by Einat Segal
School’s in full swing, and all seniors, myself included, are being smothered by an onslaught of college application panic. I study hard and learn a lot of things in a short time. But most of these things are more related to my body and heart rather than school. Landon’s a fabulous teacher, and we’re still at it, and it’s insane. I didn’t think I’d be able to keep this up for so long.
It’s unbelievable. I think that my rule about sex and guys is breaking. I’m not sure, but maybe, just maybe, he’s not just sexy flesh anymore.
He’s an actual sexy person, and it’s more than just his body that I want.
We’ve gotten really . . . proficient at sex, and it’s so good with him that perhaps this feeling has expanded toward when we’re not having sex. But his voice and his smile, the sound of his breathing, the texture of his skin and hair, his little catchphrases, and the way he seems thoughtfully sad when he thinks I’m not looking—I think about these things even when I’m not with him.
Another thing I’ve gotten exceptionally good at these past weeks is avoiding Shawn. He still comes around to pick me up for school, but he keeps telling me that he needs to talk to me, in private, without Esmeralda, that it’s important, and I never let him.
I know he knows that he lost. I know that the more time passes, the more impossible it is for him to realize his ambitions. Our little game has ended, and I’ve got better things to do.
Still, he keeps trying to call me, to corner me around school, to catch me alone, just me and him, just him and me. No, Shawn, that’s not going to happen.
Until the third Friday of October, the time of the Hendersons’ dinner.
* * *
Everything in my body doesn't want to be here.
I don't say anything as I walk into the den. I just head toward the window seat, and Shawn closes the door.
"Finally," he says, rolling his eyes. "I thought I'd never get you alone."
“Never isn’t long enough," I reply, crossing my arms. It's not that Shawn's hard to look at, but I want to look out the window and not at him. I don't make that mistake, though. It was too cold tonight to wear my hair up. Shawn's fingers would be in there the moment I turn my back to him.
That's his signature move with me. Landon doesn’t know about my hair fetish yet. I want him to figure it out on his own.
"Right, about that." He crosses the room and sits down on the back of the sofa, facing me. That's a surprising distance. It's almost as if he intends for us to actually have a conversation. "You realize I've been trying to talk to you about something very important for over a month? You're lucky nothing happened in all this time."
He looks serious, but it's all an act. I try not to roll my eyes. "Shawn, give it up already. This is getting so old. And I'm in a relationship."
"Hey, for once, this has nothing to do with me wanting to sleep with you," he snaps. He looks a bit angry. Is this the face of a sore loser? "It's about Ashley Glick."
"You mean the rabid chinless wonder you sent to turn my life into hell?" I ask. During these past weeks, Ashley was very feeble in her attempts to mix things up. Aside from that scene on the track field and the crank call, there were only a few bogus rumors about my sexual adventures and one dude who apparently photographed me while I wasn't looking and put it on his Instagram claiming I was the one he lost his virginity to.
I don't see how all this fits into Shawn's master plan, but since reality actually works like this—with the drama happening mostly in people's imagination—I'm good with the result.
"I knew she wouldn't be able to touch you," Shawn says. "You're like Ashley's kryptonite. You make her powerless."
"You just compared Ashley to Superman," I point out.
He gives a small shrug of his shoulders. "She's the worst person I’ve ever met, and she came very close to ruining my life. She spread a rumor about me impregnating Alice Grimley—I never in my life touched Alice—and if Todd hadn’t stepped forward, I would’ve had to take so much shit, I wouldn’t have recovered before 2030.” He pauses a moment to contain his anger. “But you were my revenge."
"You mean," I say, baffled and once again surprised about how Shawn's brain works, "you set me on her?"
"It was working, too. But I didn't know about Esmeralda."
Something very cold, like the toes of a ghost, creeps over my heart. "What about Esmeralda?"
Shawn gets up and starts pacing. He's the boy who called wolf, though. I can't bring myself to believe this act. "I didn't know you had a friend. I’ve known you forever, and you never mentioned her, not even once. I thought I was your only friend."
He sounds sincere. "In what dimension am I your friend?" I ask, my pulse beating in a vein in my forehead.
"I get it. You see me as your biggest enemy, the most terrible guy to ever walk the earth. But you and I, we're not as different as you think. We see them all for what they are and that’s why it’s hard for us to open up to others and show our true selves. There have to be weird circumstances for us to connect to someone. You want to isolate yourself, while I—”
"Shawn." I rise to my feet. I shouldn't even be arguing with him, but I find myself swept into this, and Esmeralda's name is the final straw. He believes, he actually believes, that what he's saying is true. "You know why you never heard about Esmeralda? You know why when we're driving to school we have nothing to talk about? Because we're not friends, and we never were. Because you don't see me as your friend. You see me as your barf bag. Or whatever. I'm just a place for you to dump everything you don't tell anyone else. That's not friendship, Shawn. That's just a function."
He stares at me with wide eyes, his lips pressed together and his face alarmingly pale. What's his act now? I don't understand.
"Anyway," he says after a moment’s silence. His voice is high, and he clears his throat. Is it possible that my words actually got through to him? Did I just hurt his feelings?
No, he doesn’t have any feelings.
"I wouldn't have let Ashley go near you if I knew you had a friend," he says.
"I can't see the connection."
Shawn rubs his chin, looking away from me. "She targets people's social circles. You know that. Usually she relies on the rumor-mill, slowly and efficiently isolating her victims. But she can't do that to you, so she'll do it to the closest person to you."
My stomach turns. Red-hot rage splutter to life, but my conscious thoughts push it down. I can’t afford to feel something so powerful and so paralyzing. My mind rushes over this information. Under duress, my thought process is so much faster. "But she didn't do anything to Esmeralda."
He furrows his brow. "That's what's worrying me."
"Worrying you?" Yeah, right. Ha. Ha.
He raises his head, staring me right in the eye. "If she does something to hurt your friend and that indirectly hurts you, that means she won."
That sounds more like the Shawn I know. "Why didn't she do anything in all this time?" I ask.
"I think she's got something up her sleeve, like a big plan," Shawn says, scratching his head. Great, so he's got this theory but nothing to back it up.
"Shawn, we're in high school, not House of Cards. What could Ashley possibly do to Esmeralda? She's almost as friendless as I am."
"Usually, when it's a girl, she hooks up with the guy that girl likes—”
"Pfft." I snort. "Ashley's going to have a hard time finding a guy Esmeralda likes."
"Don't underestimate Ashley. And not every girl is like you. For some girls, their crush is more or less their entire life. Maybe Esmeralda didn't tell you—”
"Shawn, trust me, unless the guy has a vagina, Esmeralda isn't interested."
"She's gay?"
I nod.
"So Ashley will tell the whole school . . ."
"Esmeralda's been out since ninth grade."
Shawn's silent for a moment, and then he throws his hands up in frustration. "I don't know what she'll do, and that's driving me crazy! Aren't you worried? I
know she's plotting something, Fee. We just have to figure out what it is and stop her before she does it."
I don't know if I believe Shawn. Yes, his interest in the matter is partially self-serving, but maybe this is just a scheme on top of another scheme.
Still, I can't just ignore this. I rack my brains, but there's nothing. Esmeralda's a strong person. She's independent and doesn't care about any of the crap that happens in our school.
Ashley can't touch her.
I hope.
* * *
"You get home from that dinner yet?" Esmeralda says over the phone. It's funny considering how close our houses are, but we talk a lot like this too.
"Yeah, I'm in bed," I reply.
"How'd it go? Did Shawn try anything funny?"
I hesitate. "No. I think he finally gets it.” Am I imagining things, or does this put a bitter taste in my mouth?
"You think so?"
"Ah, I don't know. I can't even get mad at him anymore. It's just boring. Who cares?"
"Mmhmm."
I roll over in my bed. It’s like my head is filled with small ice cubes. "Hey, Esmeralda?"
"What?"
"You're okay, right?" I ask slowly. "No one's bothering you at school or anything?"
"Bothering me? Naw. I mean, you know, aside from Hattie being a bitch every Tuesday."
"You mean she isn't a bitch every day?"
Esmeralda laughs. "Just when you're around. I swear, she's jealous of you or something."
"Well, I can't blame her." I don't feel reassured at all. If anything, I’m more worried. This conversation confirms only that Ashley didn't even try to do anything to Esmeralda.
Which means there's something I'm missing here.
"You okay, Soph? Why're you asking about stuff at school?"
Her concern is justified. I normally wouldn't ask that.
I pretend to yawn. "Just thought someone may be giving you a hard time again. I don't know why. Maybe I felt like beating them up for you."
Esmeralda laughs. "Now I sort of want to be picked on just to see what you’d do to them."
"That can be arranged," I joke. "I'm going to sleep. Nighty night."
"Night," Esmeralda says. "Love you." And she hangs up.
She always finishes telephone conversations with “love you.”
I hold no illusions about friendships. They may work today, but who knows where we’ll be when college comes around? In the end, everyone dies alone. I lectured Shawn about treating me like a function, but all friendships are just functions. The difference lies in the fact that some are more complex than others.
It doesn’t matter, though. Because right now, Esmeralda is my friend. She's mine.
Nobody touches my stuff. Nobody breaks it.
Ashley Glick is dead meat.
* * *
"Something's on your mind," Landon says as his fingernails lightly graze my naked shoulder. It's not a question. He's got an acute ability to read me, and he knows when I'm preoccupied.
My ear's pressed into his bare chest, and I nod my head. Post-sex cuddling is a favorite pastime of mine. While just lying still on my own can potentially cause me to die of boredom, languishing in the afterglow of intercourse is something I never get tired of.
"Spit it out," he says.
"I'd much rather swallow."
"I know."
He continues to gently scratch my back, making me sink deeper and deeper into ecstasy. I let my eyelids droop shut. "Can your uncle make someone disappear?" I ask sleepily.
"Most definitely," he says, the cheerful note of his voice standing in stark contrast against my quiet mood. "Money can do anything. But isn't this a big step in our relationship? Don't you think we should wait?"
"You're right," I agree with a thoughtful sigh. "I want our first manslaughter together to mean something. It'd be wrong to rush it."
"I'm glad we're on the same page."
For a while, neither of us talks. I continue thinking my thoughts, and he continues making me feel like a kitten. "But just out of curiosity, love," he suddenly says, "who were we supposed to kill?"
A while ago, Landon started calling me “love.” I told him that it makes me feel gross. He told me to live with it, that he can't help it. I argued against it until he threatened to withhold oral sex.
I folded.
Sometimes he calls me “nymph.” I know he means it as short for nymphomaniac, but I still think it suits me better than “love.”
"Ashley Glick," I reply.
"Uh. The one who looks like one of those blow-up sex dolls?"
I choke on my own laughter. "Oh my God, she does.”
"What'd she do?"
"That's the problem," I say. "She hasn't done anything. But I don't know what she's planning . . . which is why the easiest solution would be to get rid of her."
"Explain, please. You started your story from the end."
I roll onto my back and begin from the beginning.
* * *
"I was thinking we could go there around nine," Esmeralda says. "That way, if we have to make a quick escape, there'll be plenty of people around and no one will notice."
I nod once, half my mind on what Esmeralda is saying and the other half trying to phrase a delicate question. I don't think I have many shortcomings in general, but I sure as hell suck at dancing around people's emotions.
"My mom's giving me her car," I say. "Meet you in front of my place at eight thirty.”
"Sure."
When any normal high school girl tells her parents she's going to a party, she gets a lecture and gets told that she must make it home by eleven because it's a school night. But in my case, my mom looked relieved that I’m finally behaving socially and told me to take her car and stay there till the morning if I get wasted. We have a weird relationship, my parents and I.
"What are you getting dressed as?" I ask.
"A bee. Speaking of which"—she fixes me with a look filled with mischief—"I went ahead and picked a costume for you."
I purse my lips. "It better not be a prostitute."
"I'm not telling you."
I agreed to go to Dean Marklin's Halloween party, and when the subject of costumes came up, I announced that there's no way in hell that I'm going to wear one, let alone buy one. But, as it turns out, costumes are mandatory, and a sparkling-eyed Esmeralda insisted to provide me with something fitting for the occasion.
I always hated dressing up. I pretend to be a normal human being every single day. My own face is my costume. If I dress up on top of that, I’m like a walking mountain of redundancy, even if it's just an eye patch and a hat.
Which is what I was hoping Esmeralda would go for. Now I'm not so sure.
It's Thursday, and we're on the school bus on our way home from school. The party's on Monday, and that’s not enough time to figure out what to do.
I should have seen this sooner.
Something's going to go down at Dean Marklin's party. I know that if Ashley's planning her bitch move, it will happen there.
Everyone will be there.
Everyone will be drunk.
The best place for a public humiliation is a high school party.
But I can't tell Esmeralda not to go. She has literally been counting down the days to this party to spend time with her "star" in person. A stupid idea. Who the hell starts a relationship that way? I should have noticed something as deliberate as that.
Despite all this, I can't tell Esmeralda the full truth. There's always the chance that I'm wrong or that Shawn is lying to me, and then revealing my suspicions to Esmeralda will only ruin this for her.
It crossed my mind that perhaps the identity of the “star” is Ashley Glick herself. But I know Esmeralda's taste in girls too well. Ashley doesn't have the intelligence or personality to entice Esmeralda.
So, who the hell does? And how will that be used against her, exactly?
I was so desperate to find out that I even tried to listen in on As
hley before classes. The only intel I got out of that was that apparently she's going to wear a Chanel dress to the party and just add some fairy wings and glitter as her costume. The dress, and the fact that it's Chanel and an early eighteenth birthday gift, was a cause for great excitement among Ashley's clique.
My IQ felt insulted from hearing all that.
"Soph, you're spacing out," Esmeralda says. There's an edginess in her voice. I haven't been myself these past few days. I’m playing secret war here. No one can expect me to behave sanely.
"I was thinking about Landon," I lie.
"Is he coming to the party?"
I shake my head. "He has an uncle thing."
* * *
I spend the better part of the weekend feverish, spewing my guts out and nibbling on white rice or toast due to a stomach flu that’s been going around my high school. It gets better by Sunday night, but I'm like a bag of bones and my brain has probably decomposed.
"You should rest. I don't think it'll be a good idea for you to come to the party," Esmeralda says over the phone. I forbade her to come over. I already passed this stomach flu to my dad. Misery loves company, but I don't need to spread the misery beyond my dad.
"I'll be fine by tomorrow night. I'm sending my mom over to your place to pick up my costume," I say. "I'm never deserting you. I'm coming with you. I'll be there for you, okay?"
"Whoa. Okay, Samwise Gamgee, chill.”
I wouldn't normally phrase things like that, but there's a chance that something inside my head exploded over the weekend while I was throwing up.
* * *
I sleep through most of Monday. Occasionally, I look up from my bed long enough to stare at my sequins-studded costume and wonder where Esmeralda found that thing. I'm not sure I have enough booty in my body to hold up that dress, but I'm willing to try.
At some point after 6:00 p.m., I manage the impossible and drag myself out of bed and into the shower.
I then begin the process of making this costume into a reality. I'm not one to leave things half-assed, and besides, with a garment like this, it's either all or nothing.