“I don’t feel like going home,” I say as I pull out of our parking space. “Can we go get lunch?”
She throws her head back onto her seat and groans.
“What? Ayla, what? What did I do now?”
“I just don’t understand why you’re being all nice,” she says. It’s definitely an insult.
“Sorry,” I snap. “I’ll just take you home, Your Highness.”
“Ugh, you know what I mean! You just left the game last night without even saying anything, and then this morning you’re all—” She waves a hand at me, indicating the fact that I’m here in Mom’s car with her, I guess.
I want to say something mean back, but suddenly I’m just too tired.
“I miss you. I miss hanging out. We never have time anymore, and that’s—”
“You’re the one who doesn’t have time!” she cries.
“Yeah, that’s what I was saying. I was going to say that I know you’re busy, and obviously that’s okay. I’m busy a lot, too.”
“But now you’re fighting with Maddie, so you want to hang out with your dumb little sister again?”
Her voice is quiet, almost gentle, but the words still slice through me.
“It’s not like that,” I whisper.
“Um, okay.”
I turn the car away from our neighborhood, toward the strip mall with the Chipotle. I’m not really hungry anymore, but I still don’t feel like going home.
“For the record,” Ayla says, “I had a huge fight with Emily.”
“You did? Wait, Emily H.?”
She nods. Emily Hambrecht has been her best friend for basically all eternity.
“What happened?”
“She likes all her jock friends better now,” Ayla says.
“That probably won’t last,” I say. “Maddie has a bunch of jock friends, too, but we’re still . . . you know.” I can’t quite finish the thought.
“So what happened, then? Why are you guys fighting?”
“A boy.”
We’re both quiet as I find another parking spot, right across from the restaurant. Ayla turns off the radio and looks at me.
“You’re not supposed to fight over boys,” she says matter-of-factly.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I tell her.
“But did you tell her you’re sorry?”
I open my mouth but close it again without answering. I said I was sorry. But I still haven’t had a chance to explain.
I try to picture it—calling, or texting, or emailing again. Or just walking up to her at school. What would I say?
I’m sorry I flirted with Cory but it was just a habit—no.
I’m sorry Cory didn’t understand that I didn’t want—crap, no, not that, either.
I’m sorry you couldn’t even listen to my side of the story before you marched off in a righteous huff and drove home in the middle of a storm just to get away from me, even though I was the one trying to be a good friend by letting go of a guy who’d been mine first, and whether I liked him wasn’t even the point, it was supposed to be me and you, Maddie. We’re the ones who count, right?
And by the way, your new boyfriend is kind of a dick.
Oh.
I stare out the windshield, a little stunned by my own thoughts.
“It’s really complicated,” I whisper. “You have no idea how messed up stuff gets in high school.”
“Whatever. That’s just what people say when they don’t want to deal with the truth.”
She gets out of the car and slams the door behind her, and I sit, watching her cross the parking lot. She’s so tall. She has such great posture, such a confident walk. She’s a good person.
And as much as I hate to admit it, she’s probably right.
18
“PSST, ROSIE. COME back here.”
Joel’s head disappears back behind the door to the office, and I look over at Steph.
“Do you think I’m fired?”
“No?” she says, then makes a face. “No way,” she tries again.
I sigh. “I actually have a shift today. It’s not like I’m going to come in for fun every weekend.”
She looks nervously at the door with Joel behind it.
Whatever. If it really is illegal to work when you don’t have a shift, I can find another job. If Mom and Dave would get me a car, I could work anywhere. Even around here there’s a McDonald’s and a gas station.
I sigh again, then jam the door open with my shoulder and walk back to my doom.
Except Joel isn’t sitting in the tiny office—and he’s not going through the boxes in storage or checking inventory in the big walk-in freezer. He’s not back here at all, and for a second I’m completely confused, until I smell the smoke. The back exit door is propped open with a cinder block, and marijuana smoke is drifting through the gap.
Stepping over the block, I join Joel against the back wall, leaning against the painted bricks. He’s staring at the Dumpster thoughtfully, his whole face seeming to concentrate on the small, hand-rolled joint in his hand.
“What’s up?” I ask. I wonder if he’s allowed to fire me while literally breaking the law at the same time. Maybe it doesn’t matter, technically, but it would be annoying. Even if he does look kind of hot, with his shaggy hair falling over his eyes and his big tattoo of a tree poking out from the cuff of his store-manager shirt.
“You smoke?” he asks, squinting at me and holding out the weed.
I open my mouth and point back at the door at the same time, but words don’t come out. If he can read unofficial sign language, he can probably tell I’m trying to say, I think I’m supposed to be working right now? So . . . no?
His face breaks into a slow, lazy grin. “Makes the day go faster,” he says with a shrug. “Or slower, depending. Easier, definitely.”
I’m not quite following, but I shift on the wall so I’m leaning on my right side, facing him. He’s always flirting with me, at least whenever he’s actually here, but I’ve never really been alone with Joel. Maybe this is what I need—maybe my problem is all those high school boys, with their high school girlfriends and their high school issues. Maybe a college guy, a guy with a job and a car, would be better for me. At least it wouldn’t ruin my reputation at school.
Joel rolls to the side, too, so now our chests are only a few inches apart. Holding the joint in two fingers, he traces the rest of his right hand along my arm. Shivers trickle along the line he draws, but I keep my face perfectly still.
“Girls didn’t look like you when I was in high school,” he says. It sounds like something from a movie, but not necessarily in a bad way. “Hell”—he takes another puff, holds it, and lets it out in a smooth stream over my head —“they don’t look like you in college, either.”
He taps the tip of the cigarette against the brick between us. We both watch as it slowly loses air and goes out, and then he tucks it behind one ear. And then he moves in.
First he holds my jaw, moving his hand back under my ear to the base of my skull, as his face gets closer and his lips meet mine. He’s still braced against the wall, but then we’re turning, and I’m pinned back against the cool bricks. A panicky feeling pinches the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. This is easier, like he said. Makes the day go faster. Slower and faster at the same time.
But then his tongue snakes between my teeth, and I’m not ready for it and I jump a little. He doesn’t seem to notice. He tastes kind of like dirt, or gross beer, but there’s not much time to think about that before he juts his hips forward and pushes more of me against the wall. His other hand finds the hem of my shirt and starts untucking it.
My hands are trapped behind me, pressed between my lower back and the wall. I want to push Joel’s hands away from my shirt. I want to stop doing this before Steph finds us out here.
And that’s when it hits me, how embarrassing this feels. I feel gross. Joel’s tongue tastes bad, and his hands have this dead weight to them. He can’t seem to get under
my shirt, even, and I guess he must be really stoned but he’s heavy, too.
I try pushing away from the wall, but he’s pushing back, and suddenly I can’t breathe. Every part of my body starts moving at once—my head twists to the side, my hands shove against his arms and his chest, my knees start to buckle. My feet scrape on the rough concrete underneath us, and I think I might accidentally scream if he doesn’t get off me right now right now right—
“Whoooa, what the fuuuck?” Joel stumbles back, blinking like he just woke up.
I’m still moving, convulsing like I have a spider in my shirt. I shake out my arms and skitter closer to the door, my head swinging back and forth the whole time, no no no no no.
“Jeez, girl, calm down. You epileptic or something?”
I let out a shuddering breath, and for a second I’m afraid it’s happening again—I’m going to crumple to the ground and start sobbing. Steph will have to sit with me again, and I’ll have to feel all those feelings again, and I can’t. Joel is just a bad kisser, I tell myself. There’s no need to fucking lose it.
“Sorry,” I gasp. He’s just staring at me. He doesn’t seem mad or annoyed or anything. Just dumbly staring. “Sorry,” I repeat, and I take off.
I’m halfway home before I realize that I didn’t finish the last half hour of my shift, and I didn’t clock out, and whatever goodwill I’d built up with Steph is probably ruined now that I’ve bailed on her for the second week in a row.
But at least if they fire me now, I won’t really care.
“Don’t forget to buy your tickets to the Homecoming Dance! All the proceeds this year will go to tornado relief. And don’t forget to vote! Ballots for the Senior and Junior Courts are with your homeroom teachers right now!”
Maddie’s cheerful voice cuts out briefly, and there’s a sharp crackle of static through the PA system. Then, suddenly, she’s back.
“And go Lions!”
Everyone in Mr. Richnow’s room laughs a little, except me. I don’t even recognize Maddie’s voice anymore. She sounds manic, hyper, just like Olivia—
Or she just sounds happy, now that she doesn’t have to deal with you.
I glance over at Alex’s chair for the fifth time, wondering why he’s not in it. Mr. Richnow drops a ballot on my desk, and when I turn back around, I find Finn Kramper staring at me.
“What?” I say, before I have a chance to think better of talking to him. Suddenly I remember how Maddie used to call him Finn Creeper, and I want to laugh. Or cry.
“You going to the dance?” he asks. He almost sounds normal, but I’m not fooled.
“Probably not.” As soon as I say it, I realize with a sick feeling that it’s probably true.
Finn purses his lips and studies me. I dip my head back down, letting my hair fall around my eyes, and study the empty paper in front of me. Three spaces for boys, three for girls. Kings, princes. Queens, princesses. What a bunch of bullshit.
All around me, people are whispering and giggling. Mr. Richnow, as usual, doesn’t seem to care. I wish he would at least tell Olivia to stop talking—it’s like her voice is inside my head.
Ryan Tucker, I write on the first space under King. I pause for a long minute, then add Gabe Richmond. At least Gabe is nice to me. He’s the only one of Cory’s friends who still says hi to me in the halls like nothing happened.
And Alex Goode.
Under Queen I write fast: Madelyn Costello.
Then Stephanie Barnes.
And then, because what the hell, I write Rosie Fuller in the last space for Queen.
Because apparently I live in a fantasy world now.
By lunchtime I still haven’t seen Alex anywhere—not at our lockers, not in English. I’m still disappointed when he doesn’t show up in the theater, though. This was going to be my chance to act normal. Or to apologize. Or to apologize and then act normal, so he’d know I’m not jealous of his girlfriend. I’m not a crazy fangirl who’ll swipe through every single photo he’s ever put online, then all the way through again. Obviously I’m not that girl at all.
“Where is he?” Ryan snaps at me.
“How should I know?” I don’t even try to pretend I don’t know who he is. I’m dying to talk to someone about where Alex might be today.
“Well, I don’t know! Is he sick?”
I just stare at Ryan for a minute. “Why are you mad at me about this?”
He throws up his hands. “Steph can’t start until next week and the stupid crew doesn’t get assigned until auditions! I’m not running some shitty community theater, here—we need sets! And don’t even get me started on the costumes!”
“Hey, okay.” I step closer to Ryan, trying to pat him on the shoulder. But my hands are full of my lunch—a Diet Dr Pepper and a pack of Bugles—and instead of comforting him I sort of thwack him with the chips.
“Thanks,” he says, taking the bag. I don’t bother correcting his mistake. I don’t feel like getting yelled at anymore.
“We finished that whole platform thing on Friday,” I remind him. “And I can probably make the table. The small one, I mean.”
We’re standing backstage, surrounded by boxes and paint cans and big slabs of plywood. It’s a huge mess, no doubt about it. I don’t know how a “shitty community theater” would look six weeks before a show, but this definitely isn’t great.
“We can make it until next week.”
Ryan is throwing Bugles into his mouth one at a time, snapping down on them so loudly the sound echoes around us. “This is no way to operate,” he says.
“Yeah. Sorry,” I say. I open the Dr Pepper bottle and take a drink.
“You know something about Alex that you’re not telling me.” Ryan keeps his eyes fixed on me as he pours the Bugles crumbs into his mouth.
I’m not sure what to do with my face. Since Saturday morning, I’ve been pretending my night with Alex just didn’t happen. I hate that this means I can’t think about how magical it was, sitting on that roof with him. Or how close I felt to him, how special.
But if I’m going to forget what a sad, needy loser I acted like at the end of the night—when I was trying so damn hard to be the exact opposite—I have to ignore all the good stuff, too.
In fact, if I could just erase everything about the last two weekends from my memory, that would be ideal.
I shake my head at Ryan. “He’s probably sick.”
“Huh.” Ryan doesn’t look like he believes me, but he crumples up the chip bag, throws it out, and turns to me with his all-business face back on. “Well, he’s a lot better than you with the power tools. So let’s paint, yeah? Mr. Klonsky got us some backdrops, so we can start on those.”
I glance down at my sweater and jeans. I didn’t feel like dressing up today, so I should actually be fine if I splatter paint on myself. I haven’t felt like dressing nicely in a while, actually. I think Ayla’s basically cleaned out my closet by now, and I haven’t even noticed. Maybe if I could get my own boyfriend, instead of accidentally kissing everyone else’s, I’d feel like wearing something cute.
Yeah, look how well it worked out with Joel. You started shaking like a big baby.
“You’ll be fine,” Ryan says, misinterpreting my wardrobe check.
On my way to my next class, my hair is so full of fumes I think I might be a little bit high. Everything feels lighter, like my thoughts were too heavy before and now they’re lifted off my shoulders. Maybe I should try to use industrial painting supplies every lunch hour, just to take the edge off.
I’m so hazy, I don’t hear Cory’s voice until he’s right behind me.
“I’m telling you, we’re fine without Goode,” he’s saying. Shouting, practically.
“I don’t know, man, he’s been your go-to for—”
“Shut it, Richmond,” Cory snaps. “If Alex wants to skip town, fuck it.”
I’ve stopped walking, confused and stunned. What does he mean, Alex skipped town?
Then I feel Cory’s hand. On my butt.
He grabs me, hard, and squeezes. It hurts, and it knocks me off balance. When he lets go—as fast as he grabbed on—I’ve spun halfway to the lockers on the right side of the hall, dizzy and breathless.
Cory keeps walking with his entourage of football guys and doesn’t look back. The only face I see, as I stare stupidly at the backs of all the tall, wide boys taking up the entire hallway, is Gabe Richmond’s. He looks over his shoulder with something in his eyes—pity? Apology?
I can’t tell. There’s a free space along the wall next to me, and I fall against it, my shoulder connecting with the cement blocks hard enough to bruise. I stay there too long, long enough to watch Maddie walk by with Annabelle. She’s not trying to ignore me, she’s just genuinely laughing and talking and doesn’t see me.
I have to move, but Cory’s in my next class. That’s why we were walking in the same direction—we’re going to the same room. The same small, closed, cramped room.
Suddenly all my limbs move at once.
I push away from the wall and fight through the sudden crush of underclassmen to the back door. Mom didn’t need her car today, so it’s in the parking lot—maybe I can just sit in it for a minute. Just to be alone for a little while. Just to push down this rush of vomit trying to get out of my throat and the tears trying to drown my eyes. Just somewhere I can breathe for a goddamned second.
No one sees me leaving, or no one cares. I throw my backpack onto the passenger seat and collapse behind the wheel, feeling exhausted and wired at the same time. I still have paint on my hands. I still smell like a new house.
I still haven’t done anything right, not even apologized to any of the freaking dozens of people I owe apologies to.
And I know, now that I’m here, that I’m not just sitting in Mom’s car. I’m leaving.
I’ve never skipped school by myself before, but it just feels like nothing. The car slides out of the parking lot as easily as it would at two forty-five. The wheel practically turns itself around the familiar corners all the way to our house.
But at the end of our street, I stop at the curb. I don’t really want to go home—and I’ve run out of other places to go.
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