Ethics is my least favorite class. Not only because Jemma is in it with me, but also because I never agree with anything the teacher says. Or anything the writers and philosophers we read about say.
And this morning I hate it even more because I am sleepy-headed and strange, coming off everything that happened over the weekend. Yesterday, Paul and I stayed in separate corners of the house, not speaking. I didn’t do homework or watch TV or go online. I slept and felt sorry for myself and listened for Cate to walk in the door. She didn’t. This morning, I couldn’t get it together to shower or do my hair or put on makeup, so I’m messy and feel my own grossness under my red cashmere sweater and too-tight black pants. I feel Luke and his cohorts looking at my ass like it’s a freaking hamburger when I’m getting into my chair.
I haven’t had coffee, either. No stopping by Tea Cozy this morning. No Cate making me a home-latte. Instead, it was me and Paul frowning and pretending to eat cereal and avoiding eye contact.
Ethics class and the overheating of Circle Community in general are making everything worse.
“Hey,” Jemma says before Ms. Gilbert has gotten to class. I can’t imagine she’s talking to me. No one is talking to me. I have LBC and that’s it and whatever, that’s all I need, anyway. I make my mouth a steely line so they all know I do not care what they think about me.
“Tabitha,” Jemma says, already full of exasperation.
I barely recognize her voice. Or the classroom. The whole world is unfamiliar. Conquerable. Mine.
I’m wearing red shoes today. Shoes like Star’s. With a little heel and a strap over the ankle and a vintage, awkward patent-leather sheen. I am now a girl who wears red shoes and doesn’t care.
“Oh,” I say, turning to Jemma. “Hey. What’s up?” I look her dead in the eyes. She must not be expecting that, because she blinks, like, a thousand times.
“What are you doing with my brother?”
“Huh?”
“My brother,” Jemma says. Did she always talk to me like I didn’t speak the language, or is this a new mode of communication she’s adopted?
“You know,” I say, and take a deep breath, “we’re not friends now. So you don’t really get an opinion anymore. On my life. You know? I mean, hate me from afar or whatever. But don’t talk to me about it.”
Other people are listening now. Not a few. All. All the other people are listening. I cross my legs, my stretchy black pants rubbing against themselves, and my red shoes glinting under fluorescent lights.
I hate them all. I straighten my back and smile, knowing that they all live their stupid Vermont lives, and I’m doing something Important and Real.
“That’s awesome, except you are throwing yourself at my brother. You should have heard what he said to his friends on the phone yesterday. I mean, it’s disgusting.”
Luke snorts out some obnoxious jock laughter. I cannot for the life of me picture Devon talking trash about me on the phone after the hour of time we spent together Saturday. I raise my eyebrows at Jemma, who obviously wanted me to blush and look away.
I have a shimmer of pride, or a whole flame of it, at being better than that now. At how much I’m growing.
“Huh. What’d he say, exactly?” I say. I flip some hair behind my shoulders. If she’s going to hate me, she might as well really hate me.
“That, like, that you, whatever.” Now it’s Jemma who is blushing and looking away. Alison elbows her, like she’s supposed to be doing a better job at making me feel awful about myself. “Don’t make me say this stuff,” Jemma continues after clearing her throat. “Please stay away. Please? You don’t need to go after him, you know? You can get someone else.” She looks around the room at Luke and his cohorts, who are all laughing and chewing gum and drawing pictures of boobs on their notebooks.
I rub my eyes. The truth is, I’m still so exhausted and I have a knot of anxiety in my stomach that will not untangle.
“Stop talking to her,” Alison mumbles. It’s not like the rest of us can’t hear, though, so it’s especially lame.
“Yeah. Stop talking to me,” I say. The smallest, weirdest part of me wants to know what Devon did say about me and who he said it to. Because even though I don’t buy what Jemma’s saying, something has set her off. “I’ve never done anything remotely terrible to you. And you know it, too. That’s why you’re blushing right now. Because you know that I may look like some slut, but you’re a huge bitch.”
It’s like the words came out of someone else’s lips. My heart races, and I cover my own mouth for a moment. The room is absolutely still. Luke isn’t laughing anymore. The other girls aren’t whispering. Absolutely no one is doing last-minute homework catch-up.
I kind of can’t breathe. I’m caught between feeling amazing and terrible about what I said. I can’t decide if it’s a jolt of bliss or regret. It’s like those two things are located too close to each other to tell.