Things I’ll Never Say

by Ann Angel

  “Tomorrow’s the big day,” Rick offers. We stand around in our letter jackets sporting our varsity soccer letters, our hands jammed in our front pockets, trying to stay warm and act cool. “Football,” he says, and shakes his head. “I’d be interested in the dance if it was for a soccer game, you know?”

  He pulls a water bottle out of his pocket, takes a swig, and coughs. We’re all carrying our bottles with vodka in them. Mine’s almost empty. So almost empty that I might worry about balance if I didn’t have two feet planted firmly on the ground.

  The bonfire plays across everyone’s faces so that they’re licked with gold. I spot Sarah. She’s laughing. That’s like a shot to my heart. She’s standing with a group on the other side of the bonfire. Doug Wilcox is there. He didn’t waste any time trying to move in on her after she dumped me.

  Her eyes glow in the light as she glances around. At first I think she’s looking for me. Like she always used to when we were together. But then her eyes wander past my face. She doesn’t want me to see that she sees me. Or maybe she wants me to see that she’s ignoring me.

  But I watch her. I stare at the way she tosses all that black hair back, laughing at something Doug just said to her. Does he smell her hair when she does that? Does he get the same crazy lightness inside his heart that I got just being near her? I stare at her hands, grazing her hip and spreading out on the small of her back as she stretches up on tiptoe to respond to whatever Doug said.

  Wendy’s standing on the other side of Sarah. She’s wearing a T-shirt that’s short enough that her belly ring glints in the firelight. Next to Sarah, it’s like she’s trying way too hard, though.

  Whatever made me want Wendy when I had Sarah? What was I thinking?

  Wendy taps Sarah on the shoulder so that Sarah leans down. It takes a minute for me to realize they’re hanging out together. Wendy points at me and says something, and Sarah nods before she scans the crowd and purposely raises her eyes above my head again. She will not look at me.

  Sarah turns into the crowd and disappears.

  I long to follow her. This is the only girl I want to be with.

  I step through the crowd, in the direction Sarah just took. But then Wendy’s heading straight for me.

  I change course and bump right into Rick, who’s standing with his back to me. And then I stumble. I guess I’m not as steady as I thought I was.

  That gives Wendy a chance to catch up to me and grab my arm. “Hey, Luke,” she says. She’s smiling like she’s hoping for something. It’s that smile that got me into trouble.

  I try to shake her off. “I’m okay.” I lurch when I grab the water bottle from my pocket. I attempt to chug from the almost empty bottle, and, in a totally unswift move, I trip when I turn away from her.

  She keeps her hand on my arm. “I hear you’re not going to the dance tomorrow.” She says this like she’s asking a question.

  “Nope.” I wave toward Rick and the guys. “We’re gonna do our own team thing.”

  “Like what? Is it something I could do with you? I don’t have a date tomorrow.”

  Is she that desperate for a date, or is it just that she’s desperate to have a guy? But I’m not going to be that guy. Not tonight. Not ever again with her. I sway a little as I try to find an escape.

  I swing the water bottle. “Just a little private party,” I say. “No girls allowed.” I pray none of the guys hears me and offers something different. They know Wendy is a free and easy kind of girl. A few guys have mentioned they haven’t had the chance to play ball with her yet. They’re the lucky ones.

  That’s one more thing I cannot say. Not to my friends. Not to my mother, who would never understand how her son got himself into this mess. I never even told Sarah where I got the gift that keeps on giving. I stare at Wendy’s face, and it’s too hopeful.

  “Really? Because in my experience, you like to be with girls a lot. Besides, Sarah said you’re a free agent.” Wendy’s moving closer, whisper close. “So I’m thinking now we can go public.” I see a lot more than hope in her eyes now. I can make out each eyelash if I want. So I try to look but discover I’m seeing two of her eyes in the space of one. I pull the bottle up to see how much I drank. Wendy’s breath is warm on my cheek as she says, “Sarah said there’s no you and her and that she wouldn’t be mad if we went out.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I say. My voice is scraped with hate. I shake the water bottle between Wendy and me. There’s only one big sip left. I chug that and almost fall backward. But Wendy’s still got my arm and she keeps me upright.

  She’s looking at me like she’s getting the message. I don’t want to be near her — for sure, I don’t want to go out with her.

  She grabs the bottle. “Well, you sure don’t need any more of that,” she says.

  “Yeah?” I say. And I’m pissed she grabbed the bottle from me. I grab her T-shirt.

  “Look,” I say. “You’ve really done enough. Don’t you think?” Does this girl know what she’s done? She rests her fingers on my chest, and I cringe at the touch that has destroyed so much. I bunch up the handful of T-shirt I’m holding. I repeat, “Don’t you think?”

  Wendy’s double set of eyes goes wide.

  Rick shakes my shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  No, I’m not okay. But I can’t drag him into this, so I say, “This is between me and Wendy.”

  “Are you sure?” He stands back. He says, “Man, I’ve never seen you act like this.”

  “What do you mean I’ve done enough?” Wendy asks, and her wide eyes remain lasered on me. “You liked me fine when you were going out with Sarah. What’s wrong with me now?” Her bottom lip is pulling down, like she might be thinking about crying. I don’t care if she does. I stare at this girl whose face is a fuzzy, drunk blur, and think I could never, ever, ever be with her.

  But I was.

  I wonder who else might know about Wendy, this girl who is the Typhoid Mary of my class. I wonder who else might be walking around with her disease.

  This girl is the bitch. She’s the ass. This girl gave me herpes. She’s the reason Sarah and I broke up. So now I’m pissed. I’m pissed that Sarah hates me. I’m pissed that Wendy’s spreading her dirt. I’m just plain pissed. The bottle’s empty. I slap it out of Wendy’s outstretched hand.

  “I don’t need any more of you, Wendy McKay.” I can feel myself sneer. I look past her, in the direction Sarah disappeared. I should go after Sarah. I let go of Wendy’s T-shirt. It stays bunched up where I grabbed her.

  Her lip still quivers. But I will not feel sorry for her. Maybe she’s spreading it and doesn’t even care. But maybe she doesn’t know. Like me. Maybe she’s never had a sore. I’m not going to stick around to find out.

  I try to step past her.

  “Wait,” she says.

  “I’m going after Sarah,” I say. “I’ve got to straighten this out.”

  But Wendy’s still standing between me and Sarah’s path. Now she grabs hold of my arm. “Straighten what out? What about me?”

  “What about you?” I pry her fingers from my arm. I’m leaning into her, so close that only she can hear, and I almost tell her the truth. I almost tell her that she spread her disease. I almost mention that I passed it on. But that’s not a thing I can say. Instead I take myself out of this equation.

  I refuse to be the guilty one here. I repeat, “I told you, you’ve done enough.” I’m still seeing double, but I get my mouth as close to her ear as possible and I tell her, “You’re the ass who gave my girlfriend herpes.”

  As soon as I enter the building, I make a beeline for Roxie’s locker. She’s too busy typing on her phone to see me, her crooked smile illuminated by the screen’s blue backlight. Something’s different about her — I finally realize it’s the smoky mascara around her eyes. It makes her look older — and amazing — though I’m too pissed to tell her that.

  I clear my throat.

  “Chelle!” She jumps
as she pulls the phone to her chest. “Don’t scare me like that.” She relaxes a bit, then places her phone in her locker. We aren’t allowed to carry them during the school day. “I know you’re mad about me canceling on Friday —”

  “You can’t just invite me to a party and not show up!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But Maurice was there, right?”

  “I didn’t go to hang out with my ex,” I say. “And you’re the one that wanted me to break up with him in the first place.”

  “No. You wanted to break up with him. I just cheered you on.” Her phone buzzes. She eyes it, but she doesn’t reach for it. “Anyway, I’m sure there were a lot of cute boys there.”

  “I don’t want a boyfriend. The only reason I went was because you wanted to see Tracy Merrill.” The party had been thrown by Tracy and the rest of the swim team. Roxie’s always had a thing for long, lanky boys, and Tracy had just broken up with his girlfriend.

  She waves her hand like she’s brushing away my words. “Tracy, he’s such a . . . boy.”

  “That’s not what you said last Friday.”

  “A lot can happen over a weekend.”

  I step closer. “What. Happened.”

  “Nothing,” she says, though her smile hints otherwise.

  “And where were you on Saturday night? I texted you, like, three times.”

  Her smile quickly fades. “You didn’t call the house, did you?”

  I shake my head. “Just your cell.”

  “Good.” She twirls a strand of her long black hair around her finger. It’s a nervous tic she’s always had — usually brought on when she’s stretching the truth. After six years of friendship, I can read her body language better than anyone. “I had to get away from Mom. She started nagging me again about SMU, and I just got tired of it. So I checked out for a while. Didn’t even take my phone with me.”

  This isn’t the first time Roxie’s gotten into it with her mother. Eloise Woodson is the definition of a helicopter mom — and she’s only gotten worse the closer we get to graduation.

  “Where’d you go?” I ask.

  “Nowhere special. Just met up with a friend.”

  I wonder if this “friend” can swim a hundred-yard backstroke in under sixty seconds. Just because she didn’t see Tracy on Friday didn’t mean she hadn’t seen him on Saturday. “Why is your mom worried about SMU? You got a scholarship.”

  “I know, right?” She nudges me. “I think the only reason she’s letting me go is because you’ll be there to keep me out of trouble.”

  “Easier said than done.” The warning bell rings, and students scurry toward class. “I still want to hear about what happened this weekend.”

  “I’ll call you.” She closes her locker and spins the padlock. “Promise.”

  It takes almost a month, but Roxie finally calls.

  Just as Maurice is unhooking my bra strap.

  “Don’t you dare,” he mumbles. The peach fuzz he calls a mustache tickles my skin as he moves from my lips to my chest. “She can wait.”

  Even though neither of us can see the screen, we know it’s Roxie. She’s had the same ring tone since we were sixteen. She set it herself. “I wonder if that was her with all the texts.” My phone buzzed like crazy a few moments before — three texts fired off in rapid succession.

  “Who cares what she wants? Y’all are barely friends.” His lips bounce between my boobs, like he’s trying to decide which one he likes more. (FYI — the left.)

  “She wouldn’t have called this many times if it wasn’t important. Something’s wrong. She could be hurt. Or sick.” Or maybe she’s calling to tell me that she changed her mind about being roommates next year. Given how little we’ve talked over the past month, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Maurice slides south of my chest. “Sure you want to answer that phone?” he asks, breathing into my belly button.

  Before I can answer, the phone rings again. I take Maurice’s face and pull him up. “Just give me a sec. Okay?”

  He sighs but moves away. “Don’t take too long. My offer won’t be on the table forever.”

  I roll my eyes. We both know he’s lying. Maurice isn’t exactly the world’s best lover (not that I know this from vast experience, but there are some things a girl knows about her body). Still, he always works to get me there during sex. I know I should find this sexy. Or chivalrous. Or maybe both. But usually I just want it to be over.

  After slipping my bra back on, I call Roxie.

  “Hey,” I say. “Did you — ?”

  “Chelle! Where are you?” She’s somehow yelling and whispering simultaneously. “You have to tell your mom I was with you tonight.”

  “What?” I sit up, bumping my head on the ceiling of my Fiesta.

  “You’ve gotta back me up,” she continues. “Eloise already called your mom. I told her we went to see Kamikaze Blues.”

  Eloise? Since when did Roxie start calling her mom by her first name?

  “Mom knows I already saw that movie with Maurice.”

  “Tell her you went again.” Her voice is rushed. “Tell her we’re trying to hang out more.”

  At least Roxie noticed how little we’ve seen of each other, too. “Can you at least tell me why?” I ask.

  “Just cover for me, okay? We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  Before I can ask another question, she’s gone.

  Roxie stands at the other end of the hallway, placing books in her locker with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other. I’ve already grabbed my books for first and second periods; I could easily go to her. But I also think I shouldn’t have to hunt her down for an apology.

  To be fair, it’s not like we’ve stopped talking completely. We see each other every day in AP English, and we chat all the time when we pass in the hallways. But as far as real conversations go, as much as she’s on her phone, it’s never to send me a text or call. At first, my not being the first one to call was a matter of pride. Then I started hanging with Maurice again (after he promised to stop acting like such a kid), and then I had a big physics project, and Grandma went back into the hospital . . . and Roxie just didn’t seem that important anymore.

  I try not to question what this means about our six years of friendship.

  Roxie finally closes her locker and heads my way. I turn and begin unlocking my padlock.

  She’s there a few seconds later. “Early graduation gift?” she asks, touching the Nikon around my neck.

  “Loaner from Ms. Noel.” I’ve been saving up to buy a new SLR, but I didn’t want to spend the money on the camera until I sorted out my and Roxie’s rooming situation.

  “So . . . thanks again,” she says.

  I nod. Mom seemed to buy that we’d been hanging out — or at least she pretended to believe it. She probably thought Roxie and I had been boozing it up at the old Lederman farm. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

  Roxie’s phone buzzes, and she immediately reaches for her back pocket.

  “You should put that away.” I heard that she’s already been written up twice this month for carrying it around.

  “I know. Eloise would freak if I got an in-school suspension. Not that it really matters anymore.” She types a quick message, then slides the phone back into her pocket. “They should at least let us seniors carry our phones. We’re about to graduate, for Christ’s sake. We’re not babies.”

  “So, what happened last night?” I ask. “You were with some guy, right? Someone I know?”

  Her smile wobbles as she turns away from me. “He’s . . . at another school.”

  One thing that hasn’t changed in the past month — Roxie’s still a horrible liar.

  “Can I meet him?” Tracy Merrill hasn’t gotten back with his ex (unlike me), so I’m betting he’s Roxie’s new mystery guy.

  Her back pocket vibrates yet again. “You wouldn’t like him,” she says, much too quickly,
as she pulls out her phone. “I better go and put this in my locker, but let’s get together soon. For real.” She winks. “Never too early to start shopping for our dorm room.”

  I know that what I’m doing is wrong. Certainly against school rules. Still, with Mr. Townsend’s hall pass in my back pocket, I creep to Roxie’s locker. It’s the same pink padlock she’s always used.

  It’s even easier to unlock her phone.

  From what I can tell, her mystery guy is saved as “G.” In his texts, he calls her Roxanne.

  I open the photo gallery app. Most of the pictures are crap — fuzzy, oversaturated selfies of Roxie looking all boobilicious. Being the yearbook photographer has spoiled me — now I refuse to snap anything with my cell phone.

  I keep scrolling and finally get to the good stuff. A boy’s chest.

  No. A man’s chest. Big, hairy, and muscular. Nothing like Tracy Merrill’s body.

  Two pictures later, I see a face and I almost drop the phone.

  Geoff Sumner.

  Roxie was right. He isn’t at our school, but he used to be last year.

  He was our counselor.

  Roxie shows up at the coffee shop five minutes early. She buys a cup of coffee — black — then walks to the table.

  “I can’t believe you broke into my locker,” she says after sitting down across from me. Her voice is surprisingly normal. I wonder if I’m the first person she’s told about this.

  “Well, I can’t believe you’re sleeping with a teacher.”

  “Counselor.”

  “Whatever.”

  “He works at another school. In another district.” She shrugs. “I checked. It’s not against the rules. Anyway, I’m eighteen. I’m an adult.”

  “It’s gross. He’s, like, thirty-five. He has gray hair.”

  “Well, he’s incredible in bed. He’s so experienced. He’s —”