I’ve blamed so many people over the years for not seeing me, but the awful truth is…I’m just as guilty as they are.
5
Unfortunately, “Vulnerable Lukas” disappeared as soon as he left that afternoon. His storms resurfaced, transporting him to whatever dark place in his mind he tends to retreat to. He was generally indifferent and, once again, barely spoke to me. But he wasn’t mean. He was never mean.
Four weeks have passed, and I miss that moment of light. I want to see his smile. The day is warm, the sun is shining, and as usual I’m shuffling my way to the Jesus Table—head down, tray in hand, backpack in tow. Today I’m wearing a simple lavender maxi dress that flows in the breeze as I walk, with a lightweight plum cardigan to cover my arms. The silver gleam of my sandaled foot catches my eye, barely peeking out from under the hem of my dress.
I smile.
I love these sandals.
Mrs. Rodriguez gave them to me last week, and I don’t think I’ve taken them off since they were removed from the box.
My hair is down, the blonde tendrils brushing my back with each stride. After hearing Adam whine for twenty minutes this morning about “displaying my natural waves for all to see”—cue the eye-roll—I reluctantly relented.
Well, actually, he hid our blow dryer, but you know, whatever.
It’s honestly been nice having my hair down, not that I’ll tell Adam—
Smack.
A surprised squeak escapes me—my tray is flipped up against my chest. I feel a burst of chocolate milk ice cold against my skin as it sinks into the fabric of my dress.
“Bitch!” Leah exclaims.
‘Cause my eyes were glued to my feet, I’d missed the mean-girl train in front of me, Leah Allen of course leading the way. What the hell?
I look up in shock, and Amy Martindale stumbles into Leah from behind, beginning what can only be described as an extremely unrehearsed slapstick routine of a mean-girl pileup. And as this plays out in front of me, as I take in each of their ridiculous expressions upon impact, I just can’t help myself.
I laugh.
And just like that, my happy, happy day is back on track.
At the sound of my laughter, Leah homes in on me, her narrowed dark-brown eyes bordering on black as fury fills them. In this moment, this calm before the inevitable storm, I can see how pretty she’d be if she wasn’t—and I’m quoting Genny here—such a bitch all the time.
Minus the dollop of mustard sliding down her cheek, of course.
Oddly mesmerized, I watch it descend in what seems like slow motion until some greater power hits the play button and real time resumes.
Then I hear Genny’s boots against the pavement, and Leah lunges in my direction, fingers outstretched and curved. Without thinking, I grip my tray in my hands and slam it into Leah’s overpriced Ralph Lauren blouse. She flies backward, and I swear to God above, whoever hit the play button decided to change it up by pressing rewind, because it’s the pileup all over again, but in reverse.
Then, just when I thought the situation couldn’t possibly get any more hilarious, they all tip over like a row of dominoes.
And as each one collapses, I laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
Tears rise and blur my vision, but I don’t need to see what’s happening to know it’s absurd. The curses, the shrieks of horror, the wails…the entire scene is playing in high definition in my mind.
Oh God. Leah’s face. The food in her hair and her purse. This couldn’t get any better—I will remember this moment forever.
I wipe the tears from my eyes just in time to see Leah jump to her feet and throw her head back. She’s eerily silent at first, then what begins as barely a guttural growl crescendos into an ear-splitting battle cry.
Once it’s released, she slowly, ominously, lowers her stare.
Suddenly this situation isn’t so funny anymore.
My adrenaline spikes as I watch her reach into her purse, but I breathe a sigh of relief when she pulls out a portion of decimated hamburger instead of a handgun. Mustard and grease trickle onto the side of her bag, and a tomato plummets to the ground when she thrusts the patty in my direction.
She stares at the damaged leather, then sniffs, chin trembling. A tear falls, landing smack dab next to the tomato as she meets my eyes.
“You have no idea what you’ve done. What this will cost me.”
Genny, who has been surprisingly quiet through this exchange, decides to take this time to offer her two cents. “This is not Chloe’s fault. You ran into her. Not the other way around. So maybe, just maybe, you can figure out how to share the fucking sidewalk instead of taking your half out of the middle like an entitled bitch.”
Adam, clearly more observant than She of the Imminent Implosion less than three feet away from me, gently warns, “Genny.”
I look over at him. He’s alert, ready for anything. Thankfully, because not even a second later a greasy hamburger patty is launched through the air and smacks against Genny’s favorite Sex Pistols T-shirt.
Oh shit.
Adam shakes his head in defeat.
Genny’s eyes narrow in the direction of the offender. Leah scowls back, ready to pounce.
Where the hell is Lukas?
Just as I watch Genny fly in Leah’s direction, two strong arms circle my waist, lift me from the ground, and pull me out of the danger zone.
Infuriated that I’m missing the beatdown of a lifetime, I whip around to face Lukas, but am struck silent by the anger in his expression.
“Look up.”
My face pinches in confusion. “I am. Like, right now. You have at least a foot on me.”
His eyebrows slam together, so I add, “Height wise.”
He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply before opening them again. “When you walk, look up.”
“What?” I feel as though we’re having two separate conversations.
Lukas balls his fists, one at each side. I fight the urge to laugh because seriously, I have no clue, and clearly it’s ticking him off.
My amusement is short-lived, however. I sober immediately when he leans into me, so closely I can smell the clean scent of his soap. His eyes narrow. “You want people to see you, but they can’t see what isn’t there. You make yourself invisible by keeping your head down and avoiding eye contact. All that does is make you look weak. It makes you an easy target.”
A shriek sounds in the distance. Lukas tilts his head. “Case in point.”
I bristle at his harsh tone. “Well, even with your obvious lack of eye contact, I still see you.”
His response is a slew of sentences I never thought him capable of stringing together.
“I didn’t ask to be seen. I don’t need to be seen. But for whatever reason, you do. I don’t understand it, and I don’t have to, because that’s your Goliath. Not mine. And it’s something you can easily overcome. I refuse to watch you cower anymore. So, when you walk, look up. Give them no other choice but to see you.”
Then, as though he hasn’t said enough, he adds, “Your victim card has officially expired.”
What. The. Hell?
He’s so wrong. I don’t carry a victim card.
But when I open my mouth, I’ve got nothing to say.
You make yourself invisible by keeping your head down and avoiding eye contact. All that does is make you look weak. It makes you an easy target.