by Katie Wismer
I lean back in my chair in an attempt to put more space between us, but it does little to calm my nerves. “I guess it’s more my fault than the school’s that I haven’t liked high school.”
“How do you mean?” he asks, his brow furrowing a bit. The way his gaze never wavers from my face makes me feel like I’m standing center-stage, sweating beneath a spotlight.
I hesitate, licking my lips. There’s no good way to explain this without sounding like a complete loser. “I guess I just feel like I never really put myself out there, so I’ve missed a lot of opportunities.”
Finally, he relaxes back into his chair, one arm propped on the table, the other holding his coffee. My feet drum against the floor, tapping out a steady rhythm—one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.
“So if you’re not super involved with school,” he asks, “what do you like to do for fun?”
I cross my legs beneath the table in an attempt to appear more casual. I don’t think it helps. “I volunteer at an animal shelter, so that takes up a lot of my time.”
“That sounds cool.”
“Yeah, I love it. My dad’s allergic to practically everything, so it’s the closest thing I’ve got to having a pet.”
“Ugh, I know what you mean.” He leans forward again, bracing both of his arms against the table, coffee cup seemingly forgotten at the edge. “Well, my dad’s not allergic to animals, he just doesn’t want all of the responsibility. You probably don’t remember this, but when we were like eight I begged him for a dog, I even wrote him this long, detailed note on how I would take care of it, and sell my toys to pay for its food.”
“Aw,” I say, because Mon Dieu that is adorable.
He shakes his head. “He didn’t go for it. I was crushed.”
I laugh and gesture toward him. “And clearly you still haven’t recovered.”
He nods with a mock-serious expression. “It was a scarring experience. I guess being an only child, I was just lonely, and thought a dog would help. Once I realized he’d never go for the dog, I tried to convince him to let me at least have a hamster.”
“No luck?”
He lets out a wistful sigh. “None.”
“What would you have named it?” I ask. “If you had gotten the dog?”
“Rex, obviously.”
I scoff.
“What?” His voice gets higher in mock offense.
“It’s just so common. We’ve had at least six Rex’s come through the shelter this year alone. Surely you could come up with something better than that.”
“Oh, really?” he laughs. “If you’re so creative, then what would you have named it?”
“What kind of dog are we talking?”
He takes a moment to consider. “Something big. Manly.”
“Easy. Name him Queso.”
“Queso?”
“Yeah. Why not?” I shrug. “I like nachos.”
A grin takes over his face, and he leans back in his chair, draping one arm over the back. He somehow manages to look calm in whatever he does, like nothing makes him nervous. Everything about him is easy, relaxed. I would kill to feel like that.
“You have any dogs at the shelter named Queso?” he asks.
“No, but we do have this little terrier, Banjo, who is probably the cutest thing you’ll ever see. And there’s this ten-year-old German Shepard, Pluto,” I say, numbering them off on my fingers. “He’s such a sweetheart. But my favorite is probably Squirt. She’s this little Maltese. I would adopt her in a second if my parents would let me. She has so much energy, so it kills me that she sits in that little cage all day. I try to let her out every time I go, but that’s only a couple hours a week. It’s so sad.”
“What is it you like so much about her?”
“She is just the cutest. She does this thing when she gets excited—you know, I can’t even explain it.” I wave my hand and realize I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. “You’d have to see it.”
“I’d like to.”
The grin freezes on my face. I look up to see him watching me with a quiet intensity, though his smile is soft. I open my mouth to speak, and quickly shove the words out into the open before I lose my nerve. “I work there from five to seven on Tuesday, if you want to see her.”
The smile stretches further up his cheeks. “Yeah? But only if it’s not any trouble. I don’t want to be in the way or anything.”
“You wouldn’t be in the way! And the dogs love when people come in and play with them.”
“So they’re good with strangers?”
“There are a couple who are a little shy, but the way most of them behave, you’d think they’d known their visitors their whole lives. It’s adorable.”
“Do you remember that time when we were kids—we must have been nine, maybe ten—when we saw that rabbit in your backyard and spent like three hours trying to catch it?”
Vividly. It was during my tomboy phase when I wore nothing but basketball shorts and insisted on wearing my hair in two braids every day.
“And we tried to make a cage out of twigs so we could keep it as a pet without our parents finding out,” I add.
“You named that one, too. What was it?” He raises a single eyebrow knowingly.
I hang my head in shame. “Cuddles.”
“Hm. How…common.”
“Hey. We were nine—at least my naming capabilities have improved. Yours have stagnated.”
“Are you implying I have the naming capability of a nine-year-old?”
“That’s exactly what I’m implying.”
“But you’ve had more practice working at the shelter,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Unfair advantage.”
I roll my eyes. “Excuses, excuses.”
He pauses and gestures between us. “This is kind of weird, right? It’s been, what? Seven years since we’ve hung out?”
Wow. I knew it had been a long time, but hearing the number makes it feel even longer. I say as much aloud.
He finishes his coffee and sets it aside. “At risk of sounding unbearably cheesy, it kind of feels like we never stopped being friends. I don’t know, I guess you’re just easy to talk to.”
“Be honest. It’s because I still look like I’m eleven.” I’m only half-joking.
He laughs, his whole face lighting up as he does so. Some people have attractive laughs, where they just look really good. Sam’s isn’t like that. His nose crinkles, his eyes squint, and his whole face kind of contorts, but it’s still inexplicably beautiful, even if just for the sake of knowing for certain that it’s genuine.
“You, on the other hand,” I continue, “grew like a tree. What are you now, like six-foot?”
“Six-one, to be exact. And you’re, what? Five-foot?” he teases.
I am short, but I’m not that short. “Three. Five- three.”
A flash from my phone in my periphery snags my attention and I glance down. A text from Johanna pops onto the screen, asking for an update. My eyes shoot to the time. “Oh, no.”
His gaze snaps to me. “What?”
“The service ends soon.”
Thankfully, Sam seems to understand the situation without having to ask. We scramble to our feet, push in the wiry chairs, and hurry out the door. A couple of cars whiz past before we can jog across the road to the church. We’re about to reach the front doors when Sam grabs my wrist and pulls me aside. My entire body jolts to life at the contact, but I try not to let it show on my face.
“Wait,” he says. “I want to make sure we get to do this again.”
“Do you want to give me your number? Then I can text you the address for the animal shelter in case you want to drop by some time.” Stupidly, I blush, and then wave my hand to try and disguise it. “You know, to see the dogs. But if you don’t want to, I totally understand. You’re probably busy—”
He cuts me off by taking the phone from my hand and punching in his number. Handing i
t back to me, he smiles. “I took the liberty of texting myself so I’d have your number, too.”
It takes everything in me to stop my face from breaking into a stupid smile. I slip the phone into my back pocket as people start filtering into the parking lot around us. I should really head inside to find Maman and Harper and do some damage control.
“Okay, so, maybe I’ll see you Tuesday then?” I say, taking a step away.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles. “Don’t forget to text me that address.”
Despite my best efforts, the stupid smile breaks out. “I won’t.”
✦✦✦
Handling my family afterwards turns out to be much easier than I expected. I just tell them that Sam and I decided to sit together in the back, and Papa looks so thrilled that he lets the subject drop at that, never mind their usual united front lectures.
I should probably feel bad about lying to them.
But I don’t.
6
A cold fist of panic seizes me as Mr. Graham’s eyes scan the class, probably seeking out the most guilt-ridden face, trying to determine who didn’t do the reading.
I did the reading. But that doesn’t stop my face from flaring, my hands from suddenly producing too much moisture, and my heartbeat from rising to a painful gallop against my ribs. Because, inevitably, if he calls on me, heads will turn in my direction. Eyes will zero in on my red cheeks and the beads of sweat in my hairline. I’ll try to speak. My blood will thunder so loudly in my ears I’ll barely even hear my own voice as it comes out thin and shaky—a dead indicator to everyone around me of just how nervous I am over something completely simple and stupid like getting called on in class. And they’ll all know. They’ll all know I’m a panicked, shaky mess. God forbid I get the answer wrong, because then I’ll look like a panicked, shaky, stupid mess.
The longer he waits to call on someone, the higher my stress amplifies, like someone is slowly turning up the volume, until my entire body is strung so tight I start looking for escape routes just to make the chaos inside of my body stop.
He calls on a redhead named Max on the other side of the room.
My entire body releases, the pent-up nervous stress washing out of me in waves. My hands shake as the energy leaves my body, and I almost feel out of breath, like I just stopped jogging.
I feel like I need to lie down.
The bell rings as Max starts to answer, cutting off his words.
In most classes, the second the bell rings, it’s a stampede for the door. Not Mr. Graham’s class. Students, mostly of the female variety, linger around, slowly packing their belongings and chatting with Mr. Graham, trying to get his attention. How these girls don’t realize how painfully obvious their efforts are, I’m not sure. Ashley Miller, always the ringleader, stands at the front of the room, leaning against Mr. Graham’s desk, effectively blocking his path to his briefcase, daring him to lean over her. The other members of the Pretty Committee linger, waiting to see how this plays out.
As Johanna and I are heading out, Jo pauses by the door and calls, “Ashley!”
Mr. Graham glances over at us, but Ashley ignores Jo, twirling her hair around her finger.
“Ashleyyyyy,” Johanna sings.
Finally, Ashley glances over and narrows her eyes to slits. “What?” she mouths.
“Don’t forget, we’re having a group meeting at my house after school.” Johanna flashes her sweetest smile. “Don’t be late!”
“Whatever,” Ashley replies.
Johanna looks like she could keep doing this all day, but I grab her by the elbow and not-so-subtly lead her from the room.
“So,” she says as we turn down the hall toward the cafeteria. “On a scale of one to ten, what are the odds Ashley bribed someone to dump their lunch on us today?”
“It really just depends on how fast she’d be able to find someone to do it…I say a solid seven.” I hook my elbow through hers. “So maybe we should eat outside.”
“Are you kidding?” she laughs. “I hope she does it. Because if she’s the one to start it, that gives me an excuse to dump my chocolate pudding down her shirt. That’s my dream.”
“These are the things you dream about, Jo?”
“These are the things I live for.” She grins and taps her temple. “It’s all chocolate pudding and sexy world history teachers up here. Though I imagine up here,” she reaches over and messes up my hair, “is all coffee shops and Sexy Samuel.”
We’re nearly to the cafeteria when a pack of underclassmen girls comes screaming around the corner, running as fast as they can. Some of them are half-dressed and clutching their clothes to their chests as they run. Jo and I freeze and flatten ourselves against the lockers to avoid getting trampled, and exchange a wide-eyed glance.
“She’s a dyke!” the short brunette at the head of the pack shrills as they all continue to barrel down the hall.
“Don’t let her near you! You might get infected!” screams another.
“You guys, she had a camera! I saw it! She was filming us!”
This sends another wave of screams among the group.
“What a freak!”
Once they pass, I poke my head around the corner. It looks like they came from the girls’ locker room, and a couple of kids are still standing around, laughing. I have half a mind to go ask them what the hell is going on, but then the locker room’s door swings open, and the last girl steps out.
Her face is streaked with tears, her complexion blotchy and red.
“Harper?” I ask.
Sniffling, she pushes past me. “Leave me alone.”
“Harper!” I call after her, but she just keeps walking, head ducked between her shoulders, and hurries down the hall.
✦✦✦
Unsurprisingly, Ashley shows up to Jo’s house that afternoon half an hour late. What is surprising, however, is how prepared she is. The moment she steps through the door, blond curls tied back in an I mean business ponytail, heeled oxfords clicking against the hardwood, she struts to the kitchen island and dumps the class textbook, a spiral notebook, and half a dozen scholarly sources, printed and neatly stapled.
She looks at the two of us, currently lounging on the barstools with an impressive platter of nachos half-devoured between us, and raises her eyebrows.
Jo pushes a bottle of mustard toward her.
Ashley scrunches her nose. “What’s this for?”
Johanna shrugs. “In case you wanted to throw this, too.” When Ashley doesn’t move, Jo picks the bottle back up and twirls it in her hands. “Or do you discriminate against condiments?”
For a moment, Ashley and Johanna just stare at each other, and it occurs to me that I’m the only one here to get in the middle if they start slapping each other again. Ashley crosses her arms over her chest and flicks her gaze between the two of us. Her cheeks almost look a bit flushed.
“Do you guys mind?” she snaps, though the words have less bite than usual. “I’d like to get started on this so I can get out of here as soon as possible.”
Eyes still narrowed, Johanna nods her chin at the pile of papers. “What are those?”
Ashley huffs and plops herself in the barstool farthest away from us. “So I made the executive decision for our topic and already did some research on gender dynamics during the Mongol Empire, and I thought we could tie it back to our current political climate and ongoing equality debates.” She shoves the stack of papers toward us. “I picked out some sources that look promising, but we’ll probably need a few more.”
Johanna stares at Ashley, mouth slightly open, and it takes me a moment before I finally reach forward to grab the papers.
Ashley crosses her arms over her chest and glances between the two of us. Her eyebrows have returned to their normal position, and there’s a hint of uncertainty in the way her eyes flicker back and forth. “Will that work for you two or what?”
“That’s actually a g
ood idea,” I say, flipping through the sources, all of which are totally legit. I’m not sure why I expected them not to be, but damn.
Johanna just keeps staring at her, mustard still in hand, as if daring Ashley to give her a reason to use it.
“What?” Ashley snaps and throws her arms up. “If you’re going to make another dig at my intelligence you might as well do it now to get it out of the way.”
Johanna finally closes her mouth and sets down the mustard. “Alright, Commander Miller. Where do we start?”
✦✦✦
As Ashley assigns jobs, now pacing around the kitchen like a true drill sergeant, I check my phone for the tenth time that afternoon. I haven’t seen Harper since that moment in the hallway when she’d ducked her head between her shoulders and shoved past me without a word, but I’ve left her a couple of texts. No matter how many times I check, there’s still no response.
“Are we boring you?”
I glance up to see Ashley’s face very close to mine, her bright-peach manicured hands braced on the island between us. I quickly set down my phone. Every time she looks at me with those calculating eyes, a cold flash of fear washes over me. “I’m finding contemporary sources. Got it.”
“Good.” She leans back, tightens her ponytail, and surveys our materials spread across the island for a second. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Her gaze darts to Johanna, waiting.
Johanna points up. “Upstairs, first door on the left.”
Wordlessly, she twirls, her ponytail whipping around in a wide arc, and struts out of sight. We wait until her footsteps disappear upstairs before risking a word.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m completely mind-fucked right now,” Johanna murmurs.
I mutely nod my agreement.
Jo’s gaze darts to my phone. “Has Harper responded?”
A sigh is my only response.
“Damn,” Johanna mutters. “Maybe try when you get home? She might just need some time to think, you know?”
