I ball my hands into fists. Dr. Kreiter would say I’m spiraling, making assumptions without actual evidence.
I wish I could simply ask Tess what she’s talking about, but that would sound needy, and I want to sound aloof. So I unclench my fists, fold my arms across my chest, and say, “If I’m dumb, believe me I’m not doing it on purpose.”
Tess responds by folding her arms across her chest. She’s flat-chested (unlike me) and her arms are so long she can twist them over each other and still fit them around her neck. (It’s hard to explain, but it’s a cool party trick.) She’s wearing a black sleeveless shirt with a high crewneck (the sort of shirt that would look terrible on my shorter, curvier frame). She blinks her big brown eyes. She never leaves the house without a coat of mascara.
“You really don’t know?” I watch her long lashes when she blinks.
“Don’t know what?”
She shakes her head. “I guess she kept it a secret from everyone.”
The bell rings again. Last call for first period. I can’t miss homeroom and also be late to first period. My parents’ deal with Mrs. Frosch doesn’t extend to me missing class.
“I gotta go,” I say, pretending I don’t want to stay here and talk to her. “Text me.”
Tess shakes her head again. “It’s not the kind of thing you text about.”
I stand on my tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek (so carefree, so easygoing). Some guy wolf whistles, and I roll my eyes (immature idiots like him don’t bother cool girls like me), and book it to chem lab before Tess can say another word.
The first time Tess told me she loved me, it was via text, so whatever Tess is talking about, it must be bad—breakup bad, I mean—if Tess thinks it’s not the kind of thing you text about. If I were actually cool instead of just pretending to be, I’d break up with Tess before she has the chance to break up with me. But I won’t, because I’m not.
In physics class, Mr. Chapnick surprises us with a pop quiz. (Hooray.) The classroom is so silent that everyone hears it when my phone vibrates with one text message, then another, then another.
“What is that racket?” Mr. Chapnick finally explodes.
I lean down to pull my phone out of my backpack. “I’ll turn it to silent,” I offer. Mr. Chapnick grabs my phone out of my hands before I can even glance at the screen. “Off until the end of class,” he says, powering my phone down. My classmates giggle. A few of the boys wink at me, like they’re impressed with my nerve—texting during class is strictly against the rules.
I wink back. Can’t let them see I’m mortified.
* * *
When I finally get my phone back after class, I’m surprised to discover that in addition to two Call me, we have to talk texts from Tess (is this her way of building up to the breakup?), there’s also a message from my mother.
Call me when you have a minute, sweetie.
Crap. Mrs. Frosch must have called when I wasn’t just late but completely absent from homeroom this morning. Even OCD can’t get me out of detention now.
I wonder what detention will be like. (I’ve never actually been in detention before.) Maybe it’ll be like it is in the movies, and I’ll bond with kids I barely know and we’ll dance and get high (surely Hiram Bingham will be there, he must have a permanent place in detention), and fall in love and learn something about ourselves.
Or maybe we’ll just sit there without our phones or laptops, bored out of our minds, getting a head start on the next day’s homework because we don’t have anything better to do.
I don’t call Mom. Mr. Chapnick made me stay late so he could lecture me about phone etiquette, and if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late (again) to my next class, European history. I actually like European history (unlike physics) and Ms. Smit actually likes me (unlike Mr. Chapnick), so I don’t want to get on her bad side.
I need all the allies I can get, especially if I’m about to lose Mrs. Frosch.
The bell rings. Last call for second period. I’ll have to call Mom during lunch.
Four
The Anxious Girl
After fourth period, I gather my books and head toward our usual lunch table.
I’ve been sitting with the same group of friends since freshman year. We probably don’t have that much in common anymore, but no one ever suggested a change in our routine.
And that routine makes it easier to avoid Tess and the terrible news she has to share with me.
Seriously, what else but a breakup would be not the kind of thing you text about?
But…she wouldn’t just squeeze it in between classes, would she?
After school makes more sense. It would give us time to talk it out.
But maybe not, because it’s only Monday and she might not want to start the week off badly. Maybe she’ll wait until Friday, and I’ll have the weekend to wallow over it. She can’t do it on Saturday because she wouldn’t do it before Big Night (our school’s annual blowout), and anyway she has a track meet Sunday and she wouldn’t want the distraction. Which brings us to next Monday, and if she was going to do it next Monday, she may as well do it today.
My hands are shaking. I ball them into fists like I did this morning, but that only makes them itch.
Everyone stares at me as I walk down the hall. (Dr. Kreiter says that’s my imagination. She says no one is staring at me. She says, People are never thinking about you as much as you think they do.) But what about the boys who make kissy noises at Tess and me when we walk down the halls holding hands, or the jerk who whistled at us earlier?
Every time it happens, I roll my eyes like it’s no big deal. Sometimes, I even call the gross boys out. But later, at night, in bed, trying and failing to sleep… It’s like I can still hear them. And sometimes it makes me wonder what it would be like to be straight, because maybe then those boys wouldn’t look at me.
Then again, maybe they’d find another reason to stare. Even before I came out, I was sure people were looking at me. (Dr. Kreiter would say that was my imagination too.)
And my dad’s colleague. I stood up to him with aplomb—I really did!—and Dad was so proud. But that didn’t keep me from worrying that I might have gotten my father into trouble. Of course, Dad would say he didn’t care because I’d been right to stand up for myself—but what if he lost his job? Dad would say it was more important to be right than employed. He’d say he wouldn’t want to work for a man who fired him over something like that anyhow. But what if he couldn’t afford to pay my tuition, or our mortgage, or to put food on the table?
I pull my phone from my back pocket to text my best friend—hey wanna ditch lunch and chat?—even though I know she only skips lunch to study. Maybe I can convince her to make an exception, just this once. But I hear Tess’s voice calling my name before I can type a word. I tuck my phone back into my pocket.