by Katie Wismer
Silvia’s mom has stepped away from the group and is now waving her arms dramatically overhead like she’s signaling a plane, trying to get their attention.
Danielle’s face twists, glaring at the woman like she just sprouted devil’s horns. Though as Silvia’s mom stands there with her pink polka dot cardigan and matching kitten heels, waving at us with wide eyes and an equally wide smile, I’m having a hard time seeing it. Ricki tugs on Danielle’s arm.
“Come on,” Ricki says. “Let’s just go inside.”
They both mutter their goodbyes, but it’s Silvia’s mom who I can’t stop staring at as they walk away. Her expression shifts as Danielle and Ricki disappear into the atrium. It looks almost like longing. She just doesn’t look capable of heartlessly shipping off her daughter. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure Silvia is only sixteen. What kind of a parent could actually do that? Especially after all of the horror stories? Just last year, there was a story on the news of a couple of girls in those camps getting abused and dying out in the woods. And for what? Because she liked a guy?
“Do you think that actually happened?” I mutter.
“I hope not,” says Jo. “Can you imagine?”
Silvia’s mom’s gaze drifts over to us, and I grab Jo’s arm to turn away before she catches us staring at her, my stomach suddenly uneasy.
Jo clears her throat. “Okay, so like, not to be insensitive or anything, but look who just pulled into the parking lot.”
I look up to see a sleek black car park just a few spaces away. Jo grabs my arm, forcing me to stand. Her posture is suddenly impeccable, shoulders thrown back, chest pushed out. She adjusts the bun atop her head and tucks the loose strays behind her ears. “Do you think you could rub your non-believing off on him?”
“It’s not contagious,” I mutter as a gray-headed man in an expensive black suit emerges from the car and waits for his passenger. His son, Sam, steps out in gray fitted pants, a navy button-down shirt, and tinted sunglasses. Unlike his father, Sam’s hair is dark and thick, tousled like he just rolled out of bed. It makes me wonder if Mr. Johnson was handsome when he was younger, or if Sam just favors his mom.
Not that I would know. I’ve never seen the woman.
What are the odds they’ll just keep walking and I won’t have to talk to them?
Sam’s dad waves at me and Johanna as he approaches. “Howdy, Meredith. How’s your daddy?”
Zero, apparently.
My teeth grind together, but I give him a tight smile and pretend not to notice the way he speaks to me like I’m a five-year-old. “Good, Mr. Johnson. He’s inside.”
Sam—or as Jo likes to call him, Sexy Sam—just shoves his hands in his pockets and raises his eyebrows in greeting. There is nothing threatening about him standing there, but my anxiety and logic have never been well acquainted. It’s like the switch on my fight-or-flight response is faulty and flips whenever it damn well feels like it. Right now, for instance. My body coils itself tight, like its preparing to get thrown into a lion’s den. Not that I should be surprised—my anxiety has always been an unwanted but expected houseguest. I can usually anticipate it long before it starts to manifest, but no matter how hard I try to prepare or reason with my body, it still reacts as if the millions of times before haven’t taught it this is not a life or death situation. That it is, in fact, only making things even more difficult than necessary.
Right on time, my anxiety rears its head in the forms of clammy palms, a skittering heartbeat, and a flood of heat to my face. I can only hope the liquid foundation I put on this morning is thick enough that no one else can tell.
Mr. Johnson nods and starts to turn away, but then whips back around as if he just remembered something. “How do you say ‘daddy’ in French?”
He asks this like he’s doing me a favor, giving me the opportunity to show off my knowledge even though he very well knows the answer. I can’t see Sam’s eyes through his sunglasses, but I can feel his gaze. This, of course, only makes my heartbeat panic more. I pointedly avoid looking at him.
“It’s papa, sir,” I say.
He nods, satisfied, and heads inside, Sam following close behind. Even after they’re gone, my body doesn’t relax, not at first. My hands shake a bit as if trying to burn off the lingering nervous energy. I hope to God they didn’t notice.
Jo smacks my arm.
That snaps me out of it.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“Sorry. But did you see that? Sexy Sam totally just gave you a look.”
I rub my arm. “Yeah, an I’d rather be anywhere but here look.”
“No.” She rolls her eyes like I’m being unusually dense. “He gave you an eyebrow raise. Any eyebrow action, by definition, is flirty.”
As if Sexy Sam Johnson would ever be interested in me.
“If you say so.”
“You know…” Johanna’s mouth curls into a slow smile. She leans in and lowers her voice. “Sexy Sam would be an awfully good choice for our pact.”
“Oh my God, Johanna.” I cross my arms and glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is within hearing range. It had only been a week, but a part of me was hoping she’d forget about the pact. “Do not go after Sam. For one thing, he would never. And for another, Mr. Johnson and my dad are best friends. What if that got back to my dad?” I honestly think I might throw up just at the thought.
She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what would happen. You know, most guys go running to tell their parents all about their sexual escapades.”
“You are not having any sexual escapades,” I whisper-scream, “with Sam Johnson!”
“You’re right!” She grins and starts walking backwards toward the church. “You are.”
“Jo!”
“See you later!” She winks and whips around before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd now beginning to trickle in. She hates sitting in the front, mostly because then she can’t play on her phone the entire time, and tends to sit with some other friends from school in the back. I tried to talk Maman into letting me sit with them one time, but no such luck.
A chatty-looking older couple starts heading toward me, smiling, so I quickly duck away and follow Jo into the church to avoid having to talk to them. The lobby is full of people mingling and laughing, the line to the coffee cart stretching all the way into the back hall where the youth programs and daycare are held. Papa thinks the modern look attracts a wider demographic, so the atrium still looks more like a concert hall than a church. Chairs fan out in a semi-circle around the stage, where shiny music equipment is set up for the band and illuminated by various colored lights. Worship music trickles through the speakers, a countdown to the start of the service projected on the screen behind the stage.
After I slide into my place between Harper and Maman, my eyes do a quick scan of the room. Sam is sitting beside his dad in the front row on the other side of the atrium, sans sunglasses. He glances up and I freeze, feeling caught. He holds my gaze for a moment, his expression impossible to read. I quickly face forward again.
“What were you and Jo doing?” Harper asks.
I smooth down my dress with shaky hands and breathe deeply through my nose, willing the looming heat out of my face. “None of your business,” I say without looking at her.
She jabs her elbow into my side until I glance her way. “What do you think Maman would say if she saw Jo give you the finger?”
I quickly glance over my shoulder to make sure Maman doesn’t overhear, but she’s absorbed in conversation with the lady on her right. “For once in your life, could you try not to be a little snitch?” I hiss.
Her dark eyes narrow at me. “It’d be what you deserved after this morning.”
“You’re the one who tried to get me in trouble to save your own skin! And besides, go ahead and tell her. She’s not too happy with you right now, so who do you think she’d believe if I said you were lying?”
; “She’d believe me because it’s the truth,” she snaps.
“She’d believe me because I’m the favorite.”
She sniffs and turns away, her jaw clenched. I sigh. I hit a nerve, and should probably apologize, but then Papa walks onto the stage and applause fills the church, saving me.
2
When I pull into the school’s parking lot on Monday morning, the clock on my dash reads 6:25 a.m. First bell doesn’t ring until 7:00, but since I didn’t end up finding my book until this morning, I need to get some homework done before class. Also, I like getting here early. I have to deal with fewer people that way.
Harper doesn’t ride with me to school for three reasons: one, she doesn’t want to come in early; two, she’d rather carpool with her friend Melanie; and three, she’s embarrassed to be seen in my 1996 red Pathfinder when everyone else at school drives cars with the price tag of an entire college education. I don’t see what her problem is. Stew looks great for his age, and only breaks down every once in a while. He cost me two whole summers’ worth of triple-shift babysitting, but the freedom of having my own car was one-hundred percent worth letting three-year-old boys beat me up with action figures for a few months. Harper just doesn’t understand our relationship.
It’s fine by me. Harper is always in a dreadful mood in the mornings. Not that it’s much different from her mood the rest of the time.
I park in the second row, despite the first being nearly empty. It’s close enough that it’s still convenient but prevents someone from keying my car for parking in the prime spots. Those spots are for the popular crowd—no one has to say it; we all just respect the rule. And poor Stew is already beat up enough as it is.
I pass through the halls, surrounded by dark green lockers and colorful posters advertising clubs, events, and the upcoming prom until I reach my locker and pull out the materials I need for my classes: AP French, AP Latin, AP Bio, and World History. I also pull down my anti-anxiety meds, pop one of the pills in my mouth, and wash it down with a gulp from my water bottle. They upset my stomach if I don’t eat breakfast beforehand, which usually consists of a granola bar on the drive to school. I’ve gotten in the habit of keeping them in my locker so I don’t forget to take them.
After closing my locker, I hesitate and stare at the prom poster a second too long.
But then a couple of kids appear at the end of the hall, spurring me into motion. I duck out of the building before they can notice me. As I head to the library, I mentally plan the French paper I need to write in my head. Thanks to Maman’s French side of the family (ironic, since Papa’s the one with the French last name), I’m practically fluent in the language, so I pretty much never do the work for that class until the last minute. It’s not the best habit, but I get good enough grades.
I scout out my favorite table in the back, half-hidden by the shelves of books, and make sure to get a seat with my back against the wall. I hate the feeling of people sitting behind me. It’s also right next to the wall of windows, so I can look out at the field across the street. Several runners and people walking their dogs crowd the paths as the sun rises behind them, painting the sky a soft pink.
Only two other students are in here, one crouched in the stacks with his head cocked to the side, looking for a book, the other hunched over one of the computers in the back, playing some kind of video game. They both look like freshmen, so at least I know they won’t bother me. Another unspoken yet universally acknowledged rule: freshmen and seniors do not intermingle unless instigated by the older party.
I pull out a sheet of paper and my French book. The assignment is to write a paper about the pros and cons of nuclear energy based on the provided sources, which are stupid. The author clearly doesn’t understand the science behind it at all. After skimming for a few minutes, I get to bullshitting the essay.
“Look at you, being all studious. How cute. Say ‘soy cheese.’”
The camera flash goes off the moment I raise my eyes. Johanna grins, returning the cap to the lens.
“Are you even allowed to have that thing in here?” I ask, blinking away the spots from my vision.
Johanna rolls her eyes and slides into the seat opposite me. “It’s a camera, not a Bluetooth speaker. I’m not disrupting anyone. I even have the shutter on silent.” She gingerly returns the camera to its bag and sets it on the table. “You know I need to build up my portfolio some more before college. I need candids.” Her red hair is in a long side-braid, which she tosses over her shoulder as she leans toward me, hitting me with a wave of her peach perfume.
“What are you even doing here?” I ask. It’s still at least ten minutes until first period, and Jo is usually here no earlier than ten minutes after.
“I was up all night, thinking about our pact—”
I roll my eyes. “Mon Dieu, Jo.”
“Hey.” She holds up a hand. “We found your guy, but I still need one. And that’s the thing. I think I found him—I was so excited about it, I couldn’t even sleep in this morning.” She grins like she’s proud of herself.
“Pray tell. Who’s the lucky guy?”
Her grin twists into something mischievous. “Mr. Graham.”
I give her a yeah, right look and turn back to my essay.
She just keeps smiling.
I open and close my mouth a few times before finally leaning forward and whispering, “You can’t be serious! You can’t pick a teacher.”
She looks genuinely confused. “Why not?”
I shake my head a few times. “Please tell me you’re not seriously asking that question.”
“What? I’m eighteen, so it’s legal. And he’s only, like, twenty-five or something. If I were twenty-one and he were twenty-eight, no one would give it a second thought. And, I mean, can you seriously look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t do him if you had the chance?”
She’s clearly given this way too much thought.
“No, I wouldn’t!” I glance around to make sure no librarians have snuck up to eavesdrop, as they commonly like to do. “We’re in high school, Jo. It’s different. He would get into so much trouble—both of you would.”
She rolls her eyes. “Only if people find out—which they won’t.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid. Stuff like that always gets out eventually.”
“Would you stop being a goody-two-shoes for five seconds,” she whines. “Can’t you just appreciate how awesome it would be to have those hands—God, he has nice hands—running all over—”
“Ugh!” I wave my hands in front of my face as if I can swat the mental images away. “No. Please keep your fantasies to yourself.”
“Come on. We’re about to be out of here anyway. If we don’t take these risks now, we never will.”
“Okay, ‘taking a risk—’” I actually air-quote the words because she clearly needs the distinction, “—by asking some guy out or whatever, and doing something that could put Mr. Graham in jail are two totally separate things.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls some lip gloss out of her backpack. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“If you really want someone older, can’t you just find a college guy or something?”
“Where would the fun be in that?” She reaches across the table and squeezes my wrist. “And just think about what a great first-time story this would make. So much better than some meat-head football player under the bleachers. He’d probably be a lot better at it, too.”
Johanna always did love herself a good story.
I shake my head again, pulling my arm away. “I can’t believe I’m even validating this idea by talking about it.”
Suddenly, the low, droning tones of first bell fill the silence of the library, and when I look up, I realize a few other students trickled in while I wasn’t paying attention.
I point a finger at Jo. “We are not done talking about this. So don’t do anything stupid today.”
She
holds up her palms. “I’d never.” In one fluid motion, she’s standing, her bag tossed over one shoulder, her braid back in place across the other. “See you in fourth.” She winks and takes off.
Fourth period is the only class we have together. It also happens to be taught by Mr. Graham.
✦✦✦
My first two classes pass without much event. Madam Fournier gives me an arched eyebrow at the sight of my hastily-scrawled essay, but I hurry to my seat before she can say anything. I’m a straight-A student and a second-semester senior. Compared to the rest of the people in this class, I’m Mother-freaking-Teresa.
Latin passes in a blur, then I head to the admin building for an appointment during my third-period open block. It’s only a few months until graduation, and this is my first time in the guidance counselor’s office. And if the meeting weren’t required, I’d probably never step foot in here at all. Honestly, I’d kind of forgotten it was here. It’s more of a department, with a spacious lobby and a dozen or so private cubicles Tetris-ed together behind the front desk. The receptionist glances up at me as I step inside. A pair of cheetah-print horn-rimmed glasses take up the majority of her face, complemented by bright red lipstick.
“Can I help you?” she asks. She doesn’t smile.
“Um, yeah.” I walk up to her desk, though she looks like she’d rather I didn’t. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Russell?”
She looks away and starts typing, her acrylics aggressively tapping against the keyboard. “Name?”
“Meredith Beaumont.” I adjust my backpack’s straps on my shoulders, though there was nothing wrong with them in the first place.
“It’s your senior exit interview?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She lets out a heavy sigh as if I’ve caused her a major inconvenience and pulls the glasses from her face. They hang around her neck on a purple-jeweled chain. No one wearing lipstick that affrontingly bright should be this grumpy. “Have a seat.”
I hesitate for a second, and there’s something hostile about the way she raises her eyebrows at me. I scuttle away to the half-dozen chairs lined up against the wall. All but one are full, their occupants scrolling through their phones in various slumped-over positions. Unfortunately, the only remaining seat is between two guys. I avoid making eye contact and slip between them, setting my backpack in my lap and clutching it to my chest.