by Marni Bates
She pulled up to a stop in front of me, quickly climbed off the bike, and in one smooth move unlocked the seat and tossed me a spare helmet.
And before I could overanalyze this new potential for danger, I tugged off my glasses, pushed the helmet on, and slid behind her, all without saying a word. Unless “Eeeeek!” counted as a word when she gunned the motor and we took off into the night.
Leaving Spencer in our dust.
Chapter 11
Everyone at Mitch High School couldn’t wait for prom to come . . . mostly because life would be so much simpler once it was over. They would be able to open the school newspaper without having their worth determined on the front page according to their relationship status. No longer would they walk the hallways in fear that any slight hiccup in their prom plans would land them in an editorial....
—from “Mitch High School Confidential,”
by Jane Smith
Published by The Wordsmith
Turned out, Sam was every bit as fearless on the road as she was in the hallways of Smith High School.
I was probably safer getting a ride from Fake and Bake and the rest of the Notable crew. Taking Spencer up on his offer of a lift sounded incredibly appealing now that it was no longer an option. Sure, it would have been awkward sitting in the car with him, pretending to be fine despite everything that had happened between us, but I would’ve been physically safe. My body wouldn’t have been in danger of being scraped off the side of the road.
I clutched my arms around Sam’s stomach with all my strength as she sped up. If the plan was still to take me home, she was definitely taking a circuitous route. But I was too afraid of flying off the back of the Vespa to loosen my hold, flip up the visor of my helmet, and begin shouting directions.
Which left me stuck hoping that Sam’s idea of a good night didn’t include fleeing the state.
She slowed only when we pulled up to my old elementary school.
I doubted that Sam knew about my history with the location. There were five elementary schools in our town back then, and they had been shutting down one by one for as long as I could remember. The year I headed off to the Forest Grove Middle School, my fifth-grade class had participated in a pretty epic bake sale, but not even a few hundred gluten-free, organic pies could save the school. These days, I thought it was an art studio type space where locals could rent out rooms, but it could have been something else entirely. It had completely fallen off my radar over five years ago.
Now I wished I had paid more attention.
Sam stopped the Vespa and I lurched off on unsteady legs that steadied beneath me after a few seconds. My bones felt like they were rattling from the force of the vibration. Between my acrobatics on the couch with Spencer and the scooter ride with Sam . . . I was ready to collapse and sleep for a solid ten hours. Instead, I yanked off the helmet and stared at the slightly blurry mass that remained seated on the death machine.
“Okay, that was terrifying!” I jammed my glasses back on my nose, which revealed Sam’s obvious amusement in high definition. “Are we even allowed to be here?”
Sam climbed off the Vespa in one easy movement and I felt a twinge of jealousy. She moved with so much confidence. All the time. It reminded me of . . . well, Spencer.
“As long as you contain the urge to graffiti something, we’ll be just fine.”
The idea of me vandalizing anything was ludicrous, but I wasn’t entirely sure the same could be said for Sam.
I eyed her suspiciously. “You haven’t actually—”
She merely smiled, and I knew she wasn’t going to tell me anything. Instead, she would enjoy watching me squirm as I reached my own conclusions.
Unfortunately, that reminded me of Spencer too.
I shook my head, hoping that would clear it. I needed to snap out of this. Whatever feelings I had for Spencer, they couldn’t go anywhere. The faster I squashed them, the better.
“Let’s focus on you. So what were you doing with Spencer King? I’ve been hearing some rumors, but I didn’t actually believe any of them.”
There was no way I could keep all of the craziness a secret for long. At least not from Sam. She once told me that anything worth knowing at our high school inevitably reached detention. And if there was one person at our high school who knew the ins and outs of that world, it was Sam. I wouldn’t be surprised if she listed detention as an extracurricular activity.
Although I suspected she would put a dramatic spin on the punishment.
Unreasonable Detention for Civic Disobedience.
Regardless, it was obviously time for me to set the record straight. Although that was much easier said than done. I was mixed up inside when I sat down on Spencer’s couch, and that was before he had opened up about the firefighter thing. I couldn’t even begin to process what his willingness to share that with me might mean.
“It’s not what you think,” I blurted out, and then winced at the cliché. It’s not what you think? C’mon, Isobel. You can do better than that. “I mean, maybe it’s what you think. I don’t exactly know what you’re thinking, but the rumors definitely aren’t true.”
“So you’re not carrying his secret love child?” Sam gasped in mock outrage. “And I had all these baby names picked out for you guys! They were gender neutral and everything. How do you feel about Kong?”
“Kong?” I repeated. “As in the sound of someone getting bashed in the head?”
“As in King Kong. Or in this case, Kong King.” She sent me one very self-satisfied smile. “Don’t answer just yet. It’ll grow on you.”
I laughed. “No, it won’t. And, no, I’m not having”—I blushed fiercely as I struggled to get the words out—“Spencer King’s love child.”
“Oh, okay. Then yeah, the rumors are wrong.”
“We’re . . . y’know—”
“Expecting?” she offered helpfully.
“Friends!”
Sam seemed to consider that as she perched on her Vespa. “Um . . . yeah, see that doesn’t make as much sense to me. Are you sure about baby Kong?”
I shot her my best I’m serious look.
“I’m sorry! But come on. It’s hard to picture you hanging out with Spencer King, unless there was something else going on beyond friendship.”
I scowled, but part of me couldn’t help wondering if she was right. It had fleetingly felt like friendship back at the Yogurt Shack. Strange how something so small, an event that couldn’t have lasted over twenty minutes, now seemed like one of the most important moments of my life. Something I would look back on and think, Yeah, that was when I realized . . .
Something.
Too bad that epiphany wasn’t forthcoming.
“He was going to watch Battlestar Galactica with me.” I’m not sure what I thought that would prove, but it seemed relevant. As if by analyzing his willingness to watch one of the most addictive television shows ever created in the same room with me, we’d be able to determine whether his interest was purely platonic.
“Oh. Well, in that case, it must be true love.” Sam went heavy on the sarcasm.
I didn’t say a word because, despite the obvious snark, her comment continued to reverberate in my head.
True love.
Truuueee love.
The words were so ridiculous, it felt like they should be sung—belted out, at top volume—at some karaoke night. I’ve never been able to take that kind of overly sentimental crap seriously. Even if I did concede that I wanted to be in a relationship, statistically speaking there were thousands of people who would appreciate my personal brand of crazy. Maybe by the time I left Smith High School in my rearview mirror, the cooler, more confident version of myself would have millions of romantic possibilities.
But I couldn’t keep myself from remembering the way Spencer had leaned toward me and said, “What kind of girl are you, Isobel?”
The type who couldn’t stop trying to categorize people by “type” apparently.
“He�
�s . . .” I didn’t even know where to begin.
Enigmatic.
Interesting.
Out of my league.
“The father of your unborn baby?” Sam held up her hands in surrender before she’d even finished the sentence. “I’m kidding!”
“There’s more to him than you think, okay?”
I thought I heard Sam mutter something like, The bar has been set so low, he could trip over it, but she pasted a forced smile on her face. “Okay. So you like this guy now?”
“We’re friends,” I said with a firmness that I didn’t really feel.
“I doubt that.” Sam gestured at the air between us. “We are friends. You can call me at”—she glanced at her watch—“nine o’clock and I’ll pick you up. Whatever you have going on with this guy . . . I’m betting it’s not that.”
“Okay, but it took some time for you and me to become friends!” I protested. “It’s not like it happened overnight. And there was never any, y’know . . .” I was so sick of desperately searching for the right words and coming up empty. “Romantic tension.”
Sam glanced away. “That’s not entirely true.”
“So this thing with—wait, what?”
She shrugged and looked past my right shoulder as if she found the swing set that still remained from my elementary school days absolutely fascinating. “I . . . liked you. Right away.”
“Sure, but you didn’t like like me.”
I wanted to blame the setting for the fact that I’d reverted back to a third-grade vocabulary.
“I did, actually.” Sam’s smile twisted. “You don’t have to look so horrified. Lesbianism isn’t catching.”
“It’s not—I’m—” I forcibly closed my gaping mouth. I’d always known that Sam was gay, but this . . . “Whoa.”
“Well said, Keanu Reeves.”
I wasn’t sure what she was referring to, but it didn’t seem like a good time to ask her to cite her pop culture reference.
“I’m honored,” I said at last. “I think you’re amazing, Sam. I’m, y’know . . . really flattered.”
I winced at the last word. Flattered? That couldn’t be the right thing to say when somebody put their heart on the line. But I couldn’t come up with anything better.
“Sure. Flattered. It’s okay, Isobel. I understand if you’re freaking out.” Sam crossed her arms.
I could feel my panic rising. “I’m not! I’m . . . look, I want us to stay friends! This isn’t going to change that, right? Because high school sucks enough already and I’m not sure I could handle it without you.”
Sam laughed and even if it was a little rougher than usual, it still sounded genuine. “Like I said, it’s okay. I kind of guessed you didn’t feel the same when you asked if I had a crush on Valerie McDobbs.”
Right, I had forgotten about that. Partly because Sam had laughed it off and then suggested we see what Jane and Scott were doing. At the time, I had assumed she was just eager to suggest an article for The Wordsmith because she wanted to needle Lisa Anne.
Apparently not.
“Do you . . .” I had no idea how to phrase this question, so I tried to rip it off like a Band-Aid. Well, actually, I usually try to soak in the bathtub until my Band-Aids slough off on their own, but that wasn’t exactly going to happen here. “Do you still . . . like me? Like that, I mean?”
“Past tense, Isobel. I got over it.” She grinned wryly. “Believe it or not, you’re not entirely irresistible.”
The idea of me being even slightly irresistible was so ludicrous I had to laugh self-consciously.
“Trust me, you can do way better than me, Sam.”
She snorted. “Well, that’s obvious! I can find a girlfriend who isn’t straight for starters!”
The sound of our laughter made the playground seem simultaneously more desolate and alive, and it made me wonder whether this spot had an imprint of my childhood on it. Maybe I was just being fanciful, but I could almost believe that the place was imbued with the sound of children’s laughter.
Or maybe it was just growing late and I wanted to believe whatever story would make the shadows poetic instead of menacing.
“I’d also rather date someone who isn’t hopelessly in denial about a preexisting relationship.”
My head jerked away from the swing set where my eyes had lingered. “I’m not—”
“Hopelessly in denial,” Sam repeated forcefully. “Even though a blind man could pick up the tension between you two. He wouldn’t need his eyes. He could just stand in the room and sense the intense vibrations you guys give off.”
“Vibrations? I don’t think so,” I retorted weakly, as I shoved my glasses firmly up my nose. I never wanted to climb onto her contraption of death again, but if that meant a reprieve from this conversation, I was willing to risk life and limb.
“Fine. Waves of lust? Pulses of pheromones that fill the air? Throbbing—”
“You’ve made your point!” I didn’t think it was possible for my cheeks to get any redder. If we had been back at Smith High School with the fierce florescent lighting bearing down on us, she would have seen just how embarrassed she was making me.
Sam nodded and dropped the joking facade. I wasn’t sure how she could snap back into seriousness so quickly, but it made me feel like I was getting emotional whiplash. As if she had been barreling her Vespa down the street at top speed and then slammed on the brakes.
“My mom likes to tell me that I have nothing to fear, except fear itself. But I think that quote is full of crap. There’s a whole lot to fear, Isobel. High school is terrifying. Anyone who says otherwise is a freaking liar. We’re supposed to figure out who we are and we’re supposed to make something of ourselves, but the truth is we’re all faking it so hard you could cut the desperation with a knife.”
I almost couldn’t believe these words were coming from Sam. I’d always assumed that she was immune to the social minefield of Smith High School. Why would she elect to keep upsetting the administration and landing herself in detention if she actually wanted to fit in with the rest of the student body?
“You know who you are, Sam.” It almost came out like an accusation.
She laughed, but there was a dark undercurrent to the sound. “Yeah, I know some of it. The basics, maybe. I can correctly fill out standardized test forms.” Her voice dropped to a steady monotone. “Seventeen years old, Caucasian female, no arrest record, founder of the school LGBTQ club, and cofounder of the baking club. I can also recite my name, birth date, and social security number. That doesn’t mean I know who I am beneath all of that garbage.”
“It sure seems like you do,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, well, I can fake it with the best of the Notables. But what you do have to fear is a life spent wondering what could have been if you’d been willing to fight for what you want.”
She was right.
She was totally, completely, painfully right about everything . . . except maybe the Roosevelt quote. Because I suspected that deep down it was the fear of confrontation, the fear of losing to the Notables, the fear of making a colossal mistake, that was what kept me clinging to the shadows. It’s what made me perfectly happy to be ignored for the next three years of my high school sentence.
I couldn’t lie to Sam, not when she had me pegged. She wouldn’t have believed a half-truth anyway.
“I’m not a fighter,” I admitted. “I refuse to do anything that would land me in detention with you. I want to keep my academic record sparkly clean.”
Sam shoved my arm good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, rumor has it you’re really good at creative problem-solving tests. Maybe it’s time for you to apply those techniques to your life.” With her knuckles, she rapped the helmet I was still holding. “Let’s take you home.”
It was the best idea I’d heard all night.
Chapter 12
In the most recent issue of The Wordsmith, Jane Smith not so subtly implied that the trials and tribulations of Smith High School stude
nts’ love lives will be printed in this publication. That couldn’t be more untrue. Mostly because the vast majority of you aren’t nearly intriguing enough.
But I still want to know why Spencer King appears to be mooning over a certain freshman girl. . . .
—from “The Wordsmith Lies about Your Love
Lives”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian
I didn’t exactly get my beauty sleep.
Sam’s words reverberated around my head for hours and I kept searching for a brilliant comeback, for some pithy line that would make my cowardice look noble. I wasn’t taking the easy way out, simply exercising precaution. I wasn’t letting my fear stop me from living to the fullest, merely listening to my instincts.
And my gut was telling me that I had no business getting cozy with a Notable who would probably dump me with a text. A guy like Spencer King could probably manage it with less than three emoticons.
I didn’t need that weighing down my life.
Except the rest of my body didn’t seem to have gotten that memo, because when I wasn’t stewing over Sam’s rant, I was replaying every second I had spent on Spencer’s couch. In slow motion. And there were a handful of memories I had stuck on repeat.
The feel of his hands tightening around my waist, of my fingers sinking into the softness of his hair . . . yeah, all those details haunted me well into the night. Well, into the morning, truthfully. And when I wasn’t obsessing about our seven minutes in heaven, I was re-creating the intensity of his eyes as they lasered in on me when he asked if I was going to take my own advice.
Even spending an hour giving my parents a detailed account of the evening—well, minus a few events, of course—couldn’t imbue me with a sense of normalcy. Usually their grilling put everything into perspective for me. Their intensity might make me roll my eyes, but I never doubted that they cared. The Notables could use me as the punch line for their jokes—none of it would change the way my parents saw me. That might not count for much, but it was enough for now.