by S. Celi
Shit.
Her eyes widened after another second of uncomfortable stuttering from me. “How’s the selection?”
“Of what?”
“Video games. Computer parts.”
“Oh, right,” I replied. “It’s fine. Good. No, great. You know, since it’s Wal—I mean, Sam’s—I mean, since it’s Target.”
She giggled, and I wanted to disappear into the floor. I really needed to stop getting so flustered whenever she was around me. I was starting to annoy myself. Not a good look for me—even if she was the most intimidating girl in school. I needed to pull my ass together.
“Hmm.” She took a few steps past me, and out of instinct I followed her lead. “I was thinking of getting something myself.”
“Like what?”
She paused above the games marked with a ‘M’. “Mass Effect 3.”
I gawked at her. “You do not want to buy that game.”
“Why not?”
Her fingers flipped through the cases, and I watched her do it with interest. This must have been a joke. Surely, there couldn’t have been something for sale in this section of Target that she’d want. She belonged somewhere else, like trying on cheap boots in the shoe section, or scooping up trendy necklaces in accessories. And didn’t she like scarves? Target sold plenty of those.
“I’ve played all the other ones,” she said. “My older brother, Todd, got me into it when he came home from Kent State at Christmas.”
“Really?” I didn’t even try to hide the surprise in my voice. I had so much trouble believing that the school goddess liked a first-person shooter game about the end of the world. She wouldn’t want something like that. She wouldn’t even know about a game like that. Right?
“You know,” she said as she pulled Mass Effect 3 off the rack. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. “I’ve told you before. You really should stop being so judgmental of people.”
“Why do you think that? I’m not judgmental.”
“Yeah, you are.” She slipped the game into the basket. “You like to put people in boxes, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Do people put you in a box?”
“No,” I replied. “Well—I mean—kind of . . .”
“I think it’s a defense mechanism.”
“It is not.” We fell into step together as she started walking down the aisle and away from the electronics section of the store.
“You know, not everyone at Heritage is so bad, Geoff.”
What the hell did she mean by that?
“I wouldn’t say I like putting people in boxes,” I said after a few moments of awkward silence. “And I just know my place in the world.”
Laine stopped in between a rack of workout clothes and the shoe section, which already showed a display of sandals. She narrowed her eyes at me. “And what place is that?”
“I’m a dork. You’re popular. We don’t mix.”
“Pfft. That is such a stupid rule. This is senior year. We’ve been at the same school together for years, and it’s almost over. What does all that stuff matter?”
“I think it matters to a lot of people still.”
“That’s where I think you’re wrong.” She braced herself against the end cap of shoes, and studied me. “By the way, that was an awesome stunt you pulled the other night.”
“Stunt?” I feigned ignorance.
“Yeah. Faking the police call.”
“It wasn’t fake.”
She crossed her arms, and grinned. “Did they ever come? Monica said Blake told her they didn’t.”
“They came,” I lied.
“Sure they did. I believe you.” A conspiratorial look crossed her face. “I know Mrs. Anderson lives three houses away from yours. There’s no way she heard the party. It wasn’t that loud.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters. It wasn’t that great of a party, anyway.”
“What? You don’t like Blake and Bruce’s epic parties?”
She laughed.
“Smelled like it had some good pot,” I said.
“I don’t smoke pot, Geoff.”
“Me either,” I admitted, then looked down at my watch. “Oh, wow. It’s already like five p.m.”
“It is? Really?” She backed away from me, and her eyes darted around the empty aisles, as if she expected to see someone creeping up on us.
“Yep.”
“Whoops, I gotta go. Now.” She moved into the aisle. I followed her, curious about the drastic change in her voice and mannerisms. Did I hear panic in her voice? Why had her eyes widened so much?
“Laine, wait—”
She shook her head. “I’m gonna be late.”
“For what?”
“Dinner,” she said quickly. “I’m supposed to have dinner with Evan’s family.”
“Evan.” The word tasted like rotting onions in my mouth. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t want you to be late for that.” The panic I heard in her voice reminded me of that day in the hallway, and the bruise. “What about your arm? Is it any better?”
“My arm?” Now she really sounded panicked. “Why are you asking about that?”
“I don’t know. I just saw the bruise the other day, and it’s been bothering me. Is it still there?” It was one of the many times in life I wished I had laser vision, or the ability to read minds.
“Oh, that. Totally healed. See ya later, Geoff,” she said, already ten feet away from me. She turned, and kept walking to the front of the store. I watched her round ass get smaller and smaller as she took the smell of bubblegum and floral perfume with her.
Once again, I was all alone.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14
OF ALL THE days I hated at Heritage, Valentine’s Day was one I hated the most. Every day of the week leading up to it, sophomore members of the Student Council sat in the front lobby selling candy grams and carnations at a large table decorated with a big sign. They sold these with gusto, as if they relished this job the same way a baker relished a new recipe. No one escaped the sales pitch.
“Would you like to buy a candy gram?” a girl with long black curls shouted at everyone who walked by between 7:45 a.m. and the first bell at 8:15 a.m. “How about a carnation?”
“They’re only three dollars,” a guy with braces and a blue polo shirt chimed in, a plastic smile affixed to his face. “Goes to a great cause.”
They never added that not getting one of these during first period on Valentine’s Day equaled being branded a loser. Oh no, they never mentioned that.
Each sale acted as a fundraiser for the Student Council Scholarship, a $500 award given each year to a senior. Most years, the valedictorian won the money, which meant Harvard-bound Nichole Reese would get it this year. Damn her. She had a better GPA than me by two tenths of a point, cried when she didn’t make an A on a test, and held the state record in tennis. We were not friends. Not even frienemies.
We competed in an open war.
I’d heard people talk about Valentine’s Day in almost every conversation for the two days prior to the fourteenth. It had covered the halls like slime, and strangled the conversation between classes.
“Do you think Greg will send me a carnation?”
“I’m not sure who to send my candy grams to this year.”
“Oh my God, I just, well, I was thinking I might tell Kevin how I feel about him on Valentine’s Day.”
“I can’t believe Amanda broke up with me right before Valentine’s. She’s such a bitch.”
“I hate this day. Don’t even want to think about it. Maybe I’ll tell my parents I’m sick, and stay home eating chocolate.”
Which is why today, Valentine’s Day itself, my stomach constricted as I sat in AP English. All around me, classmates sat patient, expectant, and awaiting their deliveries. I heard Heather Smith tell Kendall Ace she thought she might get a candy gram from Bruce this year. Kendall then confided her hopes for one from Vince Stephens. Other students speculated on who would get candy grams and carnations, the same way p
eople talked about who might win the NCAA. Even Nichole Reese, who sat diagonal to me, seemed excited this year, a wide smile on her face. Disgusted and annoyed, I shook my head, opened up my binder, and waited for Mr. Langston to start his lesson on British poetry.
“Good morning, class.” Langston stood up from his desk. He wore a cheesy but festive red sweater with white trim around the collar and cuffs. He had minimal crumbs on his chest, and part of me was proud of him for that. “Please turn to page 175 in your text. The first paragraph.” A whoosh flooded the room as we all followed his orders. “Nichole, can you please read?”
“Yes, Mr. Langston.” Nichole Reese sucked in a large breath. “Classical British poetry can first be traced . . .”
She read several paragraphs from the text about the definition of classical poetry in great detail, before three sharp raps at the door rescued us. A collective rumble passed through the class, and a couple of kids giggled. We all knew what the knocks meant.
“Well, I guess Cupid is here,” Mr. Langston said as he walked over to the door. He said this in a cheesy way, like it should come as a surprise. When he opened the door, a boy and girl from Student Council stood on the other side, one holding multicolored carnations and the other holding a basket full of small chocolate baskets.
“Candy grams and carnations!” they shouted in unison. I saw a few girls’ faces turn pink with anticipation.
“Well, feel free to deliver them,” said Mr. Langston as he moved out of the way of the door. “I won’t stand in the way of true love.”
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes because Mr. Langston said “true” like “twue” and “love” like “wuv.”Just hearing it grated my ears. Why did he always have to speak to us the same way he would talk to five-year-olds? He always added a condescending flair to everything. Thank God I’d read a chapter ahead in the text, and school came easy to me. I couldn’t have stood his insipid teaching any other way.
“Here’s one for Heather,” the girl holding carnations said. Heather got up from her desk and took the carnation, just like an actress would take her award at the Golden Globes—even sinking into a long bow once she had the flower in hand.
“I have chocolates for Josh,” the boy said.
“Ooooohhhhhhhhh!” tittered a few of the other kids in the class.
When I glanced back at Josh, his face had turned redder than Mr. Langston’s sweater. Sheepish, he slid out of his fifth row seat and retrieved the box of Whitman’s candy. I shot him a grin, and knew I’d tease him about it later.
“This one is for Kendall.”
“And look, one for Adam.”
And so it went, for another five minutes. Students waited to hear their names, and then bounded to the front to accept their gifts. I tuned most of it out by doodling on the back page of a worksheet in my binder, and it almost worked.
Until I heard my own name.
“I have some candy for Geoff Miller.”
My head snapped up, and I stared at the front of the room. “What?”
“Yeah, Geoff,” the girl said.“The last candy gram in the basket is for you.”
“What?” Several students in the class laughed. People didn’t give me things on Valentine’s Day. Especially not things they bought from the Student Council. “What?”
“Just go up there and get it, Geoff,” Mr. Langston said, with a sweep of his fat arm.
“Geoff Megadeth,” I heard a student whisper a few rows behind me.
I got out of my seat, walked to the front, and retrieved the small gold box, large enough to hold four chocolates. A fancy red bow tied a small white note to the box. I read it under my desk when I got back to my seat.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Judgmental.
I found her in the parking lot across the street from campus after school, just about to get in her RAV4. She stood out from the rest of the crowd in a bright blue puffy coat. For some reason, the coat made her hair remind me of a sunflower.
Once she’d finished talking to her friends I walked right up to her, faking my confidence, and hoping she wouldn’t notice that I’d rehearsed my introduction to her about one hundred times in my head before I’d say it aloud.
“So. Mr. Judgmental.”
She whirled around, a smile already on her face, and leaned against the open car door.
“That your new nickname for me, Laine?”
“Depends.”
“Thanks for the chocolate.”
She shrugged. “Best chocolates three bucks can buy.”
“I’d like to add that I stretched them out. Made them last for eight bites, instead of four.” Of course, I left out the part about how I tucked the note into my back jeans pocket and planned to save it in the bottom of my sock drawer. I could be a sentimental schmuck like that sometimes.
“I’m sure that was torture,” she deadpanned. “How ever did you manage?”
“Did you get enough carnations to make a bouquet this year?” I cursed myself as soon as I said it. Goddamn it, I knew way too much about her. Way too much. And, worst of all, here I was letting her know it. I had to stop that shit.
“You remember that?” She tossed me a quizzical expression.
“Well . . . yeah . . . I mean . . .” I struggled to come up with an excuse that didn’t end in me admitting how much I’d stalked her on Facebook. I had to think of some excuse. Any excuse. I just had to get out of creepy territory, and fast. “I just remember something . . . someone said something about it.”
“Yeah, well, I was so stupid sophomore year,” she admitted. “I kinda strung a bunch of guys along.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mind.”
“You’d be surprised.” Her hands tapped out a beat on the car door seal. Around us, the parking lot had almost emptied. Seventy-five juniors and seniors parked there every day, but right then, only about ten were left. I liked that. Less of a chance I’d have to give some gossipy kid a reason for why I stood there, talking to the most captivating girl in a ten-mile radius.
“Listen,” she said after a couple of beats. “I need to get home and get ready to cheer at the basketball game, so can we talk more later? Maybe on Facebook?” She winked at me, and my mouth went dry from panic.
Oh shit. Had she figured out the reason why I knew so much about her?
“Facebook?” I feigned innocence.
“Yeah. Facebook. Aren’t we friends on there?”
We weren’t. I knew it. Most of my Facebook stalking of this girl happened via third party comments and photo tags. A couple of times, I’d hovered the mouse over the friend request button, but I always backed out before I went through with it. Better to be outside her loop of friends than wind up in Facebook purgatory—a forever pending friend request with no answer from her.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll friend request you,” she said as she put one leg in the car. “Are you on Twitter?”
“Yep.”
“Me too. Instagram?”
“Who isn’t?”
“Perfect.” She sat down in the driver’s seat. “I’ll talk to you later, Geoff.”
“Bye.”
She closed the door, started the engine, waved, and pulled out of the parking lot. About an hour later, my phone buzzed.
She’d followed through with her promise.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20TH
“AH, MR. MILLER. PLEASE sit down.” Mr. Henderson looked up from his desktop computer and flashed a yellow-toothed smile at me. I shut the door and sat down in a metal chair with too much stuffing in the bottom cushion.
“I got a note that you wanted to see me,” I replied. My words came out as more of a question than a statement.
“Yes. Well. We’re meeting with all the seniors individually.” Mr. Henderson folded his hands on the desk, and gave me a slight grin. “Mrs. Lawrence is meeting with the girls, and I’m meeting with the boys. And I’ll meet with you again before the year’s up, since you are one of the top students here at Heritag
e.”
“Again?”
“Yes, Geoff. More than once. We meet with the top five students more than once.”
I gave him a plastic smile. Repeated meetings with the school guidance counselor? Another perk of my status as class salutatorian, and just what I wanted.
“I see you are going with UVA,” Mr. Henderson said as he opened the thick manila folder that must have contained every aspect of my twelve years of life in the Heritage school system. “Charlottesville. Lovely place in the fall.”
“Guess I am going to find out.”
He blinked at me, three times. “Of course, we are very proud of you and your accomplishments.”
“Thanks.”
“Heritage is an excellent school system. We really have given you a rigorous education.” He looked down at the chart. “And, I see here, you are in all advanced classes.”
“Not just advanced classes. I’m taking mostly AP classes this year.” I paused. “Doesn’t it say that in my file?”
“Right. Of course it does.” He closed the folder.
I glanced at the clock. How long was this meeting going to last? Too bad I couldn’t think of any old excuse to get myself out of a meeting with the guidance counselor. They called bullshit on students faster than the rest of the teachers.
“I’m a little worried about your grades this year, Mr. Miller.”
My eyes snapped back in his direction. “Why?”
“Your teachers tell me you’re listless. Bored. And your grades are—”
“I have straight As.”
“There are As, Mr. Miller, and there are As. You have the former.”
“Huh?”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Some of your teachers have said your overall percentages in their classes have slipped. For example, Mr. Langston told me that you had an overall 98 percent in English at the beginning of the year. Now, you have a 95.”
Not Mr. Langston again.
“A 95 is still an A,” I pointed out.
“But it’s not the A you used to have.” His voice turned warmer, more fatherly. “It’s not what we’re used to from you.” He leaned across the desk. “I want to help you figure out what is bothering you. Why you’re slipping this year.”