2015-08-21
439
I tuck the coupon into the note and stick them in an envelope. I stroll down my driveway in slippers, relieved to be out of those heels. I place the envelope inside the mailbox and turn up the flag. The wind pierces at my skin and pushes me back.
Oh, no, Mother Nature. You’re not stopping me tonight.
14
The first three days of SDA have been a parade of pulled muscles, twisted ankles and missed cues. I didn’t know it was possible for every part of my body to be sore. My fingernails. My earlobes. My index finger. They all throb like they’re under a pain microscope. My teammates barely break a sweat.
Since I’m on Huxley’s team, not to mention in her final dance number, I have to be the cherry atop the perfection sundae. Our number has to bring people to their feet. When I think we’re Broadway good, Huxley finds the cracks. She’s blunt, morally opposed to sugarcoating. In fact, we’re not supposed to eat sugar or any complex carbohydrate while under her tutelage. I can tell, though, that Huxley’s favorite part of being captain is getting to point out the flaws of other dancers. Especially me.
“Rebecca, on that first count, you start with your right foot, not your left. Do you know the difference between your right and your left?”
“Rebecca, your leg has to go higher. You’re not kicking a soccer ball.”
“Rebecca, smile when you dance. You’re supposed to be having fun.”
“Rebecca.” She cringes at the pouches of sweat under my arms and between my legs. “Never mind.”
Is this her plan to mold me into datable material? Belittle and berate me on a daily basis while causing me excruciating pain? Did I join SDA or a cult? She sneaks looks among her friends, sharing a telepathic moment at my expense. I suspect that helping me was never her plan. I’m the entertainment, the thing that gets the team to smile while they dance.
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The only thing that pulls me through practice is knowing that Monday is just a few days away.
* * *
“Spider-Man is a much better superhero than Iron Man,” Fred says to his friends before shoving a handful of ketchup-drenched fries into his mouth. “All Iron Man has is a metal suit.”
“At least he can fly. Spider-Man just swings. Do you ever wonder why Spider-Man doesn’t fight villains in the desert or tundra? No buildings to swing off of,” Howard says back as he bites off a chunk of soft pretzel.
They’ve been at this argument for the entire lunch period, and neither has chewed with his mouth closed once. Since Val went to eat with Ezra, I’ve had to embrace my new lunch-table role of token girl. Fred, Howard and Quentin, and their stacks of plastic-enshrined comic books, have taken over. At least I’m not eating alone.
“What do you think?” Fred asks me. “Iron Man or Spider-Man. Who’s cooler?”
I shrug my shoulders. I’d be better equipped to explain the quadratic equation. “Well, Robert Downey Jr. is pretty funny.”
“Booyah!” Howard yells. The other two slump back in their seats. This isn’t terrible. It’s nice not listening to a conversation about boys, shoes or our classmates.
I doodle on a copy of Huxley and Steve’s homecoming picture. I don’t touch Steve’s face, but Huxley gets devil horns, blacked-out teeth and a thought bubble over her with “I’m a bitch” scrawled inside of it. It’s juvenile, I know. And it’s just a piece of paper. But I do get some pleasure out of seeing Huxley look like a redneck devil.
“So Val and Ezra are now official, huh?” Quentin asks me. He’s the last person I would guess cared about Ashland gossip, but I suppose every student likes to stay up on current events.
“He’s ‘not into labels,’” I say, making air quotes with my fingers. “But, yes, they are.”
“That guy has got some serious game,” Howard says after chugging his can of Hawaiian Punch. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a girlfriend. Like not even for a day.”
“I think someone has a crush,” Quentin says. He mimes to Howard to rub the red off his teeth.
“No, I’m just saying. The guy always has a girl by his side. I’m in awe. I wish I had half his mojo.”
“You wish you had half his girlfriends.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
I wait for Fred to chime in, but he’s preoccupied with another table across the cafeteria. A sextet of guys, who look identical to my tablemates, huddle around a table oohing and aahing over something. A Rubik’s cube? A Playboy?
“Jeremy Fowler brought in another one of his vintage Batman comics from the 1940s,” Fred says. I shrug my shoulders. “It’s like if a girl brought in a pair of Jimmy Choos, I think.”
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I close my notebook, hiding the picture. “I didn’t know you were such a fashionista.”
“I have a sister.” His eyes drift to the other table again. “We all used to sit together. We even had this tradition whenever a guy brought a rare comic to lunch. None of us ate when the comic was out. We gave ourselves a twenty-minute time limit to flip through it, then we put it away and had lunch.” He rests his head on his hand.
“What happened?” I find myself slipping into Break-Up Artist mode.
“Jeremy’s grandpa died,” he says, his voice dropping. “Jeremy was never a real comic fan. He just liked to pretend he knew what he was talking about, and we always kind of ignored him. He once mixed up the Green Lantern and Green Goblin!”
“Well, they’re both green.”
“Trust me. You don’t mess those two up,” he says. He shakes his head, getting worked up. “But then his grandpa died and left him this stash of vintage DC Comics. Out of the blue! The guys were salivating over them. Suddenly, he thinks he’s lord of the lunch table and demands that we only discuss DC Comics, or else he won’t bring in any of the old books. My boys and I—” he points to Quentin and Howard “—are Marvel fans through and through. We’ve had lively debates at our table.” Fred gets more animated, leaning closer to give me the full scoop.
“But Jeremy said the table should only be for DC fans. Real comic-book fans. He had the nerve to say that! I said that’s stupid, of course. So he put it to a vote. Since the other guys wanted to check out his old comics, they sided with him. The table voted and excommunicated us when we came back from Christmas break. Heath Ledger is probably rolling over in his grave.”
“Well, why don’t you do something about it?” I ask. Who knew boys could be just as catty as girls? I can feel the wheels churning in my head, a plan forming.
“He won’t listen to what I have to say.”
“Get him to sell the comics.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“He would if the price were right,” I say.
“I make eight dollars an hour at my parents’ restaurant. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse in about fifty years.”
That makes me laugh. It’s refreshing when you find people at this school with a real sense of humor. I regain focus and catch a quick look at Jeremy. “What if his friends found out he was selling the comics? They’d be mad, right?”
“Selling vintage comics? That’s sacrilege.” Fred shudders at the thought.
“Perfect. Set up a fake eBay account for him. Or better yet, just contact him anonymously and say you’d be willing to pay for his cache. Not the big bucks, just a so-so amount.”
“But I can’t.”
“He doesn’t know that. You just need to catch him being interested, then casually show his friends that he’d be willing to give up the goods for some lowball offer.” I shrug nonchalantly. These genius ideas just come naturally. “Even if it’s not true, all you need to do is plant that seed of doubt, and the rest will take care of itself.”
But Fred isn’t bowled over. He looks, well, kind of freaked out. “That’s, um, pretty extreme.”
“Well, so is turning your friends against you and excommunicating you from their table.”
“It’s different.” Fred shakes the thought from his mind and piles his trash on his plate. “I’m not going to sink to that level. I mean, I still have these guys,” he says, patting Howard and Quentin on the back.
“You’re right,” I say. I stick my notebook in my bag.
* * *
I use the bathroom pass during seventh period. Steve’s gym period. I tiptoe into the boys’ locker room. The smell suffocates me. I pull my shirt up over my nose and breathe in the fabric softener. Why do guys smell so much?
Like with most areas of our school, the locker rooms have not been updated in thirty years. The lockers are narrow and rusty, the green paint only visible on certain ones. Nobody’s backpack can fit in them, so they’re left on the floor.
Bad for students. Good for me.
I find Steve’s sleek, waterproof backpack in the back of the middle row. A Christmas gift from Huxley last year. It was meant for cross-country expeditions, not the halls of high school.
I open the locker above Steve’s backpack with the V56 key. I hope his underwear doesn’t fall out onto my face. I shield myself before opening.
I take the homecoming picture out of my back pocket and tape it on the back of the locker door. A crumpled mountain of clothes hangs precariously on the left hook. Once some of his friends get a glimpse, the news should wind through school. Little-known fact: guys are bigger gossips than girls. Girls will keep secrets from each other, but their boyfriends spill the dirt as soon as they hit the dugouts, court or locker room. They just don’t get caught.
I haven’t sneaked into the locker room since I had to break up Nathan Crane and Sarah Covington. Her friends couldn’t stand what a snob he was and that he was turning Sarah into one, as well. Once Sarah found texts on his phone calling her incompetent and stupid, she gave him the heave-ho. I can’t believe that was only a year ago. Any guilt I had about what I was doing disappeared when it turned out Nathan did feel that way about his girlfriend. He just loved being with someone who made him feel so superior.
Coach Kapnek’s raspy voice echoes off the lockers. I squat down and hide at the end of the row. I peer around the corner into his office, where Steve is in the hot seat.
Still in my squat position, I waddle over to the wall by his door and situate myself behind a bin filled with used towels. No one said Break-Up Artists live glamorous lives.
“Chandler University is still interested,” Coach Kapnek says. “They’re a great school.”
“There’s only one reason they want me. Did you talk to Vermilion?”
“I talked to my friend there. They’re offering nothing. But did you expect them to hand out a merit scholarship to a guy with a B average?”
Coach Kapnek’s desk squeaks. He must’ve sat on top of it. What’s with teachers at this school not using chairs?
“Are you sure about this, Steve? You can be honest with me. Do you want to play college football?”
I lean my head closer to the door.
“No,” he says, barely audible.
“Can I be honest with you? I think you do.”
“That’s not my life anymore. It’s time to move on. It’s not like I’m going to go pro or anything.”
“You never know. It’s still a great opportunity, and once this door closes, it’s never going to open again.”
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“Thanks, Coach.” Steve bolts out of his office and, luckily, in the opposite direction of the towel bin.
I waddle back to my locker hiding place just as Coach Kapnek leaves his office. He stands in the doorway a few moments. I crouch down farther, behind a fat backpack, and keep my breathing silent and controlled. He takes a few steps in my direction and stops. If you get caught, Becca, just say you’re sleepwalking.
He strums his fingers on the lockers. I squeeze myself into an even tighter ball behind the backpacks. Peeling paint lingers in my hair. I close my eyes, knowing if I look at him, he’ll sense it and look straight at me.
Coach Kapnek exhales a gust of air and walks past my row into the open bathroom area. What do guys have against privacy? While he’s busy, I make a run for it.
“Hey! Who’s there?” he yells at the wall.
Do guys realize how ridiculous they look at urinals?
* * *
Movies and television have lied to me. Stakeouts are not fun and exciting. They are boring.
So boring.
Diane and I have spent the past three hours sitting in her car spying on Steve and Huxley at Mario’s Pizza. I fidget in my seat, alternating between stretching my legs and sitting cross-legged every five seconds. That’s almost as often as Diane changes the radio. No music can hide the sound of our growling stomachs. Skipping dinner to stare into a pizzeria was not my smartest move. At least we don’t have to smell it.
We take turns with my dad’s heavy-duty binoculars. The bridge of my nose is red and indented and stings whenever I hold them to my face. He bought them one Saturday afternoon because our neighbor’s house was broken into. He wants to live on a safe block, and the package said these are the same binoculars used by Navy SEALs. Those men must have stronger noses than me.
Worst of all, there’s been no sign of Angela, or her boyfriend.
“If I have to watch Ken and Barbie kiss one more time, I’m going to projectile all over the dashboard,” Diane says.
“She will come. She has to. You don’t receive a letter like that in the mail and then not do anything about it.”
“What if she emailed him instead?”
I’m not that high-tech. I can’t access his email or bug his phone. Computers are so unromantic, though. What girl wouldn’t be a sucker for a handwritten note? It’s so old-fashioned. She wouldn’t ruin that vibe with a text message. At least, I hope not. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
A woman enters the pizzeria. Diane perks up. She looks through the binoculars. “False alarm.”
She sinks down in her seat and twirls her gum around her finger.
“So, baby sister, will Val and what’s-his-face be your next victims?”
“I can’t do that.” That thought did cross my mind a few times. And every time, I shivered with disgust. How could I call myself her friend after doing that?
“You thought about it, though?”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll do it. Have you ever thought about doing that to your ‘friends’?”
“What’s with the air quotes for friends? They’re still my friends,” Diane says. She switches out her gum wad for a fresh piece.
“Are you sure about that?”
“I care about them enough to let their relationships self-destruct on their own.”
“What about Owen’s birthday?” I ask. Before I left tonight, I saw an invitation for Erin’s son’s first birthday. It was in the trash.
“He won’t notice my absence.”
It’s hard to call someone your friend when you won’t acknowledge her kid’s birthday. Diane used to love organizing birthday events for her friends. She would buy a cookie cake and decorate it herself with inside jokes. For Sankresh’s twenty-first birthday, she planned a bar-crawl extravaganza with their friends. I saw photos where she put floating sparklers in his drinks. She was always let down on her birthday because Sankresh was never as creative as she was.
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Diane senses my disappointment. “The invite was just a formality. They all just want to see what a mess I’ve become. It’s cheaper than hiring a clown.” She laughs at her joke.
“I think they’d be happy to see you.” They were all so close in college, the girls felt like my friends, too. I look forward to leaving the dull cliques of high school behind and finding my own group in college like Diane did.
“I can’t go,” Diane says. Suddenly, the car gets quiet, like all of her sarcasm fizzled away.
“Why? Did you guys get in a fight?”
“Technically, no.” Diane’s face softens. “They’ve all moved on. And I’m still here.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I wasn’t given that choice. I’ll always be here.” Her voice wobbles, but she doesn’t cry. I don’t think she has any more tears left after last year.
I want to say something, but it’s not as if I have some magic answer. I can feel the moment passing us by. Just like Diane wants it to.
She brings the binoculars back to her eyes.
“Anything good?” I ask.
“Actually, yeah.” She hands me the binoculars.
“It’s Angela.” I’m always shocked when my plans go, well, according to plan. It’s funny to think people are listening to me, even if they don’t know it.
“Where’s her boyfriend?”
“I guess she didn’t bring him.”
“And she waited until they were about to close. Interesting.”
It was.
Steve’s face lights up with shock, but quickly shifts to pleasantly surprised. I wasn’t expecting that reaction, until I realize that of course Steve wasn’t expecting a ghost from the past to stroll in for pizza. Angela is apprehensive, but when Steve comes from behind the counter, she hugs him.
I narrate for Diane. “She is so nervous.”
Her light skin shows off the redness flushing her cheeks. They have some harmless chitchat. No crossed arms or standoffish posture. Angela reaches into her bag.
“She’s going to show him the note!” I say and slap Diane on the arm a few times. “Oh, wait.”
Huxley joins their conversation, hooking her arm around Steve’s. Angela removes her hand from her bag. Steve makes introductions.
“Blah blah blah. Wow, I’ve never seen such forced smiles.”
“From who?” Diane asks.
“Both of them. They’re acting like they’re long-lost best friends.”
“Keep your friends close...”
Angela orders a pepperoni slice. Steve boxes it up for her while Huxley hangs out by the register. She wants to get out of there as soon as she can. I don’t blame her. I feel bad that I threw Angela into this, but it’s not like I’m ruining her life. So what if she reconnects with an old flame? You can never have too many friends.
Diane notices I’ve stopped narrating. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” I say with a sigh. “Huxley went back to her table. Angela got pizza. The end.”
Angela shares an awkward goodbye wave with Steve and Huxley. I stop watching. I guess my plan sounded better in my head.
“Sorry, B.” Diane turns the radio back on and flips through three stations in ten seconds. She’s probably a master at Name That Tune.
I know my plan wasn’t foolproof, but I thought it would be somewhat idiotproof. I’m dreading SDA practice tomorrow now that I have nothing to look forward to. I replay the scene in the pizzeria in my head. A detail sticks out to me, and I almost leap out of my seat. How did I miss it? “She ordered a slice of pepperoni,” I tell Diane.
“Maybe she likes it.”
“She does, but Steve would always give her his pepperoni slices.”
“Interesting.”
But it’s not enough, I know she wanted to say. I rest back into my seat. Diane takes my binoculars for a second opinion. She gazes into Mario’s. A huge smile overtakes her face.
“What?”
Diane hands me the binoculars. I need both hands to lift them. She’s giggling and shaking her head.
“What?” I ask. I zoom into the pizzeria. Huxley is doing homework, and Steve’s wiping tabletops. The night ends with a whimper.
“Look at Steve.”
He turns to a corner, away from Huxley to clean a pair of tables, and that’s when I see it.
Steve is eating Angela’s pizza crust.
15
For the next two weeks, my life consists of school, sleeping and SDA. My postpractice aches usually dissipate by the next morning, except on Fridays, when I feel like I barely finished a marathon. I’ve been so busy I barely pay attention to schoolwork or how little I see Val.
Huxley has fewer notes for me, only minute details that I totally missed. Ezra and I have shared plenty of eye rolls over her comments. However, she isn’t trying to be mean anymore. It seems like she just wants every dance to be a work of art and won’t settle for anything less. I’ve been working extra hard not to have two left feet. I get up an hour early to practice in my room. I can feel myself getting better. I’m dancing with confidence, not just trying to keep up. When the music starts, my body shifts into autopilot. Those old lessons from Frances Glory are coming out of hibernation. Today, finally, Huxley acknowledges my improvement.
“Your brain and legs seem to be on the same page today.”
I blush, just a crumb-sized bit. I can’t help it.
Huxley ends practice early to hand out costumes. She stands next to an open box, dabbing her temples with a towel. Even after two hours of choreographed sweating, Huxley’s hair flows down her back like she just left the salon. I look like I just left the rain forest.
The girls gather in their usual cliques on the bleachers.
“It had devil horns and ‘I’m a bitch’ written above her,” Ally Zwick whispers to Kerry Anderson.
“Whoa. Tell us how you really feel, Steve,” Kerry says back. I’ve overheard some variation of this conservation buzz its way through school. I love watching my work elicit such a reaction.
Huxley holds up the costume: a tracksuit made for a stripper pole with matching fuzzy earmuffs.
“Nice, right?” Huxley says to a sea of nodding heads. They’ll have no problem fitting into those things. “I had them add the earmuffs because curling is done on the ice, where it’s cold.”
She distributes them among the girls. Some hold them against their chests. If I had their toned bodies with curves in all the right places, I would be excited, too.
“This year, costumes are ten dollars,” she says. That garners whoops and light applause. “I know. My dad and I found a great deal online.”
“Oh, please,” Ally whispers to Kerry. “I doubt her dad went bargain hunting.”
I have to agree with Ally. Huxley’s dad works on Wall Street, where he is very well compensated. Doing what, I don’t know, but she used to show me pictures from his corner office with a view of the Statue of Liberty. They don’t do discounts. They probably paid top dollar for these costumes and lied to the school board. Only the best for Huxley’s team.
Huxley shuts the now-empty box. “These costumes are very...compact, so I recommend you take the money we saved and wax any areas that may be seen.”
“Will shaving be good enough?” a girl next to me asks.
“Stubble is for boys.”
My teammates spend the rest of practice trying on the stripper tracksuits. I’m not ready for that yet, so I pretend to read my history notes while envying their genes. Girls join Ally and Kerry’s huddle. They glance over at Huxley across the gym before talking. My teammates chat in the same animated, overzealous style people slip into whenever conversation turns to gossip. It’s a biological compulsion. Talking about others is the earliest form of entertainment, after all.
“Do you think she realized Steve worked there?” Tamara Boyle asks, shoving hair behind her ears every point-two seconds.
“Please. You don’t take the interstate to get pizza.” Kerry turns her head in a “come on now” way. “My boyfriend heard Steve was flirting with her.”
“What? No way.” Ally cups her hand over her mouth. “You think he would do that right in front of her?”
Kerry shrugs. “Anything’s possible.”
“That sucks,” Tamara says, then reconsiders. “Though it would be kind of cute if he got back together with his ex-girlfriend after five years. It’s like a movie I would totally drag my boyfriend to.”
“Yeah, Snow White saves Prince Charming from the Wicked Witch,” Ally jokes.
“Hey, guys, let me know if you need a different size,” Huxley says behind them. “With the costumes.”
Their faces turn white as they frantically trade “Oh, crap!” expressions.
“Sure,” Ally stumbles out.
I shut my book. “It’s really sad that you guys have such boring lives and low self-esteem that you have to resort to gossip. Some girl bought a slice of pizza. Chill out.”
The girls stay silent. What can you say to that? In normal social contexts, I would have stayed quiet. But I don’t care about being their friend. And a part of me felt uncomfortable listening to them. They were talking mere feet from the subject of their gossip. That’s just sloppy.
I pack my backpack, square my shoulders and walk to another corner of the bleachers.
Once settled in my new spot, I glance over at Huxley. She’s engrossed with a group of her friends. She doesn’t look my way for the rest of practice.
* * *
It’s not enough having to practice around dozens of the best-looking girls in school. I also have to share a locker room with them—in case I forgot how pale and blah my body is.
Huxley and a girl from the white team change next to me. I don’t know her name, but I think it’s the last name of a president. Madison, Taylor, Carter. Something like that.
“So Bari adamantly denies making that crazy-ass wedding binder,” Madison/Taylor/Carter says.
“Who would do that?” Huxley asks. She slips on her wavy peasant shirt. Leave it to her to make a hippie staple look utterly preppy.
“She thinks it was a setup.”
“Not this again,” Huxley says.
“She’s claiming it’s the Break-Up Artist.”
My back goes yardstick straight. I keep my head down as I dress.
“Derek thinks it was, too,” M/T/C says. She chuckles and smoothes out wrinkles in her blouse.
“Of course he does.”
“I don’t know, though. I think maybe she’s onto something. Whoever wrote that note in the stall could be real. When you think about it, there have been some strangely convenient break-ups at our school.”
I’m so focused on listening, I don’t notice that I put on my shirt backward. The collar chokes my neck.
“The Break-Up Artist is an urban legend,” Huxley says.
“Aren’t all urban legends rooted in truth?”
“Reagan, you are not this susceptible.”
Reagan!
Huxley continues: “If that book was planted, then why aren’t they back together? Spare me your conspiracy theories.
“Though, if Bari knew what was good for her, she would move heaven and earth to get back with him,” Huxley says. She pulls up impossibly tight jeans.
“If they’re meant to get back together, then they will.” Reagan wraps her curls into a messy bun.
Huxley rolls her eyes. “Some things should not be left up to chance. Guys like Derek Kelley don’t come around every day. Now Bari is just another single girl. She’s thrown herself back into the unrecognizable masses.” Huxley shakes her head. “Her loss.”
“That’s a little harsh, Huxley. He’s just a guy.”
She leans in close to Reagan. “Do you think we would be friends if you weren’t dating Mark Olawski?”
All cheerfulness evaporates from Reagan’s face. She finishes dressing in silence and gives Huxley a polite nod before leaving.
Huxley and I are the only ones left in this row. I get nervous for some reason. She’s said far worse to me.
“Rebecca,” she says. She shoves her feet into uncomfortable yet oh-so-beautiful heels. “You’ve gotten a lot better out there.”
“Thanks.” I tie my sneakers. Huxley notices them. I unzip my backpack and show her my heels. “If I wore these after practice, my feet would fall off.”
“Remember those golden slippers we got in Frances’s class?” she asks out of nowhere. “Do you still have yours?”
I picture them, hanging out on my bedroom floor next to my desk.
“Yeah. I think so.” For the sixth-grade level, instead of handing out trophies, Frances Glory decided to dye a pair of ballet slippers platinum gold for each girl. It must’ve been a last-minute idea because the paint wasn’t dry when she distributed them. My mom called her up, irate that my leotard was spattered with gold paint that wouldn’t wash out. She wasn’t the only parent. For our class picture, we all wore our stained leotards.
“I think the paint finally dried like a year ago,” I say, and Huxley cracks up. It’s a real, hearty laugh that I haven’t heard in years and kind of missed.
Huxley thinks about the slippers, or the class or something. She sits on the bench and stares at the locker for an extended moment. I’ve never seen her be so introspective.
“You think someone’s your friend,” she says. “It’s a sad day when you can’t tell your closest friends something in confidence.”
Is she talking to me? Is she talking about me? I can’t tell. I’m not used to dealing with a sensitive Huxley. I’m out of practice.
“They don’t sound like much of a friend,” I say.
“I told my friends that stuff about Angela in confidence.”
“Well, honestly, the higher you climb, the more those around you want to take you down. One of the drawbacks of being happy, I guess.” I can’t believe I’m giving Huxley any type of sane advice, but I’ve met her friends, and I wouldn’t trust them either. Addison and Reagan and the rest of them, all reveling in their popularity but wishing they could ascend higher, wishing they were dating the quarterback. I realize that being queen bee is probably exhausting, and I’m impressed that she’s been able to keep it up this long.
“You’re smarter than this,” I say.
“Thanks.”
I remain frozen on the bench. I still have to put on my right shoe, but I don’t want to break this moment.
“I’m really glad you joined SDA,” she says. Huxley places her hand over mine, and I squeeze.
“Me, too.”
16
As I lie on my bed attempting to do math homework, I receive an unexpected phone call from an unexpected caller.
“Hey! Want to go ice-skating tonight?” Val asks me.
“Now?” It’s 7:16 p.m. on a Thursday. I’m not cool enough to have a social life on a weeknight. I can barely scrape one together on a weekend.
She explains to me that the regional college opens up their rink to the public Thursday nights.
“Ezra and I heard about it from Jeff,” she says. “We’ll pick you up in twenty.”
“I don’t know.” My eyes dart from my clock to the homework sprawled out on my bed to my sore legs. Not to mention the fact that I only ice-skated once, and that ended in blood, tears and stitches.
“‘I don’t know’ means ‘convince me more.’ Fine. It will be so much fun! Maybe some guy will ask you to skate with him and hold your hand. It’s a scientific fact that everything is more romantic on ice.”
“What’s your source? Us Weekly?”
“Come on, Becca!”
I won’t lie. It does feel nice that my friend is so excited to see me. Val and I haven’t hung out in what seems like forever. And I don’t mind that Ezra will be there, too. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, I’ll be spending time with two friends. It shouldn’t be awkward, as long as they aren’t munching on each other’s faces the whole night.
* * *
“So what’s up?” Val asks me for the second time in the car. I hate those generic questions. People use them on someone they don’t know, not their best friend.
“Not much.” I shrug my shoulders. When you go from sharing every minute detail to barely speaking for a few weeks, it’s hard to know where to start.
Val never knew me in my Frances Glory days. We knew of each other in middle school, but we didn’t run in the same circles. I don’t know why I never became friends with her friends. Huxley didn’t like them, and that was that. It wasn’t until our eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C., that Val and I had this unexpected-yet-profound bonding session. We sat next to each other on the bus, and four hours and three states later, we were friends. It’s amazing how that happens. With most people, my conversations never go beyond small talk. But then with a very special few, I just click. We bypass meaningless chitchat. After five minutes, I feel like I’ve known them forever. I can’t explain it. It’s completely outside my control. That’s what happened with Val. So it breaks me that we’re stuck in small-talk land tonight.
“Oh!” Val says, a thought coming to her. I’m all ears. “Ezra and I ate at the best restaurant Sunday night. Have you ever been to The Alamo Steakhouse?”
“Aren’t you a vegetarian?” I ask her.
“I was, but I’m getting back into red meat.” She rubs Ezra’s thigh. He grabs her fingers and squeezes.
“Ezra, you’re not a vegetarian?”
“Don’t let the hemp necklace fool you. I love me some cow.”
“Interesting.” Why did my alleged best friend not tell me she was getting back into red meat? I know it’s just cow, but I feel a little betrayed. I look outside, and it’s darker than usual. The college is on a hill away from neighboring towns. The students there call it Harvard on the Hill.
More awkward silence. Even though this is a two-door, she feels so far away.
“How’s Tamara doing?” Ezra asks me. “That looked like a nasty fall she took in practice yesterday.”
“Well, she’s a sweet girl, but such a spastic dancer. She gets really dizzy really fast.”
“You know what Jeff calls her, right?”
“Tropical Storm Tamara, and we thought of that name together.” I cock an eyebrow at him through the rearview mirror.
“That’s a good one. I’m curious what name you have picked out for Huxley.”
“It wouldn’t be ladylike of me to divulge.”
He bursts into a high-pitched giggle. It’s kind of awkward for him, but also kind of adorable.
Val spins around to face me. She smacks her lips together, an obvious tell when she’s frustrated. “You joined SDA? Why didn’t you tell me?” She eyes me then Ezra, as if she cracked a conspiracy.
“I thought I told you,” I say, which I know is a lie. But why didn’t Ezra say anything?
“She dances quite well. Huxley is putting her front and center in her routine,” Ezra says. He and I laugh at the thought.
“I took dance lessons forever ago,” I say.
“Cool.” Val slumps down in her chair and strums her fingers against her thigh until we reach the rink.
* * *
Even with the crowds, the ice rink has specific rings for all groups. Families and kids stay on the outer rim. The more expert skaters go in the middle, where they can whoosh in wide ovals. The third ring belongs to couples, holding hands while they skate. The bright lights against the steaming white ice creates a dreamlike—and fine, romantic—setting.
Val and Ezra skate around and around the rink. Val has better balance than I thought, and she isn’t playing the “oops, I keep falling” card, to her credit. They glide across the ice, their cheeks a rosy red.
I hug the wall and lurch my way forward. Two-year-olds pass me.
I’m so focused on not cracking my skull open that I don’t see Ezra skate next to me. He taps me on the shoulder.
“Having fun?”
“Tons!” I say. “Can’t you tell?”
He holds out his gloved hand. “Let’s get you out on the ice.”
“I am on the ice.”
He shoots me a look and keeps his hand out. “You look like you’re on a ledge debating whether to jump.”
“I’m fine. I’m going at my own pace.” I already feel like a third wheel. I don’t need him and Val treating me like a Make-A-Wish kid.
“Let me take you on one loop, and if you hate it, I’ll bring you back here.”
Val cheers me on from outside. She sips on a Coke.
“Fine,” I say. I slap my hand into his. He whisks us off. I tighten my grip until my hand whitens.
“Loosen up. You’re so stiff.”
I’m doing a skate-walk. My skates clomp against the ice. My body remains tense and rigid like the Tin Man.
“Don’t pick your skates up,” Ezra says. “Bring them up a little, then let them glide.” He demonstrates and makes it look so easy. I have a minor heart attack as I stand surrounded by speed skaters.
He hustles back to me and takes my hand. “I got you. Let’s try it. Keep your skates on the ice and push off.”
I take my first glide. It’s more of a walk-glide, like a checkmark. My next move has a touch more grace. Then I take more of a glide on my third try and fall on my butt. I want to punch the ice.
Ezra pulls me up. “That was good.”
“I think I’ll go back to the wall.”
“We’re not even halfway around yet. You still owe me a semicircle. Now, stop looking down at your feet. It’s screwing up your balance.” Ezra turns and is now directly in front of me. “This time when we skate, look up and right at me.”
He takes my hands and some weird electric current shivers through me. His hands are clammy, but they give me a sense of comfort.
“What if you bump into someone?”
“You’ll have to be my eyes. It’s all on you, Becca.”
I want to take off my jacket. I may be standing on ice, but I am sweating.
“Ready?” he asks.
I look down then pull my head up. I stare at Ezra. His hazel eyes and round face pull me in immediately. It feels weird making such direct eye contact with him. It’s intimate even though it’s not supposed to be, like he’s viewing some secret part of me. But it becomes hypnotic, and I start to notice details. A faint scar on his jaw. The redness of his lips. Eyebrows that slope down and trail off to the ends of his eyes. Do all eyebrows do that?
“You’re doing great,” he says.
Apparently, I’m gliding across the ice. A wave of exhilaration courses through me, unlocking me from chains of tension. The cold air whips across my face. Ezra has a wild constellation of freckles above his cheek. His eyes keep penetrating into mine, and it’s making me flustered and I want to look away but I can’t. I wonder what he sees.
I forget that Val is on the sidelines, that dozens of people are skating all around us, that there’s noise or light or anything else in a five-mile radius of us. I’m sucked into a trance, and I have to get out.
I push past him and skate to the far wall under the scoreboard. Ezra calls out to me, but I lean my body against the ledge and catch my breath.
Outside my area of the rink, I am snapped back into reality when I suddenly notice Steve. He leans against the wall next to the emergency exit. His wide-eyed smile is on full display.
Angela stands beside him, laughing at every word he says.
17
To: Robert Towne
From: Le Break-Up Artiste
Dear Mr. Towne,
Over the past month, I have made significant progress in the dissolution of Steve and Huxley’s relationship. Huxley, and several of her close friends, are beginning to suspect that Steve is having an affair with an old flame. Doubt and worry are two of my strongest tools. Nothing ends a relationship quicker than making a person override their heart with their warped, paranoid mind. Or at least that’s what I read on a Hallmark card once.
I will, of course, continue to keep you updated.
Sincerely,
The Break-Up Artist
The next day, SDA practice cannot come soon enough. In eighth period, I pull a fresh pen out of my backpack. When I sit up straight again, I find a paper football waiting for me on my desk.
LIFE = OVER
I crumple it up and toss it into my backpack. I don’t look her way.
“Becca! Wait up!”
Val catches up to me in the hall after class. She heaves for air. Sweat mats her hair to her face. She would be so embarrassed if she knew that.
“What’s up?” she asks in a fake, cheerful customer-service-rep voice.
I have places to be, so I give in and cut to what she wants. “Your life is over?” I don’t act concerned. I’m 99.9 percent sure this is a nonissue revolving around Ezra.
“My life is spiraling into a supernova of chaos,” she says. Worry clouds her face. “I don’t know what to do.”
Maybe this is serious. If we talk this out, I’ll be late to practice, but I know my priorities. “What happened?” I pat her shoulder.
Val clutches her two books and one notebook against her chest. “Ezra and I were walking to first period, and when he dropped me off, I kissed him.”
I wait for the rest of her story, but that was it. “So what’s the problem here?”
“Haven’t you been listening? I said I kissed him. He always makes the first move, but he didn’t kiss me this time. I had to kiss him.”
We speed down the side stairwell, our heels clacking against the steps as we get to the first floor. I check the time every few seconds.
“I’m not getting the problem,” I say.
“I had to kiss him. Why did he not try to kiss me first this morning? I don’t even want to think about how I looked, leaning over to lay one on my boyfriend, pulling him in for a kiss like I’m some kind of überfeminist freak.”
“This is the twenty-first century. That’s allowed now. FYI: we can vote, too.”
“Funny,” she deadpans.
“I’m sure it looked romantic.” Or rather like a PDA nuclear spill.
“I didn’t even tell you what happened four nights ago.”
You haven’t been telling me a lot of things, Val, I think to myself. “What happened?”
“We were making out, and Ezra wasn’t kissing me back hard enough. I was being the more passionate one.”
“How can you even judge something like that? He’s a very passionate guy, I’m assuming,” I say.
“I could feel it. He wasn’t kissing like he used to.”
“Used to? You guys have been dating barely a month—”
“Five and a half weeks,” she says. “Almost two months.”
I stop in the main corridor and do a massive eye roll for her rounding skills, and for my stupidity. “Are you serious?”
“I know! I’m kind of scared.”
“Will you stop it, Val. Do you know how annoying you sound?”
Val flips from worry to pissed off in a split second. “Sorry for pestering you.”
Usually I would be fine eye rolling, but I’ve reached a limit on frustration I didn’t know existed. The words spring out of me. “You have. You just keep me around to listen to your fake problems. I’m not your friend. I’m your sounding board.”
“I’ve always been here to talk. You just choose to bottle it up. I thought you were supportive of my relationship.”
“If you keep thinking your relationship is ending, then maybe it is.”
It’s 2:29 p.m. I don’t have time for this. Who knew that I would consider SDA practice a better place to be than talking to my friend? But she isn’t my friend. She’s turned into a relationship zombie, just like the rest of them. “I have to go.”
I skulk off to the locker room. I can’t wait to focus on dancing for two hours and forget this conversation happened.
* * *
I slap on a gigantic grin as I waltz through the gym doors. The girls are stretching. Now that we’ve all improved and become well versed with our routines, Huxley isn’t such a stickler about starting on time. Stretching time has expanded into catch-up-with-your-teammates time.
I change quickly and join Huxley and a cluster of girls doing the V stretch on the floor.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “I’ve felt pretty lethargic today.”
“Late night?” Huxley asks.
“Kinda, yeah. I went out last night.”
The stretchers lift their chests off the floor. I have an audience.
“Rebecca Williamson out on a school night?” Huxley asks. “I can’t even fathom the idea.”
“Oh, really? I went ice-skating. What did you and Steve do last night?”
The girls are more anxious to hear that answer than my nighttime plans. Huxley plays it cool and takes the added attention in stride. She’s a pro at being popular.
“Steve had to work, so I just relaxed,” she says.
“Where’s there ice-skating?” Reagan asks.
I tell them about the college ice rink and my remedial skating. “But I did it,” I say. “I even took pictures.”
Before anyone can ask to see them, I grab my phone and pull them up. Pictures of me pretending to twirl, pictures of Val and me, of Val and Ezra, all enjoying an above-average Thursday night. I look like some magical fairy. You would never guess I could only skate in three-second spurts.
“Isn’t it a nice rink?” I ask. “I am totally going back.”
Reagan peers into the phone, squinting her eyes to see the real picture. Other girls follow suit. They trade suspicious looks with each other.
I hand them the phone and play dumb. “What?”
“Is that...by those doors...?” Reagan starts then cuts herself off. She looks at Kerry, who nods back at her. They hide their smiles.
“What is it?” Huxley asks.
“Yeah. What did you guys see?” I ask. Wow, I didn’t think my acting was this good.
“Nothing,” Reagan and Kerry say simultaneously.
Huxley and I trade confused expressions. Only hers is real.
“May I?” Huxley asks. I hand over my camera. She scans the photo and remains unfazed. “Looks like a fun time.”
She hands the phone back to me. For all any of the girls know, she saw nothing.
Only I caught the slight narrowing of her eyes.
18
“Tom Hanks is such a creep in this,” Diane says through a mouthful of cereal. You’ve Got Mail plays on the TV. Milk dribbles onto her pajama bottoms. “He finds out they’re online pen pals but doesn’t say anything the whole movie. He just uses that insider information to manipulate her into falling for him. And then he drives her store out of business. Oh, and he was dating someone else the entire time. But she couldn’t care less. She’s like ‘La-di-da. I get to kiss Tom Hanks. Screw everything else.’ It’s kind of pathetic.”
“The dog is cute.” I mix the fruit in my yogurt and relax on the Throne.
“Yeah, the dog is kind of cute.”
My mom charges into the living room fully dressed and shuts off the TV. She looks at Diane. “Get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Erin’s son’s first birthday is today, and you’re going.”
“Benjamin Button? Isn’t it technically his eighty-first birthday?”
I laugh. My mom remains dead serious, which makes me laugh more.
“Swing by Toys ‘R’ Us and pick up a toy for Owen.”
“Actually, I was thinking of getting him a carton of cigs and a flask.”
My mom stays planted in front of the TV, arms folded. She’s not backing down this time. I cover my mouth harder to contain myself.
“Becca, do you really find this funny?” my mom asks. No, just awkward. She’s looking for my support, but she won’t get it here.
“Mom, why does Diane have to go? She’ll send a card. How about that?”
“So you think it’s fine that she cuts these girls out of her life?”
“Can you please stop talking like I’m not here?”
“Diane, you’re going. No excuses.”
Why is my mom being so adamant? Can’t she see the fear in Diane’s eyes?
“What else do you have going on today? Are you planning to waste your Sunday on this couch again? You could maybe look for a job and put your degree to work.”
“Why do you care so much about someone else’s baby?”
“Why don’t you care? She’s your friend! Do you remember them? Those girls who called you every day to see how you were doing. The ones who tried to surprise you on your birthday.” My mom shocked even herself with her yelling. She sits down on the empty bit of cushion next to Diane and goes to pat her knee, but Diane pulls them up to her body. “I know they’re in a different stage than you, but you’re going to meet a great guy and it’ll happen, one-two-three.”
“Like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?”
“Exactly!”
Diane swirls her spoon around in the bowl, avoiding eye contact with Mom.
“You’ll see your friends. You’ll socialize. You’ll have fun,” my mom says.
“They can barely be considered my friends. I’m not going.”
My mom swipes Diane’s car keys off the coffee table and retreats back to her TV-blocking position. She’s quick, sprightlier than usual. She prepared for a fight. “Fine, then,” she says. “If you’re not going there, then you’re not going anywhere this month.”
“You can’t do that.”
“We gave you that car. We can take it away.”
Diane pulls herself off the couch, her skin making a Velcro sound against the leather. She scowls at my mom. “Fine.”
“I think you’ll have fun.”
I leap off the couch. “I’m going with her.”
“Good.” My mom relinquishes the keys with ease, quickly returning to her nonconfrontational self.
Diane gives me a relieved smile, as if glad to know someone in this house is still on her side.
* * *
Diane zooms down the highway, one hand on the radio.
“This is going to blow,” she says to me, to herself.
“Is it just going to be a bunch of people staring at a baby?”
“Pretty much. Marian may try to steal some of the attention. Heaven forbid it’s not all on her.”
“Didn’t you tell me she got so drunk at Aimee’s twenty-first birthday party that they took her to the hospital?”
“Yep. She was sobbing in the corner when we sang ‘Happy Birthday.’”
I remember when I visited Diane at college and got to hang out with her friends. Aimee, Marian and Erin were like surrogate big sisters for that weekend. They had all lived on the same floor their freshman year with Diane, all joined the same sorority and all shared an apartment senior year. The “maxipad.” Most of what they talked about were inside jokes that went over my head, but I found them hysterical. They were so cool and, in my head, still are. I would never tell Diane that, though.
We pull into a gated community filled with homes on Martha Stewart steroids. You can tell each new homeowner strove to outdo the last one. We drive down a road overlooking a pond. Diane parks on the street behind an SUV with a Baby on Board decal. Erin’s house has a wraparound veranda, a nod to her Southern roots. Blue balloons tied to the mailbox wave in the breeze.
“Brace yourself,” Diane says. She’s trying to be funny, but I can see she’s scared, and all I want to do is protect my older sister. “You may suffocate from all the smugness.”
I think about the maxipad and how envious I was of a friendship like theirs. I carry a colorful abacus for baby Owen that we found on clearance. “They love you.”
“They love the old Diane, the one scheduled to be married and living in one of these bland, ugly houses.” She stares down the house. Sadness creases her face. She spits her gum out on their lawn. “Ready?”
Erin’s house is full of Pottery Barn furniture, funky paintings and couples. Lots of couples. In fact, all couples. Everyone is in the same uniform. The men have on V-neck sweaters with a collared shirt underneath and jeans. The wives wear sweaters (not in the same color as their husbands; that’s too obvious) and leg-hugging jeans tucked into their boots. Casually formal. We look too casual. Diane cleaned up well, but these women just sparkle. I can sense Diane’s dread of having to walk through this minefield of relationship zombies. She lifts her head and forces a smile. It’s like watching a car salesman, except she’s selling her happiness to the doubters.
I follow behind my sister. Couples huddle together and exchange impassioned small talk. Diane receives a growing barrage of glances and outright gawking. It’s worse than the looks I got at the movie theater. You’d think adults would be more mature. They peer over at us then back to their safe conversations, clutching on to their significant others, infinitely grateful that they were able to fill out society’s checklist. This is my cafeteria in ten years, the next preordained step in their clichéd lives.
Diane and I charge through in our bulky winter coats. She leans into me. “I’ll say hi to Erin, watch the kid crap its pants, then we’ll go.”
“Diane?” Aimee gets up from the couch. Her baby bump peeks out from a flowing blouse. Knowing Aimee, her water will probably break when she’s leading a meeting.
Diane gives her an awkward smile. “Hey.”
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Aimee says. She doesn’t sound excited to see her friend. She seems nervous.
“I didn’t know you were pregnant.”
“Yeah. Seven months. We’re waiting to find out the sex. We want to be surprised. Like I am right now. Wow! It’s good to see you!” She pulls Diane in for a hug, which looks uncomfortable for all parties involved.
I catch a couple behind me staring at Diane and whispering between each other. Look, there’s that sad single girl, I’ll bet they’re saying. But they don’t have the malicious grins of gossipers. They seem nervous, too.
“Hey, Becca! I haven’t seen you in forever,” Aimee says. Her eyes scan the kitchen entrance.
“Diane?” Marian joins us from the basement. Her wedding ring could blind somebody on a sunny day.
“It’s a minireunion,” Diane says.
“We didn’t know you were coming,” Marian says.
“Well, I’m here.”
Marian and Aimee trade glances. Their necks crane over me toward the kitchen entrance. It’s like they have a competition over who can be ruder and more obvious.
“This is a surprise,” Marian says. “You should’ve told us you were coming.”
“Well, I didn’t. Where’s Owen?” Diane asks. A caustic tone overtakes her voice.
“I think she’s feeding him. She’s wearing white pants, too, the brave soul,” Marian says. She twirls her ring on her finger, but has to move her middle finger to make it go around.
People crowd in the kitchen, giving away Owen’s location. I’m too scared to go inside. I fiddle with the abacus beads, sliding them back and forth.
“Have you seen the front porch? It’s got this really comfortable rocking chair,” Aimee says. She tries to lead Diane that way, but my sister refuses.
“What’s going on?”
Marian’s eyes bulge, and she looks down at her drink. Aimee, as usual, is the composed one. “The chair’s nice. We want to catch up.”
“Bullshit,” I blurt out, without even realizing that my mouth had opened, startling all three women. I expected smugness today, but not nastiness. Yeah, Diane may be single, but why does that deserve rubbernecking?
“Diane.”
I know that voice. Diane knows it better than anyone in this house.
My throat tightens as if my tongue fell backward. The abacus slips from my slick hands, and I grab it at the last second. Diane may appear totally fine to her former friends and acquaintances, but I notice her trembling hands. She shoves them into her pockets.
She turns around at a glacial pace, trying to delay the humiliation as long as possible. “Hi,” she says.
Sankresh stands in the kitchen doorway. He strokes Priya’s hand. The sunlight hits her ring just right. It’s bigger than Diane’s was.
The room is quiet. Owen’s crying fills the empty space.
Memories and feelings from that day crash through the mental barrier I had erected. I want to go over there and strangle Sankresh. For taking four years of Diane’s life. For being a coward. For using the “I’ve fallen out of love” excuse.
I make eye contact with Erin. She cradles Owen against her shoulder, and her husband cradles her. She looks down, nestling herself farther into her husband’s arms.
Sankresh takes a step forward. “I didn’t—”
“Know I was coming,” Diane says.
Aimee rubs Diane’s arm, but my sister shrugs her off.
Owen won’t shut up. He’s screaming no matter how much Erin bounces him.
“Let’s go,” Diane says to me, but I’m frozen. All the relationship zombies stare at her, except for her supposed friends. Maybe later I’ll appreciate the irony.
“Becca! C’mon.” She rips the abacus from my grasp and tosses it on the coffee table, where it clanks jarringly against the glass. The sound bellows in the silent room.
I keep my head down, focused on the heels of Diane’s shoes. I don’t shut the front door behind me. The street has a creepy vibe I didn’t notice before. It’s like the houses are watching us, waiting for us to leave.
“Diane! Wait!” Erin scurries onto the front lawn babyless.
“Let’s go.” Diane doesn’t turn around.
Erin’s heel gets caught on something—a piece of gum?—and she falls face-first onto the lawn. I want to help her. She’s going to get grass stains on her white pants, and for some reason, that hits me in the gut. But I keep walking.
The car’s raring to go. Diane peers over the steering wheel at Erin, her face softening with concern. I swear she’s about to open her car door when Erin’s husband races outside and scoops her up. Diane peels away from the curb.
I close my passenger door while we’re halfway down the street. Diane seems ready and willing to crash through the front gate, but it opens automatically. After the first traffic light, Diane pulls off to the side of the road.
“Are you okay?” I ask. The answer’s obvious.
Diane stares out the windshield. Then, out of nowhere, she punches the steering wheel. Over and over. Gasping for breath. Grunts and indecipherable phrases sputter out of her mouth like a blender without the lid. The punching gets faster, more frantic. I feel like I’m the one getting pummeled and now tears form in my eyes.
Finally, she stops.
Without saying a word, she turns the car back on, and we drive away.
19
I shouldn’t be in school today. I’m in the cafeteria before homeroom trying to do some homework, but it’s no use. There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate. Owen’s birthday debacle plays on a loop in my mind, and no lesson plan can steal away my interest.
Ezra and Jeff find me sitting here, but I’m not in the mood for human contact, especially from Mr. Romantic.
“Studying for homeroom?” Jeff says, adjusting his baggy sweater under his backpack. “Now that is dedication.”
“So last night I found this article about the ending of Casablanca, and I hate to say it, but it actually gives your theory some credence.” Ezra beams with excitement. He raises his eyebrows at me, awaiting my response.
I shrug my shoulders and go back to studying my history notes.
“I’ll email you the article.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off my notebook. I’m trying my best to stay nice, but I just want the whole world to disappear right now.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Diane stayed in her room all night with the door locked watching old sitcoms. I stood outside her door listening for sounds of crying, but all I could hear was a laugh track. I wonder what Sankresh and Priya were up to last night. The guests at Owen’s party were probably in stitches about the incident; Diane is probably their new favorite punch line.
“You sure?”
I nod. “I just have a test later.”
“Isn’t that always how it goes? I guess that explains why you’re here so early.”
“Yeah.” The banging of her fists against the steering wheel still pierces my eardrums. Sankresh wouldn’t know what that’s like. Ezra wouldn’t.
“I gotta jet,” Jeff says. “I told Carrie I’d help decorate her friend’s locker for her birthday.”
“She needs to loosen that leash,” Ezra says.
“Tell me about it!” Jeff waves and runs backward out into the hall. He would never do what Sankresh did to Diane. He’s too scared of his girlfriend. Or maybe he would and just slink away. Maybe it’s easier for guys to be weasels than actual human beings.
Ezra strums his fingers against the top of a chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He readjusts his hemp necklace, waiting for me to say goodbye. His eyes do the up-and-to-the-left thing, like he’s perpetually having a stroke. “Well, then. See you later.”
I can’t let him go like this. Guys like him have been let off the hook enough times. Monica had to nurse a broken heart while Ezra lived it up with Isabelle; now somewhere Isabelle is crying while he and Val bicker about who should stop staring. Why do people want to be in love when they know its side effects? Some really are that selfish.
“Ezra,” I say. He stops at a neighboring table. “Did you even care when you dumped Isabelle and Monica? Or were you ‘whatever’ about it since you already had another girl lined up?”
All friendliness fades from his face. He goes into defense mode. “No.”
“Are you sure? It seems like you follow a pattern and Val’s next.”
He digs his hands farther into his hoodie. A sign of guilt?
“Why don’t you go back to studying?” he says.
“Just answer the question, Ezra. Val’s my best friend. I want to prepare her if she’s going to get blown off. Is there a time limit or do you just get bored?”
“What is up with you?”
“Do you even care about the people you hurt?” I shake my head in disgust. “You’re all the same.”
Sadness creases his face. I look at his drooping eyes and get a flash of the guy who helped me ice-skate. Ezra storms out of the cafeteria.
I chase after him, catching him halfway down the hall.
“What?” he asks, not wanting to know the answer.
I don’t say anything at first, then, as if the words were waiting in the wings, I launch into the story about Diane and Sankresh and Owen’s party.
“Whoa,” he says. “That sucks.”
“It’s just... What happened with those other girls?”
He shrugs, his smooth, witty self in hiding. “Things just didn’t work out.”
“What does that even mean?”
He softens. His warm, hazel eyes laser into me like I’m learning to skate, although this time, he wants to show me something else. “We weren’t in love.”
“Not the love excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It totally is. Whenever somebody wants to get out of a relationship, but they don’t want to say the real reason, they use the love excuse. How can such a strong feeling just go away? It’s not a cold.”
“You’re not in love with someone when you start dating them,” Ezra says. His face lights up. “You feel something for them, something different and special. It might be love. It might not. You hope that what you have develops into love, but sometimes it doesn’t. It’s all about taking a chance. Love isn’t a mathematical formula.”
“You’re just giving people an excuse to do whatever they want. I love you...now I don’t. I’m so tired of people using that to be completely shitty to each other.”
“So you think I was shitty to Isabelle? We were both miserable by the end. We would hang out after school and not say a word to each other. I tried talking to her about how things weren’t working, but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted to stay in a relationship.” Ezra licks his lips, making them stand out even more against his light skin. “Break-ups are never clean, never easy. Just because I wasn’t crying in the bathroom doesn’t mean I didn’t care. No offense to your sister, but you only know her side of the story.”
That last line stings, even though it may be true. Maybe Sankresh went through his own silent hell. I’ll never know. It’s an interesting thought. I only hear about one side of relationships from my sister and my clients.
The warning bell for homeroom rings.
Ezra pats me on the shoulder. His hand lingers a second too long. “I hope your sister feels better.”
* * *
I hobble out of the locker room post-SDA. I have a sharp pain in my right foot like I pulled a mysterious muscle in my big toe. Huxley leans by the water fountain, checking her phone, waiting for other members of her crew. Girls give her goodbye waves and smiles, then immediately turn to each other and discuss all things H
