It’s still there—you’re just alone with it.
Alone in a room with a box.
Until maybe you aren’t alone anymore.
Until maybe there’s someone beside you.
He stops there, but I can tell by the way he turns his paper there’s stuff he’s not reading. More on the back of that sheet, more on the next page.
Oh, wow, I want to read the rest.
He looks hot. Not gorgeous hot—though that, too—but I mean physically warm. Almost blushing.
Mr. Campbell makes it a rule not to comment on our free-writes, but just to “let them breathe,” as he puts it. Even so, he gives Charlie a curious look, kind of like a dog who’s just heard a high-pitched sound, before moving on to Felix McKenzie and his dead guinea pig.
So, I can’t help thinking, is Charlie talking about me as the one beside him? I am, for what it’s worth, literally beside him at this very moment. Does that count for anything?
I try to catch Charlie’s eye, but he’s staring at his own hands.
Which means… what?
Crap and son of crap. An instruction manual should come with every boy.
I write, “Thanks for the flowers…” on a corner of my page, rip it off, and slip it on his desk. He glances at it and gives me an odd look.
“Okay! Places! Who’s up next? Hamlet! Horatio! Queen! King! Doctor! Dead Ophelia!” Mr. Campbell calls out the list of people for the next scene.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are already done for, so Charlie and I stay in our seats as “audience.”
He passes me a note with a penciled question mark.
I’m not sure what that means, but in return, I pass him an exclamation point and three asterisks.
Then the scene starts up and any more note passing would be too obvious, so I discreetly check my phone under the table, as if the answer to all things boy will miraculously appear on my screen. What I discover, instead, is a text from my mom.
Hi. Just got a call from the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. They want to talk with you this Thursday after school. You’re free that day, right? Nothing to worry about. I’ll be with you. Dad, too. Love, Mom
Ugh. Thanks, Universe. Way to come through.
Friendly
Charlie waits for me after class, taking longer than I suspect is genuinely necessary to gather his stuff and scoot his desk back where it goes.
When we get to the door, he walks beside me, close enough that the backs of our hands brush against each other.
I can’t help but grin. It’s almost like holding hands.
“So, that was pretty deep in there,” I say. “Do I get to read it?”
“What?”
“All that furtive writing,” I say, and when he still pretends to be clueless, “page two.”
“Hmm.” He taps his chin with his forefinger. “I don’t think page two is in the contract.”
“Hmm.” I tap my chin right back at him, teasing. “I don’t think we have a contract.”
“Well, maybe we should,” he says, but he doesn’t go on to say what that contract might include. As it turns out, I’m glad he doesn’t because when we round the corner to the locker rooms, I hear Jared’s voice mix with the other gym sounds. And I think about what Lindsey said: This is going to kill JJ.
While I don’t “like” Jared, I do like him. He is, sad goatee and tongue stud aside, a decent human being, and I don’t want to hurt him. I pretend that I need to dig something out of my backpack as we pass the open gym doors, which puts a respectable distance between Charlie’s hand and mine.
When we get to the girls’ locker room door, which can’t be seen from the gym, Charlie draws me close, kisses me softly on the cheek. Even though it’s just a little kiss, it seems so intimate, exceptionally sweet. Like a gentleman’s stolen embrace from one of those nineteenth-century costume movies my mom likes to watch.
“So was that a hint?” he says, as he pushes open the door for me.
“What?”
“‘Thanks for the flowers,’” he quotes.
“No hint,” I say, confused, “just, you know, thanks.” I give him a quick smile and step into the locker room just before the door swings shut.
“The rumors are true!” a voice trills before I’m even fully in the room. “You and Charlie Hunt.”
It’s Allison Hampstead. She, Amanda Wells, and Other Allison, as everyone calls her, are all on the girls’ soccer team. Of the three, Hampstead is definitely the alpha. She stands by the sink with her hip out, a teenage goddess in pale pink bra and matching panties.
Amanda and Other Allison stop what they’re doing and look at me. I feel like I just walked in on someone else’s surprise party. A vaguely threatening surprise party.
“Hey,” I mumble, approximating what I hope is a friendly wave, and walk to my locker, where I try to become immediately invisible. As I start to undress—all too aware that my sky-blue undies with kittens do not match my neon-orange sports bra—Other Allison says, her voice snuffly, like she has a cold, “So, Charlie. He’s so mysterious. I didn’t think he’d ever get over… you know.”
I am thinking simultaneously: Is he over her? and Why won’t she say Jamie’s name? and Why couldn’t I have worn my black bra today? and I hope I don’t catch what she has.
“It must be weird,” she says.
“So weird,” Amanda kicks in. “Was it a hookup or—?”
“Do you ever think, you know, she’s still here? Like a ghost?” breathes Other Allison.
“Uh,” I say.
“Come on, Ally,” snaps Amanda. “That’s just stupid.”
“She could be, you don’t know,” wheezes Other Allison. “Did you see that show—?”
“Anyway.” Allison Hampstead shoulders Other Allison out, pushing herself and her perfect bra fully inside my personal air bubble. “It’s wild about you and Charlie. I mean, it’s so… unexpected.” Her pastel lips, which coincidentally match both bra and panties, make a perfectly tied bow.
“It’ll be interesting to see if it can last. Who’s taking bets? Girls?” Amanda holds out her hands like she’s carrying two invisible trays.
“Um, excuse me.” I try not to elbow anyone as I tug my gym shirt over my head. I reach for my shorts and step into them, then square my shoulders, thinking, I’m not naked anymore, bring it on. “What exactly do you guys want?”
“Huh,” puffs Allison H. “We’re just being friendly!”
“It’s just that Amanda has this thing for—”
“Shut up, Ally!”
“Okaaaay,” I say, putting it together: Amanda must have a crush on Charlie. Of course. All the estrogen swamping the locker room air suddenly makes a little more sense.
“Well, then, to answer your questions,” I say, picking up my shoes. “No, I don’t think Jamie has come back to haunt us. No, it’s not a hookup. And even though you didn’t ask: No, it’s really not any of your business.”
I scoot past them, heading to the gym, hopeful my inner bitch has put an end to the capital-D Drama.
When I hit the gym, though, it soon becomes clear that Drama isn’t done with me yet.
Confused
I walk in, thinking I’m going to go find a quiet corner. I’m going to slip on my shoes, lie low, and spend the next forty-five minutes doing whatever peppy thing Coach Flanagan has planned for us with the two nets set up at opposite ends of the gym.
Charlie is talking with Mark Lee. It’s not like I’m trying to listen, but the tension in their voices makes them louder than usual, and I can’t help but hear their words.
“I thought—” Mark shakes his head. “Whatever.”
“Come on,” says Charlie. “It’s like every Monday.”
“My point exactly. We do it every Monday.”
“So this once—”
“Whatever. No biggie.” Mark turns, rolls his eyes. He catches sight of me on the bleachers and shoots me a hostile look.
The rest of the girls trickle out
of the locker room, including the now-clothed Allisons and Amanda.
That’s when Jared slides in beside me. He puts his hand on my knee. “Heeeey.” He drawls the “hey” out like it’s lyrics to one of his songs.
“Hey,” I say. I stare at his hand.
“So I lost you,” he says.
From the flirty way he says it, I’m guessing the dude gossip network isn’t quite as efficient as the girls’ soccer team.
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“Saturday night,” he goes on. “Did you—did you happen to hear—?”
“VOLLEYBALL!” Coach Flanagan roars. He blows his whistle and stretches, his muscles rippling—the signal that class has officially started and we’re all supposed to pay attention to him and his hyped-up biceps. “Who can tell me the basic rules of the game? You! Randy!”
“Uh, you hit the ball over the net.”
“And…?”
“And the guys on the other side hit it back.”
“And…?”
“And, yeah,” says Randy. “You try to win.”
“Close enough!” bellows Flanagan. He rattles off some rules and then clumps us into teams of eight. “It’s going to be crowded. Volleyball usually calls for teams of six, but I got to squeeze you all in there, so stay aware!”
By proximity, I end up on a team with everyone who’s been making my life so confusing for the last ten minutes.
“Move, people. Move!” Flanagan barks.
I pop up, glad to have a reason to catapult Jared’s hand off my knee.
In a group, we amble over to our side of the net, lining up like the cast for a reality show. Angst, hormones, and too much eyeliner.
In the back row are Mark, Charlie, me, and Jared. In front, the Allisons and Randy, with Amanda directly in front of Charlie. She bends down to stretch, displaying her prominent and, to be fair, rather perky backside.
Ah. Well. I flex my hands, give a mental shrug. Jealousy has never been my thing. In some ways, my life might make more sense if Amanda gets her way.
Yes, Charlie is lovely. He has a special, I guess you’d say, glow. That may be the word people use for pregnant women, but really, it fits him. Even in a gray T-shirt under the fluorescent lights of the gym, he glows. The problem is, to me, he’s too beautiful. It gets me all tangled up inside.
I don’t like worrying about what he’s thinking. I don’t like worrying about what other people think he’s thinking. And especially, I don’t like wanting him so much.
Because wanting is dangerous. It can all be taken away.
So go ahead, Amanda’s Butt. Do your damnedest.
Coach blows his whistle. The ball starts flying.
“Aaaak!” Randy yells.
Joe Pinsky’s spiked ball shoots past Randy and rockets toward a spot on the floor between me and Jared. With an inelegant “Umph,” I propel myself toward the ball. What I don’t see is that Jared is diving in from the other side, going low. My knee connects with his forehead, giving a resounding thwack!
He falls back, and I fall with him—momentum sending the whole of my body skidding across his. We land in a heap. I’m suddenly aware that my right boob has ended up in his eye socket and my armpit is straddling his ear. My right thigh, meanwhile, is wedged between his legs, where—oh, oh, tell me that’s not what I think it is.
I untangle myself, trying to pry my body from his without causing any more damage.
“Are you okay?” I kneel beside him.
Jared looks stunned. I’m not sure he even sees me. I move my hand in front of his face. “Jared?”
I look over my shoulder, where Charlie, Mark, and the rest are huddled.
“Maybe we should get the school nurse?” I say.
But when I turn back to Jared, he locks his eyes on my face. “You’re sooooo beautiful,” he slurs, his voice earnest and low.
“Uh, is your head okay?”
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he says. Not loud exactly, but loud enough that anyone on our half of the gym could have heard it.
I look up; now Coach Flanagan and a bunch of others have circled around.
“I think he hurt his head,” I tell the coach. “I knocked into him. With my knee. He’s—he’s confused.”
The coach squats down, peering in Jared’s face. “You okay, champ?”
“Her eyes sparkle. Isn’t it pretty? Like they’re made of glitter,” Jared says.
Shavelle Rylan leans over me. The tip of her braid, wrapped in a fat rubber band, thuds against my ear. “That boy’s got it bad.”
“He’s just,” I say, repeating it for myself as much as for her, “he’s just confused.”
My Undoing
Mark and Randy walk Jared to the nurse, who calls his dad to come drive him to the hospital. At least that’s one version of the story. In other versions, an ambulance pulls up in front of the school and a team of paramedics haul Jared out on a stretcher. And in another, there’s blood. Gallons of it.
With each telling, it gets more blown out of proportion. By physics class the following morning, I hear some boys insist blood was squirting out of Jared’s eyeballs. By psychology fifth period, Jared has Ebola. By English in sixth, he’s dead.
“He’s not dead,” I assure Paige Sanchez. “I was there yesterday when it happened.” I don’t mention that I was the cause, but whatever.
“I heard—”
“He’s not dead!” I snap.
“But—”
Mr. Campbell shuts us up with a pop quiz on the final scene of Hamlet, which I haven’t yet finished, thank you very much. I have, however, seen the movie, so at least I know the more obvious stuff.
Who drinks from the poisoned cup? Gertrude.
Who is first wounded with the poison sword? Hamlet.
Does Hamlet profess his love for Ophelia before or after her death? After.
Which, when you think about it, is so like Hamlet. Or in other words, so incredibly stupid.
But love and stupidity kind of go together, don’t they? Like how when a person says he loves you, that person seems instantly dumber than they did just a minute before. I mean, loving someone—anyone—is dumb enough, but loving me? I am many things, but lovable isn’t one of them.
So this Jared situation is… distressing. I feel bad for him, but I don’t know what I can do about it. What am I supposed to make of his puppy-dog eyes and rock ballads?
I glance over at Charlie, who is hunched over his desk, tapping the end of his pencil against his bottom lip. My own pencil stalls at the sight of it. Those lips. I take a second to appreciate the curve of them, sighing—which is totally appropriate because they’re 100 percent sigh-worthy. Soft and full. And a brownish-red that’s entirely their own. They quirk up in a private smile and I almost gasp. Oh, Charlie Hunt, you’ll be my undoing.
“Hmmmh.” Mr. Campbell clears his throat. He’s in my blind spot, and for a second I’m disoriented. As I turn toward him, he plucks up the quiz from my desk. “You ready to turn this in?”
“Um,” I say. I still have three questions unanswered, but I’m pretty sure I don’t know the answers anyway. “Uh-huh.”
“Fine.” He strides back to his desk, collecting papers as he goes.
Charlie glances over at me, his eyes brimming with mischief.
Does he know I’ve been lusting after his lips?
Perfect. Now I’m a red that’s entirely my own. Or at least my cheeks are.
But maybe the embarrassment is worth it, because after class Charlie totally kisses me. We’re hardly in the hall before he pulls me next to the wall and we’re going at it like frisky lemurs at the zoo. I can’t complain. I mean, lemurs gotta do their stuff, right?
The bell for gym rings, and we haven’t moved. The hall clears out except for us and our kisses, which seem louder now in the empty hallway. Echo-y.
“Maybe we should—” He tilts his head in the let’s go gesture, and I’m all in.
“We
totally should,” I murmur into his neck.
He grabs my hand and we jog together down the hallway, past the foreign language classrooms, past the art room, left toward the only doors in the school not monitored by the front office, and then out into October. The cold air hits us face-first. Without our coats, the chill seems brutal, but the doors behind us only open one way, and we can’t get back in the way we came. Even so, I don’t regret it. I feel more alive than I have in forever.
This time, it’s me pushing Charlie against the side of the building. Kissing him too hard, letting my hands trail down his chest. Shameless. It’s like I’ve been underwater. All this time, underwater. And now I just remembered I need air.
He pushes up my shirt and his palm is on my bra and I don’t pull away. Instead, I press closer, running my hands across him, standing on my tiptoes so I can deepen our kiss.
“We should—” he says, panting. And this time the should means stop. He drops his hand and my breast feels suddenly cold, exposed.
“Yeah…” I say, thinking Nooooooo! I pull down my shirt, step back, pivot away from him.
“Hey,” he says, touching my shoulder, turning me back to face him. He gives a sideways nod toward a loading dock on the far side of the school, where some drama kids are hauling a big fake tree from the back of a truck. “It’s okay. They didn’t see us,” he says. “I know a place we can go.”
I rub my arms for heat. “Is it warmer than here?” I ask.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he says, kissing my chin, and I feel the breath of his words on my neck.
Foolish
full now and foolish with feeling foolish with him he is all that i’m feeling there is no thinking only skin and touch and lip and neck and wanting wanting his hands shoulder the muscles in his back the scar there are not words for his foolish scar thin and pink above his hip and when he tugs a quilt from the back seat and holding my hand leads me down a path in the trees when the hill of dreaming boulders rises before us when we climb first up and then down into a rocky nook shaded by shrubs and sheltered from wind there is no question in the light shining through leaves above us no answer for the bird calling whit whit whit and please bird please don’t let this be love but i’m already foolish so foolish for him
How She Died, How I Lived Page 12