On Wednesday, I pass her main locker, noticing the flowers were still there, dried and yellowed. Did she see them before she left? She would’ve taken them if she’d wanted them.
I have to hand it to her. She wasn’t bluffing. She hadn’t come back to school. She was serious.
I sit in calculus, our fifth-period class we share—or used to share—her desk to my left and at the very front still sitting empty. It’s nice not to have her here anymore. She always had to look so different. All that silver in her ears, glinting with the sunlight streaming through the windows, hugely distracting.
The slutwear, the short skirts and the fire engine red lipstick that no one understood the point of. I mean, was she trying to get the boys’ attention? Because she did, which seemed opposite of what you’d think she’d want.
Still, though. The lipstick really was perfect for her skin tone. The little braids peeking out of her ponytails looked like they grew that way, and it was hard not to look at her.
It was hard for anyone not to look at her.
I draw in a deep breath and exhale. The school is more peaceful now. I’m better. Clearer.
The shower comes back to me, and fuck, it felt good, but if anyone found out, I’d be ruined. My friends might understand, but their parents wouldn’t. My grandmother would send me to therapy, and my parents would break, thinking they’d failed after so much loss already.
“Yes,” I hear Ms. Kirkpatrick say. “Come in, come in.”
I look up, the rest of the students filling their seats as a young woman holds the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and hands the teacher her schedule.
She leads her to a seat—Liv’s empty desk—and smiles, handing her paper back to her.
“Class?” She says loudly. “This is Chloe Harper. She’s joining us from Austin.”
The girl turns her head, offering everyone a smile with her shade of pink gloss that could easily be mine. Her eyes land on me, and she hesitates on my gaze, nodding once in hello, a beautiful, small smile grazing her lips.
She turns back around, and I shake my head, looking away. That’s Liv’s seat. So quickly filled like she was never here at all, and sun streams through the windows, making the world bright and beautiful as if everyone has just moved on.
The talk has even started to die down. Most people have stopped mentioning her.
She’s not in the locker room. The weight room. The lunch room. Her desks don’t exist anymore. She was never here.
Classes end, and I head to practice, passing her locker and see something drawn on it in red nail polish. I stop, reading Dyke written vertically down the long locker.
And I straighten, glaring. Who did this? How dare they?
Even though I know I’m one of the culprits who’s been calling her that name for years.
People wrote things on Alli’s locker too, I’d heard. I’m sure it was hard to have someone be cruel—I can certainly dish it but can’t take it—but I finally realize it was probably more painful to see the taunts in full view of everyone who passed by. Hundreds of people are invited into your suffering.
I blink, charging off to the locker room to change into my gear. I throw on my clothes, grab my equipment, and head out to the field with my friends, needing to run to get rid of the urge to scrub the front of her locker with nail polish remover. The janitors will take care of it tonight.
My head overflows with lava, and it just keeps coming and coming, the fact that she’s not here. And she won’t be here tomorrow.
Krisjen takes up Liv’s place on the field, Amy and Ruby laughing and joking around, everyone carrying on their conversations like she’s not gone. Like she wasn’t important.
She’s smart. She works hard. She’s in that theater every night, without pay, no one more devoted to earning everything she deserves. She comes from nothing, works her ass off, is honest, and a good person. She’s the muscle on the team, and they’re all just acting like we actually have a shot without her. Like she isn’t irreplaceable.
But to them, she’s nothing. She’s just the dyke who once went here.
“Come on!” I yell when Krisjen misses the goal again.
“I can’t…” She gasps. “Clay, I can’t. It’s too fast.”
“Too fast?” I bark, getting in her face, the numbness of the last few days gone. “Are you kidding?”
Krisjen backs away from me, scared.
“Gibbon’s Cross is gonna be a lot harder on you. Stop pussing out!” I yell.
Everyone stops, sweat coating my back and no one’s fucking laughing now.
“I’m not losing the biggest game of my senior year because everyone wants to get lazy all of a sudden!”
The game is in two days, for Christ’s sake!
“Collins…” Coach warns.
But I throw down my stick and my eyewear, sprinkles of rain hitting my arms. “God, you guys suck!”
I stomp off toward the locker room. Coach grabs my arm, but I yank it away.
“Coach, it’s okay,” I hear Krisjen tell her as I keep walking. “We’ll go.”
I leave, heading for the locker room without looking up.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
I yank my locker door open, but I haven’t had enough, and I do it again and again, tears spilling down my face as I dig in my backpack for the pill bottle.
I fumble with the cap, finally giving up and resting my head on the locker next to mine, the cool metal feeling like heaven after the heat of the blood rushing under my skin.
“It’s fine,” I sob.
Someone comes up and hugs my back, and I crumble to the floor, Krisjen hanging on and falling with me.
“Clay, it’s okay,” she whispers, and I hear the tears in her throat. “I know you miss him. It’s okay. You can cry.”
Yeah.
Henry. Right.
I let her hold me, giving into it as Amy kneels down beside us, and probably only there because she thinks she should be, but I’ll take it, because the world feels empty enough. There’s nothing. I’m nothing.
I wish tomorrow would never come.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
She’s the one who loses. Not me. Everything is as it should be now.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Just leave her alone. Forget about her.
She’s gone.
“DID YOU THINK I wasn’t going to find out?”
I swallow the small bite of chili and tap the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot before setting it down. I look over at Macon’s hand, watching the screen of the phone that he holds in my face. The video of Megan and me plays, and Iron, Army, and Dallas crowd around him to see.
Aracely sits in the stool, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed, and very interested in what the guys are talking about, because she’s relishing it. She brought it to their attention, I’m sure.
I turn off the burner and grab a bowl for myself. “What were you going to do about it?”
It’s not like I was trying to hide it. I reposted it, didn’t I? I just didn’t make him aware of it. There’s a lot I don’t make him aware of.
“Is this why you left school?” Army chimes in.
“I’m still a student.”
I scoop up a bowlful and place the lid on the pot. Adding some oyster crackers, I pick a spoon out of the drawer and walk into the living room.
“You let them get away with everything,” Macon barks. “And now you let them drive you away.”
“Look what they did to the house,” Aracely chimes in, swinging her arm around as if I’ve yet to notice the destruction that took place when the Saints snuck in Saturday night. They all blame me, because I’d invited them over the tracks.
“Good thing it’s not your house,” I reply.
She casts a glare to Macon as if he’s going to make me respect her.
I sit down on the couch and prop my elbows on my knees as I lean over my bowl on the coffee table. “And I didn’t let
them get away with anything.” I look up at Macon. “I took away their entertainment. I won.”
“That’s not how they see it.”
He steps into the living room, approaching me, and I look away, scooping up some chili. So this is about his pride. Got it.
“We’re not letting it go this time,” Dallas tells me.
“And you’re going back to school,” Macon adds.
“Not likely.” I blow on my food.
Macon advances, tossing his phone to a chair on my right, but Trace inches in. “Just leave her alone.”
“You shut up,” Macon growls.
I put the spoon into my mouth, ignoring the fire in my brothers’ eyes. Except Trace’s, because he always takes my side, and Iron’s, because he doesn’t ever get mad at me.
Army picks up Macon’s phone again, studying the screen. “Is this that assistant coach?” he asks, peering over at me.
I eat another bite, everyone’s eyes and ears trained on me, and I’m so damn tired of putting out fires that I didn’t start. Damn her.
“Is it?” Macon asks when I don’t answer.
I shake my head, smashing the beans as I mix up the chili and crackers. “Don’t.”
“Livvy…”
“Just let me be!” I shout, glaring up at them. Jesus! This doesn’t have to be a family-fucking-meeting, Macon. I shoot daggers at him, tired of everyone on my back. Even at home, I’m not safe.
They have no idea what it’s been like for me. What every day is like for me in this town. I made a decision. Just support me. Please!
Macon blinks, hesitating. The last time I’d yelled at him I was ten, in tears, and thrashing. He’d hugged me until I couldn’t hurt myself anymore.
When he speaks, his tone is gentler. “You are the only one ever getting out of here,” he tells me. “Don’t you think I’ve always known that? You have three months left. If you let them win now, it will follow you forever.”
I scoop up more chili. “Clay Collins won’t feel like she’s won anything six months from now.”
“Clay Collins,” he says. “That’s who did this.”
He holds up his phone, smart enough to know someone had to take the video of the assistant coach and me.
I ignore the question. “I’m a fighter,” I inform him. “But that is something you never understood. Not everything is worth a fight. What do I care what they think about me in twenty years? I won’t be thinking about them at all.”
“Well, that’s just great,” he says, tossing his phone back down. “Because as usual, everything is all about you.”
“On the contrary, finally something is.” I stare hard at him. “I don’t have to stay in a community that hates me. I don’t have to put up with anything.”
“Then bite back!”
I shake my head. I bit back in that shower with her, and I loved seeing how much she wanted it. I loved it too much. That was the problem.
Biting back could hurt me more than her. I can’t.
So, fuck it. I’m out. I’m eighteen. I got into Dartmouth. All I have to do now is graduate high school, and it really doesn’t matter how or from where. If Marymount decided to send me packing when I withdrew this week, I could go to the public high school to finish my credits, and I’d still be going to Dartmouth in the fall. Living my life. Free. Happy. I win.
The doorbell rings, and I see Trace head for it as Macon and my gazes stay locked on each other. I eat another bite, finally looking away, rather than play his infantile game of “Who’s Going to Blink First?”
I know what he’s saying. And part of me agrees. Part of me is consumed by pride, and I hate that Clay Collins and her friends will get even a moment’s satisfaction by running me off, but it’s not my responsibility to educate them. It’s not my lot in life to survive them. Fuck them.
“What the hell?” I hear Trace gripe.
We all turn our heads as he opens the door wide, and I watch as Krisjen steps into the house, her lacrosse uniform on and her hair in French braids.
My brothers stare at her, knowing exactly who she is. Her grandfather is the judge Iron always gets every time he’s in trouble, and the judge who would just love to be there when my brother gets his third strike.
“Really brave or really stupid,” Trace says, sounding amused. He turns his head to me. “Any idea, Liv?”
“She’s not brave,” I tell him, scooping up more food and pinning Krisjen with a stare. “Or smart.”
Just stupid.
“You have twenty seconds,” I tell her.
She casts a nervous glance around the room, looking apprehensive to say whatever she has to say in front of my whole family, but whatever.
“The game is today,” she says.
“And?”
“The car is running.” She tips her chin up, bracing herself. “I have your uniform. Please.”
I laugh under my breath. “Get out.”
I take a bite, everyone else remaining silent.
But Krisjen doesn’t back down. “Gibbon’s Cross, Jaeger! I can’t beat them.”
“I’m no longer on the team.”
“You’re still a student,” she retorts. “You could be back on the team with the snap of a finger.”
I shake my head. “I said get out.”
“Just this game.” She moves in, hovering over me. “This is your team, too. You worked for months for this.”
And for what? I stir the food, refusing to look up. Gibbon’s Cross is the team to beat, and I wanted to be there, because winning would feel great, but I could only hold on for so long. Joining that team was never about lacrosse. It was me stupidly thinking that people would like me when they got to know me. I’d bond with the girls on the team. I’d be respected by classmates, being part of their world. The administration would value me and treat me as worthy of what I deserved if I was a team player in that one aspect.
And all I got was shit for my trouble. Let them learn the hard way how fucking valuable I am.
“Why should she lift a finger to help all of you?” Dallas says. “It’s not like you won’t go back to treating her like shit the moment you have the win off of her.”
“Fuck ’em.” Army folds his arms across his chest. “Let them lose.”
A car horn honks outside, and I don’t know if it’s her mom, or maybe it’s Clay, sending her in here to do her dirty work.
I meet Krisjen’s eyes. “Tell Clay she can go fuck herself.”
“Clay’s not even playing,” she tells me.
I stop and look up at her.
“She’s benched,” Krisjen goes on.
I drop my gaze, staring at my bowl, absently stirring as thoughts whirl in my head. Clay’s not playing. Will she even be there? What the hell happened?
I’ll admit, the prospect of not having to deal with her bullshit on the field is enticing. But if I play today, they’ll just try to coerce me into playing again, and eventually she will be back.
I’m done with Marymount.
Krisjen stands there waiting for me to say something, but when I don’t, she sighs and walks for the door, giving up.
“I’m sorry about it, you know?” She pauses with her hand on the knob. “There’s no excuse for our behavior.”
I drop my eyes to my bowl again, steeling my jaw.
“But there is a reason,” she says. “There is always a reason why people are the way they are. Even Clay.”
My throat tightens, and I listen as she opens the door, walks out, and closes it behind her.
“That took nerve.” I hear Army say.
“Or stupidity,” Dallas adds.
Maybe both. Or maybe it’s just humility. Krisjen is a follower, but I always knew she wouldn’t be the way she is without Clay and Amy and their pressure. She might be a nice person otherwise.
Iron speaks up. “I’m not playing nice if those little pricks cross the tracks again, Macon. Without Liv at Marymount anymore, there’s no reason for us to keep the peace.”
&
nbsp; “You’ll do and not do what I tell you to,” Macon fires back.
“Like Liv.” Trace laughs. “You get her to do what you want so well.”
“What…” Macon says. “I’m glad she refused her. I always hated that she was on that team anyway. It was a waste of time.”
Aracely laughs from her stool against the wall, I hear the engine outside rev, and I drop the spoon back into the bowl, clenching my fists.
Only one thing I want to piss off more than Clay Collins, and that’s the people who love me, relishing for me to fail. In four years, Macon has been to one of my games. One. At least I have no expectations of Clay. All he cares about is my future. Never my happiness. He never listens.
Pushing off the couch, I slip on my leather jacket, grab my keys and shoes, and slip my purse over my body.
“Liv!” Macon yells.
But I don’t look back. Racing out the front door, I see Krisjen’s mom’s Range Rover pulling down the dirt road, and I run after it, pounding on the rear window.
They stop, and I hear the door unlock.
I swing open the back door and climb in.
“I’ve got a spare toothbrush,” Krisjen says from the driver’s seat as she looks at me in her rearview mirror, smiling.
I sit down next to Ruby, Amy in the front passenger seat, and slam the door. “I’m not staying the night.”
Just for the game.
• • •
The stadium in Gibbon’s Cross is like walking into a lobster tank surrounded by butchers looking for the perfect specimen for tonight’s special. It’s small—smaller than ours—so no matter if it’s a football game or peewee soccer, the stands always seem filled with homefield advantage. Not a single empty spot on the bleachers remains, the benches overflowing with cheering parents and students, not because anyone here particularly gives a shit about girls’ lacrosse, but they do like to win against St. Carmen. Private schools brim with people used to getting what they want for a certain price, so when anything is left to chance, it’s stressful. And exciting. They show up for it.
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