Life Unaware (Entangled Teen)

by Cole Gibsen

  My breath caught in my throat. What the hell was going on? My heart raced to match the pace of the growing noise. The sound of it echoed off the ceiling and shook the stacks of bleachers pushed flat against the walls. I continued walking until I emerged from the crowd on the other side of the gymnasium where a row of what appeared to be bathroom stalls stretched across the entire length of the room.

  I jerked to a halt. “What the—”

  A hand clasped my shoulder. “Pick one,” Payton screamed, her voice barely audible over the roar of noise.

  “But…that’s disgusting.” I looked back at the stalls. “You want me to use the bathroom in public?”

  She laughed. “It’s not what you think. Just go.”

  So was this part of the plan? Lock me inside a bathroom stall and pour shit on me? Would they really do something like that with the media, teachers, and my parents watching? I guessed there was only one way to find out.

  I picked the bathroom stall directly in front of me and tested the door to find it unlocked.

  “Don’t forget your pen,” Payton called.

  Without turning around, I lifted the Sharpie in the air and pushed inside the stall, letting the door swing shut behind me. The clapping ceased and music started back up.

  I took a moment to examine my surroundings. At a glance, it appeared to be a regular bathroom stall, except a folding chair had replaced the toilet. I snapped the lock closed and sat on the edge of the chair. Okay. Now what? Just like the school locker room, the inside of this stall was covered in handwritten graffiti. I glanced at the Sharpie in my hand. Was I supposed to add to it?

  I leaned forward and read some of the things written.

  Jasmine Walker has a beautiful smile.

  Peter Doyle is really good at chemistry, and it’s awesome how he’s willing to tutor people for free.

  Olivia Stout is an amazeballs volleyball player. I just know she’s going to get a scholarship.

  I placed a trembling hand over my mouth as I continued reading the graffiti. Sure, there was still the occasional “I love so-and-so” but unlike most bathroom stalls, there were no notes calling people bitches, sluts, or whores. Each comment written had been meant to uplift instead of tear down. Even more amazing was the fact that there were at least a thousand comments in this stall alone. I couldn’t imagine how many more were written on the walls of the surrounding stalls.

  The memory of the day Nolan met me at the barn pushed to the front of my mind. We’d been standing so close, me in my dirty breeches, him holding a pink helmet. Don’t you think it’s sad some people are only remembered by the graffiti about them on the bathroom stalls? I’d asked.

  But this—there was nothing sad about this. This was how people deserved to be remembered, for the good instead of the bad. Unlike the stalls in the old wing covered in venom, these stalls presented possibility—a chance that we as a school could change not only the way we treat one another, but maybe even the way future classes would treat themselves. These stalls were a promise from every student here that when we graduated, the hope we left behind us would far outweigh the hate.

  I placed a hand over my mouth to smother the strangled sob rising inside my throat. I had no idea that when I set out to change myself, I’d started a ripple effect that would change the entire school along with me. And I didn’t do it alone. Nolan had somehow tapped into my mind, taken the moment I’d scribbled out “Delaney Hinkler is a fucking whore” and written in “Christy Holder is fucking awesome,” and turned it into this.

  Regardless of my attempt to blink them away, tears spilled down my cheeks. Nolan had done this—lobbied for permission, arranged for pickup and placement of the stalls, and gathered the support and participation of the entire school.

  Sure, he’d hurt me. He’d lied to me. But he’d also arranged all this. And that had to count for something. With trembling fingers, I pulled the cap off the Sharpie and touched it to a small blank patch on the wall.

  Nolan Letner is

  I stopped writing, unable to come up with the right word when my heart still bore the scars of his betrayal.

  I brought the pen back to the wall.

  Nolan Letner

  An asshole. A genius. Conniving. Caring.

  “Ugh.” I dropped the pen to my side and capped it. So maybe I wasn’t ready to finish that sentence. Nolan was a lot of things, too many to sum up in one word. Still, two in particular came to mind.

  Nolan Letner is

  Not here.

  And he should be. Despite my mixed-up feelings over him, this was just as much his project, if not more than mine. And he was missing it all because he wanted me to be happy. It wasn’t right.

  I stood and unlocked the door.

  Payton smiled when she saw me. “What do you think?”

  “I think Nolan’s not here.”

  Her brow scrunched in confusion. “What?”

  I handed her the Sharpie as I brushed past. I could put my feelings aside long enough to spend a night in a large gymnasium with Nolan. Even if being in the same building with him proved to be too much, I could easily go home. I’d seen what I’d needed to see. It was his turn.

  I wove through the throngs of dancers. Some of them smiled and shouted at me as I walked past. I smiled back and quickened my pace.

  “Regan,” Mom called to me as I reached the doors. “The reporter is looking for you.” She frowned when I pushed the door open. “What are you doing?”

  “The right thing.” I stepped outside and let the door fall shut behind me. True to the driver’s word, the limo remained parked out front. Relief fell over me like a warm blanket. I jogged toward it only to stop when I caught sight of him.

  He no longer wore the suit jacket and his tie had been discarded. He jumped off the tailgate of his truck and strode toward me.

  My heart pushed higher inside my throat the closer he came until he stood before me, and I thought I might choke. “What are you doing here? You promised you wouldn’t come.”

  He smiled, tightening things low inside me. “No. I promised I wouldn’t come inside. I said nothing about the parking lot.”

  I couldn’t help smile. Typical Nolan.

  He motioned to the limo. “Leaving already?”

  “Actually…” I shifted uncomfortably. “I was on my way to get you.”

  “Oh?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “Yeah. I just…I just didn’t think it was fair, you not being here to witness this. You put this together. And it’s all so…amazing.”

  He took a step closer to me, and I was enveloped by the smell of him. My heart thrummed against my ribs. “It was your idea.”

  I licked my suddenly dry lips. “But you did all the legwork. It doesn’t seem right I should be inside taking all the credit.”

  “Credit?” He snorted. “I don’t care about that. I only care about you.”

  My breath hitched inside my throat, and I fought the urge to reach for him and curl against his chest. Instead, I took a step back. “I want to believe you so badly. But you hurt me, Nolan. I wish I could turn the pain off, but I just can’t.” I looked away.

  “I know.” He placed a finger under my chin and turned my face to his. “I wouldn’t expect you to. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying to make things right between us. I wasn’t lying when I said I have feelings for you, Regan Flay, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to win you back.”

  If only I could put aside the past and believe that. In truth, I ached to wrap my arms around him and bury my head against his shoulder like I had the night in his bedroom when he asked me to pretend that there was no one else in the world but us. And in that moment, we were all that existed. But now a mountain of pain and lies had risen between us, the height of which I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to scale. “I can’t promise your efforts will pay off. I can’t promise there’ll ever be an us again.” No matter how badly I wanted there to be.

  Frowning, he lowered his hand. “What can
you promise me?”

  I wasn’t sure I had an answer. But before I could tell Nolan that, a woman’s voice called out my name. I turned to find a young black woman wearing a pink pantsuit and heels rushing toward me with a microphone clutched in her hand. Behind her, a skinny man in baggy sweats balanced a large video camera on his shoulder and clambered to keep up.

  “Regan Flay?” She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

  The cameraman directed the large lens at my face, and I fought not to flinch. “Um, yeah?”

  The woman lifted the microphone toward my lips. “Can you please tell me a little about your project?”

  With a mother in politics, I was certainly no stranger to a news camera, but having one directed solely at me was an entirely new experience—and an unenjoyable one at that. “Actually, the project was our idea.” I shot Nolan a pleading look.

  With a smirk, he held his hands up and backed away before the reporter could turn the microphone on him. “Not true. The idea was a hundred percent Regan’s. I only helped implement.”

  I tried to shoot him a dirty look, but the reporter shifted between us, blocking my view. “So what was your inspiration behind the project?” She lifted the microphone higher so that only a couple inches separated my lips from its foam cover.

  The cameraman inched closer. My throat tightened, and I found myself unable to look away from the lens. It was like the black, unblinking eye of some terrible monster waiting for me to mess up so it could capture my humiliation and share it with the world.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that the person behind the camera was Nolan, the boy I fell for on the night we agreed to have no past. The boy who kissed me until I was dizzy, and who tasted like melting sugar on my tongue. The same boy who’d destroyed me in an instant, breaking my heart into pieces too small, too jagged to ever fit properly together again.

  The reporter gave an impatient huff. “What were you hoping to change?” she asked.

  “Everything,” I murmured, opening my eyes. “I wanted to change everything.”

  “Like?” she prompted.

  I swallowed before answering. “Those bathroom stalls in there? Those are our hearts. Whenever someone says something about us, it gets written inside us, permanently. The good words, the ugly words, it’s all right here.” I placed a palm against my chest. “Sure, you can scribble out the words or try to paint over them, but beneath the layers of paint and ink, they’re still there, branded to our cores like initials carved in a tree.

  “So we’re walking around with these scars etched inside us, but no one can see them, so no one knows how bad we’re hurting. Meanwhile, people keep talking and writing more words, until every inch of our hearts is covered with venom so black even we can no longer see the good in ourselves. So we start to add our own words, and they’re darker than the rest, the scars cutting more deeply than the others ever did.”

  The reporter’s eyes were wide. The microphone trembled softly in her hand. “And your project?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “I did my fair share of talking about other people,” I answered. “I realized, too late, all the damage I caused with words I both spoke and typed. Just like bathroom graffiti, those words will be forever written on some people’s hearts. They’ll walk around for the rest of their lives with scars inflicted by me. Not only did I want to apologize to the people I’d hurt, but I also wanted to stop others from inflicting the same pain I did. While the bathroom stalls in the gym are only a symbol, I have to hope that replacing the poisonous words on our hearts with those of love can heal some of our scars.” I shrugged. “At the very least, it’s a start.”

  The reporter stared at me a moment before dropping the microphone to her side. “Thank you, Regan. That’s all we need.” She nodded to the cameraman, and he lowered the camera. She turned, only to glance at me over her shoulder. “I think you’re doing an amazing thing. Who knows how many lives you’re going to change. No matter what, you should be proud of that.” She gave me a wink before heading off toward the news van parked at the curb.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I watched them pull away. I could picture the business cards now: Regan Flay, life changer. Who knew?

  Nolan touched my arm, pulling me from my thoughts. “If I hadn’t already thought you were amazing—wow,—that interview would have cinched it.”

  Still smiling, I rolled my eyes. “Enough with the compliments. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Is it working?”

  I gave a little laugh. “Tell you what, before the reporter interrupted us, you asked what I could promise you. I think I have an answer.”

  “Yeah?” His raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  “A dance. I totally promise you a dance.”

  Grinning, he took my hand and led me back to the gymnasium. “For now, that will be enough.”

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, thank you to the world’s most amazing husband, a man who has not only stood beside me every step of this journey, but also taken my hand in his when my feet grow tired. Thank you for celebrating my quirks, laughing at my stupid jokes, and always being game for last-minute sushi.

  Special thanks to my Bub, who’s learned to share her mommy with the laptop, but also knows when it’s time to pull me away for a My Little Pony marathon. No matter how many books I write, you’ll always be my most magnificent creation.

  This book wouldn’t exist if not for my amazing agent, Nicole Resciniti. I have no doubt she secretly dons a cape and fights crime when nobody is looking. She’s that kickass.

  Another special thanks to Liz Pelletier for giving me the chance to bring Regan and Nolan to life. This book was not an easy one to write, and I never would have had the strength or courage to attempt it without Liz at my back.

  Thank you to Stacy Abrams, Heather Howland, Lydia Sharp, Erin Crum, and the other editorial assistants who made up “Team Edit Until You Bleed.” (The T-shirts are on order.) Your brilliant insights are what made this book what it is, and for that I’m truly indebted.

  Heather Riccio, thanks for that coffee at RT, and for making me feel like family.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the amazing publicity efforts of Debbie Suzuki and Jessica Turner. Thank you.

  To my therapist, Tonya Kuper, thank you so much for all the late-night phone calls. I love you more than Xanax, girl, and that’s saying something.

  This book also wouldn’t have been possible without my fabulous critique partners, Brad Cook and T.W. Fendley. Thanks for always putting up with my crazy.

  And then there are my gin-drinking, Cards Against Humanity playing, we’re-supposed-to-be-writing sisters. Sarah Bromley, Shawntelle Coker, Heather Brewer, Emily Hall, LS Murphy, Heather Reid, and Marie Meyer. Words cannot express how much I love you. I’m a Pisces and we’re not known for making friends easily, but when we do, we make them for life. Looks like you’re stuck with me. Sm**ma 4 Life. (Those T-shirts are also on order.)

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