But my feet haven’t even passed through the doors of Fairfield High when the staring starts. And by staring, I mean necks practically snapping as people trip over each other to get a look at me. My cheeks burn under my oversized sunglasses. I mean, I knew people were talking about me. After ripping apart Bianca’s collage of us, I deleted all my pictures of her and Devon from Instagram and Facebook. And while doing that, I couldn’t help but notice the one topic that everyone couldn’t stop talking about: me. I also couldn’t help noticing how many times Bianca and Devon mentioned how sick they were after the party, because they were sooo drunk. Yeah, sure. But all that’s beside the point—doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than analyze my life?
Tilting my chin up, I march into the school like a zillion eyes aren’t following me. And the fake confidence actually works. I find myself thinking, Who cares? This’ll all blow over.
But my attitude only lasts until I reach my locker. I’m unloading my next-period textbooks when I hear my name. I look over my shoulder, and when I do, I find the Amy/Ashley twins whispering from their post by the water fountain. They look away once they realize I’ve heard them, which just confirms that they are in fact talking about me. And that’s when I lose it. My blood turns cold even as my pulse races. Sure, we’re not exactly best friends, and yeah, I’ve snickered along when Bianca mocked their style choices, but where is the squad loyalty?
I’m considering putting my newfound offensive tackle to use when one of them—God knows which—breaks apart from the other and walks over to me. I stand, shoulders pushed back, prepared to deliver a scathing retort should she (a) deny she was just talking about me, or (b) bring up the party.
“Hey, Indie.” Amy/Ashley smiles brightly, then glances behind her as if to confirm with her twin she’s doing okay. Seriously, get an independent brain cell. “So I was just wondering … you know that guy you were with at the party? Is he, like, single?” Her cheeks flush pink, and she giggles.
Bishop? She’s asking me about Bishop right now?
It’s so totally not what I expected to hear that I’m shocked into silence. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and starts wringing her hands. “I mean, I saw you guys leave together, but I figured you were just friends, you know, because of Devon”—her entire face goes the color of a ripe tomato—“but if you’re together or something, I totally understand.”
“No,” I say quickly. “So not together.”
“Oh!” She exhales, looks behind her, and gives her sister the thumbs-up. “So, you wouldn’t, like, mind if I went for him?”
“Mind?” And I guess I must have said it a little more tersely than I’d intended, because Amy/Ashley’s eyes couldn’t be rounder.
Get a grip, Indie. Who cares? “Not at all.” I smile wide for proof of my lack of interest in Bishop. “Please, have at him. Little warning, though.”
She nods eagerly and leans forward so I can whisper in her ear. “He’s really into the Betty Boop stuff.”
Her eyebrows knit. “Like, what do you mean?”
“You know, dress-up, role-playing … he’s pretty kinky like that.”
“really?” She smiles and lets out this delighted little laugh.
So not the reaction I was going for. I huff and walk around her.
“But wait,” she calls after me, “I need his number!”
As I take my seat in homeroom and wait for class to start, I realize that I haven’t seen Bianca yet. Which is weird. Bianca has this way of making her presence known. Hope blooms in my heart that maybe, just maybe, a bus struck her on the way to school. The thought alone makes listening to Mrs. Davies at eight-thirty in the morning slightly bearable.
Biology is uneventful, but the next period is math. I couldn’t be more grateful when the spot next to mine—which might as well be reserved with a little Bianca place card—remains empty after the bell rings. But that’s when my luck runs out.
Devon jogs into class ten minutes into the lesson. He sends me one of his trademark lopsided smiles, and my heart gives a painful thump in my chest. I bury my scorching face in my notebook under the pressure of twenty-eight stares.
Apparently the universe hates me, because today is also the day we start trigonometry, and Mr. Lloyd is so lost in sine-cosine heaven that he doesn’t notice Devon stealing away from his spot at the back of the class approximately every three minutes. I won’t even look at my ex as he whispers (and by whispers, I mean talks in a slightly less booming baritone than usual) all these excuses and apologies: Not his fault. He was drunk. Seriously, why don’t I just look at him? I’m the one who’s been acting so weird lately. Don’t eight months together mean anything? He loves me.
You know, the typical cheating-douche-bag kind of stuff.
I stare straight ahead, even when the urge to punch him is almost unbearable.
The lunch bell rings.