by Melissa Jane
“Shit. Sorry,” he says with his cheeks reddening. “I’m used to barging men out of my way, not someone as small as you.”
I smile, my icy heart thawing toward him. We take to the stairs in silence, but I break that with a probing question. “Did you even know who I was before today?”
He looks at me as if I’m mad. “Of course, I did. Only self-absorbed idiots like Chelsea don’t know who you are. Besides, I’m sure Jacob’s had a thing for you since like, well, ever.”
My heart skips a beat, and I don’t know why. “That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“He’s had it out for me for years, and that whole thing of ‘if a boy is treating you mean it must be because he likes you,’ bullshit, that simply isn’t true. He’s humiliated me on more occasions than I care to remember.”
“From what I hear, you’ve got him back just as bad.”
I think back to the time he removed all my textbooks from my backpack and replaced them with water balloons. I didn’t know until I was running from gym class to English having been the last to use the showers. The violent jostling motion caused the ten straining balloons to burst. Water gushed through the fabric and down the back of my jeans within a heartbeat of entering the classroom. Twenty-two students, including Jacob, watched as a waterfall landed at my feet. With mouths agape, I looked like a pregnant woman whose water had broken. Jacob, sitting in the third row, covered his mouth to hide his laugh, yet another successful prank on Rosie Reign to add to his belt. “I’m going to kill you, Jacob Lynch!” I yelled before my disruption earned me a detention slip.
My revenge had been simple. I’m not afraid of spiders but Jacob certainly is. In fact, afraid is an understatement. Garfield was Mr. Johnston’s pet tarantula who lived in his eco tank in the science room. One day, shortly after the water bombing incident, I was studying Garfield in class, knowing it was my turn to write observations. Jacob sat behind me protesting about having to be in the same room while observations happened. I waited until he made his first snide comment loud enough for me to hear.
Ensuring Garfield was happy sitting on my pencil case, I placed the faux spider I’d bought at the costume store on my hand and turned to my nemesis. He was about to claim victory for getting the reaction he wanted, when I swung my arm in his direction, sending the Garfield replica flying his way. Jacob immediately paled, eyes bulged, faced stricken with terror. He screamed, high-pitched and desperate. He threw his pen but missed his target by a good foot. Without thinking, he pushed away from the incoming spider until his lab stool gave out from under him and he, along with his shrieks of horror, disappeared behind the desk. His partner next to him, who’d spotted the motionless spider lying upturned on the floor, broke the news that it was indeed a fake.
Just like they had with me, the class roared with laughter at Jacob’s expense, while Garfield sat contented on my pencil case, and Mr. Johnson handed me yet another detention slip.
“No way. I wish,” I say to Kevin. Truth is, he deserves more than what I could ever manage. “And besides, boys like Jacob only go for girls like Chelsea. She’s every man’s wet dream. He would never go for someone who’s usually covered in paint…” I hold up my hands as evidence from this morning’s art class with oil paint that refuses to budge, “… or who spends her free time hanging out at theaters.”
“Chelsea’s a nice girl… when you know her…” He pauses and thinks for a few seconds then continues, “Hmmm … actually, she’s a bitch.” He laughs, and I smile at his honesty. “She’ll pretty much go for any guy wearing a football jacket. So, just because she’s easy, doesn’t mean every guy wants to fuck her.”
I screw my nose up at his assessment. “Gross.”
“Gross, but true.”
I feel eyes burning into me and when I turn, I notice Jacob staring down from the top of the stairs. He’s observing us with a blank expression. Kevin follows my gaze, and we watch as Chelsea possessively wraps her arms around Jacob’s waist before planting a kiss on his cheek.
“I didn’t realize they had that sort of relationship,” I say, determining it’s a thought that should have remained just that. The idea of Jacob sleeping with Chelsea isn’t a far-fetched one. Not one I’d like to entertain because, well, I won’t be able to look at him the same way again.
And which way is that, Rosie Reign? I inwardly roll my eyes at myself.
“I’m pretty sure they don’t,” Kevin replies, interrupting my thoughts. “But that’s not going to stop her from sinking her sharp claws into him until she does.”
~
“He simply wants the glory of being the only man who can tame a cantankerous woman,” Ms. Zagwich explains, making it her personal mission to get me excited for the play.
I swipe the bead of sweat dripping down my forehead, the spotlight burning even hotter than usual today. “So, you agree with me? Petruchio is for the most part a misogynist wanting to tame Kate for his own convenience and pride?”
“Yes, but—”
“What if she’s shrewdish because he’s gone out of his way to make her like that?” Jacob’s face comes in mind, and I wonder why I’m even thinking of the asshole who, as predicted, hasn’t turned up for rehearsal.
“Kate was a prude before she met him, so that’s—”
“He simply takes pride out of making her life a living hell with his constant pranks and sabotaging.”
Ms. Zagwich eyes me with concern. “I’m not sure if we’re still talking about the play, or… are we feeling okay, Rosie?”
I pull my shirt away from my body to allow some air through. “I’m fine. I’m just… just haven’t been feeling the best lately.”
“For a good few weeks now, you haven’t seemed quite yourself.”
“My mother keeps saying the same. Where the hell is Jacob?”
“I don’t—”
“I knew this was a bad idea. He’s twenty-five minutes late.”
“Perhaps Coach Carter called a football meet.”
“No, it’s just because he doesn’t give a shit.”
“Rosie!”
“Shit! Sorry.” I’m wincing as the words leave my mouth. In recent weeks I certainly haven’t made a good impression on anyone, well, besides Kevin.
“I’m worried he’s going to blow my chances. Perhaps the whole scholarship idea isn’t going to work. Not when I have to rely on someone else. And Jacob isn’t—”
“Jacob isn’t what?” his voice booms from somewhere in the darkened audience, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.
“You’re late,” I reply in my unhappiest tone while searching for his face.
“I had a meeting with Mr. Johnson,” he says, his ridiculously handsome face finally coming into view.
“You mean an after-school detention?”
His brows crease. “No… a legit meeting.”
“He’s telling the truth,” comes a sickeningly sweet yet patronizing voice. I turn to see Chelsea leaning against the stage, her smug smile barely visible in the shadows. “I was with him the whole time.”
Urgh.
I bet she just hangs for the chance to say those one-liners. Annoyed, I leave the spotlight to grab my bag.
“Where are you going?” Jacob asks, confused.
“Home.” Stuffing the script book into my backpack, I decide to take the stairs which will lead me out the back of the theater.
“Posie, wait.” Jacob’s fingers wrap around my wrist, preventing me from leaving. It’s a foreign touch, and it causes butterflies in my stomach. We’re both in the dark away from the others, but once our eyes adjust, we can almost make each other out. “Why are you leaving?”
“Because you proved me right. You don’t care about my scholarship as much as I don’t care for your excuses. Now let me go.”
He doesn’t, his grip tightening when I try to shrug free. “That’s not true. I do care. I promise it won’t happen again. It was a meeting I couldn’t get out of.”
“
And I don’t care for your lies either, Jacob. This is senior year, and I have commitments to uphold. You may prefer snogging Ms. Barbie behind the bleachers instead of actually giving a shit about your future. But I’m not about that, and I’m not going to let you jeopardize it. And it’s Rosie, not Po—” A sudden sharp stab in my stomach has me doubled over, tears brimming as I breathe steadily through the pain.
“What the fuck?” Jacob releases my wrist to wrap an arm around my waist. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, shirking him away. “I’m fine.”
Am I? What the hell was that?
“Now who’s lying?”
I don’t bother looking back, but I feel him watching my every move, broken only when the door slams closed.
~
You look like shit.
I carefully conceal the note Nessie passed to me in calculus, ensuring I meet Mr. Johnson’s gaze while he attempts, rather unsuccessfully, to explain complex logarithmic equations. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe he’s awesome at what he teaches, but I’m simply not comprehending. Ensuring I was first in to claim a back seat, I spent most of the class fighting a chronic fatigue and the urge to vomit. After abruptly leaving rehearsal the day before, I’d gone home, showered, and slept from five in the afternoon until six the next day. And even with the abundance of sleep, I still feel like shit. And apparently, I look it.
When Mr. Johnson turns to write on the whiteboard, I compose my own message back.
If I don’t make it out of here alive, will you promise to look after my Tamagotchi as if he’s your own?
I slip the note back to Ness and when she snorts a laugh, I raise my brow waiting for an answer. I’m being deadly serious. We have to be the only two people on earth still raising our digital pets as if their life depends on it. She places a hand over her heart and mouths ‘yes.’ I smile at our stupidness and try not to wince as another stab of pain assaults my abdomen. I will have to see a doctor at some stage, but with both my parents being so busy and Mom flying in and out of work trips, it makes it hard to discuss these types of things. Besides, whatever it is will most likely pass soon.
“So…” Mr. Johnson says with a sudden change of tone, “… with just a few minutes left, I’m going to hand out last week’s test papers. Some of you surprised me for the better, others didn’t. If you have any questions, see me after class.”
While Mr. Johnson starts passing out the test papers, everyone packs their bags ready for recess. Jacob, who’s sitting in the middle row and who has attempted eye contact for most of the lesson, turns in his seat. Unlike all the other occasions when I ignore him, this time he meets my gaze.
‘Are you okay?’ he mouths.
‘Fine,’ I mouth back, looking away as Mr. Johnson reaches my table. He slides the paper across, and he doesn’t seem at all pleased.
“Rosie, you’re going to have to attend tutorials for both calculus and science. Thursdays. I’ll line you up a tutor.”
My shoulders slump. It’s already a struggle for me to understand anything to do with numbers. I’m arts inclined, and while I achieve stable grades in mathematics, it requires a lot of effort, and seemingly a bit more at that.
Dammit! I sigh heavily, starting to feel the pressure of my last year of high school. The weight of everything I’ve taken on is becoming unbearable. Striving for this scholarship has taken over my life, and I feel like I’m losing control. With prom design, the scholarship audition, advanced classes, and feeling like shit all the time, I’m not sure how long I can keep this up. Now, I have to throw in the mix both math and science tutorials.
The bell rings, and the room descends into chaos, chairs scraping across the floor and human bodies moving in every direction. I glimpse Jacob coming my way, but while I’m quick to make a getaway, Chelsea is even quicker, stepping in front to block his path. He indicates for me to stop, but it’s too late because I’ve already told myself I don’t care for what he has to say.
~
My unwrapped ham sandwich sits sadly on the lunch table. Every other day it’s my favorite, but today, I can’t stomach the thought of eating despite trying.
“Are you pregnant?” Nessie asks with more concern than necessary.
I shoot her a look of reproach. “No. But strangely enough, I feel like it.”
“So, maybe my question isn’t so crazy after all?”
“It’s not crazy, it’s absurd. One has to be having sex to get pregnant.”
She sighs in resignation. “I think we’re the only seniors who haven’t had sex yet.”
This surprises me for a couple of reasons. Nessie, having a father who’s the town’s pastor, is the most conservative person in the school, so for her to even consider the notion of having sex is, well, out of the box. I mean, Nessie would make an awesome candidate for a nun. Her parents are highly religious and often frown upon her subject choices, claiming drama and the arts will lead her into temptation and loose morals. They are probably right, given she’s been able to determine who in the cohort will be going to hell for fornicating. But worse, she’s probably correct in her assumption—just not the hell part.
I feel slightly alarmed by this. “Do you really think so?”
She nods slowly, allowing her own thoughts to sink in. “Look around us.” I follow her gaze as we move around the various groups of seniors. Not much has changed as far as stereotyping goes because there’s still the goths, tech kids, art alternatives, Ivy League fanatics, and jocks. What has changed, however, is that even the tech kids and goths seem to be getting it on.
“Guys have never had it so easy.”
She’s right, and it’s frightening. I’m going to die a virgin.
“‘Say, that she frown.’” I hear Jacob project from across the hall, inching closer with his dramatics. “‘I’ll say, she looks as clear, As morning roses newly wash’d with dew.’” His impromptu performance makes me smile as he delivers the last line as if he were on stage in front of opening-night critics.
“You’ve been running lines?” I ask, unable to hide how impressed I am.
He smiles proudly while unzipping his football jacket. “Of course, I said I wouldn’t let you down.”
“You did it by yourself?”
“I may have wrangled my mom into helping.”
I bite my bottom lip as a strange heat warms my heart. Perhaps I have been wrong about Jacob this time. Perhaps this is unlike all the other occasions where he’s purposefully and successfully made a mockery of me. Perhaps this time, he’s serious.
“Well,” I say. “I think you’ve found your calling.”
The look he gives is one I’ve never seen before. Respect maybe? Calling a truce?
“Jacob!” While the sound of the whiney voice pulls his attention, his suddenly annoyed eyes remain glued to mine. “Gotta go,” he says, resigned to his current fate.
I don’t say anything as I watch him leave, but no more than two steps away he turns to face me, annoyance replaced with anticipation. “Hey, I wanted to ask… we have a huge home game next Friday night. It would be good to see you there.”
I’m thrown completely off guard. It’s one thing to learn lines for the play, but to actually invite me somewhere, so he can enjoy my company is something completely different and unexpected. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “Why would you want me there? I thought you’d have enough girls waiting to cheer you on.”
For a second, his frown mimics mine. “I just—”
“Jacob!” Chelsea yells, her impatience grating on my nerves. Jacob rolls his eyes and gives a tight smile. “Starts at seven,” he mentions before heading in the direction of his human leech. Chelsea smirks, in victory, but the look of death shooting my way makes it difficult not to lift my middle finger at her.
“What the heck was that?” Nessie asks, eyes wide.
“I don’t know.”
“Jacob Lynch was just super nice to you, and I don’t even think he was being nice to be mean.�
��
I understand her theory—I can count on one finger the amount of times Jacob has been nice me. “I feel like it’s a setup.”
Nessie looks doubtful. “I don’t know, he sure seemed sincere.”
“And that’s probably where the trick lies. Fool me with kindness before humiliating me.”
She leans forward as if discussing a code-red conspiracy theory. “Do you think that’s his objective this time?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? Why should this time be any different?”
“So, are you going to go?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I should take the risk.” I feel another sharp stab of pain in my abdomen reminding me to book in with Dr. Symmonds. “Besides,” I say, pushing the ham sandwich out of sight. “I don’t even like football.”
I glance over my shoulder and spy both Jacob and Chelsea with their backs to me. She snuggles in close while he wraps an arm around her waist. The look he gave me moments earlier is totally incongruous to his current public display of affection which begs one question.
What are you up to, Jacob Lynch?
4
THEN
By the end of the day, I’m ready to go home, but my commitments simply don’t allow me that luxury. The pain, instead of it being sporadic and unpredictable, is now persistent, offering no downtime. I wipe the sweat from my brow even though the air conditioner is pumping away and set the newspaper and wire on the floor. My objective, provided by Ms. Zagwich, is to create some of the smaller props for the prom. Whimsical garden features that would be suitable for a tribe of fairies, and paper mâché is my starting point. Anna silently roams around the art room, stocktaking what materials we have available to us.
Rolling out the chicken wire, I lean over and cut a straight line ready to start work on my first giant mushroom.
