“I don’t participate,” Petra says, and there’s something so genuine in her expression, maybe it’s pity, that I think I believe her, even though Petra hasn’t exactly been known for her kindness toward me in the past.
“Whatever.”
“Amy,” she says when I turn away again. “Look, I’ll tutor you one-on-one, okay?”
I look back over my shoulder at her, still standing there, her hair blowing in the wind, her skin gleaming in the sun, and her eyes just a little desperate.
“Amy, come on. I have an A-plus in calc. Are you going to turn that down?”
I hate it when she’s right.
“Meet me at my house tonight. I’m done here at five, okay?” She pats her pockets like she’s looking for something, but I wave her off.
“I know where you live, Petra. I’ll be there at six.” I know I should be grateful that Petra is doing me a huge favor, but all I feel is shame.
AMY
ONLY A FEW neighborhoods separate Petra’s house from mine, but it might as well be an ocean. I don’t really give in to envy, but I never fail to notice that her entryway is bigger than my bedroom and my sisters’ bedroom put together.
Petra closes the door behind me and then gestures toward the dining room, which is bigger than our living room. She has a notebook and her calculus book sitting on the corner of the table, lined up perfectly against the edge.
“Do you like cream puffs?” she asks as I sling my backpack onto one of the chairs. They’re probably antique or something, and I’m suddenly very nervous about potentially damaging one of them. I move my bag to the floor, making sure that it isn’t resting against the table leg.
“Um,” I say in response.
Petra appears through the kitchen doorway with a tray of cream puffs in her hand like she’s about to begin feeding her guests at a grand party. I take a cream puff because I’m starving.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a napkin from the fancy holder in the center of the table and placing my cream puff (homemade, I suspect) and napkin on the tablecloth.
“Okay,” she says, sitting up straight in her chair. “Let’s go over your calc test.”
An hour later, I have a headache, and Petra is rubbing her eyes like she’s a toddler who needs a nap. Half the cream puffs are gone, and I haven’t missed the fact that Petra hasn’t eaten a single one.
“Okay, do you want to move on to the next section or—”
The front door flies open, and next thing I know, there’s a preteen in a leotard tearing through the house, rushing through the dining room and into the kitchen before I even have a second to process what’s going on.
“Petra?” a woman by the front door calls out.
I know Petra’s mother from field trips that she chaperoned and after-school activities that she showed up to in her minivan. She’s just as tall and beautiful as Petra, but in the same way that Petra’s mouth is always slightly down-turned, her mother always has a smile on her face.
“We’re in here!” Petra calls out to her mother at the same time that Petra’s little sister comes back into the dining room, munching on what looks like Hot Fries.
“Who are you?” she asks around the food in her mouth.
Petra rolls her eyes. “It’s Amy, you dork. You don’t remember Amy?”
The girl shrugs and walks back into the kitchen just as Petra’s mother comes into the dining room. “Amy,” she says. “It’s so nice to see you again. How have you been?”
I smile up at her because it isn’t her fault her daughter is trying to steal my future right out from under me. “I’m good. Petra’s just helping me with some calculus homework.”
Petra’s mother sighs. “Petra’s always off helping everyone. That tutoring center runs her ragged. She’s always there. It’s a wonder she has any time for her own homework much less being valedictorian!” Petra’s mother, completely oblivious to the wide-eyed look that Petra is sending her, puts her hand on my shoulder.
I grit my teeth. “Yeah, I know. Isn’t that great?”
Petra rolls her eyes as her mother’s hand falls away from me. “Mom, we’re kind of in the middle of something.”
Petra’s mother claps her hand over her mouth and turns to leave the dining room, sending us a friendly wave as she goes.
“I’m guessing you don’t often discuss your academic competition with your mother,” I say as soon as she’s gone. “Wouldn’t want her to know you might not make val.”
“Yeah, except I’m going to make val, so why would I even bring it up?”
I slam my calculus book closed. “What makes you so sure? We’re still tied.” Probably. I haven’t been to the counselor’s office since the day I found out we were tied, since I’m always rushing from last period to Spirits and am usually doing homework before the first bell.
Petra stops rifling through her own textbook. “You’re too distracted. You’re trying to divide your time between looking good for Stanford, trying to get Jackson back, and working at that record store. You’re trying to juggle too much, and all you’re doing is making it easier for me to make val.”
I tap my pen against my notebook. I hate that she looks so smug, closing all her books with her shoulders pressed back and her chin high. “Okay, genius. You want to be my life coach? Give me some pointers.”
She gives me a firm look, lacing her fingers over her notebook. “You’re really serious about this?”
I feel my stomach twist. I don’t know if she means serious about being valedictorian or serious about wanting her advice. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. The answer is yes.
She narrows her eyes at me, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I can tell I’m not going to like this. “I think it’s time for you to let go of Jackson.”
I sit back in my seat with a huff. “I’m not—”
“I’m serious, Amy,” she says more forcefully. “Boyfriends are a bad idea, but pining for ex-boyfriends is even worse. It makes it impossible to think straight.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“And you have to quit your job.”
Petra’s words stop me short. “No, I can’t quit. I’m working there while my stepdad finds a new job.” But it’s more than that. It’s something burrowing under my skin. Spirits is the only place where I feel like I belong and it stopped being about Carlos a while ago.
Petra drops her head in her hands. “So what you’re saying is you want this but you’re not willing to sacrifice anything for it?”
That makes rage simmer beneath my skin. “I’ve given up my social life, my free time, my relationships—”
“—just to fail,” she finishes for me.
We stare at each other for a long time.
“I’m not going to fail.” I reach down to put my book in my backpack, my hands trembling either from adrenaline or from anger.
Petra blinks up at me. She opens her mouth to say something else, but a loud crash emanates from the kitchen, and I use the opportunity to see myself out.
OLIVER
I CAN’T SAY I’ve completely forgotten about Dad. There’s no forgetting Dad. Ever. But I have mostly managed to keep my mind off him since the last time I saw him. I heard secondhand that he was sentenced with what seemed to me like a lifetime’s worth of community service hours. Much deserved, in my opinion.
And that’s why I should have been expecting to run into him. Of course, I should have. Because I should have known that he would pop up in my life when I was least expecting it, once I’d let my guard down.
And when I’m least expecting it is when I’m hopping on the highway to get to the hardware store on the other side of town, and there he is, standing on the side of the road with a garbage bag and a trash poker.
I think about stopping. I think about pulling over right now and telling him that he’s the thing I’m most ashamed of in my life. I think about pulling over and telling him to grow up. To grow up so that I can figure out what the hell
I want to do with my life without taking his needs into account. I want to tell him that he should have stood up to my mother all those years ago, stuck around, let me be my own person, so that I don’t have to feel like a piece of shit now for wanting to do what I want.
I keep driving. Because I would never say those things to him, no matter how pissed off I was.
But then a little thought starts to wriggle its way into my brain.
I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to need something like alcohol to keep my mind off my dissatisfying life. I don’t want to be hopeless and directionless and a complete waste of space.
And maybe that’s why Mom is right. Maybe the key to never becoming Dad is going to college, even if it’s right here in Missouri, where I would never really be able to escape the things that have been keeping me here all this time.
Maybe I should apply to MBU and just be done with it.
Maybe Amy would look at me differently if I was a college guy. Maybe she would look at me the way she looks at her ex.
Maybe she would love me if I had any clue what I was doing.
AMY
ON FRIDAY NIGHT, I stand in front of my mirror and stare. I’ve been doing this for the last half hour, trying to decide if this is really what I want to do. Do I want to spend my Friday night at a basketball game in hopes that I might see Jackson there? Do I really want to waste prime studying hours?
All I can think about is the way he looked at me across the table when he bought that gram, the way that being close to him still sends butterflies alive in my stomach, like I’m living in my own personal fairy tale. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
I can’t get valedictorian with Petra around, and I can’t make Stanford accept me.
But I can get Jackson back.
I’ve forgiven him for being an asshole at his birthday party, and I can’t stop thinking about what he wrote on that Valentine-gram, can’t stop thinking about how both of the grams are now in one of my drawers, constantly reminding me every time I open it just how much I miss him.
I don’t understand the majority of the rules of basketball. I know that the players are trying to score a goal, that the goals are worth two points, and that traveling is a call the referees make, but I don’t actually know what traveling is. Also, I know that Jackson would play basketball if he was any good at it, but he’s really only good at track.
Half an hour later, I’m standing beside the bleachers, still invisible to everyone in the gym, deciding whether I can do this or not.
I take a step toward the court and peek over the bottom of the bleachers. I see Jackson immediately. He has on his pilot jacket, with the wool collar, and he looks amazing. And he’s all alone.
I take a deep breath. If I’m going to do this, if I’m really going to make a play for Jackson, at least one more, I need to do it now, before I lose my nerve. I step around the side of the bleachers just as our team scores a goal, and the crowd erupts. I watch Jackson jump to his feet, clapping loudly and then cupping his hands around his mouth to yell, “That’s it, Number Twenty-Three!”
I guess that means Bryce just scored.
When Jackson settles back down on the bleachers, his eyes scan the sidelines, almost like he’s looking for someone, and they land on me. For a second, it’s almost like he doesn’t recognize me, like I’m someone who’s been gone and now looks like a completely different person, even though we saw each other in first period this morning.
And then, surprisingly, he waves me over, and I have a flash of the week before we started dating. I had walked into our history class, looking for a place to sit since my normal seat was taken, and he did the same thing, waving me over, accepting me when it seemed like maybe no one else could even see me.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, sliding onto the bleacher beside him. He usually has an entourage at these things.
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Tony’s parents are out of town and his brother is in town from Berkeley. He offered to buy beer, so people are kind of having a party at his place.” Jackson leans toward me a little but keeps his eyes on the court, and I don’t know if he wants to be closer to me or he’s just trying to see around the cheering father sitting in front of us. He smells like Old Spice and dryer sheets. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he says when the court goes quiet, and a foul is called. “You hate basketball.”
“I don’t hate basketball,” I lie. “I just don’t understand the appeal of it.”
In the eleven months that we were together, Jackson never attempted to explain the rules of basketball to me, and he doesn’t try now. “God, it’s cold,” I say. My fingers are going numb. I flex them to get the blood pumping, but they’re still cold as ice. The gym has always been a little drafty, and it’s snowing outside.
“Here,” Jackson says, and before I really know what’s happening, he’s cupped my fingers between his hands and has his mouth pressed to them, blowing warm breath onto them in puffs. I watch him blow and then rub his hands together around mine. He used to do this for me all the time, when we were lying in bed together and my fingers had gone cold.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, because it feels like speaking too loud will ruin everything.
He stops, lets his hands drop and mine stay suspended between us. “I don’t know,” he says. “Habit.”
That’s what happens when you do the same thing with someone for almost a year. You form habits. We stare at each other, and I get this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because this is how it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be Jackson and me, together. I can feel it, and I know he can, too.
“I’m going to the concession stand,” I say, hopping up. Part of me hopes that he’ll offer to come with me. I imagine us walking along the sidelines, out to the lobby where the Booster Club sells candy and drinks, confessing to one another all the emotions that still exist between us. But he doesn’t. He goes back to watching the basketball game, and I walk to the concession stand alone, tucking my jacket around me. It’s a little too big for me. It fit last winter.
I stand in line behind a group of rowdy girls, keeping my eyes straight ahead and trying to decide what I want.
“Can I have a hot chocolate and a bag of M&M’s please?” I say to the basketball mom as soon as I get to the front of the line. I want to hurry up and get back to Jackson, but the cold is killing me, and some hot chocolate will definitely warm me up. She sets the cup and the bag in front of me and smiles. I reach into my jeans and fish out the money to pay and then take my hot chocolate and M&M’s. The candy is for Jackson. His favorite.
I try to move quickly while also trying to keep my hot chocolate from sloshing out onto my hands. Unfortunately, I’m so focused on my hot chocolate that I don’t realize Jackson isn’t alone until I’ve made it up the stairs to our spot on the bleachers, until I’m standing in front of him, the M&Ms outstretched.
I freeze. Jackson and some girl are both looking down at the candy in my hand, and then they both look up at me. My brain takes in details it refuses to process: Jackson’s jacket draped across the girl’s shoulders, their fingers entwined on Jackson’s thigh.
And then it hits me like a truck.
The girl’s face is completely blank. She obviously has no clue who I am. But Jackson’s face has an emotion written all over it: shame.
I’m still just standing there, blocking the people on the rows behind us, my hand wrapped around the bag of candy until finally, I let it fall to the bleachers with a thunk. And even though it doesn’t make any sense, it feels like being broken up with all over again. Even though nothing really happened, my mind keeps playing back the moment that Jackson held my hands against his mouth.
And then my hot chocolate goes the way of the candy, splattering liquid all over me and Jackson and the guy in the row in front of us before I turn and rush down the stairs, back to the floor.
“Amy!”
I’m already halfway through the lobby. I can’t stop. Wh
at happened to my perfectly crafted life? What happened to my plan for my senior year? What did I do to deserve this?
“Amy, please!”
I finally get to my car, but when I have to stop to fumble with my keys, Jackson catches up with me. “Amy, don’t go.”
I throw my car door open with so much force that it bounces on the hinges and slams shut again. “Don’t go? Are you kidding? And what should I do instead? Stay here so I can watch you snuggle with your new girlfriend?”
His eyes move down to my pants, where hot chocolate spans from my knees to my shoelaces. “Can’t we just be friends?”
I grind my teeth together and throw open my car door again. “I don’t have time for friends.”
OLIVER
I FIND DAD passed out in a stone courtyard, between two tall business parks, at three in the morning. There are two benches in the center of the courtyard, facing each other, and my father is stretched out on one of them. His cell phone lies on the concrete beside the bench. He must have dropped it after he called me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Why should my father give up drinking just because some judge told him to? Why should picking up trash on the side of the highway have any kind of permanent effect on him whatsoever? Why did I think he would ever have a real reason to give it all up?
I press a hand to his chest. It rises and falls slowly, so I take a seat on the other bench. It’s cold, the way only three in the morning can be cold, but oddly, it feels nice. I suck in a breath, my lungs burning against it.
This late at night, it feels like the world is moving in slow motion, or the gravity of the Earth has shifted, and you could float away into the atmosphere if you just spoke loud enough.
My eyes travel through the courtyard, painted orange and yellow in the lights from the buildings around us, finally falling on a strange metal sculpture right in the center. It’s long and metallic, a series of flat pieces of metal that curve around each other, one on top of the other, like nesting dolls. I step up to it, touching my fingers to the metal, the cold almost painful against my skin.
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