I slap it away.
It doesn’t feel like my hand, but now there’s a slight stinging in the center of my palm where it connected, and in the seconds that it takes for the card to cartwheel through the air, I hear her gasp like it’s her face that I’ve slapped. The card clatters as it hits the cement, the sound echoing like applause. Or gunfire.
I can’t look at her in the silence that follows. I stare at the card, lying facedown beneath the tailpipe of a minivan. We’re finished. I turn away. Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run, my brain tells my body, and my body obeys even though walking hurts. Still, I force myself to the stairwell, one deliberate step away from her at a time, and when the door clicks shut behind me and I’m finally free to run up to Mo without looking like a baby, I don’t. The adrenaline is gone. I do exactly what my mother thinks I’m going to do. I stumble forward and sink.
Chapter 24
Mo
I stumble backward and sink.
It’s pretty lame. I always thought I’d be able to take a punch to the face like a man. Sure, it would hurt, but there would be that wholesome, ringing crack that you hear on TV, and of course I would see it coming, brace for it, and not drop like a ten-year-old girl.
But I don’t see it coming.
I thought if I was going to get punched in the face, it was going to be by Mr. Bernier, which is why I’m in a constant state of cringing when I so much as think his name. But we haven’t seen either of Annie’s parents since she spiked her mom’s credit card across the parking lot two weeks ago. It never occurred to me I would take my first honest, closed-fisted punch to the jaw from my friend, which is why I’m not bracing when I open the door and see Bryce.
“Hey, loser! I thought you weren’t back till next week!” I say, and that’s the last thing to leave my mouth before Bryce’s fist smashes into it. Pain explodes through my face, shooting up into my brain and down my neck, followed by the sensation of flying in reverse, like I’ve got a rubber band attached to my neck and I’m being snapped backward. And there’s a lot of noise—a high-pitched screaming like a train whistle—but I can’t tell where it’s coming from, and it stops when I hit the open door behind me and slide to the ground. Colors go streaky. Rainbow Twizzlers fading into dust . . .
“One girl!” he shouts, but he’s blurry and his voice is fizzy and my face hurts so badly I’m afraid to touch it or to move. “My whole life, I’ve been in love with one girl!”
He’s leaning over me now, but I’m spinning too fast to be thinking defensively. I close my eyes. No good, still spinning. And the jaw ache is radiating into my skull now.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he yells. “I would do anything for you! And you know what? If you’d have told me, I probably would have been okay with it. At least I would’ve tried. But you . . . How long have you . . . ?”
He can’t even finish it. And I can’t answer, not just because I don’t have any control over my jaw, or because my thoughts feel like they’re vibrating and are no longer in a language I speak, but because there is no allowable answer. I close my eyes and shake my head. I don’t want to look at his face anymore.
“How long?”
Guilt and vertigo swirl in my gut, pushing puke up into the back of my throat, but I swallow. It burns all the way down.
“Never mind,” he mutters.
I keep my eyes shut and listen as his footsteps retreat. Then nothing. I wish I could pass out for some temporary relief. Aren’t you supposed to get some unconscious recovery time when you get hit that hard? But no, I have to be wide awake to wallow in pain and guilt.
I was going to tell him. I was. But I didn’t think he was going to be back until next week, and I had no clue he’d take it so hard. Except now, even through muddy, concussive thoughts, it seems clear that he would. He’s always loved Annie—how did I forget that complicating and inconvenient piece of information? And unlike everyone else in E-town, he’s always believed we were just friends, because he was my friend, and friends believe each other.
I open my eyes to verify that yes, the entire world is still on Tilt-A-Whirl setting. Everything’s twisting together. I was lying to him or I am lying to him. It can only be one. I’m pretty sure it’s am, and it kind of makes me disgusted with myself and helpless at the same time. I stand up slowly, bracing my hand against the door. It takes a moment to make sure I’m steady, but when I’m sure, I make my way to the bathroom to inspect the damage.
My cheek is that vibrant pink of raw tuna. I touch it gingerly and then say every expletive I know to combat the pain.
“Mo?” I hear Annie’s voice call. “Where are you? Did you know the front door is wide open?”
Annie. Job interview. Good, I still know basics. “Yeah. Or no. I forgot to close it.”
“Do you want to hear how my inter . . .”
I glance at her reflection, then back at my own. I don’t know who looks scarier. Her eyes are actually trying to exit her cranium.
“What happened?”
Thank goodness she’s whispering. “Um, Bryce stopped by. These are his warm wishes to us for a lifetime of happiness together.”
“No.”
“Actually yes.”
“He did that to you?” She reaches out and, before I can stop her, puts her fingers on my cheek.
“Aaaaaah,” I roar, and she jumps back.
“I’m so sorry!”
“Why would you try to touch it?” I ask, like I didn’t just do the same thing.
“I’m so sorry! Why haven’t you put any ice on it?”
“Because I pulled myself up off the floor and walked in here about five seconds before you got here.”
“Did you pass out, or did I just miss him?”
“I don’t think I passed out,” I say, trying to remember my thought train. “But I don’t remember what I thought about after the stars and before the spinning things.”
“Here, come with me,” she says, and pulls me by both arms to the couch. “Sit.”
I try easing myself down, but my legs give out once I’m about halfway, and I fall back into the couch. I’m probably not ever getting out, and I don’t care. Annie’s back with Advil, chocolate milk, a wet washcloth, and a Ziploc bag of ice.
“Take the Advil, then tip your head back,” she says. I obey. She wraps the washcloth around the bag and brings it close to my face. “And no screaming.”
“I didn’t scream,” I say, grimacing as the ice makes contact with my throbbing face. “I shouted and it was manly.”
She doesn’t correct me. She holds the ice with one hand and the back of my neck with the other. “You could have a concussion. How would I check for that, by the way? Maybe we should go to the ER.”
“I don’t need to go to the ER. And I think you’re supposed to ask me questions to see how confused I am.”
“Like what’s your name?”
“Mo. But I think trickier questions, like who’s the vice president.”
She pauses, then mutters, “So now I’m the one with the concussion?”
“I don’t think I have a concussion. I think this is just how you feel when you get punched by one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle and anger. At least I know how that idiot from Taylorsville felt now.”
“Which idiot from Taylorsville?”
“The one who called me a towelhead last year. Bryce punched him in the face.” I try to smile at the memory, but that proves to be a painful error. And thinking about Bryce sticking up for me tightens the guilty knot in my stomach.
We sit in silence for a minute before she asks, “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Yeah. He punched me.”
“I got that part. Anything else?”
“He feels bad.”
“You don’t say. He’s been trying to get me to go out with him for five years. I didn’t realize you hadn’t told him yet.”
“I was going to email him, but I thought it’d be better in person, and I thought he w
asn’t coming back until next week.”
“So what, he found out on Facebook?”
I shrug. I hadn’t thought of it, but there hadn’t been much post-punch thinking time. Facebook was a likely source.
I think of his face hovering over me. His eyes. It wasn’t just rage. Even with the swirling, I could see confusion. “Maybe we could tell him the truth.”
Annie’s grip tightens on the back of my neck and she takes the ice away. “What?”
“At least then he’ll understand and he won’t have to hate us.”
“What are you talking about? I lied to everybody. My family isn’t even speaking to me! You can’t decide to tell people because you don’t like getting punched!”
“That has nothing to do with it. Although, wow. Getting punched. Who knew?”
“I’m not kidding around, Mo!”
“Neither am I. You know he’s always had a thing for you. Now he thinks I stood by and watched him make an idiot of himself and that something’s been going on with us for years.”
“So. The hell. What?” There’s more than a hint of panic in her voice. “And what about what Sam said? If we get caught, you’d get deported and I’d go to jail!”
“She said jail time pretty much never happens. You’d get a fine, but it’s not like Bryce would tell anyone.”
“Bryce is never going to know!” At some point during the conversation she got up into my face, and now she’s so close I can see the hair inside her nostrils. It’s weird. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before.
“You’re scaring me,” I say.
“Good.” She sits back on her heels and shakes her head at me. “Because I will do something so evil to you in your sleep if you tell Bryce or anyone. You can’t even imagine it.”
“I was just assaulted by a primate with a fist the size of a cantaloupe.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re saying I’m not as scary as Bryce’s fist?”
“I’m saying I’ve never been more terrified of anything in my whole life than of you at this moment. How’d the job interview go?”
She brings the ice back to my jaw. “Welcome to Myrna’s Country Craft, how can I help you?”
I grin and pain shoots into my cranium. “Congrats. You know what this means?”
“Employee discount.”
“It means I have a sugar momma. Hey, and you’re older than me too. How’s it feel being a cougar?”
“Not bad. How does it feel being a punching bag?”
“Not good.”
“Hey, if I’m your sugar momma, I get to revise the job chart. Here, hold this.” She takes my hand and puts it over the ice.
I don’t argue as she reassigns chores. I’m too sore, too grateful. At first, anyway. “Wait, I have to do the toilet and the dishes? Seems like it should be one or the other.”
“When’s the last time you did any cooking?”
“Good point.”
She turns on the TV. “How about you just watch basketball and agree to do whatever I tell you to do.”
“You’re mean. But okay. Wait, can the new order begin tomorrow, once I can feel my face again?”
“Fine.”
I spend the rest of the day acting like a baby and Annie spends the rest of the day treating me like one. It’s kind of awesome.
* * *
In a lot of ways, living with Annie is like living with Sarina. A girl is a girl. There are boxes of feminine hygiene products under my sink that I absolutely will not touch or even stare directly at, just in case I accidentally internalize information that makes me want to vomit and/or kill myself. And there are ridiculously long showers, but I can handle it. Besides, the bathroom smells like berries and vanilla after she leaves wrapped in about five towels, so what do I care? And there’s a row of bath products in the shower for practically every body part. Seems excessive. But apparently she needs a different bottle of soap or gel or foam or whatever for heels, forehead, and stomach.
Annie’s stomach. It’s kind of an interesting idea.
It’s not like I’ve never pictured her naked before—just nothing more than your typical I wonder what she actually looks like without her clothes curiosity. Except living in the same house, waiting for my turn in the shower with her all of ten feet away, naked and dripping wet, I find my mind wandering around a little more. That’s probably not abnormal though, what with the proximity thing messing with my brain. I don’t think it is.
I need school to start up again so I can go back to imaginatively admiring Maya. That’s an idea I can wrap my mind around. If I was at basketball camp right now, I’d at least have something real to focus on. Summer, however, is another six weeks of SAT prep (Study like it’s your full-time job, according to Dad), so I will continue trying to avoid making up analogies like Maya is to grapefruits, what Annie is to: a. mandarin oranges b. lemons c. key limes d. NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS, MO.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Huh?” My head jerks up. Annie’s digging through the key jar.
“What are you thinking about? You look like your brain is hurting.”
I point to the Kaplan text, which isn’t even open.
“That makes sense then. I’m going to work, and I’m stopping by the grocery store on the way home. Any requests?”
“No.” I stretch my arms above my head. Unless Kroger is selling sanity, I can’t be helped. “Wait, can you get more of those chicken nuggets in the shapes of dinosaurs?”
“Dino-Nuggets? You know they taste the same as the regular-shaped ones, right?”
“Supposedly.” Should I bother explaining? I used to tease Sarina about begging Mom to buy them, and now they remind me of her. Annie would understand, but I’m still too weirded out by my own weird thoughts and just want her to leave.
“Oh, and don’t forget we’re doing bridal portraits tonight,” she adds.
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “We talked about this after Sam called the other day. That girl I told you about at work, Kristen, is bringing her dress for me to borrow. I told her my cousin is getting married and I want to show my mom the beading to see if she can do it, but I have to take it back to her tomorrow.”
“Holy elaborate lie,” I say.
“I know, but it’s not easy to steal someone’s wedding dress for a day when you’re already married.”
“And bridal portraits?” I know enough to know I shouldn’t admit to only vaguely recalling the conversation with the ever-demanding Sam about them. She brings out the “tune out” side of me. But I’m remembering now. We need pictures for our interview. That’s right. “Wait, why are we taking wedding pictures when our official story is we eloped?”
She sighs. “Not wedding pictures. Bridal portraits. It’s not like we’re hiring fake guests or anything. We’ll just go outside and use the timer to take a few shots. Sam said it would be smart to have something sentimental that makes us look like we’re actually happy to be married, you know, since we didn’t have a big wedding. Even elopers might do that. Elopers—is that a word?”
“Yeah. But the whole concept seems lame. Wedding glamour shots? Really? People do that?”
“Of course people do that. And Sam said good pictures go a long way in showing a couple is really in love.”
“And if Sam told us to jump off a bridge, would we be doing that too?”
“Yes. Now stop fighting it. We’re doing the pictures.”
“Fine. But I’m not taking my clothes off for the camera. Not ever again. I said no, and no means no, Annie, so stop pressuring me.”
She grins. For such a scrawny girl, she has nice full lips. They’re pink even first thing in the morning before she’s put makeup on. Probably soft too.
Annie shakes the keys in front of my eyes. “Earth to Mo.”
“Maybe I’m having a delayed-onset concussion.”
“The hit was almost two weeks ago. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that’s not medically possible.”
She leans over and gently puts four fingertips on my lightly bruised face. I don’t know why she has to always go touching it. I can smell her deodorant. Linen fresh, according to the stick in the bathroom, but it smells more like flowers. I don’t even know what linen would smell like. “I think you must be a slow healer,” she says, still touching me. “But I like the yellow. It’s not as scary as the blue and purple and green were.”
“Glad my rainbow of pain is making you happy.”
She steps back. “No offense, but you should take a nap or something. Maybe go for a walk before the apartment fever sets in and you start talking to Duchess again.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’ve got to go,” she says, picking the keys back up. “Keep it real.”
Keep it real, keep it real, keep it real. My mind turns the words over on themselves, linking ends to beginnings, like Satan’s Cat chasing its tail. Keep it real, Mo, even though it’s NOT real, because we’re best friends and this whole thing blows up if you get confused with a real feeling. Because this is not real. But keep it real.
Thanks a lot, Annie.
Chapter 25
Annie
That’s not real.”
I close my eyes. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Instead, like an idiot, I just stand there clutching a box of frozen Dino-Nuggets, my entire body chilled and goose-pimpled from his deep voice and the freezer.
“Not real food, I mean. They use the parts of the chicken you don’t want to eat, grind it up, add some filler, and freeze it for years. By the time it gets to your oven, it’s more freezer burn than chicken.”
“Microwave,” I say, and finally turn around. “These are going in my microwave.”
He looks good in the worst way, muscly and tan, and his hair is a little wet like he just showered, but I’m not going to stare at him. I slide the box into my basket and wait for him to say something so I’ll know how this is going to go. Angry, awkward, or fake-fine—those seem like the most likely options, but it’s definitely his choice, given the way things ended. The polite smile I hadn’t even realized I was giving him is starting to hurt, so I let it fade. I have no business smiling at him anyway. I’m the lying, cheating ho of an ex-barely-girlfriend.
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