by M. F. Lorson
“Then, maybe you’ll meet a girl who likes you for you. Can you even imagine that?” I teased.
“Ha,” he blurted. “Not likely. Speaking of girls…” He hooked his eyebrow in my direction, and I immediately tried to dodge that conversation.
“What about them?” I asked, stealing another onion ring.
“Everyone knows about you and Becca.”
“They do?” I didn’t tell anyone, but if that’s true and Sloane knows that we broke up…
“Well, aside from being the most predictable thing to happen this year, yeah. Someone literally got it on Snapchat.” Within five seconds, he’s holding up a video of me saying exactly that, followed shortly by Becca rightfully blaming me for being a jerk.
“But that’s not what I’m referring to,” he said, leaning back with his shake. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t have a thing for that ginger.”
“Her name is Sloane,” I said, squinting at him.
He chuckled. “Exactly.”
“We’re just friends,” I said before slapping my head into my hand. “Just kidding. I forgot, we are no longer friends. She made that clear at the party. We are also not partners on our media project either.”
“So, are you going to get her back?”
“I’m working on it,” I admitted for the first time to even myself. If my plan worked, I might actually have a chance at getting her back—hopefully as more than a friend, but I would take what I could get.
Then, an idea popped up in my head as I looked at my brother across the table. “In fact, you might actually be able to help me with that.”
Sloane
I was officially an invisa-lizard. You know, one of those reptiles that blends into their surroundings to avoid being spotted by prey. The prey, in my circumstance, was not one, but many. There was Harper, who just might physically assault me. Reagan, who could swoop in with the emotional warfare at any moment. And Gabe...I didn’t know what to expect from Gabe, but I was totally content not knowing.
I spent the day with the drawstring of my hoodie pulled so tight that only my nose and corneas poked through the little air-hole. It was a good look really.
I was pleased to discover that Landon made fun of me even with my identity masked, meaning he really wasn’t a ginger hater, just a hater in general. If Harper ever started talking to me again, I might suggest that the two of them meet up, seeing as how they both hated most of humanity.
When the bell rang at 2:45, I mentally high-fived myself for day one, survival in the jungle. There were just like, 100 school days left to get through. I was scooting past Media Studies in pursuit of the Gremlin when Ms. Mitchell called after me from her desk.
“Sloane.”
I continued walking, not wanting to reveal my identity to the student body. This was a mistake because it prompted Ms. Mitchell to yell my name twice as loud.
“Sloane!” she practically hollered. Heads were beginning to turn my way, so I quickly spun on my heels and stomped into her room, grumbling into my hoodie hole the entire way.
“You may close the door if you’re more comfortable,” she said, looking up at me over the glasses perched on her nose. I pulled the door shut behind me and sunk into the chair in front of her. I should have known this would happen. Getting through the day unscathed by my peers and my teachers was a level of efficiency I did not possess.
I worked the double knot out of my drawstring and pulled the hood back over my head to rest on my shoulders. I couldn’t imagine that my hair looked good after a day spent soaking up condensation from my bitter mumblings and angry heavy breathing, but it was just the two of us. She had to have seen worse.
I could tell she was suppressing a smirk as she laid down the pen in her hand and looked me in the eye.
“I was hoping to see a first cut of your special segment by now. But something tells me you don’t have that.”
“Whatever makes you think that?” I asked, picking at the sleeve of my hoodie.
Ms. Mitchell let out a frustrated breath, clearly not amused by my response.
“Typically, Sloane, when a student doesn’t have their assignment done, they avoid confrontation by skipping class. This behavior I am used to. Turning your sweatshirt into a bunker is new. I welcome the creativity, but I would rather you put that energy into completing your assignment.”
Now it was my turn to sigh. “It’s not that simple.”
“Because of the boy-girl thing,” said Ms. Mitchell. It was not a question. She was definitely on to us.
“Something like that,” I admitted.
“You know, I suggested Gabe use the unique dynamic of your situation to fuel the project. I’m a little disappointed to see you both hiding behind…your feelings,” she said, though her eyes lingered on my hoodie.
I was a little surprised to hear that Ms. Mitchell had talked to Gabe first, and that he hadn’t approached me afterwards. Was he so hurt by what I said that he would rather flunk our assignment than talk to me?
“Maybe we could turn it in later?” I asked, “Once the boy-girl stuff settles down.”
“I’m sorry, Sloane, but you know it doesn’t work that way. You committed to this segment, and you’ve been given class time and resources to work on it. If it’s not ready in the morning, I have no choice but to give you a failing grade.”
I told Ms. Mitchell that I understood, but I really didn’t. I didn’t understand how this year had gone from hope and promise to tears and frustration or how Gabe and I could go from strangers to friends, then back to strangers again all because of a stupid party. The thing was, I knew it was more than the party. I just didn’t know what to do about it.
I wasn’t looking forward to it, but tonight when I got home I was going to have to tell Dad that I was failing my favorite class, and it was all because of a boy. I loved my Dad, but this was one of those times when not having a Mom felt like riding a bicycle when everyone around you has a car.
Gabe
If I thought interviewing Landon for the segment was painful, I had no idea how hard this would be. Reagan and Harper sat in front of me, both of them wearing very different expressions but somehow both expressing their dislike and impatience. Harper looked at me like she was imagining what it might feel like to crack my jaw, and if Reagan could bite her lip any harder, I was certain I’d see blood.
“So what did you want to talk to us about?” Harper barked at me.
“Have you talked to Sloane?” Reagan added, fidgeting with the long strands of her ponytail.
“Ummm...not exactly. This is kind of a secret project I’m working on, and I need your help,” I stammered, feeling more and more nervous about this segment.
I figured asking them to meet me at my house was the safest bet. I didn’t want to risk Sloane seeing us together and blow my cover, but I figured that asking them to come back to the scene of the crime had its own disadvantages. Like how Reagan looked uncomfortable from the very start and Harper seemed downright insulted. We sat around the pool on the patio set, but I could tell that neither one of them wanted to get too comfortable.
“Why should we help you?”
Harper sure didn’t pull any punches, did she? She reminded me of an angry version of Landon. Blunt, fierce, and a chip on her shoulder the size of Grover High.
“Because it’s for Sloane,” I answered.
“What makes you think we want to do anything for her?”
I did a double-take. “Wait. What? I thought you guys were her best friends.”
Sure, I hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to Sloane this week since the party, but I certainly didn’t notice a big rift in her inseparable trio.
“We are,” Reagan said quickly before Harper interrupted her.
“We were.”
Reagan was biting her lip again, and her cheeks had turned a rosey shade of worked up. “Ever since she started hanging out with you...I mean, it’s not all your fault, but—”
“She cared more about bein
g popular than being a decent friend to us.”
I held up my hand to stop her. “If this is about Landon or my behavior at the party, that is totally on us.”
“Yeah, well we never should have been at that party in the first place,” Harper snapped. She kept that unimpressed expression on her face while she dished the attitude at me.
That heavy weight of anxiety in my chest ever since Sloane and I ended things just got a lot heavier—now that I knew she lost, not one, but three friends that night.
“You guys know she wanted you there so she could include you, right?” I said with a wince. Going toe-to-to with Harper was gutsy, but I had to do something. Sloane lost her friends because of me. “She just wanted to have you with her. My friends could be...intimidating.”
Harper didn’t say anything for a second, and her eyes didn’t leave my face.
“She just wasn’t being herself. Everyone in the Khaki Collective is so fake, and it made me sick to see Sloane become a part of that.”
“The Khaki—?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, stopping me. “The point is...when she took us to that party, she chose you over us.”
“Or at least it felt that way,” Reagan continued.
“Why does she have to choose?” I asked.
“Do you really like her or were you just using her to do your project for you?”
It felt like a shot to the gut. Is that what they thought? Is that what everyone thought?
“I really, really like her.”
It became awkwardly silent for a moment before Reagan couldn’t hold back her smile anymore and it stretched across her face. Her cheeks turned even brighter. I swore after a few moments, I noticed Harper crack a smile too.
“You guys think I’m so different, but that's what I like about Sloane. She doesn’t treat me any differently at all. What did you call us? The Khaki Club?”
“Collective,” Harper corrected me. “Well, maybe you’re not so bad, but the rest of them...especially your brother…”
“A work-in-progress.”
Harper finally leaned back and stopped scrutinizing me for a moment. “Alright, so what did you need us for, then?”
“Sloane and I were working on a segment for Good Morning, Grover, and now that she’s not talking to me, I’m finishing it alone. But I’m making some changes.”
“How does that include us?” Reagan asked.
“I need interviews. From...specific people.”
“Us?” Harper was either terrified or skeptical, or both.
“Yes, you,” I answered.
“Who’s going to see this?”
“Everyone at Grover.”
“And it’s for Sloane?” Reagan added.
“Yep.”
I watched Harper swallow, suddenly looking as nervous as Reagan before she finally nodded. “Fine. We’re in.”
Sloane
Whenever I needed to give my Dad bad news, I started with food. So when he popped into the kitchen for a Coke and found me layering ricotta between lasagna noodles and a slow cooked tomato sauce, he knew it was time to pull up a chair and prepare for the worst.
“Are you suspended?” he asked.
I kept my eyes on the glass pan in front of me. “No.”
“Detention?”
“No.”
“Harper talked you into sacrificing a small animal in the name of science?”
I glanced up at him, my mouth twisted into an expression of disgust.
“Aw, so you are in there. When I saw you leave for school this morning dressed like the world’s worst ninja, I figured I was in for a home-cooked meal. But I was not prepared for lasagna. Put the ladle down and talk to me.”
Lasagna was my mother’s best recipe. I only used it when I was in deep and Dad knew it. I laid the ladle down on my half-finished layer of cheese and took a deep breath.
“I’m failing Media Studies.”
“The entire class?” asked Dad incredulously. “You’re three quarters of the way through the term. Why didn’t you ask for help earlier?”
The tips of his ears were bright red and flushing deeper by the second.
“Not the whole class,” I admitted. “Just my final assignment,”
Relief swept across Dad’s face. “So you’ve still got time to fix it then.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Make it simple, Sloane. We don’t get Fs in this household. If you need my help—”
“Dad,” I said rolling my eyes. “This isn’t a math test you can make flash cards for.”
He took a long drink of his Coke before setting it down to study me. “Why is it you think you can’t finish this assignment? I’ve never seen you quit before.”
I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “It’s not just me. My partner and I were supposed to do it together and…”
“And?”
“We aren’t exactly talking right now.”
Dad’s mouth formed an O shape. “Your partner is the boy you went hiking with?”
“Yes.”
“The one who hosted the party you went to without my permission?”
“How did you—?
“Single fathers have their spies, Sloane.” He wrinkled up his nose and glared at me with an exaggerated frown. “Everything you have ever done. Assume I know about it.”
I shook my head, attempting to keep my expression cool as a cucumber. But inside I was running through each and every time I had violated house rules. Did that mean he knew about the dugouts? Or that time last year when we egged Harper’s ex’s motorcycle? This was officially the least comforting father-daughter chat ever.
“Who needs to apologize to who?” asked Dad.
That was the million dollar question. I was the one who called Gabe a coward, but Gabe was the one who stood by and watched as his brother tore down my friends. He was the one that didn’t pull away when Becca locked lips with him in front of the entire school.
“I guess we both do,” I said begrudgingly.
“And you aren’t willing to be the first?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Well, I would prefer if I didn’t have to.”
“You sound like your mother,” said Dad. “She loved to be right. Even when she was wrong.”
I gave my Dad a half smile. Most people talked about my mom as if she were a saint. I called it the obituary effect because those few sentences, “Mother to Sloane, 14, loving wife, avid gardener” trampled over every real experience people had with her. Teachers, neighbors, even my grandparents, they all remembered her in glowing terms. Dad and I didn’t. We could remember she was stubborn and not in a good way.
“What can I say?” I laughed. “You gave me my good looks and trigonometry skills. All she had left to offer was red hair and a bad attitude.”
Dad stood from his seat and came around to my side of the counter.
“I won’t make you apologize if you don’t want to. And I won’t ground you if you really can’t salvage that grade, but as your Dad and someone who loves you,” he said tipping my chin up so that I was forced to look him in the eye. “I hope you’ll try and do both.”
I nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.
Dad pulled me in for a quick hug before grabbing his drink and scooting out of the kitchen. Neither of us wanted me to cry in front of him, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about what he said. It was too late to salvage the video, but maybe I could still salvage things with Gabe.
I picked up my phone and shot a quick text his way.
Sloane: Remember that one '80s movie where the girl is kind of a jerk and it takes her way too long to admit it? It’s one of my favs, totally relatable.
Gabe
It took a miracle to get me to school this morning. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Between the cryptic text from Sloane—that I could not seem to answer—and editing the video all night in a rush to have it ready for class today, I onl
y laid my head on the pillow for about an hour and a half before my alarm went off.
The end product felt right though. It’s been months since I really worked on something I cared about, a real project. I even sent it to Leo, my best friend from my film studies school. Thanks to the backwards time zones, he sent the feedback in less than an hour.
Leo: It’s a classic, mate. Nice work.
Leo: You’re showing it to the girl?
Gabe: The whole school.
Leo: American high school is just like the movies then?
Gabe: LOL not exactly.
My hands shook as I sat in the car preparing myself to walk in. It was up to me to load the video to the school’s broadcast system, and it was waiting for me in the cloud. It would be a shame for it to stay there without her seeing it, but I could feel myself turning a nauseous shade of purple thinking about it.
“You’re not going to chicken out, are you?” Landon sat in the passenger seat holding the paper bag of things he helped me collect. “I didn’t raid Dad’s closet for nothing.”
“I’m not chickening out. I’m just getting myself in the zone.”
“Well, you get yourself in the zone, but I’m going inside. It’s Friday, and I have a date with french toast sticks on the menu in the cafeteria.”
“Sure,” I mumbled as my brother got out of the car, leaving the bag on the seat. He waved to his friends across the parking lot before he leaned back down, looking through the window of my used sedan.
“It’s a great video, Gabe, and I think she’s just weird enough to love it.”
“Thanks,” I half-smiled at my brother.
There was still fifteen minutes before the first bell rang. Now that I was alone, I stared down at her text message, and for the hundredth time since she sent it, I mentally scrolled through possible responses.