by Amy Giles
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
Señora Moore sweeps into class flushed and breathless, wearing a long peasant skirt and a peasant shirt, off the shoulders today. She looks ready to fiesta.
“Hola!”
“Hola, Señora Moore.” A cacophony of apathy greets her, except for the large cluster of Highsteppers. They continue talking as if they are the sun and we orbit them. Today is Madelyn’s turn to have her hair French braided. Some days I watch them and think of Jane Goodall’s chimps grooming each other.
Pat Michaels, his legs spread in front of him in a wide, slouchy V, raises his hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
“En español, Patricio.” Señora raises her finger.
Across the classroom, Charlie Simmons hunches over his desk, doodling, as always. She walks over and taps his desk.
“Presta atención, Carlito.” She points two fingers at herself, and he straightens up in his seat.
I stare at his honey-brown hair that shimmers even under the fluorescents and the slim inverted pyramid of his back underneath his fitted short-sleeve gray shirt. He has the long, toned body of a swimmer. He used to be on the swim team but quit. Charlie Simmons quits everything. He was also in the Robotics club and on the debate team. Smart, but a quitter.
He turns around at just that moment, catching me staring at him for the second time today. I bend over my notebook and start scribbling random notes, feeling the blush creep up my neck. But not before he smiles at me.
I wish I lived in a world where there was hope for me and Charlie Simmons.
BRADY: The date is January 10. Time . . . 10:17 a.m. Do I have your permission to record your statement?
KM: Of course.
BRADY: Please state your name and your relationship with Hadley McCauley.
KM: Kathleen Moore. I was Hadley’s Spanish teacher her junior and senior year.
BRADY: What can you tell me about Hadley?
KM: Hadley was a bright, conscientious student. She has always been a delight. A pleasure to teach.
Isn’t that what we always say about the quiet ones?
Some teachers prefer the quiet students. We have to contend with so many fresh mouths, year after year, that a quiet student is a blessing. But Hadley was quiet in a way that worried me. Her quiet felt . . . silenced.
BRADY: Silenced? How?
KM: [sighs] With Hadley . . . I could never really tell what was going on beneath the surface. She was quiet, but really only around adults. In class, I wouldn’t hear a peep from her until I called on her. Only if I called on her.
So early last year I mentioned it in her first-quarter progress report. Now, you have to bear this in mind, when we do the progress reports, we don’t have a blank field to write personal notes. We have a selection of comments we can check off. In Hadley’s case, the one that came closest to what I felt was suitable was “More Participation Needed.”
Well, when that poor girl came to school the following Monday, she was near tears. She asked to speak to me privately. She begged me to take that comment off her permanent record. I said, “Hadley, honey, you have a perfect grade in my class. I just want you to raise your hand more, that’s all.” And she asked me, “How many times?” I thought she was joking. But I saw the look on her face. She wanted to know how many times it would take to make sure this never happened again.
I swear to you, from that day on, that girl raised her hand three times in every class, every day. She was counting. Someone put the fear of God in her, and I promise you, it wasn’t me.
then
It’s easy to find Mike DiNardi’s house thanks to all the cars parked haphazardly on both sides of the road. We’re forced to park a few blocks away on Jackson Street. Along the way, we spot Claudia’s white Acura by the deep gouges on the side mirror and door panel, the wheels half up on the curb. The girl can’t drive to save her life, let alone parallel park.
“These boots were not made for walking. They’re for standing and looking cute.” Meaghan stops and leans against Noah to rest her feet squished into her new stiletto boots.
Noah laughs. “And for adding a few inches so you’re not stuck under everyone’s armpits all night.” He links his arm through hers and mine, and we walk down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. All down the block, impatient homeowners have decorated their yards for Halloween, which is still three weeks away. RIP tombstones turn front lawns into cemeteries while inflatable pumpkins staked to the ground bob in the wind, desperate to escape.
Noah turns to me. “I feel a tiny bit guilty that you’re always our designated driver.”
I smile back up at him. At six feet five, Noah looks down on everyone. “Couldn’t drink if I wanted to. I have a game tomorrow. Go nuts. Unless you don’t want to be too hungover for Matt.”
He looks away. “He’s not coming.”
Meaghan jerks her eyes over to me, exasperated, then pivots back to Noah. “What’s his deal this time?” She snarls. Matt hasn’t been down to visit once since he left for college. Noah shrugs it off.
A breeze scatters a few fallen leaves around our feet. Meaghan stops again to lean against an old maple tree, its wide trunk taking up half the sidewalk. Noah deftly changes the subject.
“Yeah, but you know who else is really hot? Charlie Simmons.”
A great yawning chasm opens up in the sidewalk, ready to swallow me whole.
“What?” I stare up at him in horror.
Noah slaps a hand to his cheek, wide-eyed with feigned embarrassment. “Well, this is awkward. Not you too?”
My heart stumbles to regain its footing. “You’re messing with me?”
“A little.” He wraps a long arm around my shoulder.
Still leaning against the tree, Meaghan pulls an impaled leaf off her heel. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”
“I don’t have a problem,” I say, but my nuclear-meltdown cheeks betray me.
Meaghan and Noah exchange knowing looks, the kind that push me outside our comfortable threesome, making me feel like I’m a topic of conversation when I’m not around. “You so do!” Meaghan laughs. “You stare at his back every day in Spanish. Then when he looks at you, it’s like you try to make yourself invisible.”
Lifting my head a notch, I snap, “So what? I look. I’m human.” I storm ahead, up the brick stairs to Mike’s house.
Noah runs up behind me, meeting me at the top of the stoop. “I may need to see proof of that one day to believe it.” He tilts his head down to look at me from under his thick eyelashes. Then he waves his hand in the air like the whole conversation reeks. “Anyway, I heard he likes Claudia.”
My stomach free-falls. “Not her,” I moan.
Noah laughs and claps his hands. “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Meaghan catches up. “Had, Charlie’s perfect for you. He’s hot, he’s obviously into you, and he’s the hookup king of our class.” She ticks off Charlie’s perfect trifecta on her fingers. “One and done.”
She winks at me to let me know she’s only half kidding.
Noah stops me with a hand on my shoulder before I open the door. “Seriously, though, Claudia has a huge hard-on for him. So if you’re going to make a move, you better do it tonight.”
I stare back at him with worried eyes.
“Great. She’s traumatized. Happy now?” Meaghan opens the door for us.
“Me?” Noah protests with a hand to his chest. “That one’s all on you, Ms. ‘One and Done.’”
Mike DiNardi’s parties always draw a huge crowd; people are jammed shoulder to shoulder near the entrance. Couch cushions and laps have already been claimed for the night. I follow Meaghan and Noah to the kitchen, dodging the group of guys passing the funnel around. Meaghan fills a Solo cup with soda and hands it to me, a prop so I don’t look too dorky, then we find a spot in the dining room. The house is swampy with body heat. All around me, straps of skimpy dresses slip off drunken shoulders. I push my sleeves up to my elbows.
The party is divided into a bunch of mini clusters, the corner of each room hosting a cafeteria table from school. Noah is the Godfather, fist bumping and hugging his way through the party. Meaghan and I hang by his side as people swarm over to kiss his ring or whatever, chatting with the two of us just to be polite. After a while, Noah gets antsy and scans the party with his periscope vision, his head bopping to the music.
“Time to cut the cord, ladies.” He darts off into the party, but I never lose sight of him; at his height, his head breaks the surface wherever he goes.
Meaghan is at my side for only a blink longer. “There’s Mike. I’ll be back.”
This is why I hate parties. The bigger the crowd, the more alone I feel. Sipping my soda, I hug my waist with one arm, searching for a friendly, welcoming look. Eyes intentionally skirt around me, through me. Everyone’s so into their conversations, no one budges to wave me over into their circle. Over in the den, Kim’s peals of laughter draw my attention. She’s bent over with her butt high up in the air like a cat in heat while Winona giggles and snaps a picture on her phone. She’ll have over three hundred likes on Instagram by tomorrow. Kim’s ass pictures always do.
A path clears to the living room, and I catch Claudia’s eye. She turns to Faith and says something. The way they both laugh at the same time tells me I am the joke. It’s the final blow. I’m used to Claudia’s crap, but Meaghan and Noah know better than to ditch me like a social pariah. They’re just going to have to find another ride home; I didn’t sign up for public shunning.
“Need a refill yet?” A mop of honeyed hair dips over my shoulder and peers into my cup.
I start and glance over my shoulder.
I’m not surprised to see Charlie Simmons here; he’s good friends with Mike. Actually, Charlie is friends with everyone, a nomad who fits in comfortably wherever he goes. What’s surprising is that Charlie is talking to me.
“Um. Actually, it’s soda,” I try to yell back, but my tongue swells ten sizes too big for my mouth, wicking every ounce of saliva, like those pellets Lila and I threw in the tub to watch them grow a thousand times their size into spongy sea creatures.
“Are you driving?” he shouts, and mimes with his hands a steering wheel in case I can’t hear him over the noise from the speakers.
I nod. “Yeah. Always the designated driver,” I shout back. He points to his ear, shakes his head, then gestures with his hand to follow him before turning away.
I stare at his retreating back, paralyzed for just a few seconds.
Then I follow him.
Charlie leads the way, burrowing a hole through the kitchen crowd for us to worm through. He turns to look over his shoulder to make sure I’m there. When he sees I am, he smiles. He points to the back door, then reaches behind him and grabs my wrist to lead the rest of the way.
Pushing the metal screen door out, he holds it open as we walk down three cement steps to the patio. Glowing cigarette tips circle in the night like fireflies. Goosebumps prickle up my arms thanks to the autumn night breeze. I rub them away, wishing I hadn’t left my jacket in the car.
Charlie notices. “Cold?”
“No,” I say, afraid the truth will drive us back inside.
He unzips his hoodie and hands it to me.
“Liar.” He smirks. His dark eyes catch the floodlights and sparkle.
I push his sweatshirt back. “But I don’t want you to be cold.”
He reaches over and wraps it around my shoulders, his fingers brushing against my neck. Another shiver zings through me.
“I hardly ever get cold. Has to be below freezing.” He’s wearing a blue short-sleeve shirt underneath, the same style as the gray one he wore the other day. It’s fitted without being tight in a really good way.
“I remember seeing you skateboard through town in shorts last February,” I blurt out, then cringe inwardly. God, I just admitted I’ve been stalking him for almost a year!
“Told you. I don’t get cold.”
I smile and bite my lip, pretending to be interested in the soaring height of the pine trees that line Mike’s property, but really I’m scouring my brain for something to say. Meaghan never has this problem. Meaghan probably came out of the womb flirting with her mom’s obstetrician.
“So,” he says, trying to catch my eye. I look up at him nervously, hoping he’s better at keeping this going. Because I don’t want it to stop. “I figured it was time to take it to the next level,” he says with mock seriousness, followed by a flirtatious smile.
“The next . . . level?”
“You know, all that hot and heavy staring. Thought it was time to have a real conversation.”
My cheeks burn, remembering how he caught me staring twice yesterday. “Oh. I . . .”
His eyes dart along my face. “Doesn’t take much to make you blush, does it? It’s cute.” Standing under the backyard floodlight, where apparently my blushing is center stage, I’m completely exposed. Being ignored inside is sounding more appealing. A hot, sick sensation swirls around in my stomach.
Noah was right. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. “Do you get off on making fun of girls or something?” My eyes sting with humiliation.
“What?” His face flattens, and then he winces. “Crap, no! I thought I was flirting. Was I that bad?”
I stare at him blankly then burst out laughing. “If that’s flirting, then yes. You suck at it!”
He flicks his thumb and finger in the air. “Command Z!” I get it. Erase, do over. We both crack up, which relieves at least some of the tension building up inside of me.
“I probably should have stuck with something safe like, ‘you have really pretty hair.’” He reaches over and gently touches a strand falling down my shoulder.
I’m horrified at how nervous I am around him. My tongue is vibrating in my mouth like a tuning fork. I feel alive—excruciatingly, painfully alive.
We find a bench under the tree and sit down. The temperature is dropping. I don’t want it to chase us back inside, so I push my arms through the sleeves of his hoodie. Something primal makes me whiff a sleeve when he’s not looking, to catalog his boy scent, mixed with something else. Stale cigarette smoke. From the party, I assume at first. Then I push my hands in the pockets.
“These yours?” I hand him a pack of cigarettes.
He glances down at the pack in my hand. “Yeah,” he admits grudgingly, taking them from me.
“You smoke?” I ask, dismayed.
“Does it help if I say I’m trying to quit?”
I grimace. “I really hate everything about it. The way it smells. What it does to your body. I mean, they’re your lungs.” I point to his chest. “I just never understood how anyone could have such a lack of regard for his own life.”
He nods. “I know. It was stupid to even start.”
“Why did you?” I ask. “You used to be on the swim team,” I say, like we’re in the same club. The athletes’ club.
He bristles. “Look, I said I was trying to quit.”
I back off. And I told him he sucked at flirting. “Okay, I get it. Sorry for the lecture.”
Folded over, his elbows on his knees, he stares at his sneakers and then looks back up, studying me. He opens the pack and takes one cigarette out, holding it up between us.
“In case of emergency.” He pops it behind his ear and twists over his shoulder. “Hey, Willie. Catch.”
Charlie tosses his pack over to Willie then turns back to me.
“I’ll try harder.” His eyes are serious, full of promise.
“Thank you,” I say, recognizing that gesture as a huge, giant, big deal.
He reaches over and grabs my hand. I stare at it, the warmth of his palm spreading through my body.
I’m seventeen and I’ve never had a boyfriend, which, according to Meaghan, is a bigger crisis than the national debt and a measles/Ebola/Zika outbreak combined. It’s not like no one’s ever asked me out. A few weeks ago, Dylan Finnegan asked me t
o the movies, tapping his fist nervously against my locker, his jug-handle ears flaming red. But even someone as sweet as Dylan isn’t worth the heap of trouble I’d get into by saying yes. My father made that abundantly clear last year when he threw my mother’s wineglass against the kitchen cabinet at just the mention of a boy possibly asking me out.
But Charlie Simmons, who wears his confidence like a second skin, he’s been my secret crush for years. I just never expected anything to come of it.
This one little dream I held for myself, that I hid away and stoked privately, is unexpectedly becoming a reality, which makes my toes curl in the best and worst ways possible. I know my world will snuff it out the first chance it gets.
“So, Hadley. Have any amusing anecdotes you want to share?” His eyes crinkle.
“Any amusi—?”
“Nah, scrap that. Tell me something about yourself. What makes you tick?” he presses.
With his hand in mine and his eyes searching for bits and pieces of me that hide below the surface, I find it very hard to form a coherent sentence. The warmth radiating off his body together with his warm eyes undermine my ability to think straight. My weighted 4.34 GPA is useless in the real world.
“Um . . . I play lacrosse?”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” He laughs. “You’re kind of a legend on the lacrosse field. Muscles McCauley.” He lifts his arms and flexes, showing off his biceps like a superhero.
“What? Nooo!” I gasp. “Only Meaghan calls me that!”
“Sorry to break it to you, Muscles. Everyone calls you that.” He reads my face and tries to make light of it. “Relax! It’s hot!” He chuckles.
“Hot?” I cry. “It is anything but hot! It makes me sound like the Terminator!”
He laughs hard at that, which eases my humiliation a little.
Charlie leans closer. “I promise you, you are not built like the Terminator.” Just when I’m about to let it go, he wraps his long fingers loosely around my bicep. “Though you do have enviable guns. I may need to keep you around to open those tricky pickle jars.” I cover my face with my free hand.