Chapter 3
Cassie
We hooked up at the mall. I was there with Rachel.
Rachel is my best friend. No one knows why, least of all either of us. We could not possibly be more different.
Here are Rachel's priorities in order of importance: shopping and gymnastics.
Me, I'm into animals.
Rachel is every cover girl from every Mademoiselle or Seventeen you've ever seen. Tall, thin, blond hair and flawless complexion, and approximately four hundred shiny white teeth. To make matters worse, she can't just be written off as another fashion bimbo.
She's not mean. She's not a snob. She is not a member of any clique. She is her own, one-girl clique. That's the power she has: to be everyone's vision of physical and intellectual perfection and not to care.
Sometimes I wonder where she gets it from. Not the hair, or the clothing, or even her eerie ability to never be messy, dirty, or wet. I wonder where she gets the indifference. I wonder how she can have every boy in school throwing himself in her path, and be indifferent.
Not that she's humble. No. You wouldn't call her humble. She knows she's special. But she's impatient with the whole idea of being popular or whatever.
I get the feeling with Rachel that she's waiting. Impatient. Looking for something more. Moving through life in search of a very different destiny.
Her sports are gymnastics and shopping. She knows she'll never be a great gymnast; she's already about twice as tall as the average gymnast. That part of her interests me but not as much of her shopping.
See, it's not about the stuff with her. It's hunting.
I could never be friends with someone who went out and hunted animals. Sorry, but people who want to shoot deer are not going to be my friends. But when I'm with Rachel at the mall I see the excitement in hunting: the combination of knowledge and instinct and the thrill of stalking and closing in for the kill.
The girl makes the pursuit of a forty-percent-off sweater in just the right size and just the right color seem like a safari to track down a man- eating lion.
" Twenty-five percent off at Express, that's fine," she said. " But, the same basic sweater, better mix of fabrics, forty percent off at Structure? Plus, the point is, this sweater goes with jeans on sale at The Gap or the jeans on sale at the department store, and the Express sweater only goes with The Gap jeans."
" I know I'm going to be sorry I asked this," I said, " but how can one sweater not go with a pair of basically identical jeans?"
Rachel gave me the look. The look of incredulity and confusion.
" Cassie, you know I love you, but did you just get in from Uzbekistan?" she asked.
" Yes. Yes, Rachel, I just flew in from Uzbekistan."
" Shape. Color. Cut. Waistline." She shook her head in mock pity. " How do you expect to get through life without an appreciation of what goes with what?"
" I expect life will just be one long struggle."
Rachel laughed. No one was more amused by her obsession with shopping than she was.
Like I said, Rachel was waiting for something else. She didn't know what. I sure didn't.
" Don't look," I hissed. " It's Jake."
" I can't look at my cousin?"
" You can look, just don't look, that's all I'm saying."
" You mean, don't look at him in a way that will someone convey to him that you are hot for him? That you want his lips pressed against yours? That you want his big, strong arms wrapped all around you?"
" Yeah, Rachel, that's what I meant. That is exactly what I meant."
Jake is cute. Not cute in a little itsy-bitsy he's-so-cute kind of way. He's a big guy. Not hulking big, just like he's two years older than he really is. He's also smart and funny and modest.
I think he likes me. We sit together on the bus sometimes. Sometimes we seem to accidentally end up near each other at assemblies, or in class. He's never asked me out. I've never asked him out. Needless to say Rachel finds all this touching, funny, and completely idiotic.
I asked her once, " Do you think he's okay with me being African- American and all?"
She said, " Cassie, I've know Jake all my life. Believe me, he doesn't know you're black. That's how little he would care. Jake is the one guy out of a thousand who really does care about who you are, not what you look like."
" So, how do I look?" I asked anxiously.
" Like you should be singing eee-yi-eee-yi-oh. You're wearing Wal- Mart overalls with bird poop on the cuffs. You have no makeup on and there's dirt under your fingernails. that is just dirt, isn't it?"
I looked down at my fingernails and tried to remember. " Probably dirt. Possibly manure."
" Yeah, well, you compensate for your Old MacDonald clothing sense by being pretty, very smart, very cool, and the most completely real person I've ever met."
" Thanks. Thanks for the last half, anyway."
Jake was with his best friend, Marco. Marco and Jake were not as mismatched as Rachel and I, at least from what I knew. I don't know Marco much at all, just to say 'hi' to.
He's small, especially alongside Jake. He has fairly long, dark hair and an olive complexion and a permanently amused expression.
Marco is a comedian. Not a class clown, not a guy who wants to make the teacher mad. He just seems to think the world is funny. I guess a psychologist would call it a defense mechanism. His mom died a couple years ago. Anyway, maybe that's it. Or maybe he's just funny. Anyway, if Jake likes him he must be okay.
Yeah, I don't sound too much like someone with a crush.
There was a third guy with them. This kid named Tobias. He's kind of an unknown to me. He seems like he's kind of latched onto Jake. Jake is too nice to ever tell him to go away, and I could see he was trying to include Tobias in the conversation and all. But Tobias was still standing a little apart. Looking a little uncomfortable, trailing a little behind.
As they left the arcade, a fourth guy ran up. I knew him well. You see, he's Rachel's twin brother, Greg.
We hooked up at the mall. I was there with Rachel.
Rachel is my best friend. No one knows why, least of all either of us. We could not possibly be more different.
Here are Rachel's priorities in order of importance: shopping and gymnastics.
Me, I'm into animals.
Rachel is every cover girl from every Mademoiselle or Seventeen you've ever seen. Tall, thin, blond hair and flawless complexion, and approximately four hundred shiny white teeth. To make matters worse, she can't just be written off as another fashion bimbo.
She's not mean. She's not a snob. She is not a member of any clique. She is her own, one-girl clique. That's the power she has: to be everyone's vision of physical and intellectual perfection and not to care.
Sometimes I wonder where she gets it from. Not the hair, or the clothing, or even her eerie ability to never be messy, dirty, or wet. I wonder where she gets the indifference. I wonder how she can have every boy in school throwing himself in her path, and be indifferent.
Not that she's humble. No. You wouldn't call her humble. She knows she's special. But she's impatient with the whole idea of being popular or whatever.
I get the feeling with Rachel that she's waiting. Impatient. Looking for something more. Moving through life in search of a very different destiny.
Her sports are gymnastics and shopping. She knows she'll never be a great gymnast; she's already about twice as tall as the average gymnast. That part of her interests me but not as much of her shopping.
See, it's not about the stuff with her. It's hunting.
I could never be friends with someone who went out and hunted animals. Sorry, but people who want to shoot deer are not going to be my friends. But when I'm with Rachel at the mall I see the excitement in hunting: the combination of knowledge and instinct and the thrill of stalking and closing in for the kill.
The girl makes the pursuit of a forty-percent-off sweater in just the right size and just the right color seem like a safari to track down a man- eating lion.
" Twenty-five percent off at Express, that's fine," she said. " But, the same basic sweater, better mix of fabrics, forty percent off at Structure? Plus, the point is, this sweater goes with jeans on sale at The Gap or the jeans on sale at the department store, and the Express sweater only goes with The Gap jeans."
" I know I'm going to be sorry I asked this," I said, " but how can one sweater not go with a pair of basically identical jeans?"
Rachel gave me the look. The look of incredulity and confusion.
" Cassie, you know I love you, but did you just get in from Uzbekistan?" she asked.
" Yes. Yes, Rachel, I just flew in from Uzbekistan."
" Shape. Color. Cut. Waistline." She shook her head in mock pity. " How do you expect to get through life without an appreciation of what goes with what?"
" I expect life will just be one long struggle."
Rachel laughed. No one was more amused by her obsession with shopping than she was.
Like I said, Rachel was waiting for something else. She didn't know what. I sure didn't.
" Don't look," I hissed. " It's Jake."
" I can't look at my cousin?"
" You can look, just don't look, that's all I'm saying."
" You mean, don't look at him in a way that will someone convey to him that you are hot for him? That you want his lips pressed against yours? That you want his big, strong arms wrapped all around you?"
" Yeah, Rachel, that's what I meant. That is exactly what I meant."
Jake is cute. Not cute in a little itsy-bitsy he's-so-cute kind of way. He's a big guy. Not hulking big, just like he's two years older than he really is. He's also smart and funny and modest.
I think he likes me. We sit together on the bus sometimes. Sometimes we seem to accidentally end up near each other at assemblies, or in class. He's never asked me out. I've never asked him out. Needless to say Rachel finds all this touching, funny, and completely idiotic.
I asked her once, " Do you think he's okay with me being African- American and all?"
She said, " Cassie, I've know Jake all my life. Believe me, he doesn't know you're black. That's how little he would care. Jake is the one guy out of a thousand who really does care about who you are, not what you look like."
" So, how do I look?" I asked anxiously.
" Like you should be singing eee-yi-eee-yi-oh. You're wearing Wal- Mart overalls with bird poop on the cuffs. You have no makeup on and there's dirt under your fingernails. that is just dirt, isn't it?"
I looked down at my fingernails and tried to remember. " Probably dirt. Possibly manure."
" Yeah, well, you compensate for your Old MacDonald clothing sense by being pretty, very smart, very cool, and the most completely real person I've ever met."
" Thanks. Thanks for the last half, anyway."
Jake was with his best friend, Marco. Marco and Jake were not as mismatched as Rachel and I, at least from what I knew. I don't know Marco much at all, just to say 'hi' to.
He's small, especially alongside Jake. He has fairly long, dark hair and an olive complexion and a permanently amused expression.
Marco is a comedian. Not a class clown, not a guy who wants to make the teacher mad. He just seems to think the world is funny. I guess a psychologist would call it a defense mechanism. His mom died a couple years ago. Anyway, maybe that's it. Or maybe he's just funny. Anyway, if Jake likes him he must be okay.
Yeah, I don't sound too much like someone with a crush.
There was a third guy with them. This kid named Tobias. He's kind of an unknown to me. He seems like he's kind of latched onto Jake. Jake is too nice to ever tell him to go away, and I could see he was trying to include Tobias in the conversation and all. But Tobias was still standing a little apart. Looking a little uncomfortable, trailing a little behind.
As they left the arcade, a fourth guy ran up. I knew him well. You see, he's Rachel's twin brother, Greg.