Been Here All Along

by Sandy Hall

  “Oh,” he says, his voice quiet.

  “Anyway, I was thinking—”

  “We’re not having the conversation about the eagles again. We’re not going down that road. Our friendship cannot withstand that debate.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” I say, trying to get him to listen.

  “Good. I’m not prepared for that debate at 7:32 in the morning.”

  “I’m mostly just wondering what would happen if someone swallowed the ring,” I say when I finally park the car on the side street next to the high school.

  “Why would anyone swallow the ring?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. But hypothetically, what do you think would happen?”

  Gideon shakes his head and continues walking toward the front doors.

  “No, but really, Gid, come on. I thought we could have a nice conversation about this!” I call after him.

  “It’s not going to end well,” he says over his shoulder as I catch up.

  “But just think about it.”

  He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s going to think about it. This is how it is, was, and always will be between Gideon and me.

  two

  Ruby

  I don’t really understand why people hate pep rallies.

  I’m head cheerleader. I probably love them by default. There’s a semi-decent chance that I’m biased about the whole thing. But really, what’s not to like?

  People are so anti-pep that the administration had to move all pep rallies to the middle of the day so that everyone would stop cutting them at the end of the day.

  I mean, I guess it’s always nice to get out of school early. Maybe if I didn’t have to cheer during them, I’d want to leave, too.

  But what I really don’t understand is why Gideon Berko is currently sitting in the bleachers going over flash cards. Probably SAT vocabulary.

  Instead of trying to understand him, I just clap my hands and shake my pom-poms even harder. It’s the least I can do for Kyle, who’s so bashful during these things it makes me want to prod him out into the spotlight. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and he’s shaking his head just the right way so his hair falls in his eyes. But he’s smiling. He can’t hide the fact that he’s smiling.

  He’s a good boyfriend. An amazing one, even. Probably the best I’ve ever had, because I don’t think he’s dating me just to be able to say that he’s dating a cheerleader.

  I thought for sure my senior year would be completely boring and devoid of fun. Until Kyle showed up, looking adorable and nervous as he approached me at the homecoming dance back in October. For once there was a guy who liked me who didn’t say all the right things.

  I’d be lying if I said I’d never noticed him before. It was hard to miss him when he was a sophomore playing starting center. He made a pretty big splash for a kid who up to that point seemed to have only one friend.

  When the pep rally finally ends, I help the other girls clean up some of the posters and confetti. I spot Kyle and Gideon leaving the room together. They’re like magnets. They will find each other anywhere, anytime.

  After they’re gone, I think about how other people look at them. People who don’t know them. But it’s hard, now that I’ve spent time with Kyle and Gideon, to look at them the same way I used to.

  I used to think they were just really big nerds.

  Looking back, though, I also remember seeing them laughing all the time. Like they were sharing the best jokes that the world has ever known. They didn’t actually care if I was sitting across the cafeteria from them, thinking that they were nerds. It didn’t keep them from passing notes in Elvish.

  It still doesn’t keep them from doing that, no matter how many times I’ve joked about being uncomfortable that they’re talking shit about me in a made-up language. Kyle insists that they’re not saying anything bad. But he never actually says they’re not talking about me.

  But as Kyle is so quick to remind me, not everything is about me.

  I like to tell him that it should be. And I’m only joking a little bit when I say it.

  Kyle

  I think the new English teacher is out to get me or something. Mrs. Masterson, my old teacher, who was really, really, really old, freaking loved me. She knew I was smart and she didn’t pressure me. I’d had her for English since freshman year, and she let certain things slide. Like how bad my spelling is or when I couldn’t make the right connections between characters while we were reading The Crucible.

  But we only read two or three books a year with her. It helped that she would read most of them to us in class, because I don’t think she knew what else to do with the time. Also she’d read us a lot of poetry. She was really into poetry.

  During winter break she fell on some ice and broke her hip. I guess that made her realize how old she was, so she decided to retire. Now I have this new teacher for English, Ms. Gupta, who’s trying too hard to connect with everyone.

  We started on a Shakespeare unit in January. Our first play was King Lear, and I just didn’t get it. None of it made sense to me. Sometimes she’d give people parts to read out loud. That’s when she noticed how much trouble I have with reading. I just couldn’t keep up. My hands got all sweaty and the words started to blur. The worst part was how quiet everyone else got around me while I tried to push through one stupid sentence.

  We’re juniors in high school. We should never be forced to read aloud in class. I can read fine to myself when I can go slowly. I’m just really bad at not getting nervous and stumbling and I take a long time. Everyone gets bored listening to me.

  And in elementary school I used to get made fun of because I was so bad at reading. That doesn’t help. That doesn’t make you a very confident reader later in life. But that shouldn’t make or break my English grade ten years later.

  After the King Lear incident, she started calling on me more, and then she started asking me to stay after class.

  So for the past three months she’s been trying to “work with” me because apparently in her world I’m close to failing English, even though I always got a C+ from Mrs. Masterson. But since it was the last class of the day and I had basketball practice, there hasn’t really been time to talk.

  Unfortunately, today all the class periods were a couple of minutes shorter to make room for the pep rally earlier, so when the bell rings, it kind of throws me off. I’m usually ready to sprint out of this classroom in fear that Ms. Gupta is going to want to talk. She catches me, of course, since I’m one of the last people walking out of the room.

  “Kyle?” she calls out. She has a nice voice. I really like it, actually. It’s got just this little hint of an Indian accent, and she sounds all smooth and smart.

  “I don’t wanna be late for practice,” I say, just barely turning around.

  “I know, I know. Big game coming up. But just one second.”

  I turn fully around and make sure I don’t meet her eye. I’m playing cool, pretending to be a tree. That usually works pretty well for me.

  “Yeah, can’t disappoint the team,” I say, when she fails to continue. I sneak a glance at her desk and notice she’s going through some papers. Probably the essays we handed in last week.

  She grimaces and shows me the 60 percent on the top of my paper. “Did you understand any of the instructions?”

  I take the essay from her and look at all the red slashes through words and sentences, different call-outs that I can’t actually read right now because my brain is so foggy and nervous.

  I hand it back to her and squeeze the straps of my backpack. “I worked really hard,” I finally say. I sound so whiny.

  “I think there’s more to it than just needing to work hard. Some of this is—” She pauses, skimming the page again. “You have moments where I can see how smart you are, and there are other sentences where you obviously let spell-check change every word and it turned into gibberish.”

  “Spelling is, like, not my best.” My tongue is h
eavy in my mouth and my brain is working in slow motion so I can’t even think of the right words.

  “It’s not just the spelling, though. It’s the context and comprehension. There’s so much more going on here.”

  I know she’s trying to make eye contact with me, like we’re supposed to be having some kind of moment. But I can’t. I stare outside and watch a squirrel hop around in a tree. I wouldn’t mind going out there and joining him. Maybe just live in that tree for the rest of my life and learn English through the classroom window.

  “I really don’t want you to fail this marking period. Grades are due next week, and you’re right on the cusp. An F isn’t going to look great on your report card.”

  “I know,” I say, still watching the little squirrel.

  “It could mean summer school if you don’t pull it together.”

  I wince at the idea of more school. Especially since I found out last week I got accepted into a really prestigious basketball camp for this summer.

  She gives me detailed instructions about what she wants me to do for extra credit, and I make sure I write everything down. I really don’t want to have to worry about this.

  “I believe you’re a very smart kid who’s having some problems,” she says after the world’s longest instructions. “We will be able to come up with a solution. You are not a lost cause. I checked your grades, and I see you’ve done just fine in the past.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Masterson was a good teacher.”

  She nods distractedly. “I have to wonder if there’s something else going on.”

  “Something else?” I ask.

  “A personal problem, maybe? I’m not trying to pry. I want to understand what changed. It might help me.”

  “No,” I say. “Nothing changed.”

  “Everything’s good at home?”

  I nod and wipe my forehead. I feel sweaty and nervous and like I can’t focus on anything.

  “Okay, well,” she says.

  I take that as the opportunity to leave without saying another word, because there’s nothing else to say.

  The halls are almost clear by the time I get to my locker, and Ruby’s leaning on it, waiting for me.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I blink hard. “Uh, yeah. I just had to stay and talk to Ms. Gupta for a second.”

  “Oh, cool. I love her. Such a step up from Old Lady Masterson. That woman did not like me.”

  I nod but decide to drop the topic while I grab what I need from my locker, and then I’m ready to go.

  “You’re really okay?” she asks as we turn down the hallway in the direction of the gym.

  “Yeah, fine, just a lot on my mind.” We pause outside the locker rooms before parting ways. “I know we were supposed to go out tonight after practice, but I have to go home. My mom’s on my ass about never being home for dinner.”

  “Oh no, a nice home-cooked meal! That sounds terrible!” she says.

  “You want to come over?” I ask, sort of hoping she’ll say no. I have too much to think about. For starters, I need to work on this extra-credit thing for English.

  “Nah, I think I’ll skip this round of family fun time at the Kaminskys’.”

  “Figured it was worth asking.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “See you after practice,” I say.

  She kisses my cheek and turns to walk away, but I grab her hand, pulling her back. I kiss her harder and longer than I normally would in the middle of the hallway at school. But it just feels kind of right.

  “Such an animal, Kaminsky. I like it,” she says.

  I can’t help but smile.

  Ruby

  By the time we’re both done, it’s getting dark outside and I don’t really feel like dredging up whatever was making Kyle nervous earlier. When I meet up with him outside the gym, instead I lean up to kiss him on the cheek.

  “You smell like sweaty boy,” I say.

  “Well, probably because I am a sweaty boy.”

  “So sassy lately, Kaminsky,” I say, swinging our hands between us as we walk out to his car.

  “Why do you like me?” he asks a few minutes later as we pull out of the school parking lot.

  I study his profile in the flitting glow of the passing streetlights.

  I try to think of an exact reason, to pinpoint something that doesn’t sound flimsy or trite. Because I like him for all those reasons you’re supposed to like people. He’s kind and warm and looks at me like I’m the coolest bitch on earth. And I am. But there’s more to it.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” he mumbles after I’ve been quiet for too long. “It’s not important.”

  “I think part of why I like you is that you ask questions like that,” I finally say.

  He licks his lips, waiting for me to go on, but when I don’t, he babbles. “But why? Like, that doesn’t really tell me anything. We’ve been together for six months and I’ve seen the way other guys look at you. You could have pretty much any of them.”

  “I like that you gave me a chance.”

  We’re at my house by now and he pulls over, shutting off the car. “I gave you a chance?” he asks, turning fully to look at me.

  “Yeah, you know. You don’t talk to a lot of girls, but you talked to me. I didn’t expect it. It made me feel special or something stupid like that.” God, this is too hard to talk about for some reason. I don’t think I like this emotional crap.

  “So if I tell you something kind of personal, and sort of weird, you’ll still like me?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I say, my voice quiet, remembering his discomfort earlier.

  “So I’m bi,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  “Bi.”

  “Are you telling me to leave?”

  “What? No. I’m bisexual.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “Cool?”

  “Yeah, of course. I don’t know what you want me to say, but that’s cool. I’m cool with that.”

  He rolls his neck and it cracks like a gunshot.

  “So you were a little nervous about telling me that?” I ask, taking his chin in my hand and turning him toward me.

  “I was. I don’t tell a lot of people, but we’re just, we’ve been getting closer? I felt like you should know or else it, you know, it felt like I was lying. And I really don’t want to lie to anyone, but especially not you and—”

  My mouth is on his, and it drowns out whatever other useless words were trying to claw their way out of his throat. He doesn’t need to make excuses or overexplain with me. I hope he understands that.

  His phone buzzes, and he leans his forehead on mine.

  “That’s definitely my mom. And I definitely need to go home.”

  “It’s cool. We have a date this weekend anyway.”

  “Oh yeah, the dance,” he says.

  “Hopefully it’ll be a victory dance when you guys win tomorrow night,” I say, the cheerleader in me leaking out of my pores.

  “Yeah, it should be fun.”

  I look right at him, forcing his eyes to meet mine in the dim light. “Thanks for coming out to me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I slide out of the car and run up the steps to my house, turning back to wave.

  He always waits to make sure I’m safe.

  Just one more reason to like him.

  three

  Kyle

  Ruby and I walk into the gym like we own the place.

  The basketball team won the state championships last night, so this dance feels like a serious victory lap.

  She takes my hand and we do a circuit of the gym, where she says hello to people and I try to get a better look at the refreshments while fist-bumping and high-fiving people I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. Do they even go to this school?

  But there are leaf cookies on that table, and I want to eat all the pink ones. Ruby seems to be ignoring my soulful eye contact with the cookie table.

  “Come
on, let’s slow dance,” she says, yanking me toward the front of the gym, where a bunch of couples sway to a song that sounds like a slow love ballad, but if you listen closely to the lyrics, it really isn’t romantic. After threading our way through the crowd, she stops suddenly and turns, throwing her hands around my neck middle-school style.

  “Kyle,” Ruby says in a singsong voice, “what are you thinking about?”

  I only half hear her because I see someone make a move toward my cookies.

  “God you’re cute when you’re barely listening to me.”

  “Huh?” I say, hunching over to hear her better.

  “You’re cute,” she stage-whispers.

  I smile.

  “Aren’t I cute?”

  “You’re better than cute,” I say. “You look awesome tonight, by the way, in case I haven’t mentioned it.”

  “Thanks.” She takes a deep breath and it’s like every hair on my body stands up. Like I have a sixth sense that she’s about to start a fight. “I don’t want this to be a thing or whatever, but now that you’ve gotten through the big game, I just have a question.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “How come you waited so long to tell me you were bi?”

  That gets my attention away from the cookies. I blink at her, unsure of how to respond.

  “I’m not offended, I just”—she pauses and cocks her head to the side—“I guess I don’t understand why you waited until we were together for six months to tell me.”

  I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to say something, anything, because it seems like she’s asking questions but they’re also statements. She keeps talking before I can figure out what to say again.

  “Really, it’s not a big deal, but I kind of can’t shake the feeling that you don’t actually trust me.”

  I stop dancing and step back from her. “Would you rather I hadn’t told you?”

  “No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I guess I don’t understand why you decided to tell me now.”

  “Because it’s my choice when to tell someone personal things about me.”

  “But I’m your girlfriend.”