“We’re not here for a movement,” Tess says calmly. She probably thinks my hands are shaking because I’m angry at Erica. She squeezes tight. “We’re here for Maya. And Maya wouldn’t lie about this.”
Tess says it as though she knows Maya a lot better than she actually does. But it’s enough to shut Erica up.
Someone else says, “Maybe we should let the administration deal with this, not the students?”
Tess says exactly what I’m thinking: “If that’s how you feel, then why did you bother coming to this meeting?”
My dad taught me not to let these kinds of meetings get contentious, so I break in. “Did you guys hear what happened over at Highlands High?” Only a few people nod, so I explain, “A sophomore accused her boyfriend of sexual assault.”
I pause like I practiced, letting my words sink in. “But she didn’t have any proof, so the administration didn’t do anything. Eventually, the girl changed schools to get away from him.” I look around gauging the levels of disgust on the faces around me. A few of my classmates are holding their hands over their mouths, and I notice one girl blink back tears. Dad would say I’m doing a good job—he always said it’s key to get your audience emotionally invested. “We can’t let that happen at our school.”
“But Highlands couldn’t do anything,” Erica interjects. “I mean without proof, it’s her word against his, right?”
“Legally, that’s true,” I agree. “But this isn’t a legal issue. According to the code of conduct, North Bay can suspend or expel a student at its discretion for violations. If this were a legal case, Maya would’ve gone to the police, but she didn’t. She went to our principal. At our school.” I say it as if I know why she chose to go to Principal Scott instead of anyone else. As if she confided in me.
“So, what do we do?” someone calls out.
“We need to make an impact,” I say. “I think a protest, showing our solidarity, could be really effective. But we have to pick the right moment. We need all eyes on us.”
Tess speaks up. “The track meet,” she says. “On Sunday.”
I look down at my ex in disbelief. The meet on Sunday isn’t a championship meet, but it may as well be. It’s against our rival school, East Prep. They crushed us last year—Mike was out with an injury, Tess hadn’t yet started attending our school—but between Tess on the girls’ team and Mike on the boys’, we’re favored to win this year.
“What do you mean?” I ask softly.
“We’ll walk off. The girls’ team. We’ll refuse to run. And the rest of us”—she gestures at the students around us—“can march onto the track. It’ll keep the races from even starting. We’ll hold up signs and demand justice. We’ll block the track. We won’t let Mike run.”
Tess drops my hand and folds her arms across her chest like it’s settled.
“What if the rest of the team doesn’t agree to it?” I ask softly. Only a couple of Tess’s teammates are here today.
“I’ll talk to them.” She makes it sound simple.
“But you might have to forfeit the match.”
Tess’s dark eyes look fiery when she says, “This is more important.”
I look back at the crowd, my heart beating fast. For a few seconds there, I managed to forget that everyone was watching us. “Okay,” I shout. “So now we have a time and place. Let’s get organized.”
I jump down off my chair and start splitting the group up into teams. The most important thing is to spread the word, get more people on our side. We agree to wear pink. We agree on a few phrases for our signs. We agree to arrive an hour before the races are set to start. We promise up and down to keep our plans quiet because we’ll make a bigger impact with the element of surprise.
At the end of the meeting, I pull Tess aside. Her wrists are so thin, I can wrap my fingers all the way around them, just like the bracelet Mike gave to Maya.
“Thanks,” I say. “That was a great idea—the track meet, I mean.”
Tess shrugs. “Organizing a protest in the first place was a great idea.”
I’ll never tell Tess how much time I spent rehearsing. I need her—and everyone else—to believe I’m good at this, that it comes naturally to me. Dad says activism is in my blood.
Tess dips her head, curling her shoulders so she’s closer to my level. She lowers her voice. “I know you didn’t want to say anything in front of everyone, but how is she?”
I pause. “I mean, how well can she be doing?” It’s an honest answer. I haven’t seen her since lunch yesterday.
“Well, hopefully this will help.”
I nod. Tess would never guess that Maya doesn’t know I’m planning the protest. “I hope it’ll help too.”
Tess kisses my cheek before she leaves. Her scent is familiar against my skin. I wish I could kiss her back, but then she might guess that I want her back, and cool girls don’t want the girls who dumped them to take them back, even if it was all a misunderstanding. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans as I watch her walk away.
Ten
The Best Friend
I need to talk to you.
Delete.
Do you have a few minutes to chat?
Delete.
Remember I mentioned that rally?
Delete.
Are you okay?
Delete.
Tess dumped me.
Delete.
How can I tell if Tess wants to get back together?
Delete.
I don’t know what to say. I never know what to say when things are tough or serious—like last year, when one of our classmates passed away from cystic fibrosis and our whole grade went to the funeral. After the service, everyone lined up to say something to Sophie Lowry’s parents. I watched while everyone I knew hugged them, said how sorry they were, told an anecdote about Sophie. When it was my turn, I just sort of nodded. I’d never met them before. They didn’t even know my name.
Beside me, Maya enveloped Sophie’s mother in a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Sophie was such a special girl.” Mrs. Lowry’s eyes filled with tears, and her father patted Maya’s shoulder and said, “Thank you.”
Later, I asked Maya why she said that. We’d barely ever talked to Sophie, let alone known her well enough to know she was special.
“That’s just the right thing to say at a time like this, you know?”
I nodded, but I didn’t know.
Maya knows. She’s the kind of person that people always like: well-dressed, poised, pretty, smiling, smart, funny. Popularity comes easily to her; she doesn’t have to work for it, it’s simply who she is.
And now, when Maya’s got real problems, problems I should be helping her through, all I want is to tell her about Tess because she would know exactly what to say to make me feel better.
I look at my phone like I expect a text message from her to pop up like magic:
You’re better off without her.
Her loss.
That kiss on the cheek was definitely code for: Take me back, please!
But of course, my screen remains blank.
Besides, Maya wouldn’t say any of those things. She’d say something else, something perfect, something I could never think of myself.
Dr. Kreiter says when I get into a negative loop like this, I should make a list of all the reasons why my thoughts aren’t true. She calls it a thought exercise. Like, I should tell myself that Maya wouldn’t be my best friend if she didn’t want to be. Or, that she’d forgive me if I said the wrong thing. But I think that’s a useless exercise because how can anyone ever know which thoughts are the true thoughts? Sure, Maya’s my best friend, so I could try to convince myself that she’d forgive me, but maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d see my text and roll her eyes and hate me. I already wonder sometimes if she ever really liked me. Maybe I just sort
of attached myself to her in sixth grade, and she was too nice to tell me to go away.
Maya’s the one who showed me that popular girls usually aren’t mean girls—cool girls can be mean girls, but that’s not the same thing as being popular. Popular girls are friends with everyone. I mean, that’s literally the definition of popular. The popularity x-factor is that you have to be so likeable that everyone wants to be friends with you, which describes Maya exactly.
I lie back on my bed and close my eyes. I can see Mike hitting her—his hand open as he brings it down hard, against her face. His mouth is twisted in an ugly grimace, his is brow furrowed with concentration the same way it is at the start of a race.
Over the past couple months, since I’ve been with Tess, I hardly missed a track practice and never missed a meet once the season started in March. I sat next to Maya, and we rooted for Tess and then for Mike. It was one of the only times I got to be alone with Maya since she and Mike got together, though I guess it wasn’t really alone since half the school came to the meets too. It’s not like we could’ve talked about anything.
I never liked watching Mike run. You know how they say that experts make hard things look easy? Well, Mike made running look hard.
Nothing like Tess. When she runs, it looks like she’s floating. She lands on the balls of her feet—not hard on her ankles like Mike—so that each step sort of flows into the next. I didn’t cheer when she ran like Maya did for Mike. Instead, I got quiet. Watching her made me feel so calm, every time. It was almost as good as cutting.
Maybe I can ask Tess to run circles around me during the protest. (Except watching her probably won’t be so soothing now that we’re broken up.) I look at our recent texts on my phone, rereading my attempts to sound relaxed and aloof, grateful that Tess couldn’t know how much time I spent staring at that little dot dot dot, wondering what she was writing back to me, how long I should wait before writing back to her, how carefully I considered each word before sending it.
I drop my phone on my bed like it’s hot. There’s nothing cool about texting the girl who just dumped you, no matter how much you want to. No matter how much time you spend crafting the perfect message in an effort to sound cool when you’re anything but.
And I shouldn’t be thinking about Tess anyway. I should be thinking about Maya.
I take a deep breath.
I open my eyes and grab my phone, type a message, and hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Thursday, April 13
Eleven
The Anxious Girl
For once, I get to school early. (Apparently I can overcome my OCD with the right motivation, this time at least.) The fog is low in the sky, and it’s so cold I can see my breath. I always check the weather on my phone before I leave the house in the morning, which is how I know that the temperature is below normal for this time of year and that even after the fog burns off later, it’s not going to get warmer than sixty degrees today. I ease my car into park and glance around. The lot is almost empty, but I park in the back like I usually do. There’s only one car parked even farther away from the school than mine. I drop my keys in my backpack and start walking toward it.
“Thanks for meeting me at this hour,” I begin, though I’m starting to worry this wasn’t such a good time to meet. Won’t people be more suspicious if they see me here so early? It would’ve been better to do it in the middle of the day, when I’d have a chance of getting lost in the crowd. Except that I always feel like everyone’s staring at me.
Hiram shrugs. “Happy to help.”
I think about Dr. Kreiter, asking me if I had anyone I could lean on for help when I was struggling. I don’t think this is what she had in mind.
Anyway, this is only temporary. I mean, between Tess and Maya and Mike and the protest, this is a seriously stressful week. If I told Dr. Kreiter that, she wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t believe I won’t need chemical help once this week is over. And all it takes is one slipup for me to fail the three-month plan.
I don’t ask (though I wonder) how Hiram knows what to give me. I don’t ask (though I wonder) where these pills came from. I don’t say (though I think it), how relieved I am that it turns out there’s no secret handshake, no special password. Last night, I got Hiram’s number from the student handbook and texted him like it was no big deal, like we talked all the time, like I was only asking him to return a textbook he borrowed. Hiram hands me a ziplock bag, a tiny row of pills across the bottom. “Take a blue one about twenty minutes before bedtime tonight,” he says.
“Well, thanks,” I say, putting the Ziploc into my bag and zipping it shut. “How much?”
Hiram shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Before I can argue, he asks, “How’s Maya?”
Hiram leans against his car, one foot propped up on the fender. There’s a familiarity in his tone, as though he’s not asking just because he wants the good gossip.
I’m so surprised that I answer almost honestly. (Total honesty would be admitting I’ve barely spoken to her since Monday.) “She’s okay, I guess.”
“I’m worried about her, you know.”
I shake my head because I didn’t know. “You hardly even know her.”
Hiram nods, looking at the ground. “Right,” he agrees, like it’s a fact he forgot. “I heard you were planning some kind of demonstration.”
Crap. What if Maya finds out before I get a chance to tell her myself? “It’s supposed to be a secret,” I explain, feeling (surprise, surprise), shaky all over again.
“How are you gonna get people to show up if it’s a secret?”
“I mean, the only people who are supposed to know are the people who are going to be there.”
Hiram nods. “Well,” he says, and I realize that he wants to join us. “How does Maya feel about it?” he asks suddenly.
“She thinks it’s great,” I lie. “I mean, of course she wants Mike expelled.”
“Does she?” I must look irritated because Hiram holds up his hands and explains, “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve to be expelled, I’m just saying I’m not sure that’s what she wants.”
How would Hiram know what Maya wants?
He continues, “It just seems like in spite of everything, she still really cares about that creep.”
I nod, thinking about our conversation in the library.
She didn’t exactly say yes when I asked her if she’d go.
If he gets expelled, then he definitely wouldn’t be eligible for the scholarship anymore.
I can’t remember now if her voice sounded hopeful or worried.
I thought it was hopeful.
Or maybe I just decided it was hopeful.
Maybe I should have made sure this was exactly what Maya wanted before I set things in motion. My heart starts to pound. To keep my hands from shaking, I grip my backpack tightly, picturing the plastic bag Hiram gave me rattling around inside.
I lean against Hiram’s car beside him. “It’s too late to stop it,” I say softly. “I mean, even you know about the protest.” I mean for it to be a joke, but it comes out cruel.
“Do you think she’ll go?”
Hiram is the only person who’s asked me that. Everyone else assumes she’ll be there.
“I don’t know,” I admit. I feel like crying. “I haven’t really talked to her about it.”
“You should.”
“I should,” I agree.
Friday, April 14
Twelve
The Activist
I didn’t hesitate before taking the blue pill last night. I took it twenty minutes before bed—just like Hiram suggested—and when I lay down and turned off the lights, for once I wasn’t reviewing every conversation I’d had that day, weighing every decision I made that might have been wrong. Instead, I fell asleep almost immediately. It was the first good night’s sleep
I’d had all week. And maybe for a long time before that too.
I take my morning dose (the daytime pills are red, it’s easy to tell one from the other) as soon as I wake up. I feel something kick in after breakfast when I’m in the shower—a slight buzz radiates through my body, then disappears, like I absorbed it. Hiram said these pills were first prescribed as diet pills but were taken off the market once doctors realized their side effects included “a false sense of well-being,” which raised concerns that it might be addictive. I wanted to ask how he had them, since they’d been taken off the market, but then I figured that wasn’t the kind of question you’re supposed to ask.
When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I can see that my pupils look bigger than usual, but I don’t think anyone will notice.
Wait. I don’t think anyone will notice? I always think everyone will notice.
And that’s not all. As I get dressed, I’m not wondering what Tess will be wearing if I see her in the halls today, not imagining the awkward conversation we might have, word for word, not trying to come up with things to say that could make it less awkward somehow.
And, I’m not dreading telling Maya about the protest. I’m not searching my vocabulary for the right words to say while all the wrong words go round and round in my head like my own private soundtrack. I don’t wonder which words will let her know that of course I understand if she doesn’t want to come, but really she should because it will add weight to our cause if she’s there. I’m not mentally rehearsing telling her that of course she doesn’t have to speak out, although it would be really impactful if she did, but if not, then that’s fine too. I literally don’t think about any of those words, don’t come up with a speech or a few phrases to memorize.
Instead, I simply know that I’ll tell her about the protest clearly and plainly whenever I get the chance to talk to her.
Just like that.
What Kind of Girl Page 11