The words landed like a punch. I was so shocked that I didn’t say anything back right away. I stared at Sloane and she stared right back at me. She looked fierce, like a bird of prey or a big cat. Vicious.
“This isn’t over,” she said. I felt my mouth drop open, but before I found my voice, Sloane stormed away from me.
I stood there for a long time, stunned at her reaction. I knew I was officially on Sloane Sorenson’s shit list, and I felt terrified, embarrassed, and so mad I could barely stand it.
Before, I’d felt a little guilty about letting Todd in, but now I didn’t at all.
Fuck her. Her drama wasn’t my fault.
I pulled out my phone. I speed walked to the closest bathroom, and my heart was pounding as I typed out a message to Layla. I couldn’t believe she’d throw me under the bus, and I needed to know what really happened. I stayed huddled in the stall until I was almost late to class, waiting for her to text back. But she never did. And when I got to homeroom, she wasn’t even there.
I was on edge for the rest of the morning, just waiting for Sloane to retaliate. I’d been bullied in middle school, but people calling me Weirdo or Nerd or Freckle-Freak hadn’t prepared me for the vitriol I’d heard in Sloane’s voice. And to make matters worse, I still couldn’t find Layla, who had been my protector back then, whom I urgently needed to speak to now.
I’d been looking forward to lunch, knowing I’d see Layla there despite our differing schedules, but when I walked into the cafeteria, our table was empty.
I looked around, thinking maybe she got held up after class. Or thinking (somehow for the first time) that maybe she was home sick today. But then I saw her. She was sitting with Sloane and Melody, Cadence and Sage and Valeria. And I was so shaken that I almost walked right up to her to demand to know what the hell was going on. But Sloane was there. And I wasn’t ready to face her again.
So I hid. I found an empty table in a far corner of the cafeteria and I sat down all alone.
I didn’t eat. I typed out an angry series of texts to Layla. Then I watched her. She pulled out her phone and looked at it. She glanced around, but since I wasn’t at our normal table, she had no idea where to find me. Then Sloane said something to her. I watched Layla shake her head and slip her phone back into her pocket without texting me back. And the hurt of seeing her ignore me in real time was worse than Sloane calling me a bitch. It was like a hot blade through the center of me, sharp and piercing.
* * *
—
I spotted Layla at her locker with Sloane and a few of the other Chorus Girls right after lunch. I hung back until they broke away from her, and it felt strange that I had to be strategic about approaching and talking to my own best friend. I didn’t know when this change happened, but maybe it had been happening for a while, in tiny shifts that were too small to notice.
Layla was humming as I approached her. Her back was to me, so all I could see was her sleek black hair and hunched shoulders. I didn’t tap her to get her attention, I just leaned against the locker beside hers and said, “Did you hear about what Sloane said to me this morning?”
Layla closed her locker and turned to face me. She acted cool, like she hadn’t been ignoring me all morning. “I wanted to t-t-talk to you about that later.”
I scoffed. “Layla, are you kidding? You told her I was the person at the door? The way she was freaking out, it’s like she thinks I did it on purpose or something.”
Layla threw her bag over her shoulder. She crossed her arms. “I d-didn’t think she’d flip out on you, ok-k-kay? And I just said it in p-p-passing, that I’d asked you to lock the d-door. I didn’t think she’d b-blame you for him showing up in the first place.”
“Well, she clearly does,” I said, and my voice caught in my throat.
The truth was, I was more hurt by how often Layla was breaking her promises lately, and the way she’d ignored me all day, than I was by Sloane’s cruelty. I could feel us getting away from what I really wanted to ask her: Did she see what was happening to us; did she know why she was choosing these new friends over me again and again?
“But, Layla,” I said, hating how pathetic I sounded. “What are you doing, sitting with them instead of me at lunch? Not texting me back all morning?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that Sloane’s g-going through a tough t-t-t-time, okay? She really needs me right now.”
But what about me? is what I thought. What about Y.O.E.? What makes Sloane more important than us?
“She basically threatened me,” I said, and I immediately felt ridiculous saying it out loud, even though it was true.
Layla turned back to her locker. “Don’t b-b-be so dramatic. She’s just mad right now. She’ll get over it. Can we t-t-talk about it more tonight? I c-c-can c-come over.”
She hadn’t answered my question about sitting with them instead of me at lunch. She hadn’t given me an answer about why she hadn’t texted me back. And my throat was constricting to hold back tears; it was getting harder and harder to swallow. I felt the tiny betrayals filling me up like poison, and I needed Layla to reassure me. To act like the best friend she was supposed to be.
But she didn’t. And the longer we stood there, the clearer it became that Layla wasn’t coming to my rescue this time.
I coughed to clear my throat, and when I started talking again I sounded almost normal. “I’m not sure. I have a lot of homework.”
And she just nodded like this was okay. She nodded like everything was perfectly fine.
“Let me know, K?” she said. Then she closed her locker and walked away, leaving me behind.
now
LUNCHTIME BLUES
Another way Layla’s absence has destroyed me? I no longer know where I fit in the minefield that is our high school’s cafeteria—haven’t since she started sitting with the Chorus Girls more and more back in November. Lunch used to be solace for me. Now it’s torture.
For the last month or so, lunch has gone the same way: When I get to the cafeteria, I’ll open up Othello or whatever book I have with me, eat, and awkwardly people-watch. I’ll always see Jase and Mase walk past. They’ll go to sit with the Chorus Girls because Mason always sits with Layla now. It makes me wonder how things are going with the two of them. The not knowing hurts more than it should by now.
Jase’s bag lunch will still be in his backpack when they pass me by, some delicious mix of ginger chicken and rice or a beefy Chinese stew. He’ll drum his fingers across my table, and Mase will lift his head to acknowledge me. “Hi. Bye,” I’ll say, a little embarrassed by how badly I wish they’d sit down and eat with me. I’ll try not to think about how Jase used to share his lunch with me and whisper the Mandarin names of the foods into my ear whenever I asked, or the stories he’d tell me about the kids who made fun of his lunches when he was little. I’ll wish there were a way to shift my thoughts permanently out of the past.
But today, when I walk into the caf, there are two people already waiting at my table. Sydney is leaning across her lunch tray saying something to Dom that’s making him laugh. I feel instantly hot thinking about hanging out on his roof; how I wore a sweatshirt of his and how I’d recognize the scent of him anywhere. But I try to shake myself out of it. At least I don’t have to eat alone today.
I smile as I approach the table. “Hey,” I say, happy and confused all at once, but not wanting to question their presence.
“Dude!” Sydney says as soon as I sit down. I open my bag and pull out my food. “I heard you’re cheating on us.”
I frown and look up. “Um, what?”
She does her white-girl-hair-flip thing and her curls cascade down one side of her head like weeping willow branches. She’s wearing complicated-looking earrings today that are made up of metal rods and circles. They glint and swing as she moves her head. “You’re gonna tutor someone else,
right? Because you skipped school?”
“How on earth do you know that?” I ask her. But she just clasps her hands together and tucks them under her chin. “Oh, I know people.”
“So who is it?” Dom asks next. “I saw you in Novak’s Hot Seat the other day, and I forgot to ask you about it last night. I knew something was going down.”
I look down at my lunch tray. “It’s Layla,” I say. “And I’m not cheating on you just because you guys were the last people I tutored.”
Sydney responds by pulling out her Macbeth paper, and it’s clearly a revision. “This is the version I turned in to Novak, and she stopped me on my way to lunch and told me she’d read my introductory paragraph and she found it fascinating. She said she was looking forward to seeing how my argument came together.”
Sydney raises her eyebrows.
Dom nods, agreeing. “What we talked about really helped me pull mine together last night too,” he says.
His dark eyes are aimed straight at me, and for a second, I’m back up on that roof with him, talking about fate and lies and stars. But then I remember how Novak said he didn’t need a tutor.
“Why’d you even ask me for help?” I finally ask Dom. “Did you know he’s second in our class?” I say to Sydney. “Second.”
“Right. And you’re first,” Dom says. “Which means you’re literally the only person I could go to for help other than Novak. And you’re…how can I put this? More my type.” He smirks.
I press my lips together and look away because I can’t believe how overtly he’s flirting with me, right in front of Sydney. I turn to her because I can’t look at Dom.
“This thing with Layla is different, though,” I start to explain. “We used to be friends, but she’s…kind of a bitch to me now.”
I chance a glance in the direction of her table, and she isn’t looking my way. I shouldn’t be surprised. I basically don’t exist to her anymore.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Sydney says. “See them?” She points across the cafeteria to a table where Willa Bae is twirling a piece of Lark Dixon’s long blond hair.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You see how she’s, like, all over Lark?”
Dom kind of laughs and I say, “Yeah, Syd. It’s not really surprising.”
Willa is the biggest player at our school. In addition to having dated or kissed just about every queer and questioning girl at Chisholm, she’s straight-up stolen a few guys’ girlfriends. Still, she’s almost universally loved, probably because she’s the president of the GSA, captain of the softball team, and drop-dead gorgeous. Her black hair is short but the cut is so haphazard that it looks a little like the start of some kind of dark fire, and her nose is pierced, though her ears aren’t. You’d expect someone like Willa Bae to hang out with the “Cool Asian Kid” clique, but she’s a bit of a free agent. She starts to touch Lark’s hands and forearms next, slipping one of nearly a dozen bangles off her wrist and onto Lark’s. Lark giggles. Sydney clears her throat so I look back over at her.
“Right. Well, me and Willa have known each other forever, but in middle school we got really close. She’d come over a lot and keep me company because my dad worked all those late hours at the restaurant. She liked to bake and said it was a travesty that we had this amazing kitchen that my dad never actually used.”
I nod, remembering. When I was tutoring Sydney last semester, sometimes I’d come to her apartment and Willa would be there. I hadn’t noticed, but now that I think about it, Sydney’s definitely been hanging out with her less.
“Your dad works at a restaurant?” Dom asks, and Sydney says, “Yep. He’s a chef. It sucks.”
“Really? I kinda think I wanna be a chef,” Dom insists. And Sydney scoffs.
“You’re too nice. Don’t do it. It would ruin you. Believe me.”
“But wait, what happened?” I ask Sydney, trying to get back to the subject at hand. “Between you and Willa, I mean.”
“Um. I’ll tell you later,” she says. But she tilts her chin in Dom’s direction and it’s clear she doesn’t want him to know.
Dom feigns shock and insult. But Sydney just sips her chocolate milk and stays silent.
After a few seconds, I say, as gently as I can, “So, I kinda want to know. You mind?” to Dom. I can’t believe I’m asking someone to leave this table when, for the last month, I would have died for the company.
“You’re serious?” Dom asks. And I look at Sydney.
“Why does no one take me seriously?” Sydney wonders aloud. “Is it because I have perfectly conditioned hair and I’m the president of the fashion club? Is it because people assume girls who like makeup and cute clothes are doing it for the male gaze, so it’s strange that I don’t always want dudes around?”
Dom clenches his teeth awkwardly and I stretch my eyes wide. “I think she’s serious,” I whisper.
“Damn,” Dom says. But he collects his stuff and stands to leave. Sydney blows him a kiss and he rolls his eyes.
“Love ya, mean it,” Sydney calls as he walks away, and I cover my mouth so he doesn’t hear me laughing at his dismissal.
“So,” I say, turning to her. “What really went down with Willa?”
Sydney sips her chocolate milk again before she speaks.
“We kissed,” she says simply. And I wait for her to say more.
“Willa’s been out since middle school, and she’s been a huge flirt since then too. And for the last couple of years, I was there for all of her epic crushes and kisses and breakups. I’ve force-fed her ice cream so many times while she cried over all those girls, you know? Because as much as she puts herself out there, she still gets hurt all the time.”
I nod. I don’t know what it would be like to be that brave when it comes to love. Sounds terrifying.
Sydney tucks some curls behind her ears and looks across the cafeteria again. “But when we kissed, and I, like, felt something? I didn’t know what to do. I knew that I loved her as a friend, but after that I started falling for her for real. And like, with all the girls she hooked up with or dated or whatever, I never judged her for it. It was kind of what made us work. But after that kiss it started to feel personal. She kissed me and we didn’t even really talk about it, and by the next week she was talking about kissing someone else.”
I pick at the edge of my sandwich. I rip off a piece of crust just for something to do. What happened with me and Layla is really different from what happened with Sydney and Willa, but we both know the pain of feeling like we don’t matter to the person we love most—to these people who were supposed to be our everything.
“So I got mad one day when she was telling me about some new girl and basically called her a tease. Anyway, we had this huge fight right before winter break and we haven’t really talked since then.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s…fucking awful.” I want to ask her if she still has feelings for Willa, but I don’t know if I’m allowed. What she told me already was a lot to share, so I don’t want to push for more.
“Do you…miss her?” I say instead.
“Yeah. I do. But I don’t know how to make it right.”
I open my juice and take a deep pull, and the table is quiet for a few minutes.
“I miss Layla too. And part of me has given up a little, on the possibility of that, of fixing things. So I’ve been…trying to make new memories,” I say slowly.
“Huh?” she asks.
“Like, there are all these places that remind me of Layla, and I don’t want to think of her every time I go to certain stores or hear certain songs or walk past freaking Washington Square Park, you know?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Sydney concedes.
“So I’ve been going to different spots around the city and purposefully making new memories there,” I tell her. “My dad thinks it’s not going to work,
and my mom thinks I should be honest with Layla, apologize and see what happens next. I have to tutor her tonight, and I have no idea what to do.”
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Layla.
Sydney leans her chin on the heel of her palm, looking down at my phone. “Well, looks like you’re gonna have to decide soon.” She grabs her tray and stands up to go. Her earrings clink and ring, like bells.
“If you figure it out, let me know, will ya?”
WHEN YOU WERE EVERYTHING
Layla shows up beside my locker after last bell, and something about her standing there makes me more aware of all I’ve lost. I still remember when her meeting me here at the end of every day was normal.
“What’s up?” she says, and I kid you not, Layla has never said “What’s up” to me. This must be some piece of her new life without me—the way she greets the girls I hate.
“Nothing,” I say, and I sound more defensive than I mean to. Layla bites her bottom lip and pulls out her phone. “Whatever, Cleo. Let’s just g-g-get this over w-with, okay?”
I’m just about to say how this isn’t an ideal situation for me either, when Layla looks back up at me. Her expression softens the tiniest bit. “I know you were assigned to t-tutor me, and I know you d-d-don’t want to. I mean, I obviously don’t want you to. B-but I d-d-do need the help, and I, um. I appreciate you helping me. I know this won’t b-be easy.”
She says all of this while looking straight at me, and she sounds and looks like my best friend; like Lay; like the version of her I used to know. Something like hope flares inside me—a match being lighted in an endlessly dark room—and I think of my mom saying I should be honest, that only a few people in a lifetime are worth fighting for. I think of fate and Gigi and paying attention to the universe. Is this a sign that Layla is one of those people for me?
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