“No. It’s Sasha. She’s, you know, too busy being Sasha Cotton.” We never clarify what this means, but obviously we all agree that Sasha Cotton exists in some realm above the rest of us, where she doesn’t bother herself with normal human facts like how long it takes for water to boil, or who the vice president is, or which reality show star we are all in love with, or what people at school are saying about her.
Elise pats my back before heading down the hallway, but I think I can see a flicker of not-believing in the way she looks at me. The particular stiffness of her hand tapping my shoulder. She’s not going to stick by me no matter what. I can tell. She’ll judge me. At the end of the day, she thinks Sasha Cotton is sweeter and purer than me, too.
I watch the school counselor, Mrs. Drake, walk down the hallway.
Mrs. Drake is my parents’ age, and I’ve seen her high before. She hates this about me. When you have young parents who like to “socialize,” you see a lot of things you probably shouldn’t. Our town is tiny, after all, and there are only so many people my parents’ age. So there’s a postal worker and a yoga teacher and the gallery owner and, one time, Mrs. Drake, who all come to the house for wine and cheese, but that has on occasion turned into weed in the backyard.
“Let’s chat at the end of the day,” Mrs. Drake says when she reaches me. I know from the way she looks at the shortness of my dress exactly what our chat will be about.
“About what?” I ask anyway.
“Nothing scary, I promise,” Mrs. Drake says with a firm hand on my shoulder. I shrug, which I guess is a tacit agreement, because Mrs. Drake walks away. Jemma and Alison kept their distance during the conversation, but they’re not exactly hidden from view. I meet Jemma’s gaze.
We hold eye contact, but her face is softer than I would have thought. It’s not a challenge, the weird extended staring. It’s something else. Like wistfulness. I take a step toward them. I have no intention of saying anything at all, but the words come out anyway.
“What’s the endgame here? What are you hoping to accomplish?” I ask. Jemma is still a few yards away, and I say it quietly, so I’m not sure if she even hears. Alison busies herself with textbooks and her laptop and her shoelaces to avoid eye contact.
“I don’t— I’m not—” Jemma is not usually one to stutter or stumble over her words.
“I already feel like I suck, so, you know, mission accomplished. Is there anything else you’d like to do to me?” I regret admitting to that self-hatred. My friend Jemma would have comforted me, but my nemesis Jemma will totally use it against me.
“That’s not— I’m not even sure— You’re turning it all around.” Jemma keeps shaking her head as she turns a corner into a classroom.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the part of Jemma that is unsure and vulnerable that I’d forgotten what it looks like on her. The moment she’s out of view, I miss her. We used to stay up really late and talk about what in the world made us saddest, what embarrassed us most, what we hated about ourselves. For me it was the way I couldn’t help being jealous when other people were happy. For Jemma it was the fact that she sometimes cared what other people thought, even though she knew she was too smart to care.
I wonder if she remembers all that.
After math and before bio, I log back on to LBC. I have another countdown announcement from Zed, who informs me of every passing hour.
Thirteen hours to go. Will you make it?
There is a sloppy mixture of fear and thrill inside me. I am going to kiss Joe again. I am going to feel his hands in my hair. I am going to change the course of my life and go for what I really want.
My toes scrunch with anticipation, so I distract myself by reading Star’s latest post from the road.
STAR: Love.
When I showed up at his apartment, he was in pajamas and smiling hard. Hugged me harder. Kissed me hardest. Thank you isn’t enough. California Love. xoxoxoxox.
Attached to the post is a picture of Star’s feet, sans red heels, tucked under some guy’s thighs. There’s something beautiful about trying to capture a moment without a face, and Star is an expert. Again, her knees are in the shot, and I know from the way they lean against each other, askew, that she is sleepy-eyed and blissful. When Joe and I kissed, our knees touched, and the shock went from that joint to my head, where it made me dizzy and exhausted. I know what knees can do.
And now, I guess, I know the best of what Life by Committee can do. What Zed can do. I pray again that somehow Star is the one who wrote in The Secret Garden, and that her words are the ones that brought me to Life by Committee. That would shrink my loneliness even further. It could become almost manageable if that were the case.