Just Like the Movies by Kelly Fiore Page B

good-size iPod speaker dock, with high-quality speakers and a remote control costs hundreds of dollars.
    I know this because Mr. Dylan, the teacher in charge of the audio-visual department, told me no less than four times in the ten minutes I was in his office.
    â€œNow, if I let you borrow this,” he said, “I will expect it back within twenty-four hours and in perfect condition. These things cost hundreds of dollars, you know.”
    â€œI think you mentioned that,” I say dryly.
    â€œWell, all right then.” He slaps the thighs of his jeans and stands up, peering at the shelves lining the room. “You said it needs to be battery operated, right?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    He yanks a sleek black unit down off an upper shelf and sets it on the table in front of me. Quickly, he points out thebasic anatomy—where the iPod goes, how to control the volume, how to switch or shuffle songs. When I finally manage to get out of there, it’s with one more warning about being careful and I’m already ten minutes late to fifth period. Fortunately I weaseled a late pass out of Mr. Dylan—no more detention for me, thank you very much.
    After school, I make it home in record time. I want to haul ass and get on the computer before Mac gets home from school and demands to use it, allegedly for homework but actually for gaming. Mom isn’t supposed to get home until six, so I’m a little surprised to pull up at three thirty and see her car in the driveway. Cautiously, I let myself into the house.
    â€œMom?” I call out uncertainly.
    â€œUp here,” is her muffled reply.
    I follow the sound of her voice, scaling the stairs to her bedroom and pausing in the doorway. She’s in bed. I can see she’s got on her fuzzy pink bathrobe and her hair is a strange combination of frizzy and flat.
    â€œAre you okay?” I ask, alarmed. “Are you sick? You look awful.”
    â€œWay to kick a girl when she’s down,” Mom sniffs, grabbing another tissue. That’s when I notice the red eyes and forlorn expression. I’m pretty sure I can guess the cause, but I go ahead and ask anyway.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    She chokes a little on another bout of tears, then manages to say, “Jim dumped me.”
    Sighing, I sit on the edge of the bed, fingering the lacy edge of her comforter. I say what I know she wants to hear.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œYeah.” She sniffles again. “I really thought he might be
The One
, you know? A nice guy, good with kids, the whole package. But of course, once again I’m reminded of why the male species sucks ass.”
    I laugh at that and she manages a smile.
    â€œWhat did he say?” I ask.
    She deepens her voice into an impression of Contractor Jim.
    â€œI just see myself starting a life and a family with someone younger,” she drawls. “And baby, you already got a few too many miles on them tires.”
    I gasp. “Tell me he didn’t actually say that!”
    She nods miserably.
    â€œWell, then he’s a dick, Mom. And it’s better that you find it out now before things could have gotten more serious. God, who says stuff like that anyway? How old is
he
?”
    â€œThirty-eight.”
    â€œRight. Like he has any room to talk—he’s three years older than you!”
    â€œYeah, a little less, I think. He’s a Gemini. I should haveseen it coming—those Geminis always have dual personalities. It’s impossible to tell what they’re thinking.”
    At one point, my mom thought it would be a great idea to start learning about astrology. She probably hasn’t studied it in, oh, about eight years, but she’ll still talk about it as if she’s been giving readings in a tent with her crystal ball nearby.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mom,” I say again, trying to sound genuine and patting her hand. I move to stand. “Do you need anything?”
    She