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  What else? Mr. Davis asked me how my head was and I said all better, and he wanted to know how I’d feel about diving with the team again, and I said I’d love to but I have to talk to my doctor first. Dr. Sheldon was not crazy about it. She said just because I feel better doesn’t mean my head is all healed.

  That struck me as the perfect explanation for the Posie/Sophie situation. I mean, I can say with good faith that I’m over Sophie and I’m completely in love with Posie, but I still think about Sophie every once in a while.

  I’m still having trouble remembering what Sophie looks like, though. Which is probably a good thing.

  I think that’s all for now.

  P.S. Honey is the only senior accepted early decision at Harvard. And the only one who applied.

  Nov. 16, 3:15 P.M.

  This totally weird thing happened today after school when I was delivering pizzas for First Amendment. It was at the very end of my shift, and I was about to head home when Mr. Swede got this call for seven large pizzas to be sent to this house on 25th Ave., down by the cemetery. So I waited around and finally they were all boxed up and I had to use an extra bungee cord to make sure all the pizzas stayed on the bike. Anyway, I cycled along the streets, my head just kind of in the clouds. I was thinking about this one time I was sitting behind Sophie in geometry last year and she was drawing these doodles in the margin of her notebook. Sophie is a really good artist and she did the usual stuff, horses and flowers and curlicues and junk, but then she started drawing this girl, and I could tell right away it was a picture of herself. I mean, it was definitely Sophie, except she didn’t have any eyes. And that was strange because Sophie’s eyes are the most beautiful thing about her. But now I can’t even remember what color her eyes are. Green, or blue?

  Anyway, before I knew it I was at 25th Ave. and I rode past the cemetery, which is really creepy. It’s not an old graveyard like the ones you see up in New England or something with old stone walls and tombstones dating back to the sixteen hundreds with vines growing all over them. This one has a kind of suburban blandness to it. All the gravestones are small and new and look like they were just cut yesterday. The houses near the cemetery are all run-down, too. I mean they’re fine, it’s not a total slum or anything; they’re just a little seedier than anything else in Pompano.

  I pulled up at the house with the seven pizzas. The house I was delivering to was the worst house on the street. I mean there was a car up on blocks in the driveway and the screens were all torn and the grass was all rusty like it had never seen water. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d think would order $82 worth of pizza, and I was thinking I probably wasn’t going to get much of a tip.

  I rang the bell and waited, and nobody answered, so I rang the bell again and just stood there for what seemed like forever. Then I pushed the screen door open a little and called out, “Hello?”

  Over the mantel in the den was this old stuffed marlin that seemed very familiar. And then I saw this picture on the wall of Thorne and his parents and I looked at the order slip and it said Wood. It was Thorne’s house.

  When the Woods moved here I don’t even know, but it was really depressing. I walked into the house and called out, “Thorne?” but there was no answer.

  Then I found Thorne’s room. There was this huge computer sitting on his desk, and the floor was scattered with folders full of papers and pictures and a scanner and a laser printer and all this gear. There were all these ads for the Wood Love Rendezvous Connection. Suddenly I had this clear picture of what it’s like to be Thorne. How he is constantly scheming and reinventing himself because he’s trying to get the hell out of this house. It must be total torture to live in a place like Pompano where some people have mansions and yachts, and go to school at Don Shula with all the rich kids, and then come home to this.

  On the desk were all his college applications. There was one for Wesleyan and one for Amherst, and the University of Virginia, and Stanford. These were some of the best colleges in the country, and I know for a fact that Thorne doesn’t have the SATs or the grades to get in. It was also weird that his applications were still here, because the college counselors at Don Shula made this big point of telling everybody to get them in by November 15th to show them you’re serious. Maybe Thorne had finally found something he couldn’t hustle.

  Still, knowing Thorne, he’ll find a way. If anybody can charm their way into college, Thorne can. Suddenly I really missed him. I felt bad seeing his house without him there. I wished I’d never known about this place or seen him on board the Scrod. I wished he’d told me about it himself, when he was ready.

  And then I wondered, who in hell sent Thorne a huge pile of pizzas and try to stick him with the bill? For a second I thought it might be Posie, but she isn’t mean enough for it. So who was it?

  I was just about to get the hell out of there when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Thorne’s room was a total mess, except for the top of his dresser, which was completely clean. It was the only place in the room that didn’t look like a bomb had gone off. And on top of his dresser were three things. The first was this blue ribbon he’d gotten in track, back at Pompano Junior High. He’d won it like six years ago, but it was still there on top of his dresser, like a little ode to his youthful career as an athlete or something. And next to this was a framed photograph of Thorne and me standing in front of the ocean.

  I remembered the day Posie took that picture. It was before I went up to Masthead, so it was at least two and a half years ago. We’d spent all day, Thorne and me, and Posie, hanging out on the beach. Posie was surfing, and Thorne and I were lying around drinking soda and listening to tunes on Thorne’s box. It was a day pretty much like a million days Thorne and Posie and I spent together before I went up north, but just looking at the two of us smiling in the picture made life look like heaven. Thorne and I have our arms around each other’s backs and these big goofy grins and we’re squinting into the sun and we look totally contented. I guess that’s why Thorne had it framed on his dresser; it was a perfect moment.

  Next to the picture were the two pieces of my clamshell collar.

  America Online Mail Center

  To: JBLACK94710

  From: NORTHGIRL999

  Subject: Hungry?

  Hey, Jonah. Did Thorne like his pizzas? Just wondering. Actually I was thinking of maybe sending him one that was half extra cheese, half snake.

  Ha ha.

  Love,

  Northgirl999

  P.S. Did you figure out who I am yet?

  Nov. 17, 7:30 P.M.

  I’ve got a lot to write about tonight.

  I was on my way home from my route for First Amendment, when I biked past the Wimpy’s on Federal Highway. It’s this really gross place next to the head shop and the topless bar, and it has this big sign: Hot Dogs 3 for $1. And I saw Thorne standing in line.

  I pulled over and locked the bike and got in line, but Thorne didn’t see me. So then I just sort of casually said, “Hey, I hear the food here is really good.”

  Thorne turned around. “Jonah!” he said. I could tell his brain was working a million miles an hour trying to figure out how to finesse the situation, but he knew I was onto him.

  “It’s okay, Thorne,” I said. “I don’t give a damn. I really don’t.”

  “Yeah, well, I do,” Thorne said. He reached the window and he gave the man a buck and got his three hot dogs. The man looked at me and I gave him a buck and then Thorne and I sat down at a beat-up picnic table to eat our lame-o hot dogs, watching the traffic.

  “Listen, it’s okay about Posie,” Thorne said. “I screwed up with her, okay? I should never have tried to nail her in the first place.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m sorry I was so pissed off at you about her, but you know how I feel about Posie. She’s not like other girls,” I said.

  “So are you like, totally grooving on her now?” he asked me.

  I shrugged. “She’s pretty awesome,” I said.
r />   “Well, if you feel that way it’s a good thing it’s you instead of me,” said Thorne. “Really. You’re much more of a . . . whatever.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Thanks.”

  “I’m just sorry I . . .” Thorne started to say, but he couldn’t finish it.

  I knew what he wanted to tell me. He was sorry he’d lied to me.

  “Thorne,” I said. “You know I don’t care about how much money you have. Do you really think that makes a difference to me?”

  “Well, it makes a difference to me, goddammit. Ever since the motel went out of business, it’s been pretty crappy at home. My parents don’t have money for anything anymore. Mom is working for the Chamber of Commerce, answering phones, plus she does people’s laundry and ironing. Dad wakes up at three o’clock every morning to take his crappy fishing boat out, and I have to help him every weekend. They have just enough to pay the bills and keep the fridge full of Velveeta and cornflakes. It totally sucks.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m still your friend, Thorne,” I said quietly.

  “Yeah?” he said. He sounded totally surprised. “How come?”

  “What can I tell you?” I said. “You’ve got character.”

  Thorne looked at his hot dog like he was wondering what kind of meat was in it. “Yeah, I got character all right.”

  “You do,” I said. “Just do me a favor? Don’t pretend to be calling your broker on your cell phone, okay? It’s obnoxious.”

  “Who? You mean Kendra?” he said.

  “Yeah. You don’t have to do that anymore,” I told him.

  “Hey, man, Kendra’s real,” Thorne said. “You should see this chick. Dreadlocks to her waist! I thought having her do some transactions for me might give her a more personal interest in my portfolio.”

  “Did it work?”

  Thorne nodded. “The market’s definitely up,” he said.

  I just shook my head. “You’re insane,” I said.

  “Hey, Jonah,” said Thorne. “You remember when I got you Sophie’s phone number, and you said you’d tell me what happened with her? You never did tell me the story.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “How come?” Thorne said.

  “I don’t know. I guess I was afraid you’d think I was a loser,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re a loser maybe you and me got something in common,” Thorne said, clapping me on the back.

  “You really want to hear it?” I said.

  “Yeah. I think I do. It’s better than eating these monkey-meat hot dogs, anyway,” he said.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you.”

  And I started to tell Thorne the story about Sophie, the whole story. It was the first time I’d told anybody. And now that I’ve told him, I don’t even know why I was keeping it such a big secret. I guess I just felt stupid about it. I still do.

  I’m going to try to write it down now. It may not be exactly the way I said it to Thorne, but it’ll be close enough.

  But first I’m going to get a drink. I need my strength.

  Okay. I’m back. Here’s what happened.

  THE TRUE STORY OF SOPHIE O’BRIEN,

  MASTHEAD ACADEMY, AND

  HOW I LOST MY DRIVER’S LICENSE.

  BY MR. JONAH BLACK.

  Once upon a time there was a boy named Jonah whose parents got divorced. After the divorce, Jonah’s father decided it would be good if Jonah spent some time closer to where he lived so he arranged it so that Jonah would leave his home in Pompano Beach, Florida, and begin attending Masthead Academy in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, which was only about five minutes from Dad’s house. Masthead was a boarding school and even though Jonah’s father only lived about five minutes away, Jonah almost never saw Dad. When he did, Dad always sort of acted like he wished Jonah wasn’t there, especially since Dad had married his twenty-three-year-old secretary named Tiffany. When Tiffany was around Dad didn’t pay much attention to anything else, and Tiffany was always around.

  I think I have to stop writing it this way because it already sounds too awful.

  And it wasn’t all awful. It was kind of interesting to be going to school at Masthead. The teachers were all really smart, and it was cool to be going to such a good school. Most of the students were incredibly wealthy. It was like they had no idea there was anybody in the world who didn’t have as much stuff as they did. Or maybe they knew that such people existed, but they just weren’t interested in them.

  Anyway, Sophie O’Brien was this beautiful girl. Kind of frail, kind of distant, and really artistic. She didn’t really hang out with anybody, and she seemed incredibly private. I used to see her in the art studio sometimes when no one else was there, painting these huge canvases. She had a completely unique view of the world, you could tell from her paintings. But I also always felt like something terrible had happened to her, or maybe she felt like something terrible was about to happen to her. She would paint things like a girl jumping off a cliff, or a train bearing down on someone sleeping on the tracks. One time she drew this bull’s-eye with all these arrows headed toward it. She called it Self-Portrait.

  My roommate at Masthead was this heinous guy called Sullivan. If I had a photograph of him, I’d paste it in here, because words don’t exactly do him justice. People called him Sullivan the Giant, which was not exactly a compliment. I found out later his father was one of the trustees, which is the only explanation for why he was there, because he never cracked a book and barely went to class. He loved to eat and he’d eat these Italian subs every day that were the size of firewood, and then he’d fart these awful farts all night while he was sleeping. He was pretty disgusting, and he thought his disgustingness was just great. It gave him a lot of pleasure. In fact he’d brag about it.

  We used to lie in our beds in the dorm room and he’d tell me everything he’d done to whatever girl he’d seen that night. He was always with some girl, which I did not understand at all, until he explained how he had all their files and records and he would do stuff like get them expelled or expose something they wanted kept secret unless they slept with him. It made me sick to see how proud he was for being such a monster. Sullivan always took his girls down to this seedy motel called the Beeswax Inn. Not that you were allowed to leave campus or anything, but the proctors always looked the other way when it came to Sullivan because he had dirt on them, too. He was a real slimeball, Sullivan the Giant.

  Sullivan developed this plan to sleep with every single girl in the junior class, and he started going through them all in alphabetical order. Sophie’s last name is O’Brien, and it took him until May to get that far down on the list. Knowing about Sullivan’s plan gave me the creeps, but when Sophie’s turn came, I really freaked out. It suddenly struck me that the terrible thing that was going to happen to her, the thing she was painting when she did that bull’s-eye, was called Sullivan.

  One day I saw Sophie in the gym. She was in the gymnastics room, all by herself, hanging from the rings. She was a pretty good gymnast, although she didn’t join the team. She just went in there every once in a while and swung around on the rings and the parallel bars. Anyway, I stood up in the gallery and watched her through the window and it was pretty obvious she had no idea what was about to happen to her. I mean, if she did, she wouldn’t have spent so much time alone, and like, made herself look so vulnerable and available. She was the perfect target for someone like Sullivan.

  Suddenly I got this idea. I was going to save her. I knew what Sullivan had done to all the other girls, and how he treated them afterward. But not this time. I wasn’t going to let him ruin Sophie.

  There was this end-of-the-year formal dance at Masthead. Sullivan’s plan was to take Sophie to the dance, and afterward he’d bring her to the Beeswax Inn, where I guess there was some sort of understanding that kids from Masthead could go to have sex without the management calling the administration. I even knew what room he was going to be in. There was this one special room called the Beehive Suite, which w
as on the ground floor and had a fireplace and a bay window. Sullivan had decided to spend the extra thirty dollars so he could deflower Sophie in the Beehive Suite. As if that would make things better.

  The problem was, I didn’t know how to stop Sullivan. I wanted to go up to Sophie and tell her what a loser he was, but (this is the horrible thing I don’t want to write down) I was too shy to talk to her. I don’t think Sophie O’Brien even knew I was alive.

  I asked this girl Betsy Donnelly to the formal. I didn’t really know her, but we were in the same world literature class with Mr. Fontaine, who everybody called Egg with Glasses. He had this big bald head and everything.

  When I went to Betsy’s dorm room to walk her over to the dance, she looked really pretty. She had on a long black dress, and her brown hair hung down almost to her waist. She was short, with little freckles all over her face, and she was wearing this black headband, which you’d think would look nerdy, but on Betsy it looked nice. I felt kind of bad about taking her to the dance just so I could look out for Sophie, but Betsy was smart. I guess you have to be smart if you go to Masthead. Unless you’re Sullivan.

  Anyway, as we were walking over to the dance, we had this bizarre conversation. Betsy had her hand resting on the crook of my arm. It was all very formal, like something out of Victorian England or something.

  Halfway to the Great Hall where the dance was going to be, Betsy said, “Listen, Jonah, I know I’m not your first choice for the dance. But thanks for asking me. I wouldn’t have gone if you didn’t ask me.”

  “What?” I said, all nervous. “Who said you’re not my first choice?”

  “Jonah, let’s be real, okay? Tonight’s going to be fun. I just don’t want to pretend this is like a date, though, all right?” she said.