Paige follows her. The door clicks shut, and I’m left gaping at the empty space. I have the feeling that I should be mad—it’s only been a week since my mom was murdered. But I’m not mad.
I amble downstairs toward the scent of coffee and fresh bagels. In the kitchen, Paige and Aunt Penny have their backs to me as they bicker about which station to watch on the little TV. They speak to each other in the way that only longtime friends do, and I have to wonder how long they’ve been doing this—conspiring to get me well. Something sparks inside me. I hadn’t thought it was possible, but a tiny hole has chipped away at the ice block, and a sliver of light streams inside.
23
Bereavement leave is over, and I have to return to school. (Okay, so technically the leave was over a few days ago, but I guess I just needed more time to grieve the death of a parent. I must be weird.)
Following my little experience returning to school after Jarrod’s party, I’m used to staring. Staring I’m prepared for. Staring I might be okay with. It’s the pity I can’t stand. Every person I see in the halls of Fairfield High drops what they’re doing when I near so they can show me their best abused-puppy impressions. People I don’t even know squeeze my shoulder, pat my back, mumble apologies as I pass through crowds.
And I get it—they’re trying to be nice, trying to make me feel welcome—but it makes it so much worse.
I’m unloading my second-period books into my locker when the clack clack of heels announces Bianca’s arrival. She’s wearing a blush-pink, flutter-sleeve top I’ve never seen before, and her peroxide-blond hair is cut shorter than I’m used to. It tears at a part of me I didn’t know still existed. Because none of this would have surprised me if we’d still been friends. I’d have shopped for that top with her; I’d have helped her agonize over the best haircut. I wonder when this is all going to stop hurting so badly, because right now it feels like I’m grieving two deaths.
“How are you?” Bianca asks, placing a hand on my arm.
“Great,” I say. “Except for the whole part where my mom died and you slept with my boyfriend.”
Bianca’s jaw hits the floor.
So maybe now’s not the best time to confront her. But maybe I don’t care. Did Bianca ask me if it was a good time when she stripped naked and hopped in bed with my boyfriend? (Hint: no, she didn’t.) The horribleness of Mom dying is not going to overshadow what she did to me.
“You know, I think I finally figured it out,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I just couldn’t get why my own best friend would treat me so bad. For a while I thought it was because of Devon, but it didn’t make sense why you were so mad. You didn’t even like him. I mean, it wasn’t like I stole him from you. But then it hit me: you wanted us to be popular together. It was okay if I was popular, just not more popular than you.”
“That’s not true!” she says, too quickly. “I was just drunk, that’s all. It was a stupid mistake, nothing more—”
“No, let me finish, I’m on to something here. Devon wanted me, and you just couldn’t stand that. You couldn’t stand that I had the hottest guy in school. So you cut me down to make sure everyone knew you were better than me.”
“That’s so not true.” Bianca crosses her arms and juts her chin up, but I can tell by her flaring nostrils that I’ve hit on the truth. I don’t care if she admits it; I know I’m right about this.
“You know, a real friend would’ve been happy for me.” I can feel the prick of tears beginning, but I don’t want to cry anymore, so I change course. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m not going to make it to practice this week. Just not feeling very peppy.”
I skirt around her. I should feel triumphant, having finally told her what was on my mind. But I don’t.
I’m sitting in math class, pointedly ignoring Bianca and contemplating the impact of what I’ve done, when a crumpled-up note slides across my desk. I glance behind me and catch Devon retracting his arm, pretending to be focused on the blackboard.
I take the note into my lap and flatten out the edges. Glad your back. “Your” instead of “you’re,” scrawled in the messy script of a boy. I stare at it for long seconds, unsure how to respond.
I reread the note and decide there’s no secret motive or hidden meaning. He’s just being friendly, though a part of me wonders if he still has feelings for me. It’s stupid and hypocritical that I’d care—there isn’t a world where I’d take back a cheater—but I can’t deny it’s nice to feel wanted.
Thx, I add, resisting the middle-grade urge to write, Do you still like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.
Mr. Lloyd has the biggest stick up his ass about people not paying attention to his lectures, so I wait until he turns to write on the blackboard before slipping the note onto Devon’s desk. When Mr. Lloyd drops his chalk and bends to pick it up, another note bounces across my desk. I catch it just before it falls, cradling it in my lap against Bianca’s prying eyes.