“A hearing?” My stomach drops to my ankles. “But I’ve been working on ideas all week. Sketching and researching and picking which wall it should go on and, and—” I squeeze my temples, scrambling frantically for another argument. “We’re supposed to meet with the organization next week. I emailed the founder, and she’s excited. You already agreed to it, Mr. Donnelly. Tell him!”
“Hey, cool down,” Donnelly says. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Yes, it is! Dr. Sanders, don’t you want the mural?”
He smiles evenly. “It sounds like a nice idea, but—”
“A nice idea? Are you serious right now?”
“Johanna,” Donnelly says in a warning tone. His eyes bug out like, Slow your roll.
But I can’t. I mean, this is my life I’m fighting for.
“Annette’s behind this, isn’t she? She’s turning everyone against me.”
“I think the staff know how to make their own decisions.” Sanders almost laughs.
“Fine, whatever.” I sigh. “But I know she called it graffiti. Why can’t everyone see that it is a mural to end gun violence.”
“It’s not as black and white as that,” Sanders says, barely managing not to roll his eyes. “For instance, who is going to pay for this? The school has no funds allocated for a mural. And who will oversee it?”
“The organization gets grants to pay for it!” I cry out. “And Mr. Donnelly will oversee it.”
Sanders stares at me with a sort of plastic serenity. He waits a beat after I’ve stopped talking, like, Are you done whining, young lady? Then he nods. “Yes. Well. You can explain your side on Monday.”
“The hearing is in three days?” I gasp. “No. This is—you can’t do this. I’ve put in so much work already.”
“Perhaps you should have secured permission before jumping in head-first.”
“I did get permission!” I wail. “From Mr. Donnelly!”
“Well, Mr. Donnelly should have followed the proper channels.”
Donnelly looks at the ground and clears his throat, super emphatically. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know he means, I did tell you, you chickenheaded asshole. The room goes quiet while my insides spew onto the floor. It’s like I can feel my heart breaking. If this mural doesn’t happen, I’ll—
“This is really, really important to me,” I say, my throat tight and aching. “I wanted everyone to stand together for gun safety. What about school pride?”
“But it isn’t about the school, is it?” Sanders says. “Not everyone believes this mural is the right choice for Chavez Academy.”
Despite the tears welling up in my eyes, Dr. Sanders walks brusquely over to the door. “I like your passion, and I encourage you to present that to the school board. Sorry to cut this short, but I have a conference call. See you Monday.”
He practically kicks us into the hallway after that.
“I am so sorry,” Mr. Donnelly says, reeling beside me as we walk through the admin building. “I feel like this is my fault. I did tell Dr. Sanders about it, and I thought he said yes. It’s usually fine to get one teacher’s approval for a school club or organization. I honestly didn’t think there’d be an issue. But this is a small school with a lot of very big opinions.”
“It’s bullshit,” I say, and hand him a quarter for the jar.
“I know,” he says. “But Dr. Sanders is right about your passion—stay fired up. All you have to do is explain what makes this mural so good for the school. Make the board understand that you are right about this. Between you and me—you so are.”
I smile weakly. “It’s bad enough that I have to deal with the hate and the shit-talking on a daily basis, and all that crap online. Now they’re taking me to court for an art project? It’s ridiculous.”
“Do you know who posted it?” Donnelly asks, scrunching his nose. “The photo?”
“I have a few guesses. Annette wasn’t one of ’em, though.” I shake my head. “I really thought she was on my side.”
“She’s just trying to do what’s right.”
“Alt right,” I grumble.
“Hey, she’s a good kid.”
“If you say so.”
We both sigh, commiseratively, listlessly.
I’m numb as we push through the doors and onto the quad. Back into the real world, down hallways filled with enemies. Three hundred private school brats who straight up refuse to let me move on with my life.
“Stay strong,” Donnelly says. He pats my sagging shoulder as we part ways.
• • •
“Wait, so, remind me who Annette is?”
I stretch my legs onto Milo’s lap, reeling off details about my newfound nemesis as we listen to Iggy Pop on his couch after school. “She’s the junior class president, student council president, field hockey captain, math tutor, eco warrior, blah-blah-blah. Once I beat her in a spelling bee—y’think that has anything to do with it?”
“Sounds like I’m ’unna have to go all Tonya Harding on her ass.”
“That would rule,” I say, pausing from my frothing anger to kiss him. He tastes like baked apples. I’m hungry for more, but my brain is in too much of a fog. Iggy Pop sings about “Lust for Life” keeping us alive, and I can’t stop thinking about my own life, picturing the mural as a swirl of paint, my dreams being flushed down the toilet. I settle back against a pillow and look at the stack of index cards laid out around me. Stuff about the First Amendment, reasons why this is such a positive way for us to express ourselves and raise social awareness. Quotes. Statistics. Stuff I can’t believe I have to explain.
To punish myself, I google Annette Martinez, looking for intel. Surprisingly, she’s got a couple of different social media profiles, so I click on one. The page is predictably pitiful. Barely any updates, even fewer likes. Flyers for swim meets, pictures of her in hideous pantsuits outside Model UN meetings, dorking it up on hikes, firing a rifle.
Hold on.
“Milo, she’s got a gun.”
“What?” He peers up from his own laptop screen to look at mine. “It says she’s a member of the Civilian Marksmanship Program.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Hold on, I’m looking it up. Okay, it’s basically a private corporation that trains people to shoot firearms and air guns, and then they hold competitions and stuff.”
“Shooting competitions?”
The photos confirm it. A website full of confident, smiling, mostly white teenagers holding rifles. They make shooting guns look fun. Character-building. Fulfilling. There’s even a quote below a picture of a spiky-haired guy in the same giant headphones Annette’s wearing, his hands tight around a long thin barrel. They’ve quoted him explaining how the program taught him life skills like discipline and responsibility, and how he now has greater self-esteem and respect for others. He looks happy. Happier than I am, anyway.
“Gross,” I say, tearing my eyes away. “At least now I know what her vendetta is about.”
“You think she’s anti-mural because she’s ammosexual?”
“First of all, do not say ammosexual.” I shudder. “That’s not a thing. But, I mean, yeah. We’re kind of looking at the proof.”
“Actually, smarty-pants, it is a thing. A word, in fact. But come on. She’s also cuddling a newborn, and holding a trophy for”—he squints—“a swimming competition. Which she got second place in. Ooh, maybe she’s aquasexual.”
“Are you making fun of me right now?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying she looks naturally competitive.”
“No,” I shoot back, “you’re saying I’m overreacting. You’re belittling my feelings to pretend that what is obviously a vendetta is just a coincidence.” I kick my feet off him and push myself to the other end of the sofa. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side.”
“Taking her—what?” Milo croaks. “All I meant is that she’s not necessarily chapter president of the NRA.”
“She’
s holding a gun!”
“She’s holding a baby in the next picture!”
Rage boils up inside me while Milo manages to look as laid-back as an Abercrombie ad. “Are you saying I should drop it? Let her shit all over my mural because she loves babies?”
He snorts and rolls his eyes.
“I’m sharing a legitimate fear, and you’re laughing at me?” I pause to huff. “You’re my boyfriend, Milo. You’re supposed to be—”
“Boyfriend-ier?” he supplies. With dimples. “Come on, Jo.”
“You come on,” I yell. “This is really important to me. I’ve finally found something that’s going to help fix me, and she’s trying to take it away. It’s like you don’t even care.”
My voice pierces the air, and we both blush. Milo swallows. I assume he’ll follow it up with an apology, but he looks quietly back at his laptop.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs, but in the most something way.
“Wait, are you mad at me?”
“I didn’t think I was, but—” He scratches his head. “What do you want from me? I get that you hate Annette, but that has nothing to do with me. At least, it shouldn’t. And why are you acting like your whole life depends on this mural? You don’t need to be fixed, Jo. What you went through was horrible, but it was thirteen years ago. Like it or not, it’s a part of you.”
“Oh, so I guess I better move on, then, huh?” I spit back. “God, you sound like my grandmother. It makes me sick.”
Milo doesn’t respond. He gently shuts his computer and gets up off the sofa, walking toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m thirsty.”
He rounds the corner, and I bite my lip, trying to predict our future through sound effects. The fridge door opens, slams shut. The tab of a soda can clicks with relief. A fizzy, frustrated exhale. Each new sound adds another goose bump to my arms. I wait as long as I can and then put my laptop beside his, tiptoeing into the kitchen. He’s leaning against the sink, smoldering eyes turned to the window.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?” he says stiffly.
“I’m not sure?”
He puts his Sprite down and sighs. “Can I say something?”
I hold my breath and nod.
“This is really hard.”
I freeze. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“What? No. I’m just saying this—what you’re going through—is really fucking hard. And I’m scared I can’t help you the right way.”
I bite my lip, waiting for him to continue.
“You’re so fragile,” he says softly. “I barely knew you before all of this, but I know it’s changed you. This mural has you so manic, and I think it’s a great idea, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up, if people really are against it. If Sanders is one of them, maybe you need to be realistic. He’s got a lot more authority than you—all the fucking authority, come to think of it.”
“You want me to give up?”
“No, but he’s obviously kind of a dick. Being all dismissive of you.”
“And so, that’s it.” I cross my arms. “You think he’s already made up his mind.”
“No, that’s not …” Milo sighs. “Listen to yourself, though. I’m just talking, and you’re getting mad. I’m not trying to piss you off, but I shouldn’t have to be afraid to speak my mind. It’s like you want me to be perfect, but I can’t. Sometimes I have to just be seventeen.”
He stops talking, and I realize his eyes are moist. It scares me a little, to see him so raw and vulnerable. Makes me feel guilty as hell too. Like an idiot for putting him in this position. I catch his eye and offer an appreciative pout. His lips pinch into a sad, resigned kind of smile. I tiptoe across the kitchen and take his hand, kissing his thumb. He exhales and kisses my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What are you sorry for now?”
“Now, I’m sorry for being Demando Girlfriend.”
He grins. “You’re not Demando Girlfriend.”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush. “I’m used to Leah and Gabby. They’ve always taken my side, no matter what, because we’re best friends. Even my grandparents used to always be there for me. But now everything’s different. Nobody knows how to act around me because I’m not me anymore, and it’s weird and horrible and it hurts.”
“I know.”
“And maybe I am kind of obsessed with this mural,” I grumble. “But is that so wrong? To throw myself into something that’s going to heal me and help the world? I hate that Dr. Sanders called it ‘nice.’ What a banal word. And that people think I’m doing it to impress college admissions. It pisses me off. But I’m sorry I took it out on you.”
“Do not be sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry you have so much shit to deal with. And I know I’m not Gabby or Leah or Gran, but you can tell me anything. I want to be there for you—as long as you don’t bite my head off for saying the wrong thing.”
I nod and rest my head against his chest.
He looks out the kitchen window, toward the driveway where his mom’s car won’t be parked for at least another hour. “If I tell you how much I hate Annette, can we have make-up sex?”
I punch him in the stomach. “You’ve already distracted me enough. I’m supposed to be solidifying my arguments for Monday. I should be with Gabby right now, not you. She’s the one with the debate-team brain.”
“Fine, back to those notecards.” He massages my shoulders as he guides me toward the living room. “I didn’t mean to get you down. I think you’ll be great on Monday. Just be prepared that if Annette is as hardcore driven as you say, she’s going to have a solid argument too.”
“I know.”
“And,” he adds, handing me my computer, “if she wins, I’ll reconsider the whole tire-iron-to-the-knee thing.”
“See?” I grin. “Sometimes you manage to say the perfect thing.”
32
“A hearing?” Robert says. “Your school sounds like an episode of Law & Order.”
“Right? Yeah …”
Silence buzzes on the line, long enough for Robert to launch into a clumsy retelling of his favorite episode of a show I’ve never seen. I lean toward the bathroom mirror, dabbing a mascara wand against my lashes, hand shaking so bad I nearly smear it on my eyebrow. The story ends, and he yawns while I reach into the medicine cabinet for the Pepto. Maybe its pinkness will unknot my gridlocked guts; maybe it’ll make me as chilled out as my father seems to perpetually be.
“You nervous?” he asks.
“You have no idea.”
“Don’t sweat it. For what it’s worth, I’m impressed that you want to make a mural at all. You’re so passionate. I don’t remember caring about anything besides video games when I was your age. Your generation is so good at making a difference in the world.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” I lie.
“Mandy would have been proud. I’m sorry she can’t be here to see you like this.”
Blood drains straight out of my face and circles the sink drain.
“You still there?” Robert says. “Did I lose you?”
“No, I—I’m here.”
“Everything okay?” he asks, and when I don’t answer, he clears his throat. “I’m never sure if I should bring her up or stay quiet.”
“You should,” I say. “It’s hard sometimes, that’s all.”
Tears well up too fast in my eyes. Mandy would have been proud. Would have been. Isn’t. Can’t be. I sit on the closed toilet lid, tucking my knees up into my chest and trying to keep my sobs silent.
“Jo?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re being too nice. I don’t deserve it.”
“What?”
“If it wasn’t for me—” My voice breaks. I pull the phone away for a second, burying my fac
e in a hand towel. “The whole reason I’m doing this mural is because of what I did. You think I’m passionate? Until a month ago, all I cared about was making clothes and hanging with my friends.”
“It’s okay to be a kid.”
“But I’m not just a kid,” I bark. “I did something terrible, and I have to make up for it. I have to make a difference. The world wouldn’t need so much fixing if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t—” I pause, choking on sobs.
“Sorry,” I say a minute later. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He doesn’t, but I hear an exhale slither uncomfortably through the phone.
My heart rips to shreds for him, for everything I’ve put him through. I blot my tears away and clear my throat. “Sorry. I miss her so much, and I don’t even know what I’m missing, you know? It’s frustrating sometimes.”
“She had a great smile,” Robert says after a second. “The way it tugged up on the right more than the left? Yours does that too, actually.”
I watch my face in the mirror and smile. “I never noticed that before.”
“Your voice too. I don’t think I realized it till we started talking on the phone and I could really hear you, y’know? You sound like her when she was telling jokes. Kinda droll like that. I still fall asleep most nights thinking about her. Guess it’s my version of counting sheep.” He pauses, laughing self-consciously. “But now I get to think about you too. All our similarities. That little fleck of brown in your eye, same as me. I play this game when I’m falling asleep, where I picture the way you were as a baby and then try to imagine you changing, year by year, till you’re the girl you are today. Your nose was really flat when you were tiny, which always freaked me out, no offense. Mandy said it was normal for babies to come out with flat noses, so I imagine it gradually taking shape over the years. I picture your hair getting longer, that sort of thing. It’s amazing to think how you’re all of a sudden five-foot-eight. Y’know?”
All of a sudden.
Is that really what he thinks?
I squeeze the phone tight in my hand, studying my nose. Thin and pointy, the same as Robert’s. All that he’s missed in the past thirteen years. How opposite of sudden my childhood felt, growing up without parents. My jaw muscles flex. I need to tell him.
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