Please Love Me Back

by Melanie Marks

  So, I just murmured, “The red one.”

  She beamed like I was so frickin’ helpful she was going to have puppies—mine. So of course my heart did its violent thing that it does now whenever Jazz looks at me like that. (Which she does a lot.)

  “Thanks!” she gushed. “You are so taking your best-friend duties way better than I expected. I appreciate it so much. Really.” She grinned, “So, I’m going to be a good friend to you and let you know—you’re late for your date.”

  “Man!” I jumped up. “Again? Gia is going to kill me.”

  I had gotten all caught up in jamming on the guitar with Jazz, and watching her kick my butt in a new video game she got. Then for a moment it seemed like she was going to try on clothes for me—so my thoughts of Gia (or face it, anything) flew out the window. But she didn’t try on the clothes, and that’s good because apparently I was late and if she started trying stuff on, I’d never leave.

  “Thanks for helping me,” Jazz said as I headed for the door. “I hope you don’t get in trouble with Gia.”

  “I’m always in trouble with Gia,” I remarked, which was undeniably the truth, but it was usually because of Jazz. I didn’t tell her this though, I just opened the door, since I was late and I would never tell Jazz anyway. “Good luck with your mystery guy.”

  “Yeah, well, good luck to you—that I won’t be texting you to come save me from yet another horrid date.”

  I grinned, “Well, maybe if you were more selective.”

  Jazz put her hands on her hips. “Hey, he gave me puppy-dog eyes!”

  “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll be getting another text from you in the middle of your bad puppy-dog-eyes-induced date.”

  “Probably.”

  I gave her a quick glance, trying not to seem too mother-hen. “I thought you weren’t supposed to go out—that you’re supposed to be ‘recuperating.’”

  I mean, she’d just been in a coma.

  “Well, I’m not technically supposed to go,” she admitted. “But I’ve been cooped up ‘recuperating’ for two weeks now. Two weeks! I’m a sociable person. I need to socialize. And it’s just a movie—not a marathon … or a party. And he gave me chocolates. You know I’m a sucker for chocolates.”

  “—and puppy-dog-eyes,” I muttered.

  “Right. So, there you go—wham. A date.”

  I rolled my eyes. But in a playful way. ‘Cause this was Jazz—my best friend.

  I slide a quick glance to her now as we’re driving home from her bad date. “Wanna help me choose my anniversary gift for Gia?”

  Jazz slinks down in her seat with a dramatic sigh. “Sure.” She grins slightly, “Does she need a new broomstick?”

  Which is her way of calling Gia a witch. I ignore it. “No, I think she’s set with broomsticks. I was thinking of a cake—since the one she baked me is on her kitchen wall.”

  Jazz scoffs. “She threw her cake at you?”

  “Well, to be fair, I deserved it—I guess.”

  She looks skeptical. She raises an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

  “I was texting another girl while we were kissing.”

  “Oh.” She sits back. “Yeah. That’s bad. Don’t do that.”

  I don’t tell her it was her I was texting.

  Instead, I say, “So, where can I get a nice cake—fast?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Jazz ended up having to pay for Gia’s cake. Like a dope, I forgot I spent the last of my money buying that zombie movie ticket (that I also couldn’t afford). That’s another thing that makes me a bad boyfriend. I’m always broke. See, it’s hard to get many hours in at work when I’m busy with everything else that I like. I mean, hockey practice and football eat up most of my time. And now there’s Gia. And if it wasn’t Gia, it would be some other girl. Girl that doesn’t mind a cheap date, that is. Which most don’t. (I’m a good kisser—and that’s free.)

  “I’ll pay you back for the cake,” I tell Jazz as I follow her up to her room.

  Really, I should get going, but I’m worried about Jazz. It’s been two weeks since she woke from that coma. But it still has me freaked. She was in it almost a whole week. It annihilated me. Now she seems all fragile to me. Like she’s going to pop back into one any second.

  Also, in the store tonight when we were buying the cake, I swear, it seemed like she was going to pass out or something. It did not alleviate my worries.

  Up in her room, she tells me, “You don’t have to pay me back. I owe you for all the times you’ve saved me since Ally left.”

  A weak smile creeps on my lips. “Hey, just doing my best friend duties.”

  To my shock, she takes my hand. So now my heart is pounding so loud I can hardly hear her next words. Also, I’m holding my breath.

  She says with her eyes all You’re awesome Luke, “You do them too well. I’m getting spoiled. I know I’m using you way too much.”

  Use me, Jazz.

  I don’t actually say those words out loud. But inside I think them, beg them.

  Instead, I just glance down at her soft hand in mine. Give it a little squeeze, then clear my throat. “Well, I guess I should get going. It’s my anniversary and everything.”

  ‘Ask me to stay,’ I inwardly beg. But she doesn’t. Of course. She has this rule. (I’ll explain it now)—

  See, our friend Eric got a crush on her back in the fifth grade. She totally called him out on it because he was getting all weird around her. When we explained to her why, she shook her head and kind of shuddered. (I kid you not—shuddered.)

  We (the guys) told her she couldn’t call Eric out on the crush, but she said she had to because it was ‘too bizarre to even contemplate.’ (Her words.)

  So she was totally stern with him (which she probably had to be, because he had it bad and basically couldn’t even look at her, let alone talk to her anymore, which had her freaked because they used to be good friends).

  She stopped Eric in the school hallway and made him look at her. Made him. “What Eric?—now you have a big stupid crush on me?”

  His lips parted and he made this strangled noise. “Maybe.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  He blinked. Then for a moment he was his old self. He grinned, “What?—you forbid it?”

  “Yeah. It’s dumb. We’re friends.”

  His eyes glinted challenging-like. “But I like you more than just as a friend.”

  “Well, knock it off.”

  He muttered, “Oh, okay. I’ll do that.”

  She gave his head a noogie. (Well, tried—Eric is a giant.) “Good,” she said playfully, like he was actually going to do what she said. “Thank you.”

  Then she said softly, “Eric, friends can’t date or get crushes. It ruins everything. And your friendship means too much to me to ruin.”

  So, she made it clear. It was a rule. And it was probably a good rule. Safe. Friends don’t date friends. Or get crushes on them.

  I got it. Understood it. Jazz wanted to be our friend. Not one with ‘benefits.’ Well, except our ‘benefit’ was getting to be her friend. Good enough for me.

  It seemed like a really good rule … back then. But now—now it’s getting really, really hard to stick to that rule.

  CHAPTER 5

  As I’m leaving Jazz’s house, her mom tries to coax me to stay with brownies. She knows me. I’m easily coaxed to stay.

  “I can’t. I’m running really late,” I tell her, so tempted to advise her to keep a better eye on Jazz.

  The lady is nice. So nice. Like, so nice she let her stepdaughter, Renee, keep living with her and Jazz even after Renee’s dirt-bag dad treated her like garbage and ditched her for a younger lady.

  She takes strays in, she takes me in. She’s … nice. She is. But she’s busy. Being a single mom and all that. It’s hard. I know. But Jazz needs to be watched. She’s going out when she should stay home. I swear, she’s not ready to be fighting off guys yet. I mean, she almost fainted walking through a grocery store. />
  But I’m not sure how to bring this up with Ms. Nolen. I mean, I can’t say ‘be a mom to Jazz.’ She is a mom to Jazz. She just doesn’t get that Jazz can’t stand to be alone.

  ‘Hey, Jazz went out with a loser tonight,’ almost spills from my lips, just as a heads up to her, but I keep it in, because I’m not sure it’s my place.

  I mean, I don’t want to rat Jazz out. I just don’t want her fainting on a date. Especially not when she dates guys like Squirrel. (Okay, any guy.)

  I put my hand on the doorknob. But I can’t leave. I press my forehead against the frame, then I turn back to Ms. Nolen. “Maybe Jazz isn’t ready to go out yet. She seemed pretty weak”—and defenseless—“at the grocery store.”

  Ms. Nolen nods knowingly. “I know. But she’s a hard one to keep down.”

  Right.

  Okay.

  I’m not sure what else to say about it, so I leave. But there’s a knot in my stomach. I can’t shake the image of Jazz at the hospital in her coma. The image will never get out of my brain. It gives me nightmares.

  CHAPTER 6

  As I’m making out with Gia, she gets a text. Then another. And another. Finally, she pulls away from me with a frustrated sigh.

  “I thought I put it on do-not-disturb,” she tells me. “I had it on that before—I mean, when you were here earlier.”

  I guess she explains all of this because she wants me to know your phone should not distract you while you’re kissing. But I already got that one. Loud and clear. (The cake is cleaned off the wall, by the way. No sign of it ever existing.)

  “Hmm. The texts are from Griffin Piper,” Gia muses, “—and they’re for you.”

  I jerk my head up. Griffin is on my hockey team. But he doesn’t go around texting me. Especially not through my girlfriends. His first text says, “You forgot your phone here—at my house. When you were here earlier—at my house.”

  Okay, well, I wasn’t at Griffin’s house.

  I tilt my head and read the next message. “I’m going to bed now. So, I’m going to put your phone in your mailbox. This is just a heads up … so you can find your phone without disturbing me with gory details of your night. Again, do NOT disturb me … but have a good night.”

  The third message says: “Enjoy your broomstick, bestie.”

  Um, okay, Jazz may have taken a little too much of her after-coma medication. But obviously, I get the gist of what’s going on. I left my phone at her house. She wants me to know where I can find it. She didn’t want me to get in trouble with Gia, so she sent the info to Griffin to give to me. Also … she thinks Gia is a witch. Still.

  I run a hand over my face. “I should get going.”

  “Okay,” Gia says.

  I can’t tell if she’s mad or not. It’s been a weird night. “So … we’re good?”

  She nods.

  I kiss her lightly, not wanting us to end badly on our ‘anniversary.’ But man, I’m tired.

  CHAPTER 7

  As I’m getting my phone out of my mailbox, I hear Jazz’s voice, “I saw your pictures.”

  She had been sitting on her porch. In the dark. (We’re next door neighbors, did I mention that?)

  Walking over to her, I smile. Busted. She saw the pictures stashed on my phone?? Man.

  “Oh, you little snoop.” I give her a head-noogie. ‘Cause she hates that.

  She wrestles away from me. “I saw an awful lot of pictures of me,” she says. “Like, all of them are me.” She looks up at me challengingly. “Did you do that on purpose?—leave them for me to see?—and get all gooey?”

  “Mayyybe.”

  It’s so incredibly not true. Not even slightly. But I make it sound like it is. Like it was a joke. I tilt my head. “Did it make you gooey?”

  “For a second,” she sighs. “I was touched. But then I thought—hey, this is the guy that gives me head-noogies. And dates broomstick flyers.”

  I run a hand through my hair. This is the part where I should come clean. Admit my sudden stalker obsessed feelings towards her. But she really has no clue. And I don’t know how to break it to her. (I mean, it didn’t go well for poor Eric.) Plus, at the moment, I have a girlfriend. (I think.)

  Her gaze darts between my phone and my eyes. “Where do you stash your dirty pictures of girls?” she teases.

  “Yeah. Those aren’t so easily accessible,” I tell her, flicking through my phone, like I’m going to give her an eyeful, murmuring—“But you want to see them? I didn’t know you were interested in that kind of stuff, Jazz.”

  “I’m interested to see who is in them.”

  “Girlfriends, Jazz.” I wink. “Only girlfriends.”

  Really, I don’t keep dirty pictures on my phone. Or pictures of girls. Not anymore. The only pictures I have on my phone anymore is Jazz. Ever since the coma thing. I’m seriously messed up. Like I deleted all of my other pictures. All of them. Then I had to hurry and take one of me and Gia together. I mean, she’s my girlfriend. And she looks nice. Really, really nice. And I’m an idiot.

  So yeah, my cover screen is back to Gia. But the rest? The rest are still Jazz. Luckily no one else knows my phone password. Except Jazz. Apparently. It’s ‘Brutal,’ by the way. That was the name of my dog. He was a monster of a dog. I loved him. Jazz knows. Jazz is the only one.

  That’s ironic, huh? … Jazz is the only one.

  CHAPTER 8

  I sigh. I have this ‘journal’ I have to keep. It’s for this ‘anger management’ class the whole hockey team has to go to now. At first it was just Griffin Piper needing to go. Since Ally (Jazz’s best friend) broke up with Griffin and moved away, he’s been majorly taking it out on the other team. Majorly. Like, his nickname “The Grief-Master” is now in full force—on the other team. During games, on the ice. He gets in fights. Tons of them. One right after the other. And then, of course, Mason gets in them ‘cause he’s Griffin’s best friend. Then soon, the whole team is in there—fighting.

  So yeah … anger management.

  I read through the ‘journal’ I’m keeping on my computer and groan. You would too. Talk about goo.

  Here’s an example, the first entry (get ready to groan)—

  ‘Since Ally left, Jazz and I’ve been getting tight again. I love it. I missed her. Back in fourth grade, when Ally came along, she swiped my best friend. Seriously, Jazz dumped me. Not in words, but actions. Suddenly, Ally got all the special stuff from Jazz. The best friend stuff. The special treats, the too-hard-to-contain-secrets, it all went to Ally. I was bummed. I mean, I had girlfriends, yeah. Tons. But I’d only had one best friend. And Ally stole her away. Jazz didn’t even look back. Whatever. Now she’s back, needing me again. I love it.

  Hey, she’s at my door….

  ‘Okay, I’m back. She’s changing in my bathroom. She has two dresses she’s needing me to help her decide on for her ‘date’ tonight with a loser that I’ll admit is popular at our school, but he’s a total wad and I know the date will go bad and she’ll be texting me before the night is over to pick her up. I don’t mind. Only, man, she looks hot. When did that happen? When did Jazz get so hot? This is not cool … I’m getting ATTRACTED to Jazz??? No, so not cool. She’s my longest running friend. She needs to stop looking at me like she’s does. Did she always look at me like that???’

  The entries only got worse after the coma. Like, ten-thousand times worse.

  I glance out my window, then do a double-take. My heart is now thumping wild. My hand shoots for my phone. ‘Jazz, shut your shades when you change.’

  ‘I’m not changing. I have a tank top on. And what are you doing looking in my window—creeper!!!’ She does a smiley face emoji afterwards, only teasing. (Little does she know.)

  ‘I’m not ‘looking in your window.’ I was just looking out my window and there you were—taking off your shirt.’ (Giving me a thrill.)

  ‘But I have a tank top under.’

  ‘Just shut your shades when you take off articles of clothing. Just sayin.’�
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  She should know. She had this weird guy, Jonah Michaels stalking her at one point. In sixth grade, I caught him peeking in her window. Okay, it was her kitchen window, but that was only because her bedroom window is on the second floor.

  Anyway, I caught him watching her through the window. I pounded him big time and told him to never go near her again. And as far as I know he hasn’t. I mean, he’s the one that crashed into her car. The one that sent her into the coma. But as everyone keeps saying, it wasn’t his fault. He had squealed on his breaks when Jazz had put on hers. But they were on a patch of ice.

  The accident wasn’t his fault. Could have happened to anyone. Everyone keeps telling me that. I try to keep remembering it as every time I see the guy, my fist wants to meet his nose. But that might also be residue from the protective feelings that sliced through me seeing him stalking Jazz all those years ago. I don’t know.

  All I know is, when I see the guy—I see red. So him putting Jazz in the coma—it hasn’t helped his case with me. Though all the girls seem to dig him, and Gia says girls could only ‘Wish to have him stalk them.’

  So, yeah, I really don’t know. I just avoid the guy. And expect him to do the same for Jazz—or I will make good on my threat to him. I’ll kill him.

  Jazz shuts her shades now. “Happy?”

  No, not really.

  I text back: “Well, I liked the view better before … but so would anyone else.”

  I close my eyes then add, though it kind of kills to do it, “Jazz, don’t dance with your shades open either.”

  Yeah, I’m as much a stalker to her as anyone else these days. This is getting messed up.

  CHAPTER 9

  Griffin drops by my house—which he never does. Jazz involving him in the phone drop-off must have made him realize we’re kind of in the same situation—wanting off-limit girls. (Though his had to transfer to another state to keep her hands off him—face it, Ally still loves him.) They’re each other’s ‘werewolves’ or something, as Griffin used to say—well, not in front of Ally. But they belong together.