CHAPTER SEVEN
FRIEND-FREE ZONE
The lunchtime bell bwoopbwooped like a European busy signal. The inaugural morning at Merston High was officially over. It was no longer a mysterious place in Melody’s imagination, filled with endless possibilities and hooks on which to hang hope for a better tomorrow. It was completely—boringly—normal. Like meeting an online crush after months of e-flirting, the reality didn’t live up to the fantasy. It was dull, predictable, and way more attractive in the photos.
Architecturally, the mustard-yellow brick rectangle was plainer than a pack of Trident. The sweaty-pencil-eraser-library-book smell that would undoubtedly morph into a sweaty-pencil-eraser-library-book headache by two o’clock was so typical. And the goofy desk etchings that said BITE ME, LALA!, WEAK FOR WEEKS, and GLUTEN-FREE GEEK paled in comparison to the ones she used to see in Beverly Hills, which had read like TMZ text alerts.
Tired, hungry, and disappointed, Melody felt like a refugee, only slightly more fashion-forward, as she ambled along with the masses in search of food. Dressed in Candace’s black skinny jeans (at her sister’s insistence), a pink Clash T-shirt, and pink Converse, she was ’70s revival in a school that still wore original Woodstock. Her pretty-in-punk outfit seemed unnecessarily harsh amid the flowing skirts and flannel, making her feel like she was at the wrong concert. Even her black hair hung with antiestablishment apathy, thanks to a travel bottle of conditioner that had been incorrectly labeled SHAMPOO.
She hoped the tough girl getup would show the students at Merston that she was nobody’s Smellody. Which it must have, because everyone pretty much ignored her all morning. A few average-looking boys eyed her with marked interest. Like she was a slice of cake on a passing dessert cart and worth saving room for. In some instances she even allowed herself to smile back, pretending that they were seeing her for her, not some perfectly symmetrical creation designed by her father. That’s what she had thought about Jackson—but she had been wrong.
Ever since their conversation at the Riverfront, the sweet guy who wrote his number in red pastel had been physically and technologically MIA. After taping his sketch to her log wall, Melody entered him as “J” on her speed dial. And speed-dial she did! But he never responded. She scrutinized their encounter by reading between the lines, looking underneath words, checking behind gestures… and found no logical explanation.
Perhaps it was the stilted conversation. But isn’t awkwardness something we have in common? After forty-plus hours of analysis, Melody had reached a conclusion. It must have been her road trip outfit after all.
And then she heard about the ol’“curdy con,” a term Candace introduced her to while they rocked on the porch swing, enjoying their last homework-free night of the summer.
“It’s a classic sting,” she explained after Melody’s third text to Jackson went unanswered. “A boy acts all curdy to earn a girl’s trust. Once he has it, he gets all Free Birdie and flies the coop for a day or two. This ropes the girl in even more because she’s concerned. Soon concern becomes insecurity. And then”—she snapped her fingers—“he appears out of nowhere and surprises her. The girl is so relieved he’s not dead and soooo happy he still likes her, she throws herself at him. And once they’re in a full-on chest-to-chest hug he becomes…”—she paused for dramatic effect—“the Dirty Birdie! Known in some circles as the Pervy Birdie, or just the Worm.”
“He’s not scamming me,” Melody insisted, peeking at her iPhone. But the Free Birdie was silent. Not a single tweet.
“Okay.” Candace leaped off the swing. “Just don’t be surprised if he’s not the guy you think he is.” She snapped her fingers and said, “Candace out!” Then she marched into the cabin.
“Thanks for the advice,” Melody called, wondering if Jackson was watching her from his bedroom window. If he wasn’t, where was he? And if he was, why wasn’t he calling?
Melody tried to shrug off the overanalysis and shuffled into the cafeteria with the rest of the students. Everyone scattered to claim a table while the rolling reggae-ish beat of Jack Johnson’s song “Hope” spilled from the speakers.
Melody hung back by a sign-up booth for the September Semi Committee (whatever that was), pretending to read about the various volunteer opportunities while assessing the lunchroom politics. She’d assumed she would have seen Jackson by now. It was the first day of school and his mother, Ms. J, was a science teacher, after all. But he had obviously skipped out on her too.
The tangy-carcass smell of ketchup and cows (meat loaf?) was more overwhelming than the four different “food zones.” Defined by chair color and identified with spirited hand-painted signs, the Peanut-Free Zone was brown; the Gluten-Free Zone was blue; the Lactose-Free Zone was orange; and the Allergy-Free Zone was white. Students carrying color-coordinated trays clamored to mark their territory as if racing for seats at the IMAX 3D opening of Avatar. Once their territory had been claimed, they strolled toward the appropriate food station to make their dietitian-approved selections and catch up with friends.
“In Beverly Hills there would be one zone,” Melody told the horse-faced brunette manning the September Semi sign-up booth. “Food-Free.” She giggled at her own joke.
Horse-face knit her thick brows and began tidying her already tidy stack of sign-up sheets.
Great, Melody thought, inching away from Horse-face. Maybe they’ll come up with a Friend-Free Zone just for me.
The Jack Johnson song ended and transitioned into something equally nostalgic and groovy by the Dave Matthews Band. It was time for Melody, like the playlist, to change tracks. At least she could cling to Candace, who was seated between two other blonds in the Allergy-Free Zone, reading some hottie’s palm.
Melody slid her white tray along the rails, fixing her gaze straight ahead to the last slice of cheese-and-mushroom pizza. A couple standing behind her held hands and peered over her shoulder for a peek at the day’s lunch specials. But they didn’t sound the least bit interested in meat ravioli or salmon burgers. Instead, they were talking about his latest Twitter update. Which, if Melody overheard correctly, was about a monster sighting in Mount Hood.
“I swear, Bek,” said the guy, his voice low and steady. “I want to be the one to catch it.”
“What would you do with it?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Oh, I know! You could hang the head over your bed. And use the arms for coat hooks, the legs for doorjambs, and the butt for a pen holder!”
“No way,” he snapped, as if offended. “I’d earn its trust and then make a documentary about the annual migration.”
The what?
Melody couldn’t feign interest in garlic mashed potatoes for one more second. Curiosity was killing her. With a strained half turn, like the kind used to silence loud talkers in movie theaters, Melody looked.
The boy had dyed black hair with frayed, uneven edges that were cut by either a rusty blade or a vengeful woodpecker. Mischievous denim-blue eyes flickered against his pale skin.
He caught her looking and grinned.
She quickly turned away, taking the image of his green Frankenstein T-shirt, tapered black pants, and black nail polish with her.
“Brett!” the girl barked. “I saw that!”
“What?” He sounded like Beau when Glory caught him drinking milk from the carton.
“Whatever!” Bek yanked him toward the salad bar. She had on a flowing white dress and peach knit UGG boots. Wardrobe-wise, she was the Beauty to his Beast.
The line inched forward.
“What was that all about?” Melody asked the petite girl standing behind her. Dressed in a thick wool pantsuit and a full palette of makeup, she may have been at the wrong concert too. She was dressed like she would have preferred, instead of a rock band, an elevator pumping Lite FM as she shot to the top floor of a corporate headquarters.
“I think she’s jealous,” the girl mumbled shyly. She had dainty, symmetrical features that Beau would have appreciated. And long black hair like Melody’s—except shinier, of course.
“No.” Melody grinned. “I mean, about that whole monster thing. Is that some kind of a local joke?”
“Um, I dunno.” The girl shook her head, her mass of thick black hair falling around her face. “I’m new here.”
“Me too! My name is Melody.” She beamed, offering her right hand.
“Frankie.” She gripped firmly and shook back.
A tiny spark of static electricity passed between them. It felt like taking off a sweater in ski country.
“Ouch!” Melody giggled.
“Sorry,” Frankie blurted, her fine features contorting regretfully.
Before Melody could tell her it was okay, Frankie took off, leaving her white tray on the rails and the sting of another botched friendship on Melody’s palm.
Suddenly, a camera’s flash went off in her face. “What the…?” Through a flurry of pulsing white spots, she saw a short girl with tortoiseshell glasses and caramel-colored bangs scampering away.
“Hey,” said a familiar male voice.
Slowly, the flash spots began to fade. One by one, like a cheesy special effect, they fell away, and her blurry vision sharpened.
And there he was.…
Wearing an untucked white button-down, crisp back-to-school jeans, and brown hiking boots. An unstoppable grin lit his quietly handsome face.
“Jackson!” she trumpeted, and then resisted the urge to hug him. What if this is a curdy con?
“Howzit going?”
“Fine, you?”
“I was sick all weekend.” He said it like it actually might have been true.
“Too sick to answer your phone?” Melody blurted. So what if she sounded like a possessive freak? He was a possible curdy conner.
“Who’s hungry?” called an egg-shaped man with a dark mustache, who was standing behind the counter. He clapped his silver tongs at Melody. “What’rya having?”
“Um.” She gazed longingly at the last slice of mushroom pizza. Like a puppy in a pet store making one final plea for adoption, it gazed back. But her pretzel-twisted stomach couldn’t do any major digesting right now. “No, thanks.”
She made a break for the lighter fare. Jackson followed.
“So, what’s the point of speed dial if you don’t pick up?” Melody plopped a bunch of grapes and a blueberry muffin on her tray.
“What’s the point of picking up if no one calls?” he countered. Still, the corners of his mouth were soft and forgiving, even playful.
“But I did call.” Melody popped a grape into her mouth before paying. “Like, three times.” (It was more like seven, but why make things more embarrassing than they already were?)
Jackson pulled a black flip phone out of his jeans pocket and waved it in front of her face as proof. The screen indicated zero messages. It also showed his phone number. Which happened to end in a 7. Not a 1.
Melody’s cheeks burned as she recalled the red thumb smudge—her red thumb smudge—by his number on the sketch-pad paper. The one responsible for castrating his 7.
“Oops.” She giggled, while paying for her random lunch selection. “I think I know what happened.”
Jackson grabbed a bag of Baked! Lays and a can of Sprite. “So, um, you wanna grab seats together? If not I understand.…”
“Sure,” Melody said, and then proudly followed her first friend (with boyfriend potential) at Merston High toward the Allergy-Free Zone.
Two attractive alternative girls, consumed by their own conversation, tried to squeeze past them. The Shakira-looking one, who had auburn curls and a tray stacked with Kobe beef sliders, made it by Jackson. But the other one, with black bangs and chunky gold highlights, got sandwiched between Melody’s shoulder and a blue chair.
“Watch it!” she barked, teetering on her gold wedges.
“Sorry.” Melody grabbed the girl’s latte-colored arm before she fell. Unfortunately, she couldn’t save the lunch. The white plastic tray dropped to the floor with a loud smack. Red grapes scattered like pearls on a broken necklace as the divided cafeteria came together for a round of applause.
“Why do people always clap when someone drops something?” Jackson asked, blushing from the sudden attention.
Melody shrugged. The girl, obviously at home in the spotlight, blew kisses to the audience. Dressed in a black-and-turquoise minidress, she had the Olympic figure skater thing down.
When the applause died, she turned to Melody, and her smile came crashing down like the final curtain. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she huffed.
Melody laughed. It seemed that all high school battles opened with that line.
“Huh?” the girl pressed.
“Actually,” Melody countered, gleaning power from her Clash tee, “you squeezed by me.”
“Untrue!” barked the girl with the sliders. Her statement came out so quickly, it sounded more like a sneeze. “I saw the whole thing, and you banged right into Cleo.” The barker wore purple leggings and a black bomber jacket lined in fur the same color as her hair. Not quite what Melody expected from the Beaver State. The Show Me State, maybe.
“It was an accident, Claudine,” Jackson explained, obviously trying to keep the peace.
“I’ve got it.” Cleo licked her glossy lips as if tasting the deliciousness of her own idea. She grinned at Melody. “Give me your grapes and we’ll call it even.”
“No way! It was your fault,” Melody snapped, surprised by her own courage (and her sudden affinity for grapes). She had spent the last fifteen years giving grapes to bullies. And now she was done.
“Listen, Melodork…” Cleo leaned closer and gritted her teeth.
Claudine howled with laughter.
“I know everything around here.” Cleo opened her arms wide, claiming the cafeteria as her kingdom. Well, maybe it was. Still, Melodork was nobody’s peasant.
“I also know”—Cleo raised her voice, continuing to perform for her fans in the blue seats—“that if you don’t give me those grapes, you’ll be eating over there.” She pointed to the empty table outside the boys’ bathroom. It was spackled in wet toilet paper and crumbled urinal cakes.
In the distance, over Cleo’s shoulder, Melody could see Candace laughing with her new friends, floating above the world in her happy Candace bubble, completely unaware of her sister’s trauma.
“Well?” Cleo put her hands on her slim hips and tapped her fingers impatiently.
Dizziness overcame Melody. Tunnel vision sharpened her senses and hyper-focused her awareness on Cleo’s exotic Egyptian features. Why do pretty girls always feel so entitled? Why can’t she use her beauty for good instead of evil? What would Dad think of the asymmetrical beauty mark to the right of her eye?
The truth was that Melanie had no clue what to do next. Other people were staring. And Jackson was fidgeting. Was he hoping she’d give in or willing her to fight back? A ringing sound filled her ears.
“Well?” Cleo asked, her periwinkle blue eyes squinting a final warning.
Melody’s heart banged against her chest, trying to beat its way out before things got ugly. Still, she managed to squint a comment of her own. “No deal.”
Claudine gasped. Jackson tensed. The kids in the blue seats exchanged a round of oh-no-she-didn’t glances. Melody dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from fainting.
“Fine.” Cleo took a step closer.
“Uh-ohhhhh.” Claudine twirled an auburn curl with girly anticipation.
Melody’s first instinct was to shield her face, which Cleo’s ring-clad fists looked primed to punch. But there was nothing her father couldn’t fix. So instead she stood strong and steeled herself for the first blow. At least people would know she wasn’t afraid.
“You take something of mine? Then I’ll take something of yours!” Cleo said.
“I didn’t take anything of yours,” Melody insisted. But it was too late.
Cleo swiped her glossy lips with more gloss, rocked onto the toes of her wedges, and then reached for Jackson and pulled him close. Suddenly, she was kissing him.
“Oh my god!” Melody laughed, unable to process the audacity. She turned to Claudine in desperation. “What is she doing?”
Claudine ignored her.
“Jackson!” Melody screeched. But he was in a zone all his own: Its color was red, and its lunch trays were shaped like hearts.
Turning left to her right, right to her left, Jackson followed Cleo’s lead like they were on Dancing with the Stars. For someone so nervous, he seemed oddly at ease. Do they share a past? A secret? A toothbrush? Whatever it was, it left Melody feeling like the pathetic outsider all over again.
Maybe Candace was right—you can take the nose out of Smellody, but you can’t take Smellody out of the nose.
“Whew!” Cleo gasped, finally releasing Jackson. She was met with another round of applause. But this time she didn’t wave. She simply licked her lips, linked arms with Claudine, and sauntered, with the cool swagger of a satisfied cat, toward the open seats in the white section.
“Nice meeting you, Melodork,” Cleo called over her shoulder, leaving a trail of smashed grapes in her wake.
“What was that?” Melody seethed, feeling the heat of a hundred eyeballs.
Jackson removed his glasses. His forehead was coated in sweat. “Is someone a little jealous?” he snickered.
“What?” Melody leaned against a blue chair.
Jackson snapped his fingers to the Ke$ha track that had started playing, and began dancing. “I’m just saying,” he crossed one leg over the other and spun like he was onstage at the Soul Train Awards. “You don’t look good in greeeeen.” His voice was suddenly spiked with a shot of late-night radio DJ.
“I am not jealous,” Melody snapped, wishing Cleo had just totaled her face and been done with it.
“Stop ta-ta-talking that… Blah blah blah,” Jackson sang with Ke$ha. He flashed thumbs-up to a table full of girls who were singing too.
“I don’t get how you could just stand there and let her—”
“Take advantage of me?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, it was really awful.” He pouted. “So awful, in fact, that I’m gonna go sit with her.”
“Really?”
Jackson snapped a finger-gun and fired off a round of winks. “Really.” He began following the trail of crushed grapes, kicking them aside with Fred Astaire flare.
Melody tossed her tray onto the table behind her. Eating was no longer an option. Her stomach was tied in—
“Muffin!” shrieked a girl.
People backed away as if Melody had peed in the pool. The Gluten-Free Zone evacuated immediately, leaving her to stew in her own contamination.
Melody sat. Alone. Surrounded by abandoned quinoa, millet, and amaranth-based starches, she caught a glimpse of her garbled reflection in the side of a dented aluminum napkin holder. Her distorted, peanut-shaped head looked like Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream. Despite her new face, twisted old Melody is whom she saw. And all the Clash T-shirts, red pastel phone numbers, and nose jobs in the world obviously couldn’t change that.
Her gray eyes were hard, her cheeks were gaunt, and the corners of her mouth hung as if pulled down by tiny fishing weights.
“Nice gluten grenade.” A girl giggled.
Melody turned toward the stranger. “Huh?”
A freckle-faced girl with dark shoulder-length waves and narrow green eyes sighed. It was the same girl who had suggested the monster-butt pen holder to her boyfriend. “I said, nice gluten grenade. You got rid of the blues like a Saks shopping spree. Next time try spilling milk in the orange zone. We call that a dairy dump.”
Melody tried to laugh, but it sounded like a moan.
“What’s up?” asked the girl. “You seem kinda down for a PT.”
“A what?” Melody snapped, craving just one second of normalcy.
“PT,” echoed the mousy girl who had snapped Melody’s picture and made her see spots before he showed up.
“What’s a PT?” Melody asked, but only because no one else was talking to her and she was tired of being alone.
“Physical threat,” Freckles explained. “Everyone is saying you’re the prettiest newcomer of the year. And yet…” Her voice trailed off.
“And yet what?”
“And yet you’re being treated like a total…” She tapped the side of her head. “Ugh. What’s the word?”
“Anti-threat,” Mousy-bangs answered for her.
“Yes! Perfect word choice.” Freckles wiggled her texting thumbs. “Enter that.”
Mousy-bangs nodded obediently. She pulled a phone from the side of her green faux crocodile-skin attaché case, slid out the keyboard, and began thumbing.
“What’s she writing?” Melody asked.
“Who? Haylee?” asked Freckles, as if there were dozens of girls taking notes on this bizarre conversation. “She’s assisting me.”
Melody nodded like that was super-interesting and then peered across the cafeteria. He was sitting at her table, plucking grapes off a fresh bunch and dropping them in her mouth. It was 100 percent nauseating.
Freckles’s hand appeared under Melody’s nose. “I’m Bekka Madden. Author of Bek and Better Than Ever: The True Story of One Girl’s Return to Popularity After Another Girl Whose Name I Won’t Mention—CLEO!—Hit On Brett Then Got Hit by Bekka Then Basically Told the Entire School That Bekka Was Violent and Should Be Avoided at All Costs.”
“Wow.” Melody shook her hand. “Sounds… detailed.” She laughed.
“It’s gonna be one of those cell phone novels.” Haylee snapped her keyboard shut and then dropped it back into her case. “You know, like they have in Japan. Only this will be in English.”
“Assumed.” Bekka sighed, in a you-can’t-get-good-help-these-days sort of way. She sat on the table, placed her hands under her butt, and playfully kicked a blue chair with her UGG boots.
Haylee licked her bubblegum-pink lip gloss and adjusted her glasses. “I’m documenting her struggle.”
“Cool.” Melody nodded, trying to be encouraging.
Something about Bekka and Haylee reminded her of Candace’s line between ingenious and insane. Ingenuity inspired their dreams, and insanity gave them courage to pursue them. It was something Melody wanted for herself. But she didn’t have any inspired dreams worth pursuing now that Jackson had turned out to be a player who bolted when someone easier came along.…
“I want to crush her too,” Bekka said.
Melody’s cheeks burned. Was it that obvious she’d been staring?
“We could team up, you know.” Bekka’s green eyes bored into Melody’s.
Haylee pulled out her phone and began typing again.
“I don’t want revenge,” Melody insisted, scraping the clear polish off one fingernail. What she wanted was currently feeding grapes to a PT at another table.
“How about a friend?” Bekka’s expression warmed Melody like hot cocoa on a rainy Sunday.
“That could work.” Melody gathered a handful of over-conditioned black hair and dropped it back between her shoulder blades.
Bekka nodded once at Haylee.
The dutiful assistant pushed aside the abandoned gluten-free lunches, reached inside her attaché, and pulled out a cream-colored sheet of paper. She slapped it down on the table and stepped aside to let Bekka explain.
“Promise you will never flirt with Brett Redding, hook up with Brett Redding, or fail to pummel any girl who does hook up with Brett Redding and—”
“Who’s Brett Redding?” Melody asked, even though she had a strong hunch it was the wannabe monster documentarian.
“Brett is Bekka’s boyfriend.” Haylee swayed from side to side dreamily. “They’ve been together since seventh grade. And they are sickly-ridickly cute together.”
“It’s true. We are.” Bekka grinned with unapologetic glee.
Envy pricked Melody’s skin like a mosquito. She didn’t want Brett, but unapologetic glee would have been nice.
“Lately he’s been checking out PTs when he thinks I’m not looking.” Bekka scanned the thinning lunch crowd like a searchlight. “What he doesn’t realize is—”
“She’s always looking,” Haylee said, typing.
“I’m always looking.” Bekka tapped her temple. She turned back to Melody. “So, sign the document stating that you won’t violate my trust, and I’ll give you a lifetime of loyalty in return.”
Haylee stood over Melody, clicking a silver-and-red pen—the ballpoint Melody would use, should she choose to accept this offer.
Melody fake-read the document to give the appearance that she wasn’t the kind of chump who signs things without reading them, even though she was. Her eyes sped across the words while her mind searched for a reason to walk away from this unusual proposition. But Melody didn’t have much experience in the friend-making business. For all she knew, this was how it was done.
“Looks good to me,” she stated, grabbing the ballpoint from Haylee’s fingers. She signed and dated the document.
“School ID.” Haylee stuck out her palm.
“Why?” Melody asked.
“I have to notarize.” She pushed her glasses further up her wide nose.
Melody tossed her Merston High ID on the table.
“Nice picture,” Haylee mumbled, jotting down the necessary information.
“Thanks,” Melody mumbled back, studying her expression in the tiny laminated square. She was glowing like a jack-o’-lantern with a candle inside. Because she had been thinking about him. Wondering when they’d run into each other… what it would be like… what he would say… If only Melody could go back in time and tell the dreamy-eyed girl in the laminated square what she knew now…
Haylee returned the ID and then began connecting a digital camera to a portable printer. Seconds later a photo of Melody, minus the candlelit glow, was being clipped to the corner of the document and filed inside the attaché.
“Congratulations, Melody Carver. Welcome to the fold,” Bekka said, pulling her and Haylee in for a group hug. One of them smelled like strawberries.
“There are two rules I’d like to share with you.” Bekka squeezed some clear gloss from a tube and dabbed it on her lips. She waited for Haylee’s thumbs to make contact with her keyboard. “Number one: Friends come first.”
Haylee typed.
Melody nodded. She couldn’t agree more.
“And number two.” Bekka pinched a grape off a cluster. “Always fight for your man.” With that, she drew her arm back like a warrior and whipped a grape across the cafeteria. It bounced off Cleo’s chunky blond highlights.
Melody burst out laughing. Bekka launched another missile.
Cleo stood and glared at her opponent. Drawing her arm back, she—
“Duck!” Bekka shouted, pulling Haylee and Melody to the floor.
The girls laughed themselves a side stitch as a hailstorm of mayo-coated luncheon meat smacked the table above them.
It wasn’t the first time Melody had found herself in the center of a lunchroom drama that afternoon. But it was the first time she enjoyed it.