by Karole Cozzo
“It’s not that.” I exhale sharply, tugging my windblown hair back into place.
The teasing smile slides off his face, and his eyes narrow in concern. “Nicole?”
But even though I try to keep the memories from flooding my mind, they come in a sudden onslaught.
T-ball games and secret before-dinner shared cones of orange cream and vanilla swirl. Late-night bike races to the end of the boardwalk and spontaneous stops at Kohr’s for peanut butter and chocolate, with chocolate jimmies. His laughter as he swiped at my upper lip with a napkin, eyes shining as he cautioned me, “You’re gonna give us away. Get us in trouble with your mother.”
Then I’m forced to think of the very recent memory of his turning his back on me and walking from the kitchen, walking away from me. Emma has always been my mom’s darling, but I was daddy’s little girl. My throat closes, and my knuckles tighten around my stupid oversized poster. Nothing seems funny anymore.
“Nicole?” he asks again.
I drop onto a nearby bench and shake my head. “My dad’s never going to forgive me,” I say as a means of explanation. “Kohr’s was … sort of our thing.”
Pax comes to a stop beside me, and I look at him.
“My mom’s still so mad at me, and that sucks. But my dad … it’s even worse.” My voice is nothing more than a strained whisper. “It’s like I broke his heart. I mean, what I did to Taylor … it feels awful, but sometimes it feels like … what I did to my dad … was even worse.”
My head falls forward and I struggle mightily because I don’t want Pax to think I’m this basket case who ends up in tears all the time. Even if maybe I am.
When I think I can manage it, I lift my head and try to force my quivering mouth into something that resembles a smile. I choke out a laugh. “Maybe I should try that whole biofeedback thing you were talking about. Maybe if I can make myself smile … I’ll stop feeling so bad about things with him.”
But to my surprise, Pax doesn’t join me in the joke. “Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.” His face is more serious than I’m used to seeing it as he beckons me toward him. “C’mere,” he murmurs. He pulls my head to his shoulder and wraps his arms around me. Tightly. So tightly that I feel like he’s the one thing holding me together and so it’s safe to collapse. I bury my face against his firm chest, feel his biceps tightening around my back.
It feels so good to have him holding me again, and it’s hard to pull myself out of his embrace. Except I’ve already sat there too long, and I’m in danger of getting home late and ruining all this. I sit up and brush at my eyes. “God. Sorry I’m a mess. I really have to go,” I tell him sadly. “I’m going to be late.”
“Let me drive you. It’s too dark for you to be walking home by yourself.”
I nod in agreement and walk beside him the rest of the way to his car. I’m past the point of worrying about awkwardness. There’s no need for it, anyway. In quick, practiced moves, Pax slides from his chair onto the seat, braces his hands behind his calves, hefts his lower body into the car, and then collapses his chair and hoists it into the backseat. I stare down at his limp legs. When I first met Pax, it kind of seemed like his self-assurance and big personality didn’t match up with the reality of his situation. Now it just seems like the uselessness of his lower body doesn’t match up with the reality of him. From the waist up, he is strong and capable in every sense of the word.
We are both quiet on the ride home, except for my directions on where to turn, but Pax speaks up at once when we pull up in front of my house. He lets out a low whistle. “Yeah. You’re rich.”
It’s easy to come to this conclusion, staring at my huge brick house with the manicured front lawn, small mermaid statue, and circular driveway of crushed shells. But compared to the homes of the kids I used to go to school with, my house is nothing special. “A lot of the families who own businesses on O.I.… their houses are even bigger,” I say, hoping to downplay it.
He laughs. “Sure.” He points to my room, where I’ve left a light on, purple curtains illuminated. “Is that your bedroom? The one with the little balcony?”
“Um … yeah.”
“You have a balcony. You’re rich.” But then he taps the back of my hand. “It’s all right. I’ll try not to hold it against you.” Then there is one of those awkward little pauses, and he slaps his palm against mine. “Tonight was fun. Hope I got ya home in time so we can hang out again.”
I take a quick breath. Impulsively, I hug him. It was such a nice feeling on the boardwalk, and it’s how I want to end the night before I walk inside. I feel close to him, and I like feeling physically close to him, too. He is surprised at first—I can tell from the way his body tenses for a second when I wrap my arms around his neck and lean close. But then he relaxes, and I feel his torso soften against mine. Seconds pass. The engine hums; the radio plays low in the background.
I shift my face ever so slightly toward his, and his soft, even breathing ghosts over my face. It takes me back to the time on the beach, and I wonder how I keep ending up here … unless I really want to. If I shift a little further, I can—
Pax pulls away before the thought can complete itself. There is an unfamiliar guardedness in his eyes, and his smile is tight and unnatural. “Get in there before you get yourself into trouble,” he urges me.
Trying to recover, I force a smile. “Thanks for the ride. It definitely saved me.”
He adds insult to injury when he answers, “Anytime, buddy.”
I get out of the car and amble toward my doorway, feeling confused. I thought … I mean, I felt …
But maybe I didn’t think or feel anything. Maybe I’m reading this all wrong. It’s probably the product of spending three months in isolation. I shake my head to clear it and walk inside. No one has waited up, which I’m relieved about, so I head upstairs to change into pajamas and wash my face before someone appears.
Just before I turn off the light and crawl into bed, an incoming text message illuminates the face of my phone.
Another fact about smiles …
Brow wrinkled, I stare at my phone and wait. A second later, a photo flashes onto the screen. It is a close-up of my face, one he must have snapped while I was riding the pirate ship. I’m smiling, a smile that nearly splits my cheeks and lights up my whole face. I smile just looking at myself smiling.
A second photo comes in. It’s a selfie of Pax at the base of the pirate-ship ride, the flashing red and blue lights of the Tilt-A-Whirl in the background. In it he’s smiling, too, smiling so big it’s as if he’s riding the ride right along with me.
Then the second part of his message arrives.
… they’re contagious.
My heart rate picks up, and I smile at my phone for ten minutes.
Considering how we went back and forth between the friend zone and some other unknown zone all night long, I’m definitely confused about how Pax feels toward me. But if I’m being honest with myself? I have to admit that I’m not confused at all about how I feel toward Pax.
Chapter 6
Before homeroom on Wednesday morning, I lean against the wall in the corner of the lobby. I’m by myself, but there’s nothing unusual about that.
The front doors open, and in walks that girl from the first day of school, the one who was crying in the bathroom. She’s also in my theater elective. She sits by herself at the back of the auditorium, taking careful notes on the origins of Greek theater. Her expression is blank and unchanging. She has the same expression on her face as she walks past the largest group of kids from the senior class.
The girls in the group notice her, and their demeanor changes from cheerful and talkative to sullen and quiet. One girl in particular—a tall, pretty brunette—leans over and whispers something into the ear of one of the guys. He’s at least six foot two, and I’ve noticed he’s never without his ACA basketball jacket. I’ve also noticed that he’s completely incapable of walking into a classroom without needing to be
come the center of attention, making stupid comments about the class or ragging on someone. He seems to really like himself a lot, which I don’t get—I don’t find him to be the slightest bit cute or funny.
He pushes off the wall and turns toward the girl walking by. “Spam!” he calls. “Hey, Spam.”
He has this dumb grin on his face, like he thinks he’s really hilarious.
The girl stops dead in her tracks, but still nothing registers on her face.
Just keep walking, I think. Don’t give that idiot the satisfaction.
But she does one better. She turns around and takes three steps in the direction of the group. And then she stands there. She just stands there, without saying a word, without moving a muscle, and stares them down. She looks each of them over, one at a time, until they’re clearly uncomfortable and turn away or shield their faces behind their hair. They start new, quiet conversations as if they have nothing to do with any of it.
She runs a hand through her waist-length hair, pushing it out of her face, and shakes her head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She glares at them. “Find something new to talk about. And grow up.” Then she walks away without looking back.
“Don’t know what your problem is,” the comedian calls after her. “I just said, ‘Hi, Sam.’ Why are your panties all in a bunch?”
The girls crack up like he’s hilarious. “Oh my God, Mike,” one says, leaning against his arm, boosting his already overinflated ego.
I turn away and roll my eyes, thinking how lame they all are and deciding there are definitely worse things than being completely ignored by every single person at Atlantic Christian Academy.
* * *
The scene in the lobby leaves me feeling particularly irritated with the kids at school, and I decide to skip the cafeteria at lunchtime. If I’m going to end up eating by myself, I might as well do it away from all their nonsense so that I can enjoy my food in peace.
It happens to be one of the two days of the school’s rotating schedule when I have theater elective, right after lunch, so I head toward the auditorium, which I know will be empty and dark. I can hide in the last row, and no one will give me any grief.
Except as soon as I push open the heavy double doors, it’s obvious I’m not alone. In the cavernous room with the quality acoustics, a voice envelops me at once. I recognize the refrain of “Let It Go” from Frozen, which I performed with show choir last winter. Not to brag, but my voice is nearly as strong as Idina Menzel’s. This voice is totally different, gentle but powerful in its own way. Accompanied by strums of a guitar, it makes me think of coffee shops. I’m drawn toward the front of the room without further thought, barely able to make out the small figure sitting on the edge of the stage, head bent over an acoustic guitar.
I’m halfway down the center aisle when I realize it’s the girl from the lobby, the target of the group of seniors. Eventually she sees me, and with a final chord, the music stops.
“You don’t have to stop. That sounded amazing.”
She stares at me. “Thanks.” She makes the word sound like a question, or maybe an accusation.
“I always liked the Demi Lovato sound-track version better than the original A-flat major version,” I tell her.
“Me too.”
“Sounds like your arrangement combines the two, which is cool.”
“Exactly.” She pauses for a minute, then asks, “You know music?”
“Yeah, I sing, too. Well, sing and dance. Show choir.”
“I looked into all the clubs here,” she says. “I didn’t know they had show choir.”
“Oh, they don’t,” I clarify. “I mean, at my old school.”
She looks mildly interested. “You’re new, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you join the regular chorus?”
“Nah. It’s pretty small and … just seems kinda lackluster in comparison. Like a lot of things here.”
The girl cracks the smallest of smiles. “Sounds like you’re as thrilled about being at good ol’ Atlantic Christian Academy as I am.”
“Probably isn’t possible to be any less thrilled.” I hop up on the stage and open my lunch tote. “I’d give just about anything to be back at my old school for senior year.”
I stare down at our feet, which are dangling side by side off the stage. Shoes are the only opportunity to have any sort of individuality around here. Hers are light blue Toms, hand-painted with music notes. Mine are supercute maroon patent leather Mary Janes.
She nods. “True story. I’d just started this little band. We were pretty kick-ass.” She sighs. “But my dad got transferred. Again. Another opportunity that was ‘too good to pass up,’ even though my parents promised that the last time was the last time. Good-bye, band.”
I twist the top off my water bottle. “My show choir was slated to go to Nationals next spring,” I confess. “Grand Ole Opry House in Nashville. Being up on that stage would’ve been awesome.”
“Is it your parents’ fault you’re here, too?”
Hesitating, I think about it. I mean … my parents had filled out and submitted the application and made that sizable donation to the church, so …
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, here’s to parents ruining our lives.” She lifts her drink and taps it against mine. “I’m Sam, by the way.”
“Nikki.” I point to her unopened lunch bag. “Are you gonna eat?” I don’t ask her why she’s also skipping out on the cafeteria. I think I know the answer.
“Not hungry.” Sam scowls. “Look what the dumb asses around here left in my locker.” She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a metal tin of SPAM, which she drops onto the stage with a thud. “I keep waiting for it to get old, but…”
“I was in the lobby this morning,” I tell her. “But I don’t get the joke.”
Sam shrugs. “Basically, they’re calling me a pig.”
I study her, but I still don’t understand. She’s not fat, not at all. She’s really pretty, and her nose isn’t at all piglike. And her hair is awesome, the kind of silky straight of my hair’s wildest dreams. “I don’t get it.”
“Might as well tell you the story. Not like it’s a secret. They made sure nothing about me is private.”
Suddenly I’m thinking of Pax and remembering how he gave me the option of getting to know me without knowing all about my sordid past. But before I can offer the same opportunity to Sam, who seems perfectly nice, she’s already started talking.
“I moved here at, like, the worst time of the year, the beginning of April. I begged my parents to let me finish out the year at home, but I didn’t get anywhere. I met this guy in my trig class, and right away he was real flirty. Guess I was fresh meat, right? But he was really nice and fun to talk to. He ended up asking me to prom and I said yes.” Sam rolls her eyes. “Didn’t know that was one of the cardinal sins. Turns out Jamie Lee liked him.”
I try to place the name with a face, and I think she’s talking about the brunette from the lobby, who seems to be involved in just about everything around ACA.
“I didn’t know that Derek was that guy, the one everyone wanted. I didn’t get the memo that he was off-limits. So I told him I’d go with him to prom, and even though they were sort of nice to me at first, two days later every single girl in our grade hated me.”
I can’t say much. I picture the scenario unfolding at my old school. I’m pretty sure the same exact thing would’ve happened if a new girl had shown up on our turf and taken some guy away from one of my friends. “Um … that sucks.”
“It gets worse. Derek and I … we sort of became a thing.” I detect a hint of pink in her cheeks, and she stares down at her lap. “Okay, I can admit it—I got a little carried away. I may or may not have texted him some pictures that I probably shouldn’t have.”
My eyes widen.
Sam looks up and shakes her head quickly. “I mean, we’re not talking the full monty or anything, but … there may have been some boob
action.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“It was a lapse in judgment, yeah, but…” She puffs up her cheeks and blows the air out. “Anyway, Derek didn’t have a passcode on his phone. And he had English with Jamie Lee. She claimed she was playing Candy Crush on his phone when she found the pictures. And proceeded to send them out to just about everyone in his contacts list.”
At once, the story’s no longer entertaining. It hits a little too close to home to be amusing anymore.
“I didn’t tell anyone because I was mortified. And the girls used it as a good reason to hate me. They actually hate me because I came in and took something they thought was theirs, but turning me into a slut … then they had a reason.”
My breathing isn’t quite even, and I struggle to respond. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”
Sam sits up straight. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” she clarifies. “When you saw me crying in the bathroom, that was a fluke. I hate crying in the first place, and I’m sure as hell not going to waste my tears on a bunch of idiots.”
Then her bravado falters, and she looks sort of sad as she fiddles with the strings of her guitar. “But you know … it was just a weak moment. Somehow I’d managed to convince myself that they’d forget about it over the summer, that things would be different this year. That they might actually be capable of moving on. I was thinking maybe I wouldn’t have to go through my senior year entirely alone. But nothing’s changed. The other shitty part of it is that Derek really isn’t a bad guy. At least I don’t think so. He apologized a bunch of times and wanted to keep talking. But they ruined it, and there was no point. They’d keep ruining it and keep harassing me, and no guy is worth it.” She smiles wanly. “And I kinda can’t forgive him for not deleting the pictures as promised. Or at least having a passcode.”
Then Sam looks at me with those clear, piercing eyes. “Why do some people get off on being mean?”
Her question knocks the wind right out of me. It’s something about her sitting there, living and breathing and asking, only inches away.