I’m procrastinating outside the auditorium and hoping Elise will come by, until I remember I can’t tell her anything about last night and Joe and the things I’ve done that feel great but make me terrible. Even without reassurance from him online last night, I smile thinking his name. I replay the kisses in my head, the moments before the kisses too, and I worry the spaces between my ribs are being literally crushed with feelings.
I do some imitation of Cate and Paul’s yoga breathing, but it only makes me more hyped up, more ready to explode. I was certain it was best not to let Elise in on the secret that I am a bad person who makes out with other people’s boyfriends, but the more I breathe, the more convinced I am that the words will spill out from physical necessity.
Sun’s streaming in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and grumpy kids in fleece and corduroy are all squinting against the light. Joe walks by with Sasha. I reach for my hair on autopilot, push it behind my shoulders, and try to look normal.
“Please, no,” Elise says, coming up behind me and squeezing my sides so that I jump in surprise. She gives me a good, hard stare, like I’m in trouble. Which, given Elise’s distrust of hockey-playing cheaters, is probably exactly what she thinks I am. “Aren’t we done with the Joe Donavetti crap yet?”
“I know, I know. I’m the worst. The League of Great Feminists from Throughout History will come down and haunt me.” I wrap an arm across my body so that my hand rests around my ribs and tell the words and feelings to stay there and chill out.
“I’m not kidding, Tab. He’s gross. And everyone loves his girlfriend. So get that look off your face.”
The unspoken end of that thought: You’ve lost enough friends already. Don’t make it worse. She notices my wince and shakes her head, like she’s forgotten herself.
“You can do so much better, is all I mean. You’re fucking gorgeous. And hilarious. Basically I’m obsessed with you, and your future boyfriend will be too.” Elise bumps my hip with hers, and I get a lift from her words because she says them with such total sincerity that I think they might be true.
Except Joe’s the one I want.
We follow Joe and Sasha into the assembly hall, and I don’t even try to stop looking at them. I want a glimpse of his lips. It will feed the total bliss I feel at having kissed them.
Elise and I sit a few rows behind them, and I watch the hair on the back of Joe’s head, looking for meaning. I know he wants to get out from under her thumb. He tells me he does every night. But his arm is around her, and I think from the way her body sort of shudders against his that she’s crying.
Sasha Cotton is always crying.
“All right, lady, you obviously need to talk, so talk,” Elise says with a huge sigh. Her lip is curled in disgust at having to listen to this, but she’s a good friend, so she leans in, elbow on my armrest, chin on her fist, and gets ready for my gushing. “What’s the update?” Assembly must be running late. The headmaster hasn’t made his way onto the stage yet, and the din of voices isn’t dying down.
The thing about Elise is, she comes around. She hasn’t been the greatest listener lately, but she certainly tries. I don’t tell her about the kissing or his running away; I just tell her about a conversation Joe and I had a few days ago online. I am desperate for her to approve of me and Joe, so that someday I can tell her the whole story.
“Well, so Joe did tell me that Sasha’s on some new antidepressant medication. So as soon as she adjusts, he’ll break up with her and—”
“Are they sleeping together?” Elise interrupts. It’s the question we ask about every couple lately, but I haven’t tried to find out about Joe and Sasha yet. I don’t think I want to know the answer.
I shake my head and shrug and sigh all at once, and Elise adjusts her black T-shirt. She buttons and unbuttons the snaps on the brown leather cuff she wears on her right wrist. She musses up her own pixie cut and leans back in her seat.
“I guess I’m asking because they’re passing out the lit journal today, and I hear she’s got a poem in it,” Elise says, choosing her words so carefully, I don’t even recognize the rhythm of her voice as her own. Sasha has cupped her hand around the back of Joe’s neck. It’s the kind of gesture I’ve seen Cate and Paul do, and I shudder at the thought of Joe and Sasha as some kind of old married couple: comfortable, impenetrable, and in love.
“Hm?” I say.
“Heather said something. About Sasha’s poem,” Elise goes on. I’m so sick of hearing about her new friend Heather and their amazing connection that I don’t immediately ask a follow-up question, even though the words she’s saying and their vaguely ominous meaning make my stomach twist. Not to mention I owe her a good listen after she listened to me talk about Joe without gagging.