by Amanda Grace
He turns to the board and starts writing DIVERSE PERSPECTIVES ON AMERICAN HISTORY, and the class starts to hum. Someone’s chair screeches as they slide over. Four rows up, Olivia and Ava smile at each other.
Ah, yes, the familiar sting of rejection. I haven’t had an automatic-partner in three years, ever since … well, in three years. I don’t want to think about why every girl in this school refuses to acknowledge me.
“Settle down, folks. I will be assigning partners.”
I sigh. With a bit of luck, I would have ended up as the odd one out and I could’ve done the project alone. Twice the work, sure, but none of the drama. Last spring, in junior English, I got paired with Charlotte Vincent, Ava’s cousin. She refused to get together outside of class and I did the entire project myself. I just showed up and handed her cue cards for her speaking parts.
“I’ve got eleven pairs of numbers in this hat, so choose a number and then find your match,” Mr. Nelson says, walking up to the first row. As he works his way back to me, I glance around, trying to decide the best case scenario. There’s a new transfer student who wasn’t at Annie Wright when everything went to shit. She’s probably heard about me, but she might not care about my apparent super-power of stealing boyfriends.
Mr. Nelson finally gets back to my corner, and I’m the last to choose a number. Around me, the desks are already screeching across the floor as the students find one another. And as I unfold my scrap of paper and find the number three on it, the transfer student is already chatting with her new buddy.
I stand up and look around, grabbing my ratty messenger bag and heading toward the front, to where a few people are still comparing numbers. But the closer I get, the more the dread spins through me.
Because Ava just walked off with her partner, and the only one still alone is Olivia. Great. She’ll probably do the same thing as Charlotte and ignore me, and I have no time to do both sides of the project. I’m barely staying afloat.
When she looks up and meets my eyes, her face flushes and she stiffens.
“Number three?” I ask, holding it up. She doesn’t speak, just flashes me the matching number on her slip of paper. So I drop into the seat next to her, spin the desk to face her, and meet her eyes.
She stares back, and a thousand things seem to fly between us. She’s questioning me, challenging me, judging me. And suddenly I want to defend myself.
“I meant what I said in the bathroom earlier,” I find myself saying. “I mean, I won’t—”
“Shut it,” she says, cutting me off. She darts a nervous glance over at Ava. Wow—girl is dodgy. “Look, you and I aren’t friends, and this project isn’t going to change that. We’ll settle on a topic and do a simple essay. I’ll write my paper immediately. Then you can look it over so that the compare and contrast aspect is clear, and you write yours. I’ll review it to be sure my paper still stands, and we’re done.”
I stare back at her, wondering how much of this has to do with whatever she’s hiding and how much has to do with hating me, with believing everything she’s heard about me. Behind her, Ava is darting glances our way, as if to be sure Olivia is being rude enough to me.
“No talking necessary then, huh?” I say, anger igniting. “You’ve got it all figured out, as always.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a planner. A color-coder.” I wave my hand over her binder. “You know. A control freak.”
“Look. Unlike you,” she snarls, her eyes sweeping over me as if she can tell by my appearance I’m some wastoid loser, “I care about my grades, and I’m not going to let you screw this up. So let’s just settle on a topic and get to work, okay? We don’t have to like each other.”
Of course she thinks I don’t care about my grades. Of course she thinks she’s better than me. Olivia has no idea what it’s like being one bad grade away from losing my slot in this school. Her parents have no problem ponying up the cash to send her to this place, with its brick façade and manicured lawns and ridiculous tuition.
“Clearly,” I mutter, wondering why I ever once wanted to be her friend. I actually used to admire her. It seems like a lifetime ago.
I flip open the textbook. We skim over a few chapters in silence, the only sounds coming from the turning of the pages. The tension settles around us like a fog, but I can’t think of anything to dispel it. I’m the enemy. Because her friend hates me. Because I caught her doing … something in the bathroom.
I should just tell her I don’t even know what the hell she was doing in there, but part of me likes that she’s so on edge. It makes her almost tolerable.
“How about the abolition of slavery?” she says, glancing up from her textbook. The look in her eyes has morphed back into the cool, composed Olivia I’ve come to know and loathe.
“Too obvious,” I say.
“The Boston Tea Party,” she says.
“Too boring,” I say.
“The signing of the Declaration of Independence.” She’s flipping rapidly through the pages now, scanning the chapter titles.
“Overdone.”
She tosses her hands up in the air, and I kind of like that her frustration is already bubbling over. Pushing her buttons is proving way too easy. “What do you suggest, then?”
“Everyone’s going to cover the major events, but they’re overlooking the simpler things. I say we compare and contrast the socioeconomic standing of two Americans during a rapidly changing time in history. A factory worker or a farmer or something, and someone wealthy. Make it less about an event and more about everyday living.”
She stares at me, and it almost looks like awe. Like she thought I’d go, Erm, I dunno, how about, like, whatever? Does she really take me for such an idiot that saying anything intelligent has rendered her speechless?
“When?”
“The Industrial Revolution,” I say. “The changes would’ve had a big impact on daily lives, both in a factory and at home. Think of the ways the workplace must have changed. Imagine the new inventions rich people could buy. There’s a lot to work with. The compare and contrast practically writes itself.”
Olivia’s finally warming up to the idea, nodding her head and flipping to the corresponding section in our text. “Who writes about which viewpoint?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “You can relate to receiving new inventions the second they’re available, right?” I ask, glancing down at the iPhone sitting at the edge of her desk. “So you take the yuppie and I’ll cover a factory worker.”
Olivia makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Just because my family’s wealthy doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to be a hard worker.”
“Right. Next time you want to cover my double shift in place of your little tumbling events, just let me know.”
She narrows her eyes and opens her mouth, as if to argue, but I cut her off.
“I think we covered that we’re not going to be friends, so what do you care what I think of you?”
She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, like she’s just remembered that we hate each other. “I don’t.”
“Exactly. You’re more into ruling with an iron fist.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I scoff. “You know, stomp on people? Rule through fear? Instead of earning respect, you demand it.”
She snorts. “Oh please. You’re the one being judgmental and rude.”
“I’m serious. When you walk out of this classroom, take a look around. Look at the people who will avert their eyes just because you look their way. Walk right up to someone less popular, less perfect, and see if they smile at you or shrink away.”
“Oh come on. People aren’t afraid of me.”
“Right.”
She stares right at me, her jaw line tight, and I know I’ve annoyed her, pushed her
just far enough that she’s going to bite back. “Fine. Know what? I’ll do it. But you have to too.”
“No one’s afraid of me,” I say, rolling my eyes at the mere suggestion. “I’m a joke to them.”
“That’s exactly my point. You’re totally paranoid because you’re stuck in the past. Newsflash, nobody cares anymore, but you still skulk around this school like a kicked dog.”
I swallow. She doesn’t know the extent of what Ava put me through.
She leans back, smiling at my obvious unease. “Talk to a few people. I bet you could be normal if you weren’t so paranoid that people are making fun of you behind your back.”
“Fine. You know what? You’re on.” I yank my desk away from her and pull out a blank sheet of paper, quickly scrawling down a bullet-point list of ideas and topics to cover for my side of our essay.
And for the rest of the class, Olivia doesn’t say a word.
An hour later, before my last class of the day, I pull myself up onto the window ledge and slide my crappy old phone out of the front pocket of my backpack. I can’t remember whether I’m supposed to work today, but I’ve got it programmed into my calendar.
Just as I unlock the screen, Olivia rounds the corner, all smiles. With the way she curled her hair today, it’s really bouncing around her shoulders. She’s alone, her thumbs hooked into her backpack straps as she meanders down the hall like she’s got all the time in the world. I bet she could show up late to any class and get out of a tardy.
As her eyes leisurely rove the faces of our classmates, it hits me.
My jaw drops. She’s actually doing what I dared her to do. Olivia freaking Reynolds, who hardly even spoke to me until today, is actually rising to my challenge.
Holy shit.
My mouth goes dry as I watch her pause, scanning the hall. There are two girls from the school band in the corner, gripping instrument cases as they lean up against their lockers, lost in conversation.
I grin as Olivia sets her eyes on them and then clicks into motion, heading their way. I’m dumbfounded—not just that she’s doing what I told her to do, but that she has no idea what’s about to happen. My only regret is that I’m way too far away to hear, because this is bound to be some damn good entertainment.
She walks up, and one girl’s eyes widen. Her face pales as she glances over at her friend.
When the friend turns to see Olivia Reynolds standing directly in front of her, she sort of jumps, and the back of her head knocks into the locker.
I don’t have to be an expert lip reader to make out Oh, uh, hi, coming out in a desperate jumble of words.
I grin and drop my feet down, then jump off the window ledge and inch closer to the action as Olivia tips her head to the side. She must be speaking, but her back is to me and the crowded hallway drowns out her voice. The two girls nod, their expressions serious, and then Olivia turns around just as the two girls share nervous glances.
Olivia takes two steps and then stops short, staring across the hall at me.
I grin, pop a hand on my hip, and mouth I told you so.
Something flares to life in her eyes, but I don’t know what it is. Surprise, anger … confusion? I blow her a teasing kiss and then turn and walk away, feeling stupidly triumphant.
Olivia just got one rude wake-up call. I can hardly believe she even attempted that, but those two girls, their reaction … so flawless.
I’m around the corner, still grinning to myself, when I remember her own challenge to me. Her preposterous assertion that people don’t even care about my reputation as a boyfriend-stealing slutbag. I’d dismissed the whole conversation about three and a half seconds after we’d finished it. But now I’ve seen Olivia living up to her side of the bargain. And maybe I have to return the favor and actually talk to someone.
Or not, and just say I did. I don’t have to tell her who I supposedly talked to.
I push my way through the crowded halls, my eyes trained on the floor, as always, and make my way to my final class, Spanish. No one should be made to conjugate verbs at this time of day, when we’re all brain dead after five other classes, but some part of me actually likes Spanish. It takes every ounce of willpower to follow our instructor, who insists on speaking only Spanish inside the classroom, despite the fact that this is only a second-year class and sometimes none of it makes any sense. Then she’s forced to write out the instructions in English on the board, like somehow that doesn’t count since she didn’t speak the words aloud.
We have assigned seating, alphabetically by our Spanish names. I picked Rosa on the first day, for no other reason than that the name reminded me of Rosa Parks, and she was a pretty badass chick.
I slide into my chair and pull out the homework we were assigned yesterday, glancing over the worksheet. It had been an easy task, really, writing the Spanish words next to a variety of modes of transportation.
Samantha, a girl I used to do projects with during freshman year, drops into her seat beside me.
I swallow. “Hey, Sofia,” I say, using her Spanish name.
She blinks and meets my eyes, like she just realized I was sitting here. We’ve been sitting beside one another for two weeks. Have I not even said hello to her yet?
“Uh,” I say, suddenly realizing I have nothing intelligent to say. “What did you get for number ten? It was totally hard, right?”
She glances down at her homework, and then opens her mouth to say something, when her friend “Camila” sits down in the row in front of us.
“Zorra,” Camila quips. Sofia tries not to laugh, but it comes out like a strangled cough.
Slut.
Camila just called me a fucking slut. In Spanish.
My cheeks burn and I try to come up with something to say—some way to burn her back—but I come up empty. So I jerk my gaze away, staring down my homework.
Slut.
I am never going to live it down. No matter what Olivia has to say about it.
I was right about her, and I’m right about me.
Olivia
He forgot.
I can’t believe he forgot.
I’m sitting on the curb in front of the Grand Cinema, trying to ignore the clouds that have rolled in and the raindrop that just fell on my cheek. Rope lights outline movie posters behind me, but it’s not dark enough yet to cast shadows.
He forgot.
I don’t know why it burns like this, like some deep, lingering betrayal, but as I glance at my phone again and confirm that the movie started ten minutes ago, I can’t escape the way my chest hurts.
We haven’t missed a Friday night independent movie in … two years?
I text him for a third time: Where are you?
I count to thirty before tucking the phone back into my purse. Liam is completely MIA. I pull the two tickets out of my pocket and rip them, again and again and again, growing even more upset as I shred them so many times, they’re pretty much dust when I’m done. I hold my hands out to the breeze and let the paper flutter to the cement at my feet.
That’s my day, right there, ripped to shreds and forgotten in the gutter. Between stupid Zoey Thomasson and those two girls in the hall and my brother’s failure to show, this is officially the worst day ever.
There’s no way Zoey’s right. I know she thinks she was, based on that little show in the hall, but they could’ve just been surprised, not afraid. If they were actually afraid of me, they would’ve, like, run or something. It’s not as if I can even be intimidating. I’m five foot four. And no one clad in a schoolgirl uniform is scary looking. It’s physically impossible.
I stand up and step onto the sidewalk. I walked up here after gymnastics practice. It’s like a mile and a half, but it was such a pretty afternoon, the late-summer sun waning, and I thought the fresh air would help me unwind.
But I’d planned on having a ride
home, since our condo it a full three miles away. I could call a cab, but I’m so angry … so wound up … that I don’t want to bother.
Instead I dig into my purse, pulling out the purple pill box that Zoey almost saw. I fish out one pill, pop it in my mouth, and swallow without needing a sip from the water bottle buried somewhere in my enormous handbag.
I know it’s not instantaneous. Xanax doesn’t work like that. But just knowing it’s in my stomach, that it’ll kick in fifteen minutes or so from now, is enough to let me rake in a long breath and feel my shoulders unwind.
I stomp away from the theater and head toward Stadium Way, wondering if my brother somehow lost track of time and is still at school. But that’s ridiculous. Classes at Stadium High end about the same time as they do at Annie Wright.
For the millionth time, I wish Annie Wright were coed at the high school level. It’s coed up to junior high, but after that, boys aren’t allowed. Since there aren’t any good private schools for boys around here, Liam goes to public school, but my mom insisted I finish out my education at Annie Wright.
So this is our fourth year apart, and every year, I swear, it’s like Liam and I grow a little more in opposite directions.
He used to be more like me, kinda preppy or whatever, but now he’s hanging out with all these skater kids and going to the skate park, and he downloads all this weird music I’ve never even heard of. If you saw us standing next to one another, you’d never think we were related, with the way he dresses.
I don’t know if it’s because I don’t fit in with his new group of friends, but I’m not automatically invited to stuff anymore. He has this entire life outside me now, and it freaks me out.
I pass his school, with its enormous turrets and gothic lines, all made famous in the movie 10 Things I Hate About You. It looks more like a castle than a public high school.
It’s quiet. If my brother decided to hang around after class with his buddies, he’s gone now.