“She doesn’t even know it’s hot, which is what makes it so freaking hot,” one of them says. “You, like, can’t even hate her, you know?”
“She’s not, like, traditionally pretty. Not out-there pretty. She’s, like, mysterious pretty. Which, I mean, is the best kind of pretty, you know?” her nasal-voiced friend agrees.
I close the website. Put my phone away.
I’m dizzy from this day, but I refuse to hide in a stall and listen to everyone talk about how amazing Sasha Cotton is. I push the door open and try to see if they know who I am, if they know about me and Joe, if anything registers on their faces.
One of them clears her throat, and I try to interpret the tone behind the cough.
Definitely judgmental. If they don’t know about me and Joe, they’ve at least heard from Jemma and Alison that I’m the wrong kind of girl.
Everyone’s talking about Sasha’s poem. The artsy kids are saying it’s totally beautiful, and the young teachers are stopping her in the hallway to tell her she should be applying to colleges with great English programs. Everyone else is acting like she wrote soft-core porn, and even the jocks are looking at awkward wispy-haired Sasha in a whole new light.
I’m spending my free period drowning my sorrows in shitty on-campus coffee at a little table near the alcove where the hot athletes hang out. Joe isn’t quite one of them, maybe because he’s not very tall and fails to buy the Right Sweater every fall, but his big-toothed smile and varsity-athlete status make him something of a sidekick. He can go to the parties, but they don’t think to invite him. They talk to him when they are bored, but they wouldn’t list him as a friend.
Athletes aren’t supposed to have special status at Circle Community Day School, but these guys are gorgeous and their parents let them throw ragers after their games, so they end up popular despite the best efforts of the vegan potters who run our school to keep them down.
“Joe, my friend,” Luke, the tallest and hunkiest of the guys, calls out. Joe beams, knowing what’s coming, because I’m sure he’s been hearing it from every guy since assembly let out. “What’s up with your girl? She a freak? Your girl like it a little crazy?” Luke talks like he’s from Detroit or something, but his parents make homemade jam and run the tourism office, so they’re real Vermonters.
“I don’t know, man,” Joe says. He’s grinning, though, a huge, shit-eating grin.
“Come on. She seems like a secret freak. She’s one of those girls . . . kinda nuts, writes in a journal or some shit, reads a bunch of books with naked people on the cover. . . . Am I on the right track?”
My stomach turns. I blush, even though no one is looking at me or talking about me. I blush so hard, my own face is warm to the touch. I blush so hard, I’m pretty sure it is distracting to everyone around me. A bright red glow must be flooding the hallways.
“She’s a little like that, sure,” Joe says. He seriously cannot stop smiling. He’s standing up straight, his feet wider than his shoulders, like he suddenly requires more room than your average person.
I am going to vomit. I am going to vomit right here, in front of everyone. Which will make my lack of Sasha-style sexiness even more obvious to the whole school and to Joe.
“That’s what I thought. I know what those chicks are like. You’re a lucky man, brother. Lucky, lucky man.” Luke sticks out his hand and Joe shakes it; both of them flex their ridiculous muscles as they grip hands.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble, dude,” Joe says, his chest all puffed up. I’m full-on watching them now, no longer trying to hide my interest in a book or my coffee or anything. I’m just slack-jawed staring at Joe and Luke and the now-applauding football team. They are giving Joe a standing ovation.
I want to die.
And then, of course, Joe sees me and there’s no way for me to quickly shift my gaze or anything, I’m just stuck with my mouth open and my eyes pinned to him. His face tries to rearrange itself into something mildly apologetic or friendly or gentle or something, but it really just looks scrambled and still glowing from stupid pride.
He gives a half wave, not big enough for anyone but me to notice, and I wonder if we’ll talk online tonight, or if this is how it ends.
Then Elise is at my side, and I have to turn off that line of thinking for a second.
“Don’t kill me,” she says, which means she’s done something ridiculous that doesn’t affect me at all. This is exactly how she told me about stealing a hundred dollars from her mom to buy a fake ID from some sketchy dude in Burlington.
Not to buy beer, but to get into gay bars. Elise has no interest in drinking; she just wants to be around other lesbians, which I totally respect. Elise is both fearless and straight edge, which is a killer combination. I can only miss Jemma and Alison so much with Elise around.
“I’m not gonna kill you,” I say. She’s wringing her hands, though.
“I kinda like the poem.”