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  SKATER BOY

  By Mari Mancusi

  SKATER BOY

  Mari Mancusi

  Copyright © 2011

  All Rights Reserved.

  AGENCY INFORMATION

  NLA Digital Liaison Platform LLC

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Writers struggle to support themselves. Please help them by buying their books from legitimate sources. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Hey, Dawn, whatcha writing?”

  I slam my notebook shut and force a wide smile as my friend Ashley approaches the lunch table. I can’t believe it. She’s five minutes early. Five minutes! After I’ve already gone and used up one of my three-bathroom-breaks-a-semester chemistry class privileges for a few precious moments of writing time. And now Ashley has shown up and ruined it all.

  The early bird gets the chance to tick Dawn off….

  “Nothing,” I say, forcing a casual shrug. “Just a birthday wish list. You know how The Evil Ones are. Left to their own devices I’d probably end up with some itchy Harvard letter sweater for my sweet sixteen.”

  I’d actually been working on a poem, not a birthday list. One I plan to enter in a contest sponsored by Faces, a local Massachusetts literary magazine. But I am certainly not about to inform our head cheerleader of that little technicality. I mean, writing poetry? How geeky can you get? And The Evil Ones (aka Mom and Dad) are terrible in the presents department, so it’s not like I’m telling a total lie….

  “Oh cool.” Ashley flounces onto the chair beside me, her wool plaid skirt puffing up and then settling back down over her perfectly sculpted thighs. We all wear the same skirts here as sophomores at Sacred Mary’s, but Ashley’s skirt usually falls at least two inches shorter than regulation and it constantly gets her in trouble with the Sisters. “You should ask for those Seven Jeans we saw at Nordstrom the other day.”

  “The ones with the crystals on the back pocket?” I look up and see that Ashley #2 has arrived at our lunch table. Like Ashley #1, she’s blond and lanky and wears her skirts too short. Her claim to fame is being picked as homecoming queen last fall, even though she’s only a sophomore. “Those are completely lame. When shopping for jeans, I say go James every time. They’re scientifically designed to make your butt look smaller, not draw attention to it with crystals.”

  I stifle a groan. I love my friends, don’t get me wrong. But there are times I’m not quite sure I fit in with them. I mean yeah, I’d rather be here than at the loser table discussing games like Magic: The Gathering, but is it really necessary for us to debate the pros and cons of designer denim every single lunch? Doesn’t anyone talk politics anymore? Not that I know anything about politics, but maybe I could start learning if someone brought them up once in a while. It’d probably prove more useful in life than the Fashionista 101 sessions we seem to hold every lunch period.

  “You guys are crazy!” Oh, there’s Ashley #3, making our lunch group complete. She swings her Kate Spade messenger bag off her shoulder and plops it on the floor. We consider Ashley #3 the brainy one. She’s president of the student council and wants to be a TV anchorwoman when she grows up. I think she has a good shot at the job. She’s already got the brilliant white capped teeth and perfect hair. “Obviously Levi’s makes the best jeans known to mankind.”

  The other two Ashleys groan in sync. “No way would I be caught dead in Levi’s,” says Ashley #1.

  “That’s ‘cause you’re a lemming,” Ashley #3 explains, using the big word with a smug pride. She knows for a fact Ashley #1 won’t know what it means and she’s right.

  “Hey! What did you just call me?”

  “Girls, girls! Let us not fight over fashion,” Ashley #2, the peacemaker, coos. She took a yoga class once and has been all Buddha-on-the-mountain ever since. “Our different tastes in denim make the world go round.” She holds her palms out and smiles demurely. For a minute I think she’s going to actually break out into an “Ohmmm.”

  Instead she says, “What were we talking about again?”

  “Dawn’s birthday wish list.”

  “Ah. How about a side of Brent Baker, served on a silver platter?” Her demure smile morphs into a lecherous smirk as she watches the senior from across the room. We all turn and look. The Ashleys sigh, again in sync. They’re good at that.

  “No way. He’s on my birthday list,” declares Ashley #1. This obviously strikes them as funny, and all three break out into giggles.

  You know, I’m pretty convinced I’m the only girl in school not lusting after Brent Baker. Brent Baker the Third, that is. Born with a silver spoon wedged up his butt. His parents and my parents go to the same country club, so I’ve known him since my playpen days and he’s been after me almost as long. But I’m so not interested in him. I mean, sure he’s got the blond, blue-eyed jock thing going on, but his huge ego negates any points he’s chocked up in the looks department.

  The Ashleys can’t understand why I think he’s repulsive, but they don’t rock the boat. After all, that means he’s fair game for any one of them.

  “Hi, Brent,” coos Ashley #1 as the varsity football player approaches our table. He’s all Abercrombie’d out, as usual. (Seniors at Sacred Mary’s have the luxury of forgoing uniforms, as long as they don’t abuse the privilege with blinged out Ed Hardy T’s and butt-crack-revealing jeans.)

  “Ladies,” he greets, offering a smarmy grin. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Dawn,” he adds, coming behind me and placing his hands on my shoulders. I shrug away. I usually try to be civil to him—The Evil Ones would kill me if I weren’t—but I draw the line at shoulder massages.

  “Hi, Brent,” I mutter.

  “Did you hear about the new girl?” he asks, plopping down beside me. I slide as far as I can to the other side of my stool. Brent always reeks of too much cologne and it makes my eyes water. Or maybe I’m just allergic to cheesiness.

  The Ashleys lean in, eager for the gossip. “What new girl?” questions Ashley #3, honing her journalistic skills.

  “Well,” Brent says in a conspiratorial voice. He’s delighted he’s gotten our full attention. Pathetic. “Supposedly she’s the headmaster’s daughter. And I heard she got kicked out of boarding school for being part of a satanic cult.”

  “Oh, her!” Ashley #1 exclaims, as if previously thrown off by the masses of new students Sacred Mary’s has acquired in the last week. She bobs her head in all-knowingness. “I heard from a very reliable source that she’s a witch. And she drinks the blood of snakes after cutting off their heads.”

  I know
for a fact Ashley’s “very reliable source” is her on-again, off-again boyfriend Derek. Who is not reliable at all, IMO.

  “Ri-ight,” I say sarcastically. “And she eats babies for breakfast, too.”

  “Really? Wow!” Ashley #1 looks impressed. “I hadn’t heard that part.”

  Sigh. Just sigh.

  “Ooh! Look! Is that her?” Ashley #2 exclaims with a squeak. I follow her pointing finger to a girl who has just exited the lunch line, tray in hand, and a slightly defiant look on her face.

  “Oh my gosh, she looks like Marilyn Manson!” Ashley #3 whispers so loudly that I’m almost convinced the new girl can hear her from across the caf.

  “No she doesn’t,” I hiss back, a lot more quietly. “She’s pretty. She looks like the girl from Evanescence.”

  She does look a lot like Amy Lee, I decide, as I take another peek. What with her long, jet-black hair and powder-white skin. She’s wearing a black zippered hoodie over her uniform top and has rolled her regulation Catholic-schoolgirl skirt down to reveal an inch of stomach skin. I’m surprised none of the Ashleys have ever tried that look before. On her feet she’s wearing black combat boots. (Not surprised they skipped that trend.)

  The nuns are going to have a field day with this chick.

  “Let’s get her to come sit with us,” I suggest, feeling a moment of compassion for the new girl. “She probably doesn’t know anyone.”

  All three Ashleys and one Brent Baker the Third turn to stare at me, mouths agape.

  “You’re kidding, right? Puh-leeze tell me you’re kidding,” says Ashley #1.

  “If you’re not kidding, you must be blind. Do you see what she looks like?” That from Ashley #2. “She’s a total skank.”

  “If we invite her over, we might as well invite all the other losers in the lunchroom. Want me to get the gamer geeks over to our table, Dawn? How about the drama dorks?” That’s Ashley #3’s contribution.

  “Okay, fine. Sorry!” I say, rolling my eyes. “It was just a suggestion.”

  Like I said, I love my friends, but I am aware they’re truly the shallowest people on the planet. Like, they’d never even consider accepting anyone into their inner circle who doesn’t embrace the color pink. And God help you if you have on the wrong shoes. At times, I’m surprised they include me in their little reindeer games. After all, strike one—I’m not even called Ashley. (Though it is my middle name.)

  In any case, the four of us bonded long ago in elementary school (I had the best Barbie collection!) and I’m somehow still hanging around with them. And while they get on my nerves at times, it’s better than having no friends at all. To be forced to sit by myself at lunch like the new girl. So I put up with them for the most part. And really, at times they can be fun. Especially when we’re shopping.

  I watch curiously as the supposed snake-blood-drinking witch-Satanist starts picking at her mystery meat. I feel bad for staring, but she’s just so intriguing. Not like anyone I’ve ever seen at Sacred Mary’s.

  She doesn’t seem to mind sitting by herself. In fact, she almost seems to glow with self-assurance. Like she doesn’t care what others think of her. I wish I had half that confidence.

  Abruptly, she turns around and catches me staring at her. She raises one eyebrow as she appraises me, then rolls her eyes and turns back to her food. I can feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. In that one moment, it’s as if she’s weighed me and found me wanting. She thinks I’m exactly like my silly friends. Just another one of the blond, blue-eyed Ashley clones—all fluff and fashion and no substance. One of The Plastics. The Populars. The Mean Girls. Whatever tired movie cliché you want to use.

  For some strange reason, I suddenly get the undying urge to prove her wrong.

  Chapter Two

  I arrive home at exactly 7:05 P.M. that evening and I no sooner drop my Marc Jacobs carryall on our foyer’s marble floor, than The Evil Ones start in with their nightly game of Dawn harassment.

  “How was school?” my mother asks from the beige couch in our Victorian-themed parlor. I don’t know how she and Dad can sit in there. Even the raging fire in the fireplace can’t warm the icily formal room.

  “School was fine. So was crew before school and gymnastics after. And yes, I got an A on my math test.” I know they’re going to badger me about each and every one of these activities, so I figure I might as well throw them all out on the table at once so we can move on.

  “You know, I was looking at your schedule for next year,” Dad pipes in from his armchair, after setting down the big fat book he’s reading. “And I see you have a study scheduled in B period.”

  Shoot. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice that. “Oh. Do I?” I ask, trying to sound innocent. I shift my weight onto my left foot and smooth down my pleated skirt as I wait for the condemnation to come.

  “Don’t you think it’d be better to sign up for AP History in that slot?”

  I love how he pretends something’s a question when it’s so obviously an order. As if I could actually say, “No, Dad, next semester I’d actually like a millisecond of free time” and he’d be okay with it.

  “Most people don’t take AP History ‘til senior year, Dad,” I say halfheartedly. I know I’ll lose the argument. I always do. “I’ll only be a junior.”

  “No reason why you can’t get ahead. After all, Harvard doesn’t accept slackers, you know.”

  I cringe. There he goes again with the “H” word. That’s all he cares about. Harvard. His alma mater. The school he’s determined that I get into. And to make sure I do, he’s scheduled me within an inch of my life—with honors classes and extracurricular activities up the wazoo. He says I need to be well-rounded. At this point, I’m so round it’s amazing I don’t roll away.

  I would love to tell him that I’m not interested in going to Harvard, that I’d rather go to some small liberal-arts school in California (far away from them!) to study poetry, but I’m afraid the revelation might kill him. After all, he’s got that heart condition. My parents are on the older side, you see. Mom did the whole career thing before popping out a kid. That’s why I never got a brother or sister. By the time I was born, her eggs had shriveled up.

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll sign up for AP History,” I acquiesce. Better to appease him than doom myself to a half-hour lecture. “I’m, um, going up to my room now.”

  “Do you have homework?” Mom asks. Remember that career I mentioned she had? Teacher. And even in retirement, nothing school-related gets past her.

  I suppress a sigh. “I’ll do it in my room.”

  “I’d better not come up there and find you writing your little limericks,” Dad warns, picking up his gigantic book again. Some obscure medieval text that no one in their right mind would read for pleasure. “After all, you’ve got to keep those grades up. Last semester, you got an A-minus in Biology and—”

  “Okay, Dad. I won’t write poetry. I’ll study.” I grab my bag off the floor and trudge upstairs to my room.

  Limericks indeed. No one appreciates my poetry. No one. But someday, when I’m a famous author, people are going to bid big money on eBay for these early verses. And I’ll go on The Today Show and talk about how my creativity was stifled at an early age. “I’m so lucky to have made it through at all, Matt,” I’ll say. “Well, the world is glad you did, Darla,” he’ll reply, using my soon-to-be world-famous pen name. And then he’ll bring out my old gray parents who will lament how wrong they were to hinder my creative genius, while the audience boos them off stage.

  I hang a left at the top of the stairs and head down the hall to my bedroom. My sanctuary. The one place in this house where no one’s allowed to bug me. Sure, it’s still got the expensive, formal furniture, inherited from Grandma like everything else in this monstrosity of a mansion we call home, but I’ve softened the look with magazine cutouts of my favorite old movie stars on the walls. As I lie in bed at night, Audrey Hepburn and James Dean and Marilyn Monroe smile down at me, as if to tell me that everyth
ing will be okay.

  I light an aromatherapy candle and plop, stomach down, onto my bed, taking a deep breath in an attempt to unwind. I’m only fifteen, but some days I’m convinced I’m on the verge of a mid-life crisis. I’m overscheduled, stressed to the max, and the caffeine’s no longer working.

  You know how normal kids go through their teen years? Wake up at seven, go to school, take some easy classes like basket-weaving or drama and then go hang with their friends and listen to music? Well, imagine my day. You’re up at five to go to crew practice, rowing down a river in the freezing Massachusetts air. Change quickly to make it to school in time for the first bell. Then have a school day cram-packed with AP and honors classes. Last bell rings and you’re off to gymnastics practice or yearbook or school paper or ballet or whatever and then straight to your language tutor where you’re learning Japanese in case you want to be a foreign business leader someday (which you don’t). You get home at seven o’clock and go up to your room to do all your excruciatingly hard AP and honors homework. Go to bed after homework is finished, then wake up the next morning to do it all again.

  Basically, every second of my life is booked solid ‘til I retire. (The Evil Ones have probably already pre-registered me for a nursing home, too.) Doesn’t sound like fun? Too bad, ‘cause I’d love to trade places with anyone who envies me.

  I open my Algebra II textbook and my half-finished poem flutters onto my bed. I glance over at my closed bedroom door. Will Dad really come up and check on me? The poetry contest deadline is tomorrow, and I have no idea when I’ll be able to finish writing it if I don’t do it tonight. And I really want to enter, too. The prize is a hundred dollars and publication in the magazine. Of course, I’d have to use a pen name, but that’s okay. I’d know it was mine.

  But just as I’m about to put pen to paper and become one with my writing muse, a knock sounds on my door. I groan and stuff the poem back into my Algebra book. So much for sanctuary.