And I get it—they’re trying to be nice, trying to make me feel welcome—but it makes it so much worse.
I’m unloading my second-period books into my locker when the clack clack of heels announces Bianca’s arrival. She’s wearing a blush-pink, flutter-sleeve top I’ve never seen before, and her peroxide-blond hair is cut shorter than I’m used to. It tears at a part of me I didn’t know still existed. Because none of this would have surprised me if we’d still been friends. I’d have shopped for that top with her; I’d have helped her agonize over the best haircut. I wonder when this is all going to stop hurting so badly, because right now it feels like I’m grieving two deaths.
“How are you?” Bianca asks, placing a hand on my arm.
“Great,” I say. “Except for the whole part where my mom died and you slept with my boyfriend.”
Bianca’s jaw hits the floor.
So maybe now’s not the best time to confront her. But maybe I don’t care. Did Bianca ask me if it was a good time when she stripped naked and hopped in bed with my boyfriend? (Hint: no, she didn’t.) The horribleness of Mom dying is not going to overshadow what she did to me.
“You know, I think I finally figured it out,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I just couldn’t get why my own best friend would treat me so bad. For a while I thought it was because of Devon, but it didn’t make sense why you were so mad. You didn’t even like him. I mean, it wasn’t like I stole him from you. But then it hit me: you wanted us to be popular together. It was okay if I was popular, just not more popular than you.”
“That’s not true!” she says, too quickly. “I was just drunk, that’s all. It was a stupid mistake, nothing more—”
“No, let me finish, I’m on to something here. Devon wanted me, and you just couldn’t stand that. You couldn’t stand that I had the hottest guy in school. So you cut me down to make sure everyone knew you were better than me.”
“That’s so not true.” Bianca crosses her arms and juts her chin up, but I can tell by her flaring nostrils that I’ve hit on the truth. I don’t care if she admits it; I know I’m right about this.
“You know, a real friend would’ve been happy for me.” I can feel the prick of tears beginning, but I don’t want to cry anymore, so I change course. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m not going to make it to practice this week. Just not feeling very peppy.”
I skirt around her. I should feel triumphant, having finally told her what was on my mind. But I don’t.
I’m sitting in math class, pointedly ignoring Bianca and contemplating the impact of what I’ve done, when a crumpled-up note slides across my desk. I glance behind me and catch Devon retracting his arm, pretending to be focused on the blackboard.
I take the note into my lap and flatten out the edges. Glad your back. “Your” instead of “you’re,” scrawled in the messy script of a boy. I stare at it for long seconds, unsure how to respond.
I reread the note and decide there’s no secret motive or hidden meaning. He’s just being friendly, though a part of me wonders if he still has feelings for me. It’s stupid and hypocritical that I’d care—there isn’t a world where I’d take back a cheater—but I can’t deny it’s nice to feel wanted.
Thx, I add, resisting the middle-grade urge to write, Do you still like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.
Mr. Lloyd has the biggest stick up his ass about people not paying attention to his lectures, so I wait until he turns to write on the blackboard before slipping the note onto Devon’s desk. When Mr. Lloyd drops his chalk and bends to pick it up, another note bounces across my desk. I catch it just before it falls, cradling it in my lap against Bianca’s prying eyes.
You still up for homecoming?
Homecoming? I glance at the date Mr. Lloyd has written in the corner of the blackboard. September twenty-fifth. I recall the homecoming posters—A Midsummer Knight’s Dream—plastered all over the school. Homecoming is less than two weeks away. A few weeks ago this was the most important thing in my life, and I’ve completely forgotten about it. Guess evil sorcerers killing your mom has that effect.
I stare at the note for a long minute, trying to decide what to say. It’s not fair that I chewed out Bianca, while meanwhile, here I am making small talk with Devon—I won’t let him gloss over what he did to me either. Finally, I simply write: Why?
I’m fully aware of how immature it is to hash this out via note, grade-school-style, but I didn’t want to talk about it before now. And who knows if I might ever want to again? I slip him the note.
Another one tumbles onto my desk a moment later. Don’t mean to be pushy. I asked around, but everyone good already has a date now.
I roll my eyes.
No, I meant why did you do it, I reply in angry bold writing, then chuck the note at him so hard it almost flies off his desk.
He takes an inordinate amount of time to reply, and I can hear his pen scratching out reply after reply. I wring my hands under my desk and realize that I’m praying he comes up with something so satisfying it makes the whole cheating scandal go away and life return to normal. It’d make everything so much easier.
Finally, another note tumbles across my desk. I’m sorry. Don’t ruin homecoming for us both because of a stupid mistake.
You’d think he’d at least wait until my second day at school to remind me that he’s an ass. I spin around and give him a heavy-lidded stare. After thirty seconds have elapsed and he’s sufficiently uncomfortable, I say, “Just in case you didn’t get that, the answer is no.”
I face the front of the class. Everyone is staring at me, Mr. Lloyd included. He doesn’t reprimand me, though. That’s the thing about pity: you can get away with a lot.
In all, my first day back at school is a success.
Aunt Penny’s still not back from her business course when I get home from school. And since Paige is at her violin lesson, I’m left watching episodes of Days of Our Lives that Mom DVR’d, while I listen to her voice-mail message over and over, because it turns out I like to torture myself.
Someone knocks on the door. I guiltily stow my phone away before peering through the keyhole.
Bishop.
“You going to let me in or what?” he says.
I chew my lip.
“Hello? Burning midday sun? You know how I hate being exposed to the elements for long periods of—”
I open the door, and Bishop’s face cracks into a smile.
“How’d you know it was me answering the door?” I ask. “Some kind of reverse keyhole magic?” I glare at him. I don’t even know why I’m mad, but it seems like the thing to do lately, so I just go with it.
“Actually, I knew it was you because you’re the only person who wouldn’t answer the door right away. And I heard your footsteps.”
I huff. “Look, can you just tell me what you want so I can—”
“What?” He cocks his head. “Go back to listening to that damn voice-mail message on repeat?”
My mouth drops open. “Have you been spying on me again?”
He rolls his eyes. “Please. Paige told me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He walks around me into the living room and spins around in front of the couch. “Is there anything else you’d like to accuse me of? Ring on the coffee table? Doormat slightly askew?”