My ponytail’s come loose and strands of hair tickle my face. I brush the strands away and soak up everyone’s adoration. My black belt test was comparatively low-key, with few witnesses. This is what my black belt test should’ve been. A celebration. A crowd. Sweet acknowledgment from hundreds of my peers. I’ve earned this.
Someone from the yearbook’s filming me with a minicamera so I can show the demo to Grandmaster Huan later. He’ll be happy with the size of the crowd and their response.
But then Grant Binetti shouts from the third row, “Who cares if you can break a bunch of boards? Anyone can do that!”
“Shut up, Grant. Why are you even here?” someone shouts back.
He doesn’t answer right away, until more people chime in. “I’m just saying, it’s not hard. Breaking a board doesn’t mean anything.”
What a massive tool! “Do you want to try?” I yell back, rolling my eyes. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
“Yeah!” more people yell, pushing and shoving Grant out of his seat.
“Whatever.” He nearly trips on his way down the bleacher aisle steps, onto the gym floor. He picks up a broken piece of wood. “These aren’t even thick,” he says. “They’re like plywood.”
I grab a fresh board from the unused stack and hold it out for him. “Here. Give it a shot.”
Grant winds up and slams his fist into the board.
Nothing. Not even a crack. He’s doing it completely wrong, and it’s hilarious. He shakes his hand out, clearly in pain but pretending it doesn’t hurt.
Grant tries again. And again.
Hollow. Thuds.
Principal Simmons rushes over to put a stop to it, looking stunned. He places a hand on Grant’s shoulder.
“Okay, Grant, take your seat.”
The crowd’s laughing and taunting him now. “You’re such an idiot.” “Sit down, loser.”
Grant glares at me, shoves the boards at me, and storms out the gym doors, letting them slam shut behind him. Whatever.
Principal Simmons grabs the mic again. “Okay, that’s enough for today, I think. Thank you to …” He consults his note card. “Glenview Martial Arts for that exciting show. The owner of Glenview Martial Arts, Grandmaster Huan, invites anyone who’s interested to stop by his Tae Kwon Do studio for a free lesson and uniform.” He consults another index card as I silently mouth along, “First month is only $24.95.”
I open my gym bag, pull out a colorful stack of promotional flyers, and hold them up so everyone can see, and then I set them down on a table near the exit.
In a wave, people tumble off the bleachers and crash to the gym floor, coming toward us. Toward me. My friends can’t even get to me. That’s never happened before.
I don’t know who to look at. People swarm me; everyone wants to say something to me, to exist to me, to get a moment or a smile or a nod or a “Thank you for coming” from me. Handshakes, back pats, a few hugs from people I don’t even know.
“Imogen! Hey, Imogen!”
“That was amazing.”
“Oh my God. I had no idea.”
“Can you believe Grant? He’s such an ass.”
“How long did it take to get your black belt?”
“Does it hurt to do splits?”
“How much did you have to practice?”
“When did you start taking lessons?”
“Are your dates scared of you?”
“What dates?” I almost say, but don’t. That would be a dork’s answer. So instead I just laugh in a manner that could be considered “knowingly,” like “How right you are,” but don’t actually answer. They’ll supply a witty comment in their own heads. Because when you’re suddenly popular, it doesn’t matter what you’re actually like. Everything you say and do is the most perfect thing to say and do in any given moment.
Is this what it feels like for Hunter after he leads his team to victory? It’s addictive.
For a full week people stopped me to congratulate me, especially for what I did to Grant Binetti. He was always knocking into people—girls—in the hall, and last year he slammed his shoulder into Shelly, and she tripped and twisted her ankle. She had to sit out the spring dance recital—couldn’t even be in the background—all because of him. It’d be like if I got demoted to white belt all of a sudden. I’d die of humiliation.
It wasn’t just the best day of my life because of the crowd. It was the best day because of who was in the crowd. Shelly. Hannah. DJ. Hunter. All of us, friends.
And now, a month later, I’m not even sure who that girl was—that girl who stood up in front of her classmates and pretended to know how to fight.
I’m ripped out of my memories by the bell ringing. I haven’t touched my lunch. I chuck it in the garbage on my way out the gym door.
The next couple nights I don’t sleep. I just lie there staring at my now-empty walls, and then the sun comes up, and I realize I never drifted off, and now I have to go about my day, which is nothing more than a series of movements I make to fool people into leaving me alone. Mom has to come upstairs and drag me out of bed, as though I’ve slept, as though I’ve had some time off.
When I finally turn my cell back on, there’s a text from Shelly, dated three days ago.
“Heard what happened. I’m here if U want 2 talk.”
I should be relieved, but it feels wrong, somehow, to text back. Like it’s unfair or against the rules to take advantage of this olive branch. If we’re going to talk again, I want it to be because we’re friends again, not because she pities me or feels obligated.
I read the text a million times until the words don’t make sense, until they’re just a bunch of unrelated letters and spaces that can’t hurt me, and then I shut my phone off.
Friday night again. One week since the diner. One week since my heart transplant.
Hannah and DJ insist on taking me to the movies, as though I’d never snapped at them. Philip’s coming, too. My parents think it’s smart for me to get out of the house for a few hours and take my mind off things. Interesting that Mom didn’t suggest I go to sparring; it’s the second Friday in a row I’ve missed it. Does she know I can’t possibly face anyone at Glenview Martial Arts? Is that why she wouldn’t put me on the phone with Grandmaster Huan?
Hannah and I meet up at DJ’s to help her get ready.
“Okay, this is how we’ll play it,” Hannah says, pacing around the room and slapping her hands together. “Imogen, you and I will get up right at the start of the last preview and act like we forgot to get a snack, and when we come back in, the theater’ll be dark and we ‘won’t be able to find our seats’…”
“No, I don’t want to be alone with Philip—the whole point is it’s a casual group thing and not a real date,” says DJ.
“That’s just for your dad,” Hannah says impatiently. “We don’t actually have to do it that way. It just has to appear that way.” She grins. “Do you want to get kissed or not?”
“Imo, hey, earth to Imo,” DJ says, waving a manicured hand in my face.
“You okay?” says Hannah.
“Huh?”
“You’ve been spacing out. Philip’s gonna be here any second, and we still haven’t come up with a list of conversation topics.”
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Hannah asks, sitting down next to me on the floor. “Do you want to stay in and rent something instead?”
DJ nods. “We could totally do that. Whatever you want.”
They stare at me, all concerned, and I know if I said the word, they really would stay in. They’re better than backup best friends; they’re the real deal.
“It’s fine,” I say, striving for a cheery voice. “But Hannah, you should ditch the skirt and wear jeans like me, so Deej will stand out more in her dress, and Philip will think she looks extra-feminine.”
“Brilliant!” says Hannah, immediately grabbing her pants, slipping them on under her skirt, and then shucking off the skirt.
“You’re a genius,” s
ays DJ.
I can do this. One word at a time. It’s not too hard, really. Acting normal.
I spend the entire movie feeling trapped because I’m in a middle seat instead of an aisle seat. How psychotic is that? It’s a romantic comedy, and people behind me laugh a lot, so it must be wacky fun. I don’t remember anything about the plot.
Outside, I gasp in lungfuls of cool air and wipe sweat off my neck. DJ and Philip are holding hands so I guess Hannah’s ploy worked.
Grant Binetti and one of his jerk friends exit the theater at the same time. He catches me looking and snaps, “What?”
“Leave her alone,” says Hannah, pulling me along. “Loser,” she mutters under her breath.
Grant and his friend walk off, dropping their ticket stubs on the ground. They were at Legend of the Fist, a martial arts flick—probably the same one I would’ve chosen before the diner.
My friends and I zip up our coats and turn on our cell phones. I’m the only one whose phone beeps, indicating a text. I have to pass Shelly’s message en route to retrieving the text.
“Hunter’s closing at Dairy Delight and wants us to stop by,” I report.
“Free cones?” says Philip way too ecstatically.
Behind his back, DJ gives me the “please, please?” puppy-dog eyes. Even though I’m not really in the mood for Dairy Delight aka Dairy Dump aka Hunter’s Harem, this is all part of being normal, and I find myself agreeing.
As soon as we get there I regret it, because the place is packed.
The horrible thing in my chest that’s not my heart starts thumping like crazy and rising up my throat, too big to fit inside me.
All Hunter’s friends are there, the who’s who of Glenview High, including Gretchen and everyone from the diner. Worse, they’re standing on tables and clapping for me.
IN SECONDS, I’M SURROUNDED. IT’S LIKE A NIGHTMARE version of my demo at school. That time, I lapped up every drop of attention and adoration. Now I wish I could fall through the floor.
“How are you doing?”
“Are you okay?”
“I can’t believe it happened right after I left.”
“It sucks you had to go through that.”
Out of habit I scan the crowd for Shelly, poised and regal as an Abyssinian cat, but of course she’s not here. She and Hunter didn’t last, shock-o-rama.
“Hey, Imo,” says Hunter. “How was the movie?”
He hands me my favorite dish: vanilla-strawberry sundae without nuts, sprinkles, or cherries because I hate crunching or chewing when I eat ice cream.
“Pretty good,” I say, taking the dish. “Thanks.” For a moment, I let myself chill. Hunter is the reason Shelly and I aren’t friends anymore, but right now he’s trying really hard; this is exactly the kind of party he’d want if something bad happened to him.
I wonder if this is what Oprah means by “eating your feelings,” because Dairy Delight fare is the definition of comfort food for me. The store’s been in Glenview forever, getting by on little kids’ birthday parties, but these days it’s actually popular with everyone at school, and not even in an ironic sense.
Hunter started working here a year ago, and his social life came with him. He’s turned the place into a moneymaking machine, probably quadrupled the owners’ income, and so no matter how much he (a) slacks off, (b) offers “samples” the size of regular cones, and (c) takes breaks every fifteen minutes to come out from behind the counter and dance with his buddies, he’ll never be fired.
Everyone’s so happy in his presence. The feeling’s contagious, especially when he turns the radio up on a live concert going on in Grant Park and twirls me around in the middle of the store. I laugh despite myself and flick a dollop of strawberry sauce at him. It feels good to smirk, halfway to smiling.
A few minutes later, Gretchen pulls me into a hug. Even though she crushes my ribs, I hug back. She’s cut and dyed her hair since I saw her last, and I tell her I like it.
She looks sheepish. “You do? I needed a change. It’s so cliché, right? My trauma cut.”
“Maybe I should cut mine, too,” I ponder.
“But you have such beautiful braids.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Awkward City, population: two.
“How are you doing?” she asks finally.
I look down, rub the toe of my shoe against the black-and-white-checkered floor.
“She’s still beating herself up over it,” Hunter tells Gretchen.
“Why?” Gretchen says to me. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
I could have nailed him with a kick or a punch before he saw it coming. Damaged his kidneys. Smashed his balls. Taken out his legs.
I could’ve tried.
Effing “Daryl.” I’d give my life for a fair fight with him. No weapons except ourselves.
“Thank God Gretchen was in the bathroom, huh?” says some dude I vaguely recognize from our table last Friday.
“If I’d been at the table, I couldn’t have risked using my cell phone. He might have heard me,” Gretchen adds.
Yet another difference between us. It never occurred to me to use my cell phone. Not even once.
“I would’ve hid under the table, too,” Gretchen insists.
Which is all fine and good for her. She wasn’t trained to do anything else.
“See?” says Hunter. “No one expected you to do anything.”
Here’s the thing, though.
Why not?
A while later, Gretchen finds me in the bathroom. I can see now her face is a bit blotchy and she’s wearing lots of makeup under her eyes to hide the bags. I really wish I’d called her back last weekend.
“My parents put me on Xanax, like, twelve hours after it happened,” she confides. “I can’t concentrate on anything, but I have to focus if I want to win class president. I can’t fuck up my whole senior year just ’cause of this.” She reminds me of Shelly, all focus, focus, focus. I guess coming to school looking perfect is her way of dealing.
“They gave me a sedative,” I admit. “It helped, I guess, but mostly it just made me feel groggy.”
“You should definitely consider Xanax,” she says, sounding like a pharmaceutical ad. “Ask your doctor.” She reapplies her lipstick, then makes her way out the door to hand out pins and flyers to everyone. She’s a shoo-in for prez; she’ll get the sympathy vote and the hero vote.
She’s spent a good portion of the night at my brother’s side, but Hunter never returns to ground he’s already fed from, and she’s like eight girlfriends ago. Nearly every girl at the Dump tonight is an ex- or a pre-girlfriend. The Hunterettes.
“Stop looking at Hannah,” I murmur at him when I emerge from the bathroom.
“What? Why?”
“You know why.”
“First of all, I’m not looking at Hannah. And second of all, I think it’d be cool if you dated one of my friends. We could go on doubles.” He takes a gulp of his frothy-looking purple soda. The only reason he has a job is so he can take out girls. He even gets paid in cash, so whatever he makes on Friday he can spend on Saturday without having to miss a beat and stop at the bank.
“I don’t need you to pimp me out,” I groan. We shouldn’t be doing this here.
“It’s not like that,” he protests. “Jeez, go to a dark place much? I’ll set you up with whoever. Someone nice.”
“Forget it,” I mumble, turning on my heel and marching toward the Love Experiment. “Deej, your dad’s gonna flip his shit if you don’t get home by eleven thirty.”
My friends and I don’t usually say words like shit out loud, but for some reason with the seniors standing around I feel compelled to pretend it’s standard usage.
Hunter has to clean the place, restock the ice cream, and lock up, so it’s pretty much time for everyone to go anyway.
We all head out the door, and Gretchen hugs me again. Just before she hops in her car, I realize she might be able to help me. I jog over and she rolls down her
window.
“Hey, do you know who that other guy at the diner was?” I ask. “He was across from me, under a different table.”
She thinks for a moment. “I didn’t catch his name. I don’t think he goes to Glenview.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Figures.
IN SECOND PERIOD ENGLISH LIT, OUR FALL READING ASsignment is Bleak House by Charles Dickens. Each fall the junior class has to read a Dickens. It’s tradition, the notorious hell assignment of Glenview High, and is harder than whatever we’ll have to read senior year, because by then the smart kids have been pulled into AP classes and the rest of us bumble along like always—by senior year teachers feel sorry for us and try to help us coast into college.
Guess which book Hunter got assigned when he was a junior?
Guess, guess, guess.
A Christmas Carol.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL! Which everyone already knows the story of! So the day before the exam, he Netflixed the Disney version, where Scrooge McDuck is … wait for it … Scrooge. And Goofy is the ghost of Marley or whoever, with the chains. But my point is, SCREW THAT. Why should I have to read ten thousand pages about a house, when last year’s juniors got to slack off with “God bless us, every one”?
Bleak House is so heavy that dirty cops could use it to beat confessions out of people. I want to fling it down an empty hallway and see how far it glides. Maybe after school, after the janitor’s gone by with his whirring cleaner machine and the floor is all slick, I’ll do just that.
Halfway through class, someone named Ricky Alvarez and I are called to Principal Simmons’s office over the loudspeaker.
“Oooooooooh,” says my English class, predictably. Mr. Andrews gives them a sharp look and they stop.
I take my backpack in case the bell rings while I’m gone.
“Try not to hide under any tables on the way,” Grant calls after me.
Outside Principal Simmons’s door I see a tall, built, dark-haired guy waiting. Must be Ricky. Probably a senior.
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