by Holly Ryan
“Are you okay?” John goes on. “You were totally invisible there.” He holds my waist in support and asks again, a bit panicky this time due to my lack of response, “Are you okay?”
I touch a spot on the side of my cheek and nod. “I’m okay.”
John’s still trying to help when I brush him off and hurry to my seat. I don’t mean to be rude, but my eyes are starting to burn and I want this to be over with.
The quickest route to my seat just so happens to involve walking past Ethan, and so I do, as quickly as I can, all the while feeling like I want to jump out of my skin. Everything I once took for granted about him not noticing me – that whole luxury of invisibility thing – is gone. He watched me fall, he watched me as I walked in, and he’s watching me rush to my seat of shame. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if I were to look at him now, he’d hold my eyes a lot longer than necessary. So I do it. Somehow, with the burn still in my eyes and a tightness still in my throat, I gather the courage to look at him.
Yep. He’s looking right at me. And God, he’s even hotter than I thought. His eyes are the deepest brown I’ve ever seen. His jaw is chiseled well beyond what you’d expect from a high school boy, and his hair falls in perfectly waves.
I’m not smiling at him and he’s not smiling at me. I’m looking straight in his eyes as if to save some sort of face. To say, Yes, I see you watching me.
That’s the message I’m going for.
He doesn’t break away. His face is soft. The message he’s going for is I hope you’re not hurt.
No, but seriously. If I could really read minds, that’s the conclusion I’d draw right now; his eyes are full of concern, and his expression remains serious. I can only hope that as I’m holding his gaze, I don’t have a bruised face. That would be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it? Bruised-faced, clumsy Avery staring down her crush.
I’m actually proud of myself. I just did something good. Who does he think he is? Doesn’t he know it’s rude to stare? You can’t just stare at people without any regard for their feelings. Even if those feelings do just so happen to involve flirty little butterflies in my stomach.
Those butterflies aren’t controlling me, though. Not this time; not like with Cole. You know how they say the best remedy for a broken heart is to shift your interest onto someone else? Well, the handsome guy I just passed might have something to do with my lack of Cole-thoughts.
I’m almost to the safety of my seat. Most everyone has moved on, casually watching Mr. Miller work his magic at the front of the room, but I take a deep breath. That was bad, but it’s nothing I haven’t conquered before. I can do this. I can brush this off. I just need to keep repeating my mantra: schoolwork and healing. Healing. Healing. Nothing else. No Cole, no Ethan. No boys.
If only he wasn’t so cute.
And toned.
And so damn handsome in every possible way.
I slump down into my chair. John thought I was invisible, huh? That’s funny. It’s funny how by becoming invisible, just like I’ve wanted, it backfires and I become the center of attention.
I feel my face again. My check is a little swollen and hot to the touch, but it’s not too bad. The whole ordeal started me more than anything. I really am okay.
But at the same time … I’m totally not.
I get through the rest of class in a flurry of note-jotting. Mr. Miller stamps a pile of paper against his desk. “That’s it, everyone. You’re good to go.”
Great. I’m just going to sit here and wait for everyone to leave.
He’s coming over.
He’s actually coming over.
“Hey,” he says.
His voice is rough and deep and feels like sweetness through my ears.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, fumbling around. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good. ‘Cause that was a pretty rough hit.”
I meet his eyes, only for a moment before flicking them away. “It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.” If only he knew the real weight of those words.
He cups his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and leans forward on the balls of his feet.
He’s about to say something, I know it. He’s about to ask me a question, or prod into my personal life, or say something super charming. He’s about to try to become friends. No prodding, Avery. No friends. And definitely no charming, hot guys.
I stand, lifting my notebook into my arms. “I’ve gotta go.” My voice is quiet and meek.
He moves aside. “Sure.”
I’ve almost left when I stop. My favorite pen. Damn it. I spin, and he’s still there, standing next to my desk.
I walk back and slide my arm past him, then pull away with the pen. I think I’ve gotten away with him not noticing until he turns and says, “See you around.”
“What’s up?” Mara plops herself down on the bench across from me.
It’s lunchtime and she’s made her way over to our usual table in the middle of the cafeteria. The table is already full of our usual friends, and we’ve saved her a seat. I pull out my lunch. “Nothing.”
“What happened to your face?” she asks, leaning in.
I cover my cheek. “Oh, God. You can see it?”
“I can see something.” She pulls my hand away. “What did you do?”
“I fell.”
“You fell?”
I nod. “Someone hit me with the door, and I fell. It’s a long story.”
“You’re struggling.”
“You could say that.”
I take another bite. I can see Cole from here. For the past two days I’ve been able to see him in the cafeteria, and I have no idea if he’s seen me. He hasn’t acknowledged me.
“There’s something else,” she prods. “What’s the matter?”
She must know exactly what the matter is, but that never stops her from asking. I keep my voice low; this is just between Mara and me. “He hasn’t said anything to me. Not even a text.”
She responds, too loudly, “Screw him.”
I look at her.
“Not literally,” she says quickly. “God, no. You know … just forget about him.”
I turn back to my food, not really eating.
“I’m disturbed that I had to clarify that for you, Avery.”
I stick out my tongue.
“Why are you still thinking about Cole, anyway? Look, maybe we really ought to try to set you up with that Ethan kid. Maybe that kind of hottie is exactly what you need.”
I hope with all my might that she can’t see me blushing, but I’m sure she can. It’s not like there’s any way to hide it on a fair complexion like mine.
“I have moved on,” I say, then I pause. “I think.” I stop eating and move closer to her, reaching my upper body across the table.
She leans in, too. Her brow furrows with curiosity.
“It’s just so … aggravating,” I say. “I totally don’t want Cole anymore, but I can’t stand that he’s been such a dick to me. What’s wrong with me?”
Mara nods quickly. She says, too loudly, “You called him a dick. You finally get it. I’m proud of you, Avery.”
Our friends are watching us by this point, their attention no doubt drawn by Mara’s obvious loudness. And maybe a little has to do with the profanity, too.
Camille intrudes on our space. “Who are we talking about?”
Camille is Pretty Girl of the group. Mara insists I’m the one who fills that title, but I disagree. It’s unbelievable; I watch Camille eat like hell every single day, and yet she always manages to stay perfectly toned, with all the right curves in all the right places. Yeah, she’s one of those girls. I guess you could say I’ve always been a little jealous.
She bounces her thick, curly brown hair back over her shoulder, out of the way of her face. “I know most everyone in this place. Tell me.”
“We’re talking about Ethan,” says Mara.
“Ethan. Ethan who?”
; “Ethan no one,” I say, returning to my sandwich.
Camille gasps. “Is it that new boy? I think I know who you mean. He’s cute.” She twiddles a strand of curls through her fingers.
“That’s him,” says Mara, perking up at the excitement of a fix-up. “Don’t you think they’d make a cute couple?”
I shoot Mara a look. I’m really surprised she’s doing this. She’s usually good at picking up on how I feel, but right now she’s letting me down. I do not want to talk about Ethan. Isn’t it obvious yet? Because I think I’m laying it on pretty thick.
“Oh, yes,” Camille says. She leaves her hair alone for a moment to dig into her bag of Doritos, watching me intensely. “Well, Avery?”
I’m motionless. They’re both just sitting there, looking at me, surely wondering why I haven’t said anything. But what is there to say? “Well, what?”
“He’s in my English class,” Camille says, smirking through bites. “I can mention you to him.”
“No,” I say, louder than necessary. “No, thanks.” I put my sandwich down on top of its plastic wrapper. This is awkward. They’re both still watching me, quizzical looks upon their faces. “It’s just that … I don’t need that right now, you know? It’s too much. You know, with my leg and everything.”
They both take a moment to consider what I said, and then Camille resumes eating. She shrugs and says, “A cute guy is too much. I guess I get it.”
Camille is a sweetheart, but I can’t help but think, You totally don’t get it. And your sarcasm isn’t helping.
Mara says, “Sorry,” from under her breath, so quietly that Camille can no longer hear us, which doesn’t matter because her attention has drifted back to the others at our table. Mara’s head is down and she’s wearing a bit of a frown, watching for my reaction.
I’m so glad I have her. I’m so glad she gets me. I’m glad someone gets me.
Because I’ll take whatever I can get.
Ethan
I’m pretty sure I gripped the edge of my chair with white knuckles when I saw here sitting there on the ground. She was holding her head, and I recognized the innocent confusion in her eyes as the same one I’d once seen at the hospital, her looking at me in her state of half-sleep. The door hit her, and all the worst possibilities ran through my mind. I heard the thud, for crying out loud, and my heart broke just as loudly. It sounded bad. I thought for sure paramedics would be called to carry her away, back to the hospital that she’d fought so hard to leave. I prepared myself for it, and for that fact that just maybe, I’d have another chance to see her again.
No, I wouldn’t do that again – it was too weird, and a little too criminal … even for someone like me, who just so happens to have criminality run in the family.
But thankfully, that won’t happen. I won’t be visiting her in the hospital again any time soon, because she seemed fine.
She’s got an attitude on her, though. I can tell. When she passed, I looked into her face, trying to catch those pretty eyes one more time for my own benefit, I admit; but really I was trying to see if that John guy had hurt her. The look she gave me in return was nothing short of a glare.
I didn’t expect that. And after I was safely out of her view, I smirked into my hands at the silly exchange we just had.
It’s later in the day, and I’m cooking for my mom and me at home. The sun is already setting and shadows pour in through the windows of the kitchen. I flick the light on to get a better view of the countertops and I’m instantly illuminated with a steady stream of light over my laid out ingredients and pots and pans. That’s much better.
On days when my mom has to work late I usually try to prepare a dinner for us both. I know it’s something she appreciates, and I love to cook, so it’s a win-win for both of us. Tonight I’ll be making a roast chicken with an arugula salad. One of our favorites.
I pick up my favorite chef’s knife and get to work loosely chopping some sprigs of thyme. The rhythmic motion of the knife slicing and creaking against the cutting board relaxes me, and in the repetitive movement I can get a rest from all the recent drama. I rinse the chicken, allowing the cold tap water to run over my fingers like a kind of meditation. I dab it dry with layers of paper towel, then I grab a lemon out of the fruit bowl, slice it in half, and stuff it, along with the thyme, inside.
When all the other ingredients are added, I double check to make sure I’m not forgetting anything, playing the recipe over in my head. I’ve got everything. This is good. I truss the chicken’s legs and place the whole thing over a few layers of bread inside my cast iron skillet. A drizzle of olive oil, and I’m done. I slide it into the burning hot oven, set the timer on the microwave, and retreat to the living room.
As much as I enjoy cooking, and as much as it relaxes me physically, it does give me lots of time to think. Maybe a bit too much, in my case. And it should come as no surprise that all I thought about while I was working was Avery. Her leg looked okay. Is it healed? She deserves an apology, and she’s not going to get that from my dad. Will it have to be from me? She’s already heard my last name. Does she know who I am?
Is that why she glared?
Just as I’ve successfully distracted myself with some mindless computer surfing, the TV humming in the background, there’s a knock on the door. I sit up and quickly check the time on my phone – it’s 6:45, and I’m just now starting to smell the roasting chicken. I have no idea who would be here; we aren’t expecting anyone, and since news broke about my dad we don’t get many visitors.
I open the door, and standing there is Cole Ebbs with Julia Crane. Still my only two friends from Westfield High. The only people who bother to talk to me anymore, when everyone else can see I try so hard to keep to myself. For whatever reason, they break through.
But still … a drop-in. I might have expected this from someone like Cole, but the fact that Julia’s here, too, surprises me.
Cole smiles when he sees me. “Harrington. We thought we’d stop by.”
I don’t reply.
“That okay?”
Cole still has his backpack slung over one shoulder, so I guess he hasn’t returned home after school. Julia is holding a small purse over the crook of her arm and she’s done her hair in a cascade of loose waves. She’s wearing a black mini skirt with a white tank top and heels, and even more jewelry than she wears when I see her around school. I didn’t think that was possible.
And she’s got a tiny grin on her face, one that lets me know she’s glad they were able to surprise me like this. She doesn’t move. Knowing her, she’s probably hoping to give me the opportunity to look her up and down.
I don’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” I step aside to let them in.
Cole enters with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders back. Julia tiptoes after him, making her way through the foyer, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor with each step.
“Oh, my God,” Julia says, surveying the house. She stops in her tracks. “It smells so good in here.”
“Your parents are out?” Cole asks me.
I nod. Yes, both of my parents are out. My mother and my father. Please continue to believe that. “I’ve got a roast chicken going.”
Cole tips his head. “Your parents are out and you’re making a roast chicken?”
“I think it’s sweet,” says Julia. “A roast chicken. I mean, who does that?” She gives me an eyelash-batting smile.
I lead them to the living room.
Cole takes a seat on the couch with a sigh and then pats the area next to him, his strong arm hitting the leather harder than necessary. He’s inviting Julia with his hands. She hesitates before she takes the seat and sets her purse down nearby. Cole drapes his arm around her, and when he turns his attention to me his wrist is hanging down over her shoulder.
“Think we can get in on some of this chicken?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, “why not. It’s not ready yet, though. The timer’s, ah, gotta go o
ff. You want something to drink for now?”
“What do you have?”
“No alcohol.” We do have some, actually, down in our basement bar. But I’m not up for that, and my mother sure as hell isn’t up for that, and I sort of expected the topic to come up. So I mentally planned accordingly.
“Damn,” he says. “Coke’s fine.”
“Julia?”
From underneath Cole’s heavy arm, she perks at the sound of my voice. “The same.”
I retreat into the kitchen and pour them each two glasses of Coke with more than enough ice. I use our nice glasses, not the everyday ones that are foggy from overuse. I don’t know why. I guess it’s just that we never have guests anymore. I pop the cans, and the ice crackles as I pour the soda over it. I can hear the two of them mumbling in the living room, and when I pass my eyes to where they are, I see Cole touch Julia’s exposed leg and lean in toward her neck.
I clear my throat when I return. Julia sits up straight but Cole makes no attempt to hide his actions, sliding his hand across her lap as he prepares to take the drink. I hold the glasses out and hand them over. They both take a sip and then set them on the coffee table with synchronous clinks.
“Thanks, man,” says Cole, licking his lips.
I sit far enough away to not create any unnecessary tension between whatever’s going on between them. Our couch is small, but it’s a sectional, so they’re stuffed over there in one corner and I’m safely in another.
“So,” Cole says. He leans forward, releasing Julia to place his elbows on his knees and clasp his fingers together. “When are you gonna join us?”
I give a little laugh. “Ah. Still on that?”
He shrugs.
“I don’t think I have the time for that again. You know, gotta keep the grades up this year.”
“But I heard you were great.” He spreads his hands out in exasperation. “Come on, man. We need you. The guys I’m playing with don’t take it seriously.”
