I agreed to go over to his house.
I mean, what did I think was going to happen?
“Nothing,” I say now, clenching my fists around the straps of my backpack, then turn on my heels and head upstairs. I shut my bedroom door behind me, digging my phone out of my pocket and scrolling to Chloe’s name before realizing I have no idea what to tell her. God, there’s probably not even anything to tell. I’m blowing this way out of proportion, most likely. Maybe it’s not even that big of a deal. After all, it’s not like some creepy perv forced himself on me in a dark, deserted alley. It’s Bex.
It’s Bex.
And he kissed me.
And maybe I wanted him to, in a way? Except also, I didn’t.
I’m still clutching my phone like a weapon when suddenly it buzzes in my hand, startling me so badly I drop it altogether, watching it skitter across the carpet like it’s got a mind of its own. I reach down and pick it up, then drop it again before finally getting a grip, Jacob’s name flashing across the screen. We’re supposed to meet a bunch of people at Applebee’s tonight, I remember as I hit the button to answer. I’m supposed to go hang out with all our friends.
“Um, hey,” I manage, hoping I’m just imagining how fake and squeaky my voice sounds. “How was your practice?”
“It was awesome,” Jacob tells me cheerfully, then launches into a long, convoluted story about Joey and Ahmed getting into a fight over whose gym socks were stinking up the locker room that meanders for the better part of five minutes. He’s calling from his car, the blare of the radio audible in the background.
“What about you, huh, babe?” he asks finally. “What are you up to?”
“Um,” I stall, making a million infinitesimal calculations in the space of a couple of seconds. I can picture him so clearly, his hand slung casually over the steering wheel and everything in his life exactly the same as it was two hours ago. “Not much. Just hanging out.”
“You sure?” Jacob asks. “You sound weird.”
“I do?” I don’t know what it means that I’m surprised that he noticed. “Just tired, I guess.”
I can’t decide if I’m hoping he’ll press it or not, but Jacob just hums along, as usual.
“Take a nap,” he suggests cheerfully. “I’m gonna go home and take a shower and then I’ll come pick you up for dinner, okay?”
I glance across my bedroom, catching sight of my own reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door—my braid and my uniform, the slightly wild expression on my face.
“Sure,” I say, looking away again. “Sounds great.”
Seven
“Okay,” I say to Chloe the following night, holding my hand out for the bag of Tostitos she’s holding. She came over to my house after our lunch shift at her parents’ restaurant, the two of us sprawled out on the floor in my room. “Can I tell you something weird that happened?”
Chloe bites the corner off one triangle-shaped chip, delicate. “Literally always.”
“No, I know,” I say, rummaging through the bag until I’ve gathered a salty handful. “This is really weird though, not like, ‘Jacob watching those pimple-popping videos’ weird.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chloe says thoughtfully, “I think those videos are kind of relaxing.”
“Oh my god!” I drop my chips back into the bag. “Ugh, you’re so gross.”
“They are!” Chloe grins. “Okay, okay, go, tell me the weird thing.”
I nod, taking a deep breath and telling myself there’s no reason to be nervous—after all, it’s just Chloe. “Okay,” I say again. “So Bex offered to give me a ride home after school yesterday.”
Chloe’s eyes widen. “He did?”
“Yeah,” I say, “but that’s not the weird part. Or I mean, I guess that’s part of what’s weird, now that I’m saying it out loud, but—” I tilt my head back against the edge of the bed and tell her the rest of the story, ending with the kiss. “I bailed out super hard right after that, obviously. But now I don’t know, like, what to do about it.”
Chloe doesn’t say anything for a moment. When I look over at her she’s breaking a tortilla chip up into a hundred little pieces, arranging them in her lap like a mosaic. “Are you sure?” she finally asks.
I frown. “What do you mean, am I sure? Like, about what happened? Yes, I’m sure. I was there.”
“No, I know, I just mean—” She stops. “Like, are you sure he was actually trying to—like, you didn’t just walk into him, or whatever?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I snap, although suddenly there’s a tiny part of me that isn’t. I sit up a little straighter. “Do you think I’m making it up?”
“Of course not,” Chloe says, gathering the chip crumbs up off her lap and tossing them into the wastebasket tucked under my desk.
“Really?” I ask. “Because it sounds like maybe—”
“Marin!” Chloe laughs a little then. “Come on. Hey. It’s me. That’s not what I think.”
“But?” I prompt.
“No buts!” Chloe promises. “That’s awful, if he did that. That’s totally gross. Was there like—” She breaks off.
“Was there what?”
“I mean, what exactly happened?” she asks, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “Like, was it just a grandma kiss? Was there tongue? What?”
I think of his hand on my face, his palm sliding southward. It feels like somehow I’m not explaining this right. “No,” I admit finally. “No tongue.”
“Okay,” Chloe says, sounding relieved. “Well, that’s something, at least.”
“I guess.” I blow a breath out. “I’m sorry. I’m just—yeah.” I spin around on the carpet, lying back on the floor. “Do you think I should tell somebody?” I ask the ceiling.
“You just told me.”
“No, like, DioGuardi or someone? I mean, I didn’t even tell my parents.”
“What,” Chloe asks, “to, like, try to get him in trouble?”
“I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble,” I say, popping up on my elbows.
“No, of course not,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean that how it came out. I guess I just . . . obviously I believe you about what happened, but are you sure he didn’t just, like . . . get confused by your vibe, or whatever?”
I startle. “My vibe?”
“You know what I mean!” Chloe defends herself. “Or maybe you were confused? I’m definitely not saying you were, I’m just trying to figure out—”
“I’m not confused.” Ugh, this isn’t going how I thought it would at all. I take a deep breath, try to regroup. “It was weird behavior, right? Objectively, for a teacher? It was inappropriate.”
“Yes, of course. One hundred percent,” Chloe says, even as she’s shrugging noncommittally. “But it also sounds a little like maybe you’re freaking out a disproportionate amount? I wasn’t there, obviously, but, how many times have we talked about how hot he is, or whatever? Maybe he was just picking up what you were putting down, or trying to make it not weird, or—”