Ms. Novak,
By now you’ve probably heard the rumors that are going around about my dad. And if I’m honest, I’m worried this could have real repercussions for him if it goes any further. I want you to know that I know the truth, and I’m begging you to set the record straight.
Maybe you could write a letter or talk to Principal Davis or something? I don’t know what would be best. I just want to make sure his name is cleared. And after all that has happened, I don’t think it’s wrong for me to say you owe me (and him) this small kindness.
I know I still need to make up the assignments I missed when I skipped school, but I’m not comfortable continuing to tutor Layla. Instead, what if I performed a monologue for extra credit? I can do this just with you, after class, or in front of other students if you prefer.
Please consider coming forward for me and my family. And let me know what you think about the monologue idea.
Thanks,
Cleo I. Baker
Just as I hit send, my phone buzzes with a text from Dom.
Morning, beautiful.
I grin.
We text back and forth as I get ready for school, but I’m still nervous about what shape he and I will take in the hallways of Chisholm Charter. We haven’t had time to talk about what happened between us and what it all means. I text Sydney and tell her all about me and Dom while I’m on the train, and the second she sees me in the hall, she rushes over.
“You kissed. In the rain. And the power went out?!?” she squeals, because I pretty much told her everything on my thirty-minute commute. “How was it humanly possible for you to keep that to yourself for the last twelve hours?” She pants with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, and the tiny silver elephants dangling from her ears swing. She fans her face like she’s hot, or maybe like Dom is. I grab her hands and squeal a little. Before I can push the huge smile off my face, Willa is there too, wanting to know what we’re screeching about.
I pull Willa to me and tell Sydney to huddle closer too, deciding to trust them; deciding that life is hard enough without facing it all alone. I became friends with Layla while I wasn’t watching, and we fell apart that way too, but with Willa and Sydney, every piece of us has been a choice.
I will choose them every day that they choose me back, and I’ll be the best friend I can. So I tell them more about me and Dom in his dark, empty house, happy with who we all are to each other right now.
Just as I finish my story, I feel a hand slide around my hip. Dom is there, and while we haven’t talked any of this through, he looks like he’s pretty decided on how things will be with us from now on. He says hi to Sydney and Willa and then a flirty “Hey” to me that feels like a goodbye to everyone else. My girls get the message.
Sydney flips her hair and squeezes my shoulder, and Willa just says, “Make good choices!” before skipping away, her arm hooked through Sydney’s. I blush hard and stuff my head into my locker, but I’m secretly ecstatic to have a boy to be teased about—and to have new friends to do the teasing.
Dom pulls my hands away from my face and makes me reemerge. He says, “You told them already, didn’t you?” And when I shake my head, he touches my face and mutters, “Pretty little lies, I swear.”
“Do we need to talk,” I say, “about all of this? Us?”
Dom shrugs and leans against the locker beside mine. “Not really,” he says. “We’re a thing, right?” And it’s such a Dom answer.
“Yeah, Dom,” I agree. “We’re definitely a thing.” I hook my finger into a belt loop of his khakis, tugging him a little closer.
“Good,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple.
In homeroom, Dom sits just in front of me and turns around every time I touch his shoulder or elbow or the smooth dark skin on the nape of his neck. There’s a series of spirals cut into his hair this week, and when I trace them with my fingertip, he shivers.
“You have to stop touching me,” he whispers as Mr. Yoon takes attendance.
“Make me,” I say, and when he playfully grabs my wrist I let out a little yelp that earns us a few stares.
They’re not the kinds of stares that followed me because of Sloane’s rumor. Like most things in this school, the episode was short-lived and seems to have already dissipated in the collective consciousness. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget that Layla told Sloane desperate details about my family that I didn’t even know. That she willfully handed over something that could wound me so deeply, knowing that it would be used to do just that.
I’m still vaguely aware of the two of them, where they sit at the back of class; still vaguely angry every time I hear the thin tones of their voices. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not at all concerned about what they might be saying or thinking about me.
I spend most of the period flirting with Dom and group-texting Sydney and Willa under my desk until Layla taps me on the shoulder. When I look up and see that it’s her, part of me seethes.
“Thanks for th-th-the help with that paper,” she says. She lifts her graded essay and a red 92 is circled at the top. For a second, I’m so disoriented by her talking to me in a nonconfrontational way that I don’t know what’s happening.
“Oh, good for you.” I cross my arms. “Thanks for telling Sloane about my dad so she could start that rumor,” I say, as casually as she thanked me for my help. “That was awesome.” It may be a petty response, but I can’t believe she has the nerve to talk to me like everything is fine between us. The second I say it, though, I feel like it wasn’t worth the energy. Like she wasn’t. Layla looks stunned.
I let my crossed arms fall back to my sides. “Look. I told Novak to assign you to someone else. So consider us even. Done. Whatever. Okay?”
Layla blinks a few times and something like relief floods her features. “Okay,” she says, and nothing else, and something about the exchange feels final. It makes me know that all the crap between us is ending, right here.
I grab my bag at the same time as Dom reaches for my other hand.
Layla’s eyes land on our clutched palms. But the urge to tell her about my life, about Dom and me and who we are to each other, is completely gone. I toss her a small smile, and a nod, before I turn and head for the hallway.
The day is full of highs and lows. Mr. Frick’s class is awful, as usual, but seeing Willa and Sydney at lunch is lovely. We make plans to go see the Cover Girls, and Willa spills a pack of M&Ms across her tray that we separate by color and eat together. Walking hand in hand with Dom makes it easy to forget that all my problems are still very much my problems. But when he lets go of my hand to head to his next class, it feels like a kind of falling. Every bad feeling comes rushing back, because I have Ms. Novak’s English class next.
I think about skipping. I haven’t told anyone the whole truth about the rumor yet, and Ms. Novak’s involvement feels like a secret I want to keep forever. So I text my mom, because she’s the only other person who knows what really happened—how I really feel. I tell her I want to skip Novak’s class for the rest of the year because I’m still angry. I expect Mom to send half a dozen texts telling me not to skip, but she surprises me.
So don’t.
Don’t what?
Don’t go. Go to the library or something.
You do realize you’re giving me permission to skip a class, right?
Life is short, and you’re sad. If you go, don’t talk to her if you don’t want to or can’t.
Get out of there as soon as class is over.
Or just deal with it. Walk right up to her and tell her you know everything.
Even though your feelings are not her responsibility, you’re allowed to speak your truth.
She’s right, and I’m so touched at her giving me permission to do what I feel is best that my eyes well a little bit right there in the hall. I
just send, K. Love you, and then I lurk until I’m almost late. I decide I want to take the “not talking to her” route, and it goes really well until she calls on me to answer a question when I haven’t raised my hand all period. I freeze, and I’m not sure what to do or say, because all I can think about is Ms. Novak leaning over the circulation desk in the library, or the way she cried on my dad’s shoulder when she found out he was leaving Chisholm. The lingering glances they shared that I must have missed and all the other time they were spending together that I didn’t know about. I can’t answer a question about the text we’re reading when I have so many unanswered questions about the tiny ways in which she and Daddy ruined my life. I say, “I don’t know.” Novak frowns a little in my direction, but she lets it slide.
At the end of class, as I collect my stuff to leave, she calls me up to her Hot Seat. I try to get out of it because I’m not ready to be so close to her. If it weren’t so late in the year I’d probably ask to be added to a different English class, but we’re already well into the second semester.
I say, “Can we talk later? I really need to get to history.”
But Novak says, “Don’t worry, Cleo, this will only take a second. I won’t make you late.”
I cross my arms and walk up to the butterfly chair, hoping the barrier of skin and blood and bones will keep my heart safe. I sit down across from her and she smiles at me. I want to hate her. I want to tell her that I hate her. But part of me knows what it’s like to make the wrong choice just because of how you feel in a single moment.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s idealizing Daddy the way I was; if the Cliff Baker in her head is anywhere close to the real one. And if he is, how is she not terrified that his feelings for her will fade just as they did for my mom?
“I got your email. And I want to tell you, I really respect how well you’re handling this…situation. It isn’t appropriate for me to really discuss the details with you, but I just want to let you know I’m going to do the right thing.”
At the word “appropriate,” I roll my eyes. Everything about our situation, as she put it, is inappropriate.
“But the other thing I wanted to say was that I never spoke to you about Layla’s paper. It was remarkable, Cleo. Such a unique perspective—so smart and well drawn. I knew she had it in her, so I wanted to thank you for helping her. Your influence was most certainly felt.”
I nod, and look away from her. “I’m glad. We done?”
She bristles at my coldness, and I feel a little bad, but I don’t know how to do this—how to talk to a woman who was my favorite teacher and who is also the person who is partially responsible for my family breaking in half.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m reassigning her to another tutor, as you requested, but I wanted you to know you’d done a great job. And your monologue idea is an excellent one. But instead of memorizing one from a play, how about you write your own?” Her gray eyes seem darker than usual, and her curly hair is unruly and wild. I see something in her eyes suddenly—some kind of understanding, but also an assertion that she’s still the one in charge here. I kind of hate it, but I know I can’t overtly disrespect her. My parents taught me better than that, and she is still my teacher.
I stand up, and I relax my arms the tiniest bit. “I can do that,” I say. “And I really am glad Layla’s paper turned out okay.”
Ms. Novak shuffles some papers on her desk. She avoids my eyes the same way I avoided hers all period.
“Me too,” she says.
THEY’RE JUST PEOPLE
I ask Dom to meet me in the library after last period. We’re both going to Dolly’s, but I need to check out a book for a history paper. Plus I haven’t seen him all afternoon, and after the day I’ve had, something about that feels like a crime.
“Hey,” he says after I’ve texted him directions to my favorite corner of the stacks. Without saying hi back, I push him against the shelf and kiss him hard and long. I’d forgotten what it was like to want someone, to know that they want me back. And because I know now how quickly feelings can change, I don’t want to waste a second for as long as we last.
“So, can I tell you something that you can’t tell anyone?” I ask him a few minutes later. He’s a little breathless from making out and he’s standing close behind me while I run my fingers lazily over the spines of dozens of books, only half looking for the one I need. He sets his chin on the top of my head and reaches around me to pull a book from the shelf. I feel him nod.
“My parents split up because my dad fell in love with someone else,” I say, and it’s easier to let the truth fly free than I expected.
He puts the book back and wraps his arms around my waist. “Damn. I’m sorry,” he says simply.
I shrug as much as his grip allows me to.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, or if you don’t know. But did your dad, like, act on it?”
“I’m not really sure,” I say. It’s easier to say all of this without looking at him, so I keep my eyes on the endless rows of spines in front of me. “I don’t think he did anything physical. But he told her his secrets. He spent time with her in a way that a married man in a monogamous relationship shouldn’t with a woman who isn’t his wife.”
I swallow because I feel a soft sadness coming on. “It’s just hard, you know? My dad was my hero. He was, like, perfect to me. And now that I know he did this—hurt my mom, hurt our family—I don’t know what to think, or how to feel about him.”
Dom releases me and with his hands on my shoulders, he turns me around to look at him.
“Remember what I told you about idealizing people? How most of the stuff you thought about me wasn’t true once you got to know me?”
I bite my lip. “Yeah.”
“Your dad? He’s like us. I had to learn that about my parents the hard way. They’re just people. They make wrong choices and do stupid things all the time. They’re human.”
“I know,” I say. “I guess I just expect more of the people I love.”
Dom glances up at the colorful shelf in front of us and I follow his gaze. “Ever think that you expect too much of them?” he asks softly.
I shrug. I don’t want to think about Layla right now, but that’s who immediately comes to mind. I feel a little heat creep up the back of my neck—unexpected anger.
“Is it so wrong to expect loyalty, and for love to be unconditional?”
Dom kisses my temple and drapes his arm over my shoulder. “I have no idea,” he says.
I take a deep breath to calm myself down. “I guess I’m having this conversation with you,” I continue, “because I feel like this thing between us could be something real. And as much as I want things to be a certain way, I don’t want my expectations of it to ruin us, okay? I don’t want to expect you to be perfect, and I don’t want you to expect that of me either.” I turn my face toward him. “Does that make sense?”
Dom nods.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I take it out of my pocket, assuming it will be my mom. But when I look at the screen, it reads Daddio.
“Ugh,” I say. I ignore the call. “What am I going to do about him?”
“Take some time for yourself,” Dom says. “You don’t need to talk to him right away. You gotta sort through your feelings and shit.”
I smirk. “Feelings and shit?” I ask.
“Hell yeah,” he says. “From what I’ve seen, you have a lot of them.”
I playfully push him away and find the book I need, and we head out into the hall.
The school is mostly empty, and as we walk down the hall hand in hand, Dom starts to hum and I remember my idea about the diner. Live music. Maybe even the Cover Girls. I’m nervous to bring it up since he was so defensive last time I made a suggestion, but I feel like this is a much better idea.
“What would you thin
k about bringing in a live band to play at Dolly’s?” I ask as we exit the building.
That shield flickers in his eyes. But I say, “Just hear me out, okay? I was playing my music during my last shift. You know, Nat King Cole, and Nina Simone, and Louis Armstrong? And the customers were so into it. Pop was dancing with Miss Dolly and it just completely changed the energy in there.” I stand up a little straighter. “I think live music could be even better,” I say. “I’m seeing this amazing jazz cover band with Willa and Sydney this weekend. If they’re as good live as they are recorded, it could be really cool.”
Dom crosses his arms. But then he looks at me and a slow smile spreads across his face. “I don’t know if Lolly and Pop will go for it,” he says. “But it’s definitely worth a try. Only thing is, hiring a band is expensive if you want a good one.” This is a complication I hadn’t thought of. But before I can get too worried, Dom keeps talking.
“But maybe it could be an open mic night instead. We can get kids from school to come, and post stuff online to get more of a turnout.”
I clasp his shoulder. “You’re brilliant,” I say, thinking about how this could appeal to the artsy people who go to school with us and also the artsy hipster-types who are new to the neighborhood.
“Maybe we could debut your small plates the same night? And that way, it’s like a special menu for a special event. If people don’t like it, they’ll know it was just for one night. But if they do, you can use that to convince Pop to make some of your recipes a permanent part of the menu.”
Dom doesn’t say anything. He just smiles widely and puts his hands on either side of my face. He kisses me right there on the sidewalk, and my heart is so full that I laugh against his lips.
THE COVER GIRLS
When You Were Everything Page 25