by Sarah Ockler
“Shocking.” Ellie rises, scoops up her lunch scraps. “Let’s go.”
Ellie walks in front of me to throw out her trash, and I’m so focused on her, so keyed up about what I need to say, that I don’t notice the figure rushing me until we collide. With thuglike force, Quinn shoves a tray of garbage into my stomach. Spaghetti sticks to my Ani DiFranco shirt, chocolate milk covers my boots. The tray clatters to the ground.
Everyone around us whoops and claps.
“Eww.” Quinn’s fingers drip with chocolate milk, and she flicks them at my face. “Nasty. Maybe if you weren’t so busy watching other people’s boyfriends, you could watch where you’re going.”
I blink the milk from my eyes. “I’m—I didn’t—”
“Really?” Ellie steps between us, crowding up on Quinn. “You’ve probably been planning that trick all weekend, right? And that’s the best you could come up with?”
I grab a pile of napkins someone left on a table and mop everything up, best I can. My shirt’s stained with sauce, but due to their ass-kicking nature, my boots survive unscathed.
Perhaps there’s a metaphor for life here.
Quinn doesn’t answer Ellie’s inquiries. She whips out her cell phone, thumbs flying over the screen as she walks away, vanishing back into the cafeteria hell dimension from whence she spawned.
“You okay?” Ellie asks me.
“As a cucumber.” I take her elbow and steer us out into the sunny courtyard. We find a spot nestled behind a few ponderosas, a slab of red sandstone poking out from the ground. Neither of us sits.
“Quinn was at the party,” I explain. “She’s mad about the pictures of Olivia. Which I didn’t post.”
“I know.” Ellie squints in the sun. I don’t know if she means she knows why Quinn’s mad, or she knows I didn’t post the pictures. “I’m sorry you’re getting so much crap about this, Lucy. It’s not fair. People are harsh.”
“They think I broke the cardinal what-happens-at-the-party rule,” I say. “Not to mention the best friend’s boyfriend rule.”
“You kind of did.”
“Ellie, I didn’t plan it. I hate prom stuff. I just wanted to get through the dance and go home. But you know Cole—he made it fun.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah?”
“Dancing,” I say. “When he asked me about the party, I just . . . I went along. And I’m sorry about what happened, but you . . . How could you not tell me you guys broke up? How could you fake being sick just to get out of going to prom with a guy you supposedly loved for three years?”
Cole’s words from last night replay in my mind, everything he said about the two of them knowing they wouldn’t last, knowing there weren’t any sparks.
As if she can read my thoughts, Ellie sighs, looking out across the courtyard. “Things with Cole were . . . fading. We broke up, completely mutual. And I’m sorry if you feel like I was keeping secrets, but that’s my right. I knew we’d all be leaving for college anyway, and I wanted things to just . . . fade out. No drama.”
“So why ask me to go to prom?” I ask. “Why didn’t you both bail? Or just go as friends? It’s not like you guys hate each other.”
A magpie crosses overhead, and Ellie watches it, waits for it to disappear into a neighborhood across the street. “He wanted to go, and I just . . . I couldn’t fake it. But then I had these jealous visions of him hooking up with random girls, which isn’t even his style, but . . . you know. It was weird sending him off alone.” She meets my eyes. “You’re the only one I trusted to go with him. I thought you guys would have fun.”
What did you think would happen, El? The thought comes, but I dismiss it. Ellie never knew how I felt about Cole. She never knew how I felt about practically anything important.
I never told her.
My eyes sweep her face, her stylishly tangled brown hair, the lone dark freckle on her left cheek, and again I feel that disparity, best friends and casual acquaintances. Soul mates and strangers.
“This whole thing is crazy embarrassing,” she says. “I’m like the dumb wife, home cooking dinner while her husband’s banging the secretary.”
“Technically, you’re the wife who kicked her husband out, ordered Indian takeout, contemplated banging the hot delivery guy, then lost your shit when you found out your husband—”
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” she says. “You might need to work on your empathy skills.”
Both of us laugh. It’s short and a little forced, but it’s there, the familiar smile in her eyes. I hate that I have to break it, this moment, this fragile peace. I wish we could sweep the whole thing out into the street, forget it ever happened. That I could be back with Ellie and the moms in time for our Friday Night Lights summer rewatch, just like we all planned.
But forgetting our fight would mean forgetting what caused it. Forgetting Cole. Forgetting the first kiss and the second and every one since, all the things he whispered in the woods last night, all the promises I’ve yet to give him the chance to keep.
Fucking fight.
I tell her the part about reminiscing on the deck, the kiss, the argument, crashing in Cole’s bed. She’s taking it all very calmly, like maybe—despite the secrets we’ve kept, despite the #scandal drama and all the ugly rumors—she understands.
Like maybe, when I finally get to the part about the pale lavender light of his room, she’ll say Cole and I are meant to be together, that she always knew it.
She just needs to hear me say it out loud, the full confession. The darkest, deepest, truest words I know.
I’m in love with him, Ellie. I’ve loved him forever. I love him still.
But he’s here again.
Straight out of my daydreams again.
And in his smile are a hundred regrets, none of them aimed at me.
“What are you doing here?” Ellie says to Cole. The air chills about ten degrees.
“Please listen,” he says to Ellie. “I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
She grunts. “You sound like a boy band. Save it.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, reaching for her arm. She doesn’t shrug him off, but she doesn’t return his warmth either. “I didn’t plan for it to happen, El. I swear. But I can’t stand here and say I regret it. The timing sucks, and the way you found out sucks, but it happened. You can hate me all you want, but don’t hold it against Lucy.”
Now she shakes him off. “That’s between me and Lucy.”
“And me,” he says. “I care about you guys. Come on. We’re friends, El.”
Ellie relents. After a moment, the three of us sit on the rock slab, the dark red sandstone hot in the sun.
Cole runs his hand over the rock and laughs, and I know exactly what he’s remembering.
Two summers ago, Red Rocks Amphitheatre, a beautiful Colorado sunset giving way to so many stars you could see them even over the stage lights.
“Radiohead?” I say.
Ellie can’t hide her smile. “Are you guys ever gonna let this go?”
“You practically got us arrested,” I remind her.
The three of us were prepared for a night of awesome—cooler of food and drinks, blankets, a thermos of cinnamon hot chocolate—but Ellie forgot the concert tickets. We didn’t have time to go back for them, so Cole snuck us up to a rocky ledge where you’re not even supposed to climb, let alone crash a sold-out show. We couldn’t see the stage, but the sound was perfect; we spread our blankets on the warm rocks, lay there listening to Thom Yorke and watching the moon rise.
Everything was great until Ellie got up to pee, and then a security guard spotted us.
“ ‘How’d you kids like to go to jail for the night?’ ” Ellie’s voice is a gravelly impersonation now. “Climbing on these rocks is forbidden. You’d know that if you read the signs.’ ”
“I swear I didn’t see any signs,” Cole says. “That guard was, like, on a mission. I still can’t believe we got out of it.”
I smack his shoulder. “We? I’m the one who convinced him we were doing a geologic survey.”
“Oh yeah,” Ellie says, rolling her eyes. “That’s why he let us off. It had nothing to do with you batting those baby blues, right?”
The three of us laugh again at the story, but in the way of all memories, it recedes quickly into the past, no more than a ghost.
Ellie hops off the rock, dusts her hands together. “I don’t know what to say, guys. I know we were broken up, but come on. My just-barely-ex and my best friend, fooling around on prom night? It stings, okay? And I can’t just pretend—”
“I’m in love with Lucy.”
Ellie and I whip our heads up at the same time, matching dinner-plate eyes, my heart still raging its four-years war. Take it. Leave it. Take it. Leave it. Walk away. Walk away. Walk straight into his arms. . . .
“What?” I stammer.
“I’m in love with you,” Cole whispers. “In case you haven’t figured it out.” His smile is both apologetic and hopeful, relieved and afraid. Two for her and two for me.
Ellie glares at me, tears glazing her eyes, our momentary understanding shattered. She’s a ghost before I can even ask her to stay, receding back through the trees toward Lav-Oaks High.
“That’s not how I . . .” Cole’s words evaporate, and then he’s gone, too, chasing after Ellie, apologies floating like birds on the breeze.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry . . .
“I’m in love too,” a voice says behind me. “Love’s intense, dude.”
I don’t need visual confirmation. The pungent smell identifies 420. I turn, smile, focus on the bag of Doritos in his hands—a perpetual accessory he never leaves home without. I stare at the bright orange triangles on the bag, anything to keep the ground from spinning.
Last night, Jayla said that Cole and I were in love, but to hear him say it, to look at him and know that he truly meant it, to feel it . . .
I’m in love with you. . . .
“It’s, like, okay,” 420 says. He’s rockin’ a festive sombrero today, snug over his dingy orange cap. “Say you have Tostitos. And you really love them, their crispy, salty goodness.”
Dear universe: Will this day get any weirder?
“But then!” he says. “Then you have Doritos.” He holds up the bag and wriggles his eyebrows. “Cheesy nacho goodness, also crispy, but tangy too. Am I right?”
“Dude,” I say. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But you’re totally cracking me up right now, so thanks.”
“Love’s a funny thing. Dorito?” He holds out the bag, and I help myself. Doritos are kind of awesome. Maybe he’s on to something. And on something. That’s a given.
“Oh my God, are you guys smoking pot back here? Because if Principal Zeff catches you, you won’t be able to graduate.” Clarice jumps out from behind the trees like a DEA ninja, sniffing the air around us.
“I’m just high on life, Clarice.” I wink at her.
“Clarice, dude. Deep down, you’re a Doritos kind of babe.” 420 offers her a snack, but she steps back like he’s offering up a severed head.
“Go to class,” she says, giving him a small shove. “I don’t want to report you.”
420 giggles. “Class. Yeah. Later, babes.” He salutes us with orange-dusted fingers and shuffles along, stops to watch a bird on the path, shuffles along again. He turns left before he gets to the school and heads . . . somewhere else.
“Whichever way the wind blows,” I say.
Clarice clucks her tongue. “You shouldn’t be encouraging him, Lucy. Anyway, Marceau’s looking for you. He says it’s important.”
• • •
“I pulled something for you.” Marceau holds out a bouquet of purple-and-white flowers, his smile wide and proud.
He’s, like, impossibly sweet.
“You picked them,” I say. I take a seat next to him on a stone bench just outside the school doors.
“Picked them,” he corrects. “They were behind the school.”
“Yeah, it’s totally illegal. Wild columbine is protected.”
His smile falls. “Will they put me in Guantanamo Bay? I would go for you. It would be worth it.”
I press the flowers to my nose and take a deep whiff, trying to break Marceau’s adoring gaze. He reaches for my hand, and something flickers in his eyes, reminding me again of that night at the party, how he “missed on me” when he found me out back, how his eyes were full of adoration even then. He didn’t seem jealous of Cole, not exactly. But maybe there was something . . .
“Marceau, that night . . . Did you take any pictures? I mean, at the party, after we . . .” I let the question die midair. Stupid. There’s no way he did it. Besides, what’s the point? Cole’s confession ruined the last chance I had at patching things up with Ellie anyway.
Does it even matter who took those pictures now?
Cole’s confession . . .
“Miss Vacarro, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Zeff emerges from the doorway, clip-clops down the stairs to our bench. “Mr. Chantrelle, shouldn’t you be getting to class?”
“Yes, madame.” He presses my hand to his lips.
“Mr. Chantrelle?” Zeff says. “Class?”
“Oui. Yes, sorry.” He rises from the bench and takes giant, backward steps all the way up the stairs, keeping me in his sights until the last possible second.
Zeff nods at my flowers, grabs them for a closer look. “Aren’t these protected?”
“I tried to tell him.”
“Okay. We don’t need another scandal. I never saw them.” She pitches the bouquet into the bushes behind us. “Good news, Lucy. The board would like to discuss your case at the final meeting tonight. You and your sister could come, if you’d like. The meetings are open to the public.”
“We’re . . . um . . . Jayla and I volunteer with animals tonight.” I don’t tell her that it’s more like animal, singular, and it’s my own dog.
Semantics, as Franklin would say.
“Oh, that’s nice. Okay. Well, I want you to know that we’re in your corner, and it looks like things are finally happening. I just need you to stay positive, focus on your schoolwork.” She gives me an awkward head pat and hands over a copy of the meeting agenda. “We’re going to resolve this. Make it go away once and for all.”
LAVENDER OAKS CENTRAL SCHOOL DISTRICT: YEAR-END BOARD MEETING AGENDA
1. Cyberbullying: How to protect our Students
2. Postprom “Sexting” (“Sex” + “text” or compromising photos or texts that go “Viral”) incident and copycat pages on The Facebook
3. Online Code of Ethics
4. Campus Cell Phone and Tablet Policy
5. “Netiquette” (“Net” + “Etiquette”) training—mandatory for teachers and students?
6. Disciplinary action for vibrators
After school in the lab, Franklin’s silent as he reads the painfully overcapitalized agenda.
“Did you know about it?” I ask him.
“No,” he says, deep in thought. “But they likely meant ‘violators,’ don’t you think? Talk about an unfortunate typo. I wonder—”
“Franklin! I’m not talking about vibrators!”
“No, I supposed not.” Franklin pulls a pen from behind his ear, makes a few notes on the agenda. “This is fantastic. An official discussion of the issues.”
“It’s a discussion of me! This is, like, horrifying!”
“Relax. The meetings are rarely that dramatic.” Franklin laughs. “Don’t look so shocked. I cover them for the paper, which you don’t know because you’ve never read it, you illiterate little beast.”
I grab his pen and flick him on the knee. “Since you’re so chummy with the school board, how do I get them to mind their own business?”
Franklin shrugs. “Chin up, Veronica. Vibrators on the agenda in a room full of suburban mums? Your name will be forgotten before it’s even uttered.”
WE IN
TERRUPT THIS NONSENSE TO SPREAD THE LATEST BUZZ ON THE DEADLY ELECTRONIC THREAT LURKING WITHIN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN PRIVATES
MISS DEMEANOR
3,877 likes
1,105 talking about this
Tuesday, May 6
What lurks in the dark recesses between the sheets? What seedy devil has called forth slippery things that go buzz in the night? Corrupting our daughters and giving our sons inferiority complexes?
Those pocket-size, battery-powered criminals are infiltrating, recruiting members, making promises they can’t keep. Lock your doors and your drawers, for the esteemed board members of Lavender Oaks Central School District have brought to the foreskin forefront a grim situation, one that threatens to turn your wholesome children into a well-oiled gang of desperate, sex-crazed marauders (instead of the more typically disorganized desperate, sex-crazed marauders who go about their sex-crazed maraudery on an individual basis).
Who are these shady usurpers? These peer-pressuring, sex-positive, pleasure appliances gone bad? Undisciplined vibrators, folks. And they’re no laughing, moaning, sighing, screaming, or otherwise emoting matter.
If you’re unlucky enough to tangle with one of these pink plastic hellions, do not—I repeat—do not engage. Simply back away slowly in a nonthreatening manner and contact the authorities as soon as it is safe for you to do so.
Conversely, if you’re the type of desperate lowlife who willingly harbors such electronic dangers in the privacy of your own home and/or pants, please—for the sake of the children—DISCIPLINE YOUR VIBRATORS.
This has been a pubic public service announcement.
(Honestly. At Lav-Oaks, the shit practically writes itself these days.)
Buzz along now!
xo ~ Ciao! ~ xo
Miss Demeanor
STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES, BUT THE INTERNET? THAT SHIT’S FOREVER, MAN
Prince Freckles totally misses me, but instead of lunching with Franklin at camp equestrian on Tuesday, I’m called into Zeff’s office, where this is an actual thing that happens:
“Miss Vacarro, take a cookie.”
The cookies are legit double dark chocolate, and I take two this time, walking right into her trap. I’m utterly blindsided when she turns her monitor toward me and goes, “Talk to me about this ‘Juicy Lucy’ page.”
