You know me, Miranda. I just need some time to let the freak-out burn itself to ashes. It always does. I'll be fine."
*********#######*********
"Oh, Liz-babe, how are you?" Margaret Fogel asked, bouncing over to Lizzie's desk in World History the next morning. Eyeing the other girl's perfect honey curls and wide, earnest aquamarine eyes, Lizzie found herself wishing—for probably the twenty-third time that morning—that she could just crawl under a rock somewhere. Despite a half-hour battle, she'd been unable to hide the bruise under concealer and foundation, and to make it worse, all attempts at turning her hair into something decent this morning had failed...abysmally. Finally, she'd just tied it back in a sloppy, slick ponytail and admitted to herself that she looked terrible, like some stereotype of a battered trailer-park wife.
"I'm doin' better, Maggie." She scrounged up a smile. "Thanks."
Maggie beamed. "No prob. When I saw Miranda last night at practice, she told me what happened, and I spent all last night thinking about you, hoping you were okay."
"Yeah, Lizzie," agreed Ethan Craft, coming up behind Maggie to sling an arm around the dancer's shoulders. "We were both hoping you were okay. I got hit by a soccer ball once...and a basketball...and a golf ball," he laughed, "yo, for a jock I sure have bad luck with sports. But anyway, I know it's no fun. But you're lookin' pretty good."
Liar, Lizzie thought, as Maggie nodded and assured her that the bruise was "barely noticeable." You're both liars. But it was sweet of them to try and console her—unlike Kate Sanders, who'd just laughed and whispered snide comments to her friends when Lizzie walked in the door. Fortunately, history was the only class Lizzie had with anyone from Kate's crowd. There'd probably be lots of staring the rest of the day, but the laughter should be over and done with now.
Out in the hall, the one-minute bell rang and Maggie and Ethan excused themselves to go to their seats. A moment later, Miranda walked in.
"You look like you didn't get any sleep last night, McGuire," she said bluntly as she dropped to the seat beside Lizzie.
Lizzie gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Oh, this?" She gestured at her head. "This is just the result of a hair product and make-up disaster."
"Mm-hmm," Miranda drawled, eyebrow doing that trademark thing again—And I'm a circus clown, right? "Look, are you still freaking over this college/future thing?"
Lizzie snorted. "I think I told you that last night, Miranda."
Miranda's eyes narrowed. "No. What you told me was that you were gonna be fine. This is not fine, McGuire, in case you didn't notice."
"If you recall, Sanchez," Lizzie's own eyes were narrowing now, "I said I needed some time—I will be fine, okay? So excuse me if in the meantime I'm a little less than stellar." She tried injecting some edge into her tone, but the words just came out tired...which she was. She didn't want to admit it to Miranda, but last night hadn't exactly been filled with sweet, peaceful dreams.
Regardless, Miranda backed off a little. "Okay, Liz. I'm sorry for jumping on you." She paused, bit her lip, then leaned forward, continuing, "But I'm telling you, there's something more going on in your head than this college thing. And if you want to talk about it, you know where to find me."
The bell rang, then, and Lizzie closed her mouth, tongue still poised for reply. For what reply, though, she wasn't quite sure.
And there wasn't an opportunity to find out, at least not that period. The rest of the class passed in discussion of the communist regime and its role in the second half of the twentieth century—an interesting enough topic—and then the bell was ringing again. Miranda, who had to walk all the way across the building to get to her next class, barely had time for a wave before she was out the door. Lizzie merely shrugged, packed up her books, and tried to get in the mood for conjugating some Latin verbs.
Intermediate Latin was the only class Lizzie had without any of her friends. She knew people—Parker McKenzie from middle school and a few other familiar faces—but no one she was close to. It was fortunate, really: Latin was so tedious sometimes that Lizzie actually appreciated the lack of distractions. And today, well, there weren't any urgent, worried exclamations over her bruise, just a few polite looks here and there. Pleased, Lizzie found it easier than usual to settle into the language.
At last, Latin ended and Lizzie dropped by her locker to exchange books before heading on to Drama II. As much as Latin usually frustrated her, drama always left her energized and at peace, ready to take on even Mr. Dawson for fifty minutes. She sometimes joked to herself that whatever happened in Latin, drama would undo it. Unfortunate, then, that today she'd left Latin class feeling so relaxed.
When Lizzie reached the drama classroom, most everyone else was there, all chatting, loudly, as usual. Smiling, she made her way to the other side of the room, where Veruca Albano and Am stood, apparently deep in conversation. She drew closer slowly, knowing that as soon as the other two saw her, they'd stop talking to ask about her health.
"A-and then," Veruca was saying, laughter threading her words, "then, Larry dropped them down the stairwell. They hit the bottom and started back up and, I, of course, stepped back. B-but Larry," she cleared her throat, swallowing back giggles, "L-Larry just stayed there, leaning over the railing. I heard him say, 'Whoa! They look like they're gonna hit me!' and then," a few giggles escaped, "t-then SMACK! Oh, God, Am, the little ball hit him right on the forehead! A-and he just, he just falls back." Veruca's arms pinwheeled. "He's lying there, dazed, staring at the ceiling, and the superballs are just bouncing all over. God, it was so funny! Completely proved the experiment, though." Lizzie smiled. Typical Tudgeman. And poor Veruca, Larry's physics partner. Lizzie couldn't even count the number of stories Veruca had told this year about Tudgeman's mishaps in the science lab.
Am was coughing, the laughter winding down. "Oh, Ver. Ver, it's a wonder you ever get anything done in that class."
Veruca tossed her head back. "Don't I know it! Ah, lucky, lucky you, Am. Gordo never does anything wrong."
Lizzie's smile dimmed. That's right. How had she forgotten that Gordo was Am's physics partner? Too, a quiet voice corrected. Her physics partner too.
Am shrugged. "Yeah," she said, voice soft, "Gordo's a good partner." She paused, then laughed. "But Larry's a trip. You always have such good science stories, Ver."
"Yeah, much to my dismay!" Veruca turned just a little, just enough, Lizzie guessed, to catch her movement out of the corner of an eye. Lizzie quickly replaced the smile on her face and prepared to meet both hellos and questions. It was mechanical by now, though, and her mind had little trouble leaving the answers to her mouth. Instead, through all the conversation—and the rest of the class—her thoughts were once again filled with Gordo, colleges, summer programs, careers. . . .
By the time she saw Am and Gordo at lunch, anger strangled her breath, banded her chest, everything an irritant. Sharp, sneering comments coiled against her tongue, and her jaw ached from keeping them inside. It didn't matter what Am and Gordo did, what they said, all of it set her scalp itching, her hands balling into knots. The urge to scream had returned, only now she wanted to scream at them—at anyone, really. Instead, she choked her way through lunch, trying hard to focus on the dry, sawdust sandwich and chips, glad for the acid burn of the orange in her throat.
****
end of chapter 3
chapter notes:
thanks to TG, whose
experience with superballs and stairwells in physics provided Larry with yet
another misadventure