Shift

by Ginger Scott

  “Yeah, of course. I think it’s in my car. I’ll bring it in tonight. It’s not due for a week yet,” I say, knowing full well that I plan to dodge her offer to buy my cap and gown and be my surrogate parent at some stupid ceremony on our football field later next month.

  She points at me, her nonverbal way of putting me to task. I nod and cross my heart. I’ve gotten used to lying to myself, but I don’t ever lie to Tommy’s mom. I figured I would be out of here by the time all that pomp and circumstance time came around. Now that I’m two grand short and possibly going out on my own, well, maybe a cap and gown isn’t the worst thing to indulge.

  I manage to slip out the door before Hannah does, so I nudge Tommy’s shoulder in the driveway.

  “Hey, can I get a ride with you? Supra’s got a funny sound. I don’t wanna mess with it, ya know?” It’s a lie, and I have an inkling that Tommy knows it is because he glances behind us to Hannah.

  “Yeah, sure,” he says, his tone clipped.

  I climb in the passenger side and scan the driveway in the mirror when I shut the door. Hannah pauses halfway between her car and mine as she realizes I’ve already gotten into her brother’s car, and my gut sours seeing the way her shoulders drop. Her eyes meet mine for a blip. We’re too far apart to really see her expression, but I swear to God I can read the hurt in her eyes.

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Tommy mumbles, climbing in and starting his engine. His lips are set in a smug line.

  “Exactly what are you talking about?” I ask but really, I know. He means drama between me and Hannah, him in the middle. Still, though, I’d like to hear him say the things I overheard last night. I’d appreciate getting the tough talk right to my face.

  Instead, Tommy shakes his head, pushing his sunglasses on as he cranks the wheel to back out of the driveway. He peels out, a little aggressive for him, and all I can do is chuckle. I should have gotten in the car with Hannah or offered her a ride in mine, pushed the doubts and worries out of my head.

  We get to school minutes before Hannah, who probably stopped to pick up Bailey. I’m sure she’s not in a hurry to see me now that I basically ran away. The front of the school is covered in balloons and posters about prom. As if the cap and gown speech wasn’t a reminder of how little I feel I fit in, this scene I’m walking into nails it. A girl squeals to my right, her boyfriend’s shoulder bumping into mine as he stands up from kneeling. Kneeling, for a prom ask. An ask for a girl he’s already dating. But everyone at this school is all about the show and the big gesture and standing out and getting attention, and prom is like one big attention celebration.

  I’m about to gripe about it to Tommy when I realize he’s disappeared about a dozen feet to my left and is pulling some bullshit rolled-up poster out of his backpack to show to some girl I swear he’s hooked up with twice and dumped as many times. She should slap him for assuming she’d go to prom with him, but no. She’s covering her mouth. And here come the fake tears. And . . . she’s hugging him.

  “Wow,” I mutter to myself.

  “You know, doing the in thing isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Hannah says at my shoulder. A shiver runs over my skin, wrapping around my neck and choking me a little. It’s a mixture of guilt and schoolboy delight. I turn to respond but she’s already moved on, up the steps to the main doors. Bailey glances at me over her shoulder, her eyes drooping with pity.

  I didn’t even get a chance to get myself out of the hole I made. Serves me right, I guess.

  My morning is a blur, and I’ve run my phone down fifty percent by obsessing over underground races north of the city that I might be able to get to in the next few weeks. I don’t like racing in the city. Empty streets are never truly abandoned, and it’s barely worth the gas it costs me to get there just to pull in a win or two. But I’m out serious cash now, and my shifts at the yard have basically dried up. People won’t be betting big at the Straights for the next few weeks, not after last weekend’s race. If I can find a race or two that have a little buzz, maybe I can turn them into something worth my time—and rubber.

  My attention is completely consumed with social media chatter when I feel the soft tickle of paper flutter across my arms. Mrs. Collins, my history teacher, taps the screen of my phone with her long, glossy, coffee-colored fingernail, and between the quick glance at the F on the paper she just dropped in my lap and the scowl waiting on her face when I look up, I’m feeling pretty screwed.

  “Sorry,” I say, leaning to one side to push my phone into my pocket. I pull my paper to the top of my desk and trace the bright red F with my finger. Why do they have to use such a glaring color? Couldn’t this information have been delivered by, say, faint pencil markings?

  “See me after class,” she says, pushing my paper down flat with the same shiny fingernail. Those suckers are like weapons, honestly. It doesn’t seem right that girls have to turn nail files in to the office because they could be used as knives but Wolverine claws are fine.

  I nod and sink back in my chair. I don’t even remember taking this test. It’s my handwriting, though, so I must have. I read over the first few answers and my lip ticks up, amused. I’m a dumbass, sure, but I’m a funny one.

  The question: What ended in 1933.

  My answer: 1932.

  I fold the test in half and flatten my palms on top while I fake engage with the last few minutes of class. My eyes are on my teacher’s face, and I think there’s a hint of a smile on my lips, but I don’t hear a word. I’m calculating how quickly I can get to south Phoenix and back on Friday before the Straights, maybe squeeze in two races and make a little headway toward earning back my cash.

  The bell dings and the entire classroom erupts with shuffling papers, feet, and backpacks. Zippers go one way then back as serious students take their tests home to study for the final. I’ll be lucky to find mine an hour from now.

  I lean forward in my desk, pulling my feet under as I fidget with the folded edges of my test. My heart is pounding, which is such a foreign sensation. I’m not the kind of guy who gets nervous, but something about school zeroes in on all my insecurities. Years of missed parent-teacher conferences, detentions and threats of expulsion for fighting, or worse—home visits. When it comes to life, I feel prepared, probably more than most. I know how to handle myself in the real world. I’m ready for all things cruel and unfair. But at school, in situations that are academic, I have always felt stupid. The heat from everyone’s eyes on me when Mrs. Collins asked to talk to me after class still burns hot at my neck even though everyone’s gone. I brace myself for the worst as Mrs. Collins turns the desk in front of me around and takes a seat.

  “Dustin, I’m not going to dance around this topic. You’re not going to pass this class. You won’t graduate with the rest of your class. It’s a mathematical impossibility.” She actually looks sympathetic, which helps tamp down my instinct to become defensive.

  “Oh,” I say instead. The word comes out quiet and I study the blank side of my test as I spin it on my desk in slow circles.

  I glance up with an arched brow.

  “Are there, like, retakes or something?” I lift a shoulder and am encouraged by her soft smile, but I can tell by the way her eyes still and hold their lock on mine that there aren’t.

  “There’s summer school, and with just one class, you could have your credit done in four weeks. If we get you enrolled, maybe I can talk to the principal about letting you walk the graduation line with your friends. You won’t get an actual diploma, though.”

  I chuckle at the thought.

  “So, like, what? I’ll get a prop?” I imagine a blank piece of construction paper with a gold ribbon tied around the middle.

  “Something like that,” she says, flattening my amusement with the hard truth. Yeah, I’ll get a fake diploma. I fucked up getting the real one. Tommy and Hannah’s mom’s conversation with me this morning replays through my head, and my thoughts bounce between breaking her heart, and how very litt
le a high school diploma really means to me.

  “What if . . .” I suck in my lips as I hold in my thought. My eyes blink rapidly, eventually opening on Mrs. Collins’. Her hands are clasped together on the desk, and if I hold my breath, I swear I can hear the tick of the second hand on her gold watch. I wonder how much that thing is worth.

  “What if I just didn’t finish. Like, I end up one credit short, and maybe later I finish or get a GED or something? Is that an option?”

  Her mouth falls at the corners and her eyes become flat with disappointment.

  “Dropping out is always an option, but I think it’s a coward’s way out.”

  Wow. She’s not exactly warm and fuzzy. Kinda makes me respect her a little more. I don’t know much about Mrs. Collins, or any of the teachers at this school. She lives in town, though. She knows about life here, she knows my story, and she has spent a few years at the very least in this environment.

  “I understand,” I say, and she breathes out a sigh as her shoulders relax. She thinks she’s gotten through to me, and I feel bad because she has, but not in the way she thinks.

  “It’s just, I’m not going to college. My skill set isn’t something that comes from schooling, and four weeks of my summer is four more weeks in a place that has done nothing for me since the day I was born. I don’t think it’s for me, is all. No offense.”

  I step up from my desk and tuck my test in the small hole in the top of my backpack. It’s the last I’ll see of it. I sling a strap over my right shoulder and hold out my hand to thank Mrs. Collins for at least caring enough to talk to me in private. Most teachers would have embarrassed me and dished about my sucky grades in front of everyone else.

  She blinks twice as she stares at my hand, but eventually takes it as she stands, covering the top with her other palm. It’s a caring gesture that immediately pricks the hairs on the back of my neck. When people do this, it has to be a trick. I feel trapped. My jaw tightens in response, my muscles rigid and ready for someone to knock me down.

  “Think about it, Dustin. And don’t sell yourself short. There are people here who want to see you succeed. Just because this is a small town doesn’t mean we can’t have big dreams.”

  I have big dreams, and I want to shout that at her, but suddenly, I have a hard time meeting her gaze. I force my eyes up for one quick glance, long enough to gauge how genuine all of this is. Her grip on my hand is firm enough to hold me in place, and her lips don’t wear a fake smile. My heartbeat picks up again, and I hate the vulnerable feeling that seems to be snaking its way into my body. I feel powerless. Clearing my throat, I jostle my hand free and give her a quick nod.

  “Yeah, sure. I can think about it.” I say. My body thrums with anxiety.

  I head straight for the door and don’t look back, but I know she is staring at me, waiting for one more chance to zap my nerves. I’m buzzing as I walk the hallway, and the last thing I want to do is sit through my math class where I’m sure I’ll be told the same thing. I can’t fathom that I’m passing that class either. I haven’t done a damn thing all semester. I’m so out of it that when I round the corner, I slam into another body and send papers flying in all directions. Hannah’s bright white Vans instantly trigger recognition, and I lower myself to the floor to help her gather the copies of some flyer she was probably carrying to a teacher as a favor.

  “Damn, I’m sorry Han,” I stutter out.

  “It’s fine.” She sniffles, and I stop grabbing papers at the sound of her broken voice.

  Shit.

  This is about this morning, and the way I just left. I’m still not sure Tommy isn’t right. Me and Hannah aren’t a good fit. I’ll ruin her, or at least take her down while I’m consumed with my own big dream. My baggage is so heavy and so endless. I don’t even know how to process what went down with my mom and Colt. Hannah says she understands, but she’s never actually seen what’s been done to me. Sure, she’s helped me clean up the aftermath—bandages, ice packs, and my occasional need to shout the hate from my body. But I’ve lived through hell, and it follows me around like a sickness. How do I know that Colt’s blood in my veins— the damn DNA that makes me a living, breathing human—won’t one day turn me as ugly as him? That my mom’s genetic need to drink and float through life barely living won’t become my fate too? Hannah might be able to clean out a cut from taking a punch to the face, but I’m not so sure she can fix how fucked up I am on the inside.

  If I listen to the onslaught of negativity that streams through my mind twenty-four-seven, it’s an easy choice. I walk away and let Hannah hate me, think I was merely playing into hormones and using her for a distraction. She’ll get over it and fall for someone else in a couple of years, maybe some college guy who has solid plans for a real job and can give her the kind of life her parents have.

  Most of me knows letting her go is what’s best for her. But then . . . she looks at me. And I know nothing.

  “Hey,” I croak out, reaching out to her arm, my fingers grazing her skin. She freezes and drops the few papers she’s gathered before falling back on her ass and looking up at the bright florescent hallway lights. Her eyes glisten as she fights off tears—tears I put there.

  “Hannah,” I say, scooting in close and taking her hand. She jerks it away and runs her fingers under her eyes with another big sniffle. Her eyeliner’s smudging into her temples. I reach forward to fix it, but she scoots back a little more.

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” She returns her focus to the papers, leaning to the right and sweeping them into the space between her legs then doing the same to her left. I crawl a few feet away to grab the strays that slid down the hall and then hand them to her, noticing the bold PROM written on the top.

  Her hands tremble as they straighten out the stack I destroyed. When she gets them semi-sorted, she pulls her bag around to the side of her body and stuffs them inside, almost as if hiding them from me.

  “I’ll totally go, if that’s something you want to do. Prom? I could go to prom,” I say. She laughs almost instantly, a quiet one at first that gets louder and messier as she stands. I get to my feet, my hands not sure whether they should hide in my pockets or reach for the girl of my dreams whom I don’t deserve and somehow keep pushing away. She tugs her sweatshirt back down over her shorts, and my eyes drift down her legs—legs that are mine to touch if I want them, if I would only earn them. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I replay my words.

  “Gee, Dustin. That’s exactly how a girl wants to be asked. Especially one whose mouth was all over yours last night. Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” She tugs the straps of her backpack tight around her shoulders. Her chest lifts with a cleansing breath, one that seems to dry the leftover tears from her eyes. The redness lingers, though. I made those eyes sad like that. I made them cry and I’m the reason they’re red.

  This is what I do.

  “Han,” I say in a hushed tone as she turns and walks away. I should fight for her, rush ahead and spin on my knees, my hands clasped in the begging position, but that wouldn’t be right either. She’d laugh me off and have every right to do so.

  I didn’t think. Of course prom is important to her. She probably always had plans to go her junior year. I remember her watching movies downstairs with Bailey when Tommy and I got dressed for junior prom last year and his mom gave us corsages to give to our dates. She watched us get to do this stupid rite of passage and when it’s finally her turn to participate, I make a joke of it.

  Like I’ve made of my life.

  My phone buzzes in the middle of my self-pity session, and though I’m walking toward the math class I swore I wasn’t going to, my mind is lost elsewhere. It’s not on the dollar signs in the text from Alex about a race up in Henderson in three weeks, either. Nothing can penetrate my thoughts, not until I erase the picture of Hannah’s sad eyes now imprinted in my mind and the lifetime of disappointment that awaits her with me.

  13

  Bailey thinks I’m nuts. Maybe I am
. I’ve been an emotional wreck since my birthday, since Dustin gave me that stupid chime and I got this idea that maybe we’re some great destined couple, like the fantasy that plays out in my head. It’s only gotten worse as I’ve let my guard down and allowed him to completely consume me. I thought I was doing the same to him, but I guess that was just me being a silly girl.

  The chime isn’t stupid. I take that thought back, Universe.

  I thought I would be okay with the secrecy. It felt necessary to protect what was so new, and my brother has this way of spoiling things for me. But this isn’t new at all. The way I feel about Dustin is something that’s aged within me, grown to be a part of me. I don’t think I would even know how to look at another guy and get the same tingles across my skin. Michael Bosa, for all his frustrating jock-headedness, is a really good-looking guy. He’s hot in that all-American boy way—the typical way that most of the other girls at our school and in this town seem to go nuts over. Tall with muscular arms he puts on display with his ripped-up T-shirts. He’s had the same buzzed haircut since he was eleven, and he’s grown into the military vibe of it, chiseled where chisels are supposed to be and tanned skin fit for a male model. And though he depends on me to be his academic lifeline, I know in my gut that all I’d have to do is flirt just a little. I could have Michael Bosa. Become Mrs. Bosa. Have little Bosa babies.

  But that’s not who my stupid heart beats for!

  I thought Dustin was starting to see me differently, the way I see him. But that’s only in private. I get that we were hiding our relationship from Tommy, but that’s over now. My brother knows; Dustin heard him last night. There’s nothing to hide, and I thought maybe today we could wake up and show the rest of the world the little bit of wonderful we found. But how practical is that? I can’t pretend my parents aren’t going to have the same cautionary advice.

  I pace across my room and rip the biggest purple heart from my wall, tearing it in half, leaving an ugly ball of tape and half a heart in its wake.