F R E E P R E VI E W

PLACES
NO

ONE

K N O W S
B R E N N A YOVA N O F F

DELACORTE PRESS

#PlacesNoOneKnows

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Brenna Yovanoff
Jacket photo 2016 by Julia Presslauer
Jacket typography 2016 by Brian Levy
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an
imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random
House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of
Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Yovanoff, Brenna
Places no one knows / Brenna Yovanoff. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Waverly Camdenmar, an overachiever in every way, seems
perfect, yet perfection is exhausting. She has not slept in days and then one
night she falls asleep and walks into someone elses life. She dream visits a
boy she could never be with and is forced to decide what matters most to
her Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-553-52263-1 (hc) ISBN 978-0-553-52264-8 (glb)
ISBN 978-0-553-52265-5 (el)
[1. SleepFiction. 2. DreamsFiction. 3. Self-perceptionFiction.
4. High schoolsFiction. 5. SchoolsFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.Y89592PI 2016
[Fic]dc23
2015015299
The text of this book is set in 12-point Sabon.
Interior design by Heather Kelly
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment and
celebrates the right to read.

ATTENTION READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT

WAVERLY

Theres something awful about the sun.

It rockets up from the horizon like a hot-air balloon.
One minute, youre looking at the shy, glowing sliver of it.
The next, its glaring down at you like the wrath of God.
Sometimes, if you spend too many nights staring at the
clock, it gets hard to tell whats real and when youre only
anthropomorphizing.
Every day, I walk myself through the sequence of events,
trace my way back through the hours. If one moment logically follows another, that means its actually happening.
It is 1:23 in the afternoon. Im at my desk in Mrs. Dennings Spanish class, behind Caitie Price and in front of CJ
Borsen, because thats where I sit.
Im in Spanish because I have officially exceeded the allowable quota of French offered at Henry Morgan and Im
running out of elective options. It was this or home decorating. Sometimes when you show too much initiative, they
have trouble knowing where to put you.
Were demystifying sports and activities, waxing inarticulate about our hobbies. So far, we have five aspiring
1

musicians, three football players, and a handful of illmotivated boys who enjoy taking apart cars and putting
them together again.
My book is open to the chapter on Deportes y Pasatiempos and I know its not a dream because the letters
dont slide off the page. I know the answers to the review
questions, and when Mrs. Denning calls on me, I know that
I will not tell the truth about my recreational activity.
At the front of the room, shes wringing her hands, trying to figure out how her life went so wrong. Emily, she
says, looking hopeless, how about you? What are some of
your hobbies?
There is a fantasy and it is this: during class, Mrs. Denning only speaks to us in Spanish. It couldnt sustain itself.
Like all best-laid plans, it collapsed early, crumbling under
the weight of its own ambition.
Me gusta bailar, says Emily Orlowski, and then
goes back to painting Olivia Tatums fingernails with
Wite- Out.
Dutifully, I picture them dancinga savage riot of eyeliner and cleavage.
Very good, says Mrs. Denning, in a voice that implies
it is not good at all and is, in fact, kind of horrifying.
Using her desk as a barricade, she settles on the back
row. Marshall? Would you like to tell us about your favorite recreational activity?
Marshall Holt looks up. Then, just as fast, he
stares back down at his desk and says in an impeccably
accented monotone, Me gusta jugar a los bolos con
mis amigos.
2

Mrs. Denning leans forward, sincerely convinced that he

is not mocking her. Bueno. Y a donde juegas a los bolos?
En el parque.
I enjoy bowling with my friends in the park. Brilliant.
Marshall Holt, you are a genius. Also, mature.
Around us, people are snickering into their textbooks.
Mrs. Denning is still watching Marshall in this sad, hopeful way, like she might eventually see the punch line.
For a second, he almost looks contrite, but the damage is
done. She wilts, fidgeting with the plastic cup that holds her
pens, searching the room for someone who wont betray her.
Waverly, can you tell us another recreational activity?
I am the bright, shining face she fixes on so she doesnt
feel like shes drowning. So full of promise, so full of hope.
Waverly will tell you the square root of any perfect number
and how to conjugate the verb quemar. Yes, Waverly knows
all about immolation. What is the significance of Bastille
Day and who can list three thematic elements of The Metamorphosis?
Waverly will never tell you that her primary hobby is
getting stoned in the play tunnel at Basset Park on a weeknight.
Waverly is a good, good girl.
Waverly is so virtuous it makes you want to die.
I keep my hands folded on my desk. People are looking
at me now, looking at my helpful expression, my neat hair,
thinking how good, how sweet, how nice. How fucking
perfect. Thinking, who does she think she is?
When I answer, my voice sounds thin and almost doubtful. Me gusta correr.
3

Wrong, says the girl in my head. Incorrect. Woefully

inaccurate. I run, but not because it pleases me. What gives
me pleasure doesnt enter into it. I run because the nights
are long, and because I cant not run.
When the lights go out and the moon goes down, I slip
out the french doors and through the gate. Down Breaker
Street and along the median. I turn onto Buehler and let out
my stride. From Buehler, I head for that one unreachable
point on the horizon. Sometimes I run for miles.
Behind her desk, Mrs. Denning smiles. Gracias, Waverly.
I make up a little postulate and write it down. Theorem
of Perfection. The effectiveness of your persona is inversely
proportional to what people know about you. I provide an
illustrated example: two diverging trajectories, racing away
from each other on the graph.
There are two Waverlys. One is well groomed, academically unparalleled, reasonably attractive, and runs the crosscountry course at Basset in under eighteen minutes. Sixteen
point five on a good day.
The other is a secret.
Secret Waverly is the one who never sleeps.

Maribeth Whitman is my best friend in the whole world,

forever and ever, if you believe in that kind of thing.
The Watson to my Crick, the Donner to my Blitzen.
Weve taken all the same AP classes, joined all the same
clubs, know all the same corollaries and equations and
scandals. We have been making bracelets out of rainbowcolored string since kindergarten.
4

When I fight my way down the language arts hall and

into our locker bay, she throws herself at me, arms flung
wide, and even though the bay is full of roughly half the
junior class and I hate being touchy-feely where people can
see it, I reach back and let myself lean into her.
Maribeth knows how to arrange all her features to
maximum effect. Her face is so sweet that if you look at her
for too long, your teeth decay in spongy black patches, like
time-lapse photography. Her hair is the kind of blond that
makes you picture halos made out of kittens.
God, she says, tucking my bangs behind my ear.
Your smiles malfunctioning again. Have you even been
sleeping at all?
I adjust my mouth to look pleasant and spin my combination lock. Some. Which is the literal truth. Ive been
averaging roughly three hours a night.
She fishes a pencil from her bag and starts flipping
through her notebook for a clean page. Better get that
sorted out if you dont want to look like the walking dead
for homecoming. So, youll be at the thing tonight, right?
Unless someone from cross-country sets practice on
fire. No, waitthats Huns. Yeah, Ill be there.
Her forehead wrinkles as she adds my name to her list,
pencil scraping diligently across the page, and its remarkable how well I know herhow shell always make her notes
in pencil, not because she ever needs to erase anything, but
because pencils can be sharpened to a very fine point, and
when she says thing, she means the dance-planning meeting. Just like she knows that I dont always sleep and I think
siege jokes are funny even when no one else does. That my
5

natural habitat is so deep inside my own head I dont always

remember what expression I should be wearing.
With a conspiratorial smile, she leans so that her cheek
is almost touching mine. I think Im making headway on
the dance committeefor real, this time. Youre going to
be so proud of me.
This is the fascinating territory where Maribeth and I
overlap. My greatest utility is my understanding of patterns
and hierarchies. Hers is her relentless commitment to winning.
She taps the notebook. I got Lorings minions to agree
to have the meeting at my house instead of hers, and possession is nine-tenths of the law. Now, tell me Im good.
There are two Maribeths, but unlike second Waverly,
second Maribeth reveals herself to certain individuals at
certain opportune times. If you are privy to her covert, secret identity, this does not make you lucky or special. The
second Maribeth is a flaming bitch.
Her hand is nestled in the crook of my elbow and she
smells like permanent markers and vanilla frosting.
Loring has been in charge of every nonathletic extracurricular event for our class since freshman year, and for the exact
same span of time, she has always been terrible at it. That and
her conspicuous lack of guile make her ripe for supplanting.
I dont know if you know this, Maribeth says, giving my arm an emphatic squeeze. But were about to own
every social function from now until graduation.
There is a single, perfect syllable forming in my mouth,
unbidden. Why? Why are we focusing on this? Why is this
desirable? Why are you so obsessed with organizing things?

But I dont have to ask why, because I know.

The dance-planning committee is something you submit to. The payout is another extracurricular activity to go
on your Ivy League applications.
Your GPA is not enough. Your intelligence and your
commitment are not enough. Cross-country means drive
and discipline, the violin means that you do in fact have a
soul. The food-drive committee means a devotion to service and community. Formal dance committee means that
you are not socially defective.
Maribeth is drawing up her agenda for the meeting,
pontificating on how we need to start making posters.
I am not listening.
Im thinking about Loring and her wide, earnest smile.
Her way of focusing intently, trying devotedly, and then
failing. About all the ill-fated Lorings before her and the
ways that Maribeth dismantles them.
Come on, she says, reaching for my arm. I have to
fix my face before Chem so Hunter will ask me to the movies this weekend.
Machiavelli became enamored with Cesare Borgia
because Borgias ruthlessness fascinated him.
Maribeth Whitman is the most ruthless girl I know.

In the west hall bathroom, a few underclassmen are clustered around the sinks, but when we shoulder between
them, they shuffle dutifully out of the way. They understand the pecking order, and its only October.

I watch as Maribeth applies lip gloss in a cheerful rosebud, then digs in her bag for a brush.
She was the one who told me in elementary school that
people thought I was weird. Too quiet, too serious. You
should smile more, she said one day when we were in fifth
grade, waiting in line for tetherball during recess.
Why? I said. Its not like anythings wrong. I just
dont feel like it.
And Maribeth had looked at me like I was some kind of
new species, her head tipped to one side.
Well, you dont have to feel like it, she said. Smilings
on the outside. When you smile, its for someone else.
Which, as revelations went, was kind of mind-blowing.
I decided, there on the playground, watching Caitie Price
lose her tetherball round to Cynthia Lopez who was a head
taller, that maybe this was the whole point of extroverts
they understood how the outside worked.
Maribeth leans close to the mirror and rakes her fingers through her hair. Her gaze is shrewd, her paddle brush
poised, but theres nothing there that needs fixing.
She goes to work on herself anyway while I stand by the
paper towel dispensers, studying the collection of highly
confessional graffiti that covers the spill wall floor-toceiling. This is where people come to tell their secrets. No
names, no identifiers, but a wide variety of pens.
Some of the secrets are not secrets (Mr. Cordrey has
nose hair). Some are too sad to contemplate and so no one
acknowledges or mentions them.
Most are just the hard, ugly things that people feel, but
no one says. Things like:
8

who are
I only lik e guys
interested.
completely un
lik e me back,
If they start to
eone else.
I crush on som
ne forever?
What if Im alo

I wish I was skinny.

If I was, though,
I know Id be a total slu
t.

ay,
I think I lost my virginity on Saturd
but I cant remember for sure and
I dont want to ask him.

The warning bell rings and Maribeth turns, leaning

back against the sink. I look good, right? I want Hunter to
be intractably smitten.
Her hair is a shining curtain of Nordic genes and ambition. On the wall by the soap dispenser, someone has written in a cascading scrawl:
Fucked-up
Insecure
Neurotic
Emotional

The first letter of each word is printed in oversized capitals

that align vertically to spell out FINE.
9

At my elbow, Maribeth is squinting at her reflection

again, like something about it displeases her, even though
she looks fine. Everything is fine.
You look great, I say. The i in emotional is missing
its dot. I have a completionists urge to get out my pen and
fill it in, but that seems excessive. I press my finger to the
place where the dot should be. Hunter will be powerless
to resist.
Maribeth smiles, then rolls her eyes at the wall. God, I
cant even believe people write their private business in here.
Dont they know this is the age of information? I mean, its
so obvious that somebody will know, its like theyre just
doing it so people will feel sorry for them.
There are twenty-five hundred people in this school,
I say, turning toward the door. I guess they think quantity
is the same as anonymity.
She nods, but I can tell shes not really considering it.
She doesnt care about sympathy, or confession, or anything else she cant see the immediate utility in.
Well, she says. If thats what does it for them. I just
think its sad. Which, speaking of, you have tragedy duty
next, right? Better watch out for all that unseemly emotion.
I answer with bland Waverly derision, the line Im supposed to say. What can I tell you? The slacker contingent
is always in desperate need of guidance.
But my hearts not in it.

My last period of the day is spent behind the reception desk

in the counseling office. Its a post reserved for well-behaved
10

girls who already have sufficient credits, but are not so aimless as to want a whole off-hour to themselves.
For the next seventy-five minutes, I will wear my
helpful-person mask. Pretend Ive had the requisite amount
of sleep. My face feels cool and rigid, like its made of
marble.
By midnight, Ill have the voltage of a Tesla coil, but
right now my legs are stiff and heavy. Things are hurting
where they never used to hurt. I close my eyes and press my
hands against my face. The counseling office is empty, so
quiet you can hear the wires humming in the ceiling. In the
computer monitor, my reflection is pale, ghostly around the
edges. As much as I hate to admit it, Maribeths rightI
look half transparent. I look terrible.
I log on with the admin account and scour the Internet
for relaxation techniques.
There are a lot of techniques. Some involve name-brand
prescription drugs purchased at low, low prices from Canada. Others take a more holistic approachrecordings of
white noise, incense and prayer candles. Counting backward from a power number again and again and again.
I make a list of possible solutions, complete with bullet
points, notations on ease and convenience. Then I tear up
the list and put it in the trash can.
Heres to admitting you have a problem.
I clear the browser and open my bag. Some people would
use office duty to get a head start on their homework, but
mine is done and has habitually been done for weeks. Not
sleeping gives you all the time in the world.
Instead I take out a crossword puzzle. Its at that
11

obnoxious halfway point where all the easy ones are filled
in, and the rest just sit there blank and mocking.
Forty-five across. Name. Renaissance-era poisoner.
Fourteen letters, begins with L.
Im staring at the squares, counting them over and
over, when the door to the reception area wheezes open
and someone slides a lavender hall pass across the desk. Big
hands with long fingers and bony knuckles. Boy-hands. He
smells like a mixture of detergent and something complex
and peppery. He doesnt say anything.
After the silence lasts so long it stops being annoying and starts being awkward, I look up. Marshall Holt is
standing over me. He drops his gaze and mumbles something incoherent.
I lean back in my chair. Excuse me?
Hes not imposing, but his chest and shoulders look bigger when he folds his arms.
Im supposed to see Trunch, he says, louder this time,
but only marginally.
The Trunchbull is one of three guidance counselors
tasked with the academic and emotional well-being of the entire Henry Morgan student body. Of the three, shes the biggest, the loudest, and the meanest, and shes probably been
here for as long as the school has existed, which is approximately as long as people have been calling her Trunchbull.
I drag the logbook across the desk and pencil in Marshalls arrival time. His expression is unreadable.
You can go in, I say when he doesnt move. Suddenly,
my heart is beating too fast for no good reason. I keep my
eyes fixed on his face until he turns away.
12

As soon as hes disappeared into the office, the reception area feels manageable again.
I push my chair in a circle, listening to the murmur of
voices. Trunch can usually be counted on to sound semiinconvenienced at best, but through the door, her tone is
strangenot irritable or impatient. Instead, she sounds almost tender, and that is interesting.
Theres a place just under the ceiling vent where everything that happens in the guidance office is clearly audible
for one square foot. I roll backward in time to hear Trunch
sigh and do something organizational with a stack of paper.
Lets talk about your plans for college, she says in her
smokers rasp.
For a second, theres silence, and then Marshall does the
strangest thing. He laughs. Yeah, thats not going to happen.
I expect Trunch to argue, or at least try and talk him
into taking some classes at the community college, but she
lets it go. She waits a full ten seconds before she says, Regardless, you need to do something about your grades.
Like what? he says, and as bored as he sounds, I think
I can hear him smiling.
Im dubiously impressed that someone could accrue this
much academic misfortune only a month and a half into the
semester.
Well, Trunch says dryly. You could start by employing a few simple tricks. You know, show up now and then?
Maybe try some of that fabled classroom participation,
turn something in once in a while.
Marshalls voice is lower, but just as clear. Maybe Im
not that bright.
13

I have two years worth of standardized tests that say

otherwise.
I thought those tests were supposed to be biased or
something.
That makes her laugha hoarse, cawing sound. Generally, the issue of bias doesnt come up when you decimate
every section. Your English scores are phenomenal.
Yeah, well, I speak English.
She laughs again, but its short this time, and bitter.
Have you been to a remedial comp class lately? Im not
talking about them, Marshall. Im talking about you. What
about math?
So, I can count. Big deal.
Their conversation devolves into a catalog of teachers
and course numbers. Instructions for him to at least take
home some applications, at least look into financial aid. I
stare at the crossword, but no answers present themselves.
I feel heavy, like I cant lift my hands.
When Marshall finally comes back out of the office, he
doesnt look at me.
In the shallow pool of appealing boys at Henry Morgan, there are two kinds: the ones who are not to touch,
and the ones you might possibly think about touching if
you were bored at a party and there was nothing on TV
and you wanted to see what the big deal was, but didnt
really want it to go anywhere because they dont know who
George A. Romero is and anything more than five sloppy
minutes would probably end in homicide.
Marshall is the first kind.
He stands over me with his arms folded and his gaze
14

averted, waiting for me to check him out. This task may be

completed in several ways.
Appreciate:
His mouth
His wry self-deprecation
The way his T-shirt complements his shape
The way he smells clean and disreputable at the same time
Decline:
His laziness
His wry self-deprecation
The way he dozes off in class
The way hes looking past me, over my head, like Im
almost too trivial to stand
When I stamp his pass and slide it across to him, he
meets my gaze for the first time. His eyes are a dark, complicated brown. Suddenly, Im convinced that hes going
to say something and its going to be scathing. But he just
turns and walks out, letting the door sigh shut behind him.
I stack the hall passes so their edges are flush, perfectly
parallel to the keyboard and the monitor. Pens in a tidy row,
pretend that order equals tranquilityalready looking ahead
to cross-country practice, the next predetermined activity, the
next unit of the day. Everything perfect, everything in its place.
Somewhere, theres a merit scholarship in all of this.

15

.
Between cross-country and the twice-weekly meeting of
the Most Hallowed and Venerable Homecoming Committee, I go home and shower. Then I walk over to Maribeths.
All of the best people have gathered in her living room,
sharing gossip and takeout containers. Maribeth is at the
center of their orbit, their beaming sun. Everyone clusters
around her, basking in her radioactive glow, soaking up the
light-years until star-death.
When I step down into the split-level rec room, she
smiles and holds out a felt-tip marker. Here, you can help
with the stencils.
Maribeth does a lot of things involving markers. I
sometimes suspect this is her own socially approved form
of drug use. No need for misappropriated liquor or illicit
substances. Petrochemical vapors go right to your brain.
Shes flipping through a catalog of formal dresses, supervising the poster construction with good-natured detachment. Loring is perched on the corner of a velvet ottoman,
smiling hopefully like Maribeth is not usurping her authority
in greedy gulps.
16

I sit cross-legged beside them, ready to spend two or

three hours in mute, agreeable productivity. My skull is
echoing, like I left my conversational abilities someplace
else. My whole body feels vacant.
Like you mean it, Maribeth whispers under her breath,
and I adjust my expression automatically. A smile is for
everybody else.
I hate short hair on girls, she says, folding down a
corner of the page and then folding it up again.
The magazine is open to a picture of an androgynous
model with no hips and a spiky Mohawk, bleached and
razored. My first impression is that the way shes slumped
artfully on the little brocade fainting couch makes her look
disassembled. My next is that her hectic cheeks remind me
of how Edgar Allan Poe was obsessed with girls with tuberculosis and I still need to find another secondary source for
my AP lit project.
I finish stenciling a twinkly star, and the way I can tell
that sleeplessness is getting to me is that for three or four
seconds, Im oblivious to the fact that Maribeth is watching
the side of my face, waiting for me to say something.
When I finally look up, she acts like Ive reproached
her. Oh, shut up, Waverly! I didnt mean on you. Your hair
looks fine.
Once, Maribeth told Kendry Epstein that she hated
when top-heavy girls wore clingy shirtsit accentuates the
way their bra straps dig in. Kendry hasnt worn her Carl
Carringer blouse since, even though she bought it with her
own money and I know for a fact that it cost two paychecks.
The way Maribeth can cut through someones entire
17

being with just a sentence or a glance is something close

to magical. She knows, with unerring acuity, how to pick
a thing apart like shes not even trying. I used to find this
impressive, but lately there are times when I dont think she
even knows that shes doing it.
My hair is smooth and sensible, low-maintenance. It
looks the way it always looks. I draw a circle and try not to
think about the larger implications.
A primary component of the dance-planning committee is simply the opportunity to socialize with the right kind
of boys. The varsity kind, college-bound, muscle-bound.
Maribeth is showing pictures of formal dresses to her
future boyfriend, Hunter Pennington, asking him what he
thinks about bubble hems. I can kill the suspense right now:
Hunter does not think of bubble hems at all.
I spend most of the evening trying to deflect the attentions of CJ Borsen, who is on the soccer team with Hunter,
and is, in his own way, just as blandly databletall enough
to wear heels with, polite enough to never point out that
youve stopped listening. Attractive enough that if I showed
up somewhere with him, everyone would glance over and
nod approvingly.
Taking advantage of a lull in conversation, he leans
across the coffee table. Hey, I dont know if Maribeth already told you, but student council is talking about maybe
starting the canned food drive early.
I hate student council.
When I actually take the time to think about the situation and the circumstances, to think about what is happening right-now-this-minute, its not that confusing.
18

We planned this, Maribeth and I. We built it, orchestrated itme, the sly strategist, and her, the smiling, gleaming princessall purely by design.
Back in eighth grade, Taylor Cassidy was the most
popular girl in school. She was head of yearbook, captain
of the volleyball team, cool and effortless and golden.
We. . . were not.
When Taylor found out she was moving to Tennessee at
the end of the year, Maribeth saw the opportunity Id never
even known we were waiting for.
We were sitting on the floor of her walk-in closet, playing Reversi. Back then, she still liked to do things like that.
She said, When Taylor leaves, I want to be head of
yearbook. I want to be her.
Why? I said.
Because when youre the prettiest and the most popular, then youre in charge of everything. You can do whatever you want.
And maybe I was never very socially inclinedbut
that? That made sense.
Maribeth wanted to take the summer to properly transform. She had this vision of coming back changed and
everyone falling down at her feet in awe. Shed been watching too many movies.
No, I said, and I only meant it in a practical sense, but
she frowned anyway.
I didnt care. I was already planning it in my head, arranging the Reversi disks to form a war map of the three
most relevant cliques in school, knowing that this was
what Henry V knew. Sometimes, it doesnt matter if youre
19

outnumbered ten to one. With the right strategy, the right

weather conditions, and the right men, you can still take
over France.
Do it now, I said. Do it before Taylor leaves, and
then it wont be provisional. I was in accelerated English
for the first time, proud of busting out provisional in
conversation. If you do it now, no one can take it away
from you.
We made her what she is, step by step and piece by piece.
Half the tricks she knows? I invented them. Or at least, I
stole them from Machiavelli and Sun Tzu and Heathers.
We did it, just like I knew we would, moving into the
delicate ecosystem of student organizations like an invasive
species, making the territory ours one biweekly meeting
at a time student council, Key Club, mock UN. Formal
dance committee looms imminent on the horizon.
And now, Maribeths world is also mine, and every time
the hours move too slow, or the conversation makes me
want to punch a baby bunny, I just remember that I brought
it on myself.

When I get up to forage for something to drink, CJ follows

me into the kitchen and I experience a gloomy premonition.
CJs face is so symmetrical it seems vaguely unnatural.
Hes proportioned like an ad for something patriotic, with
thick, reddish hair, last years midrange Volvo, and a dimple in his chin.
The way hes looking at me now is too blatantly significant, and I already know exactly whats going to happen.
20

Once when we were fourteen, Maribeth got the very

backward idea that I had a crush on this boy named Jarett
Fitz. She told everyone.
On the first day of this charming debacle, I pulled her
into the bathroom and tried to explain that she was wrong,
and she laughed and said I must really like him if I was
making such a big thing about it.
So I stopped making a big thing, but it was too late.
Everyone was talking about it, and after another forty-eight
hours, it just seemed easier to decide that I wanted to date
Jarett.
Exceptand heres the thing. I didnt. At that point,
the only boy I had ever wanted to date even a little was this
skinny blond kid in my accelerated math class who liked
Mandelbrot fractals and walked the scary line between
prodigy and genius. He won the science invitational, and
the next year, he got sent to one of those private schools
where everyone owns their own graphing calculators, and I
never saw him again. This is not the touching point of the
story.
The point is that the unfortunate Jarett asked me out,
which in ninth grade essentially means that you meet someplace, hold hands, and kiss with way too much tongue.
Then he tells all his friends you gave him head, even though
you didnt get remotely close, and no one really believes it,
but they repeat the story anyway, because its just that delicious.
I told him no.
Then Maribeth got mad at me for making her look unreliable and undermining our social endeavors. She told me
21

I was being unreasonable, which is something I am definitively not, and that I wasnt being loyal to the plan.
I stood my ground for a week. Then I apologized, and
she forgave me.
CJ is looming over me now, gazing down with hopeful
good cheer. You were good in Spanish today.
Thanks, I say to the eight matching canisters of dry
goods on Maribeths counter. Coffee is full to the top, but
the Tea and Sugar levels are down.
Waverly. Hes very close and smells like spicy Cheetos
and something sweet that makes me want to sneeze. I was
wondering if you wanted to go to the dance with me.
His eyes are green like spring foliage or breath mints,
and the point of having a date for the dance is having something to be smug about.
I watch him so long that he starts to squirm.
Yes, I say, because its easier than saying something else.

22

.
By the time I get home, my nighttime restlessness is starting
to set in. Im ready to peel off my sweater and shrug out of
my day. Shrug out of my life. Night is when I mind the most
that everything feels fake.
My mother is standing in the kitchen with her phone
pinned between her shoulder and her ear, drawing tiny
rows of dichotomous flowers around the logo on a Zoloft
promotional notepad.
Stephanie, she says with absolute authority. You
cant expect a person whos already established this kind
of baseline to spontaneously change. The fact is, no matter how much you might want to see an improvement, its
going to be her own choice.
Stephanie is the other clinical psychologist at the mental
health center. My mother doesnt have friends, she has colleagues.
Waverly? she says, giving me a little wave. Oh, shes
fine. She just walked in.
The word fine blossoms in my brain, appearing out
of nowhere for the second time today, but thats hardly
23

surprising. People use it so much it barely has meaning.

They use it so much they might as well say nothing at all.
My mother seems untroubled by the emptiness of social
conventions. She holds up her index finger, looking off over
my head. Stephanie Stephanie, I have to go.
When she hangs up, the air in the room is suddenly insufficient. The effort of turning her full attention on me demands outrageous quantities of oxygen. I peel the top sheet
off her notepad and drop it in the trash.
She sighs, taking a saucepan out of the cupboard.
Stephanies daughter is having trouble at school again,
she says to the can opener. And Stephanie thought that
if she could just get her feet under her, maybe if she transferred to Statewhich, lets be honest, that wasnt about to
fix the problem. Anyway, its disappointing.
I dont bother to respond. Stephanies daughter is a
moron.
Youre home late. Do you want something to eat? Im
about to heat up a can of chicken broth, maybe saut some
liver.
My mother believes that I am her in chrysalis form.
That I will one day emerge, brilliant and dysfunctional, to
psychoanalyze Ford commercials.
We had takeout at Maribeths. The dance-planning
committee went long. Do we have any candles? I need to do
an experiment.
I dont point out that shes possibly the only person on
earth who is comforted by her comfort foods. It would be
too much of a shock.
My mother nods and starts ticking her fingernails
24

against the lip of the sink like she might be counting. I

think we have one or two tapers left over from the holiday
party last year. In that bottom drawer of the credenza.
I turn to walk out, but she stops me in the doorway and
kisses me quick and light on the cheek.
You know, she says, with her hand on my shoulder.
Sometimes I forget how much trouble kids are. Ive just
never had to worry about you. Even when you were little,
you always thought before you spoke.
And that is precisely why I dont talk. Too much
thinking.
Far from one or two candles, the credenza is dangerously infested. White tea lights that radiate anxiety, and
tall Christmas tapers, steeped in the aroma of spiced cider
and seasonal depression. And far at the back, a fat brown
candle that smells reassuring and capable and faintly familiar. Theres an undercurrent of cracked pepper, mixed with
something sharper that might be licorice. If I concentrate,
I can imagine other elementsnotes of fabric softener and
smoke, a tiny olfactory snapshot of being back in the front
officethe signature scent of a certain kind of boy. The
kind with a sullen, sculptural mouth. The kind whose jawline is worth admiring, but for display purposes only. The
kind who might look enticing, seem intriguing, but never
actually satisfies.
I take the candle anyway, because it seems the least
likely to tip over or collapse or melt into nothing and burn
down the house.

25

MARSHALL
Stupid
Waverly Camdenmar is so hot that when I see her in the
halls, I want to put my hand against my chest and make
sure Im still breathing.
Not that Id ever say that out loud. Im not an idiot.
Waverly is just this place I go when everything starts to
be too much. Sometimes people in offices keep a poster of
a vacation spot over their desks. Waverly is like that, like
an inspirational quote or one of those music box ballerinas.
Something private. Quiet.
I lie in bed and think her name, even though thinking it
gives me a guilty feeling.
It wasnt always like this. Before last year, she was just
another girlhot like other hot girls, but completely untouchable. The feeling was whatever. I could deal with it.
Now its bad. Every day I have to decide whether or not
I can stand to go to Spanish. I tell myself over and over how
Im not going to look at her or think about her or notice her
or anything.
And every day, theres Waverly, third row from the front

26

and one seat over, with her pens lined up and her mouth
open. Hand in the air, reaching for the answer.
It starts at my heart and spreads fast and hot up my
neck, until my face goes red and my ears feel like theyre
about to catch fire.
Im thinking about this, even though its past midnight
and I should be thinking about homework, but everyone
else is still up, which means everyone else is still shouting,
and I left my history book in my locker.
Out in the hall, my dad is telling my mom all about
how pointless and needy she is, and shes not telling him
hes wrong. If she did, I think it would break something. It
would be the thing that dissolves whatever disgusting glue is
holding them together. It would be exactly what they need.
I have to get out of the house. Not for a cigarette or a
couple of hours, or to spend the night at my brothers, but
for good. The Trunchbull had this whole fantasy about college applications, but my familys in chaos, my grades are
a disaster, and college is just one more thing that doesnt
happen for the Holt boys.
The scene with Trunch was hazy in that dizzy-high way,
where all the main parts are hard to remember, but then
random things will stand out with freaky Hollywood clarity. Lets be honest. I was really stoned.
And as long as were being honest, thats pretty much
an ongoing thing.
I know the motivational speeches and the public service
announcements. The front office has all kinds of posters
and pamphlets about making good decisions, and when

27

counselors or teachers or whatever tell me Im wasting

my potential, I know its the truth. I can watch it slip by,
but thats an ocean away from having any idea what to do
about it.
I know I could destroy English or history especially
English. I could do respectably in pretty much everything
else. I just dont.
When I close my eyes, theres Waverly again, sitting behind the reception desk, looking at me like Im defective
and shes the one with the final answer, worth ten thousand
points. Like shes just waiting for the goddamn tiara.
She was working this crossword like it was the most important thing, and only put it away when she condescended
to check my hall pass. It was one of those hard ones that
you get out of a book or the New York Times. There was a
long word across, with a Z and a C and two As. Her eyes
were bored and her bottom lip looked pink and kind of untouched.
Then I went into the office and Trunch told me all the
things I already know, like how Im not living up to my potential and I need to start applying myself. Like its just that
simple, and now that I officially know I can do the work,
its only a matter of getting the work done, when everyone
knows thats the hardest part.
Marshall, she said, right as I was getting up to leave,
in that voice that sounds all sad and quiet, Im not blaming
you. I was talking to some of your teachers. I hear that
neither of your parents came to parent-teacher night last
month.
I just nodded, trying hard not to look tragic.
28

Is there a problem with involvement at home? It might

help to talk to them.
But the reason they didnt show up is because I didnt
tell them. They have their own shit and Im old enough to
do my own homework. There are plenty of problems, but
none of them have to do with involvement.
Its no big deal, I said, and I wasnt talking about parentteacher night, but everythingthe missing assignments and
the participation points, the tardies, the absences. All the
bullshit.
I came out of the office feeling like my surface had been
chipped away. See-through, like if Waverly just raised her
head, she could have looked inside me and she wouldnt have
seen lungs or bones or blood, she would have just seen how
messed up everything is.
I didnt have to worry, though. It wasnt like she cared.
She still had the crossword out, but hadnt filled in any
new boxes. Number forty-five still sat there, with its Z and
C and two As. I read the question upside down while she
stamped the pass, and suddenly, I knew the answer. I knew
it and she didnt, and that was the one thing I had that made
me worth anything.
If I hadnt been completely chickenshit, I probably
would have said something, but just then, she looked at me.
Her eyes were sharppiercingand I had to look away so
she didnt see the answer sitting right there for her to pick
apart and stare at.
I picture it now, alone in my room. Imagining the way
the back of her neck always looks smooth and I want to
touch it.
29

I think of possibilities and they are fucking terrifying.

I could have made her see me. I could have impressed her.
Theres just the little issue of how my voice stops working
when I look at her.
I say it now, just to myself, just whisper it. The answer
to the question, the feeling of having something she doesnt.
Something that she wants.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again the room
feels less empty. For a second, I think I can actually see her,
standing in my doorway, soft and pale in the light from the
street. Then I squint and shes gone and Im stoned and
lonely, and its lateso late.
I roll over, feeling tired and stupid.
I want to punch myself, because I know girls like her
the kind who act like Im some disease, like I might get them
dirty if I stand too close. I want to tell her shes not that
smart, that being perfect isnt the only game in town.
That Ill be something else, something good. Ill clean
myself up if she wants. Ill be anything.
She is never looking in my direction.

30

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P LA CE S N O ON E KNOWS
by Brenna Yovanoff

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