The Tattered Gloves

by J. L. Berg

  “Again, you’re jumping to conclusions about people because I know Allison didn’t tell you that.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Allison and I have been friends for years, since we were barely able to walk. She might be mad at me, but she’d never make things up just to hurt me.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” I agreed.

  “Well, at least we agree about something.”

  Silence fell between us as I tried to figure out what to say next.

  Staring at the old linoleum floor that had probably seen more drama in these halls than a daytime soap opera, I finally spoke, “I’ve never really had a friend like her — loyal and kind. I’m sorry for the other day. I was just trying—”

  “To protect her. I know. Just, next time, get the facts first before you strike. You’re kind of scary when you’re mad.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Will do,” I conceded, noticing the music had changed back to something more upbeat.

  Knowing Allison, she was searching around for me, worrying I’d been left alone to my own devices for far too long.

  “I’d better get back.”

  He nodded coolly, hands tucked neatly in his pockets.

  Before I had a chance to reach the doorway, I heard him call for me, “Willow?”

  Turning back, I found he’d taken a few steps toward the door.

  “You look nice. I mean, I wanted you to know you look really pretty tonight.”

  Heat flooded my cheeks as I tried to compose myself.

  Total fail.

  Apart from dissolving into a complete pile of goo right there on the floor, I didn’t manage to say one word back to him. Instead, I pivoted on my heels and exited.

  More like sprinted.

  It wasn’t until I was back in the safety of the gym, under the strobe lights with the nauseating music, that I realized what had just happened.

  Sam hadn’t called me Mittens this time.

  Only Willow.

  For the first time in my entire life, I kind of loved the sound of my own name.

  THE REST OF the weekend passed by in a blur.

  Allison had spent the night at my house after the dance, crossing off yet another thing from the list of items that truly made me an American teenager.

  Hosting a sleepover.

  Again, this was where my TV education had completely failed me.

  I’d expected pillow fights and lots of boy talk, all while consuming large quantities of sugary snacks. Maybe all that actually did happen. But, when you got home from a dance around midnight to a quiet house with an aunt who woke at the tiniest noise, the most that happened was a little light conversation and a whole lot of sleep.

  But, luckily, that same aunt also tended to rise at the crack of dawn, and she made the most killer breakfast in the state.

  Allison had been seriously impressed. “You should spend the night at my house. The most my mom cooks for breakfast is toast,” she’d said.

  I’d laughed, but a part of me had panicked a little at the thought of actually sleeping at her house. I’d barely gotten used to this one.

  Sunday had been spent catching up on homework and laundry, reading a couple of novels I’d bought with my employee discount at the bookstore, and helping Addy with a few chores around the house.

  It sounded boring, but coming from a place that was anything but, I’d take boring any day.

  It’d also given me time to think.

  Maybe too much time.

  By Monday, I’d convinced myself that the entire thing hadn’t happened. I must have imagined it. The conversation between Sam and me had been ordinary, and… well, boring. At the end, I’d walked away, and there’d been no, “You look really pretty.”

  Nope. None.

  Everything would be normal.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  And I knew it the second I walked through those double doors of our high school.

  I could feel the tension coiled around my gut like a snake.

  What would I say to him if I saw him?

  Hi. How’s it going?

  Did you mean what you said?

  Do you say that to all the girls? Or just me?

  Maybe I was looking way too much into this. Perhaps he’d just said it to be nice.

  Oh God, what if he felt bad for me?

  By the time I made it to History — the one and only class Sam and I shared together — I was nearly dripping with sweat as nervousness took over.

  I wasn’t equipped to handle this type of stress. Most kids my age had had years to prepare for this. I’d been busy with dealing with other crap in my life. Real-life drama. So, you’d think I’d be able to handle a little thing like a crush, but nope. I was crumbling faster than a sand castle in a windstorm.

  “Okay, okay, settle down, everyone,” our teacher said, her voice booming over everyone else.

  It was amazing to me that, despite her frail, small frame and normally quiet disposition, she could command a room like a burly drill sergeant twice her size.

  For that and many other reasons, Mrs. Landers was one of my favorite teachers at Sugar Tree.

  Until today.

  “I know you’re all bustling with energy after this weekend. No doubt there is plenty to talk about, but unfortunately for you and for me, it’s Monday, which means it’s time to work.”

  Groans were heard throughout the classroom.

  “For those of you who actually follow the syllabus I passed out all those weeks ago when we started this semester, you’ve noticed that a good chunk of your grade is based on something called a personal project. What is that? Well, today, you shall find out.”

  More groans followed as well as a few disgruntled heads hitting desks.

  I sat quietly in my desk, trying my best not to study the back of Sam’s head.

  I was failing miserably.

  “If you have any older siblings, which I know some of you do, you might be familiar with the personal project. It requires you to delve into your past — specifically, the history of your family. It’s something I’ve required for decades since arriving at Sugar Tree, and for some students, it’s what they look forward to upon entering their junior year.”

  Several students looked around the room, wondering just who might be crazy enough to actually look forward to schoolwork. I was one of them. I might be a decent student, but I didn’t come here, begging for stuff to do.

  “This year, however, I’ve decided to switch things up a bit,” she announced, causing a few heads to rise in interest. “You will still be studying your past, learning about your family and ancestry, like the classes before you. But, this year, you will do so with a partner. This year, you will not only be learning about your history, but also the legacy of one of your fellow students. And, at the end of this assignment, you will write a report of what makes you individual and unique in addition to sharing any similarities you and your partner might have in common. This is your chance to learn about other cultures, to discover various circumstances outside your own. After all, isn’t that what history is?”

  It was a nice speech; I’d give her that.

  If she’d delivered it to anyone but a room of high school students, I was sure the response would have been overwhelmingly positive.

  But it wasn’t.

  Instead, we all looked at her like she was insane.

  Completely, totally insane.

  “Now, to make sure this is fair,” she continued, seemingly unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm to the revised assignment, “I’ve already preselected your partners.”

  If she was hoping for a response, she found it with that announcement.

  Instant pandemonium.

  If there was one thing that could cause a riot among young girls, it was telling them they couldn’t work with their friends.

  Heck, even I was upset, and I barely knew anyone in the entire class.

  “Good,” Mrs. Landers continued, igno
ring our outcries of injustice. “I’ll be posting the pairings at the end of class. The requirements along with the due date will be added to the class’s online Blackboard. Please feel free to see me if you have questions. Let’s move on.”

  I wasn’t sure anyone paid the least bit of attention to the lecture she gave as we all sat on the edges of our seats, waiting for that list to be revealed.

  I honestly didn’t care who I was paired with. I mean, how bad could it be? I didn’t know anyone, so really, one person was just as bad as the next.

  Unless…

  No, that would never happen.

  Would it?

  My anticipation doubled.

  While I waited for the period to be over, forty minutes easily became a hundred forty as the clock seemed to move backward,

  Is the clock freaking broken?

  Finally, the bell rang, and we all jumped from our seats. Mrs. Landers slowly walked to her desk, reaching for a manila envelope. From inside, she pulled out a single sheet of paper and casually took it to the door. All at once, she was crowded by twenty students, wrangling for a look at the list.

  Somehow, maybe because of her tiny figure, our teacher made it out of the fray alive and sat back in her desk chair. A happy smile was on her face as she watched everyone jockeying for positions near the list.

  I, on the other hand, held back, until every last one of them had their turn before I approached.

  Some were pleased with their pairings, giving high fives as they exited to the hallway. Others swore under their breaths or threw their hands up in the air, like the entire world had just ended.

  I cautiously walked up to the list and felt my stomach hit the floor.

  Great.

  Just freaking great.

  Turning toward Mrs. Landers, I spoke, “Is there any way I can switch?”

  Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she took out a duplicate list from her desk and found my name.

  “Is there a reason you can’t be partnered with Mr. Shepherd?” she asked, neatly folding her hands in her lap.

  He does funny things to my insides.

  He said I was pretty, and I don’t know what that means.

  “No,” I replied, followed by, “I mean, it’s just—”

  She smiled warmly. “I get it. You don’t know him. You’re new here. But that is why I paired everyone the way I did. I purposely put students together who might not know each other well. This will push you outside your boundaries, force you to get to know someone you might otherwise ignore.”

  “But I do know him. We work together!” I blurted out, thinking I’d found a loophole in her carefully thought-out plan.

  “Oh? Well, that could change things. Tell me then, where does he live? What does Sam like to do when he’s not at school?”

  “Uh…” I struggled to answer. “I don’t know.”

  Her smile widened, almost as if she’d expected my answer. “There is a difference between knowing someone and truly understanding them. Maybe this will help you discover that distinction. Good luck with your assignment.”

  I nodded, realizing she’d given me a firm no to my request.

  As I exited the room, my head reeling while I tried to figure out just how I was going to make all this work, I ran straight into a brick wall.

  Looking up, I realized it wasn’t a brick wall at all.

  It was Sam.

  The expression on his face was just as hard and unyielding.

  “Read,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what I like to do when I’m not at school.”

  And then he walked away.

  I TRIED TO be the first one in the store that day. I’d even briefly considered ditching my last class just so I could be the one hiding in the back when school let out.

  But I knew hiding wasn’t the answer to this problem.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the answer to any problem, no matter how much I wished it.

  Once again, I’d managed to hurt Sam Shepherd without even trying, and now, more than ever, I needed to make amends. It was one thing for my grades to suffer but an entirely different story all together to see his plummet just because I was a royal jerk.

  I really had no idea what I was going to say to him, and much to my dismay, the short walk between the school and the main drag in town wasn’t enough time for me to come up with something.

  My stomach lurched as I pushed my way through the heavy old door that led into Page Turners. The familiar smell of parchment and binding adhesive felt oddly comforting. As much as I’d hated the idea of this bookstore in the beginning, it had sort of become my favorite place. I loved running my fingers across the books as I roamed the shelves, back and forth, like a maze, while I searched for new books to read. I’d probably spent half of what I’d earned on reading material, but I honestly didn’t care.

  Finally, I had something to call my own.

  My love for reading had happened by accident really. Don’t Let Go. That stupid title I couldn’t forget. I didn’t know how many times I’d walked by that particular book on its lonely shelf before finally picking it back up. I’d thumb through the first few pages and then stuff it back on the shelf, only to find myself right back in front of it, wondering what happened next.

  It was the first.

  But definitely not the last.

  Every time I put a new book on the tiny shelf in my room, it would bring a little smile to my face. They weren’t worn or secondhand or something my mom suddenly had no use for anymore.

  They were precious.

  They were mine.

  I inwardly snorted to myself, thinking I sounded like that weird little creature from The Lord of the Rings when I thought about my books, but it was true. I couldn’t care less about clothes, makeup, or a single inch of my room, except for that shelf.

  “You gonna stand there all day, or are you actually going to work?” Sam’s gruff voice said, startling me.

  I nearly jumped, turning toward him, as he approached from the back room. “Sorry, just a little spacey.”

  “Is that hereditary? Should I put that in my report?” he said as he breezed past me.

  The words were said in jest, but I could tell he was still hurt by what he’d overheard.

  “I’m sorry I tried to switch. It’s not what you think,” I said, hoping he’d actually stop and pay attention to me for a split second.

  He did — barely. He’d just stepped behind the counter, and as soon as my words had left my mouth, he spun around, fire and ire in his eyes.

  “It’s not?” he nearly spit. “So, you didn’t mean to ask our teacher for a new partner?”

  I bit my bottom lip. “No, I did.”

  “So, it is exactly what I think then.”

  I tried to think of a way to explain it.

  How did you tell a guy that being around him made you kind of crazy and flustered and… well, that feelings like that aren’t allowed because of certain past relations with your best friend?

  No, I definitely could not tell him that.

  “Look, I thought we were finally starting to see eye to eye, Mittens. But obviously that’s not the case. We have a project to do, and somehow, we’ll figure it out. But, for now, let’s just stick to work. Things can just go back to the way they used to be, okay?”

  I was Mittens again. Not Willow. Just Mittens.

  I nodded, feeling dejected and dismissed.

  He’d effectively solved my dilemma. I no longer had to worry over the conflicting feelings I was having for a boy who was off limits.

  There would be no after-school talk. No sly jokes or out-of-the-blue compliments. He was done with me, and we could go back to being coworkers.

  Like normal.

  The problem though?

  I didn’t want to be normal anymore.

  MEET ME @ the bookstore round 3 tmrw to work on r project.

  That was the text I received on my phone at lunch.

  I stared at it, per
plexed.

  The only person I’d given my number to was Allison, and I’d told her to call me only in case of dire emergency. She’d called about half a dozen times. Dire emergency was a loose term in her vocabulary.

  I was starting to run out of minutes on the prepaid phone I’d brought with me, and as much as I didn’t want to put my hard earned cash into something as stupid as a phone, it was becoming inevitable.

  Leaning over, chewing on a carrot, Allison read the confusing message.

  “That’s Sam’s number. I gave yours to him,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  “Can you tell me what it says?” I asked.

  She laughed. “How have you made it all the way to sixteen? I swear, you’re like an alien.”

  She shook her head and read the text aloud. Most of it, I’d figured out on my own, but having her read it confirmed what I’d suspected.

  “So, you guys are partners for Mrs. Landers’s dreaded history project? I was so glad I got Mr. O’Connell for History this year.”

  I nodded. “Does it bother you?”

  She shrugged, grabbing another carrot. “No. Why would it? Sam and I are still friends.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “I just haven’t heard you talk about him, so I didn’t know.”

  “Sam and I are just going through a rough patch. We’ll be fine.”

  I wanted to press on, to figure out exactly what kind of rough patch she was talking about, but it was clear that this was a subject she wasn’t interested in talking about — at least, not in the middle of the packed cafeteria.

  I let it go, my mind still revolving around the text I’d received.

  I thought about it all the way to History class until I realized I hadn’t responded.

  Sliding into my seat in the back, I pulled out my cell phone and quickly replied with, “Okay.” I hit Send, taking a quick glance around the room for him at the same time.

  The bell rang, and students ran to find their seats, but Sam wasn’t one of them.

  I looked around but still couldn’t find him.

  He was a no-show.

  My phone buzzed once again in my hand.

  Come prepared.

  For some reason, I looked up once again and scanned the room.

  Nope. No Sam.

  Yet he was somewhere, texting me.