Free He Loves Me Not by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

normal high school social life?
    “None,” I said.
    Ted shook his head. “I admire you. I think’s it’s hard as hell to juggle high school and a job, especially when people think you’re too young for it and that you’re probably not really serious about it.”
    I felt split, shattered almost. The one person I had met my age who would understand…but if I explained anything, his fingers were wrapped around that pencil and he would publish my answers.
    “I know what you mean,” I said, and I kept the rest of our conversation meaningless.

10
    “W E’VE GOT A NEW form of competition,” said Ralph gloomily at our next practice session.
    “What’s that?”
    “Music is out,” he said.
    According to my schedule, music was still exceedingly fashionable.
    “Video games,” explained Ralph sadly. “Electronic games. Rentable video and electronic games. That Harrison party—the big reunion I’ve done each year for six years now? This year they’re not having live music. They’re renting enough different video games for everybody to play all night long.”
    “Now, Ralph,” said Lizzie. “It’s just one casual party. The whole career isn’t down the tubes just because the Harrisons are hiring electronic games instead of a combo.”
    “These things spread,” said Ralph darkly, as if we were discussing an infectious disease.
    “Yeah, well, meanwhile, we’ve got four club dates this weekend,” said Lizzie, “so let’s jam.”
    I was using the piano bench as a desk to scribble out the rough draft of a book report. This utterly stupid collection of poorly written stories, I began.
    No doubt it would turn out that my teacher’s sister had written them. I scrunched up the paper and began again. The beautiful prose of —“Four club dates?” I yelled. “I have only three written down!”
    “Friday is our regular end-of-the-month dance sponsored by the Downtown Businessmen’s Association,” said Ralph.
    “Check.”
    “Saturday afternoon, Farkis wedding reception.”
    “Check.”
    “Saturday evening, dance at the convention of dental supply jobbers.”
    “Check.”
    “Sunday afternoon, your solo appearance at the Camellia Festival at the mall.”
    “Aaaaaaaaahhh!!” I had completely forgotten that. My whole Sunday schedule wrecked. Now I would never get the book report done.
    Ralph just yelled at me for not keeping better track of things. I thought of Ted. I wondered if he had ever botched up his plans and missed an interview or a deadline. I wondered what he would think if I called him up and said I had blown my weekend. Would we talk about it, would we share? Or would he just be completely mystified about why that Alison Holland creature was bothering him?
    Sunset Mall had two hundred stores arranged in a two-story star around a huge, egg-shaped stage. The stage handles everything from antique car exhibits to kids’ Halloween painting contests. I hate that stage. It has no rails or benches at the sides, so you always have the feeling you’ll roll down the curved, eggy parts and splat in front of the stores.
    The owner of an electronic organ store was loaning an instrument for the occasion. It had so many gadgets I felt as if I were assembling a color television instead of playing a keyboard.
    “Got to make a few sales here,” said the organ man to me severely. “You play what the folks like, right?”
    “Right.”
    And then, of course, I could not think of one thing to play. Not a single solitary melody came into my tiny mind. I stared at the organ keys as if they belonged to a typewriter.
    Here it comes, I thought grimly. My first complete public failure.
    “How about ‘Mighty like a Rose’?” said the organ salesman. “Or ‘I Love a Rainy Night’?”
    It was sleeting out and this was a camellia exhibit, but he was paying, so I began the thin, mournful chords of “Rose.”
    “Hey there! Alison!”
    I glanced up, startled, and who should be in front of the organ but Mike MacBride,