"Probably just wanted to show you her hornworts," another voice chipped in.
Swiveling his head, Jarvis saw that it was Kid Vandergriff. A junior who looked like a freshman (thus his nickname) but circled like a hopeful puppy around the seniors, Vandergriff hadn't been in the biology lab for the confrontation.
Brightening appreciatively at the discovery his joke had not only been remembered but been repeated, Jarvis took note of the underclassman's marching-band jacket and shot back, "Which she caught from you, the way she told it. When are you going to see a doctor?"
Jarvis and Reynolds continued across the lot toward the order windows, calling greetings to others they knew. As they neared the building, Jarvis scanned through the odd bare patch of glass for Denise.
"Do you see her?"
"In the back. I think she's working the food window."
Without a word but both knowing why, they drew up short and stood talking about the tournament, until Denise returned to the counter with the order for the young family waiting there.
"Hey, Denise," Jarvis said, stepping forward. He rested his folded arms on the counter, which brought his face down to her eye level. "How's it going?"
"Fine, until you got here," she said cheerfully. "What do you want?"
"A big Pepsi-and a date."
"The Pepsi you can have," she said, turning away.
Reynolds whistled sympathetically and leaned back against the counter beside Jarvis. "I warned you."
"She just hasn't learned to appreciate my better qualities yet," he said with a shrug.
It was said as an aside, but Denise reappeared with Jarvis's drink in time to hear it. "You have no better qualities," she said crisply. "Ninety-three cents."
"You're so cold to me," he said, digging in his pocket for change.
"You're confusing me with the drink. Me, I just don't care. You know the feeling."
"What do you mean? Today in biology? What's the problem?"
Head cocked to the right and hands on her hips, she stared at him a moment, as if deciding whether to continue the conversation. "Your problem is that you're always performing for the audience," she said finally.
"I am not." His reflexive denial was sincere. What is she talking about? he wondered.
Denise shook her head resignedly. "I've got customers waiting," she said looking past him.
"But-"
"Get lost, Jarvis," she said pointedly.
Looking past Denise, Jarvis saw Fritz Martin, the owner, come out from behind the grill and start in their direction. Reluctantly, he turned away.
"I warned you," said Reynolds cheerfully.
"I'm just starting."
"You're out of your mind. All you're going to get from her is the back of her hand."
"She doesn't know me."
"Yeah, that's right. She probably thinks you're what you seem to be."
Jarvis missed the irony. "Well, sure. I mean, I don't care if her family lives in a mobile home. But she doesn't know that."
"A twentieth-century Cinderella, and you the misbegotten prince."
This time the irony penetrated. "Make all the fun you like. I'm not giving up."
"Preps in love."
"I'm no Prep."
They had reached the car. "To her you are," Reynolds said, then hesitated. "If you're that determined-"
"I am. She's the one."
Reynolds sighed. "I'm probably going to regret telling you this, but she's going to be at the tournament tomorrow."
Jarvis perked up immediately. "To see me?"
"Dream on," he said, climbing behind the wheel. "No, Joanne's coming to watch her brother. Denise and a couple of the other girls are going with her."
"How do you know?"
Reynolds started the Skylark's engine. "Joanne told me. Anyway, even if she's not coming to see you-"
"I'll make sure she notices me."
"That's what I was afraid of." Reynolds looked back over his shoulder as he nudged the car into reverse. "Where to, rejected suitor?"
"Home."
Reynolds spun the steering wheel and then the wheels. "Prepville Express, all aboard."
Despite the fact that Jarvis did not feel it strongly himself, there was, in truth, a potent classism among the students at Montclair Senior High. Superficially, the cliques divided along their principal interests: academics, sports, or tomorrow-be-damned fun. But the underlying discriminator was money.
The classism was expressed daily by the names the various cliques gave themselves, or had given to them. The Hall Rats were proud of their name; some even wore it embroidered on jeans or embossed on jackets. The Preps hated theirs, but were for the most part proud of the things that made them different-trendy clothes, new cars and ample pocket money.
Beyond the Preps, Jocks and Hall Rats there was also a silent, nearly invisible middle class within the school, without enough of an identity to even warrant a nickname. As many as two in five students belonged here, among them Denise-though because of her looks, she drew continuing attention from the Jocks and at times was taken for a Jockette.
Jarvis had friends in every clique. He was bright enough to not be in awe of the Preps, even if his grades didn't reflect it; like them, it was presumed that he would go to college. With his blond hair and tanned, trim body, he looked like an athlete and knew their language, though his last organized competition had been as a sophomore on the track team. And the occasional flash of wildness endeared him to the underclass, who thought of him as kin under the skin.
But to those looking for a quick or simple reading, where and how Jarvis lived placed him firmly among the Preps. Home was a five-bedroom split-level in a new subdivision north of town. The sprinklered lawn was always lush green. There were golf clubs in the garage, a deck with a barbecue in the backyard, and a ten-year-old sister with braces. Except for Jarvis's own room and the unfinished third of the basement, the house typically looked as though it were ready to be shown to prospective buyers.
His mother, Barbara, called it comfortable, and perhaps it was nothing more than that to her. But Jarvis had been in enough of his classmates' homes since they'd come to the community three years ago to know better, heard enough of them say, "Boy, this is nice" on their first visit.
Jarvis had trouble accepting such compliments gracefully. Part of the reason was that, after all, it wasn't his, was it? It was Barbara and Joshua's house, paid for with her tax consultancy fees and his office manager's salary. But the major reason was that Jarvis would have gladly traded it for something with a little texture, something containing a slightly less predictable and less ordered life.
Something less boring, if honesty compelled him to confess David dropped him off at the entrance to the cul-de-sac where his house sat, beeped a goodbye, and sped off. His hands empty except for the well-doodled, blue school folder that contained the American History assignment due Monday, Jarvis ambled along the sidewalk as though neither he nor anyone else cared when he arrived.
But someone did. Almost the moment he turned up the driveway, he was accosted by his sister Felicia. The ten-year-old dashed out through the front door, jumped off the side of the porch, and headed straight toward him across the grass.
"It's about time you got home," she scolded. "Where is it? Where's the kit?" Then she saw his nearly empty hands, stopped short, and ran back toward the house, this time crying plaintively, "Mom, he forgot it. Make him go back-"
The moment he had seen her, he remembered. Three days in a row he'd been asked to bring home the draftsman's kit, a dozen shiny little compasses and other drawing tools in a deep blue felt-lined case. He had taken it to school for some now-forgotten project, and it had been residing under the clutter at the bottom of his locker for more than two months.
He followed Felicia into the house just as his mother was coming down the stairs in response to her plaint. She was wearing a white slip, and her makeup seemed to be incomplete-obviously she and Dad were going to be going out, which meant dinner would be courtesy of Chef Swanson or Chez Del Monte tonight.