I hear voices coming down the hall, loud and boisterous like a mob pillaging the countryside. People are dodging out of the way, and here come a couple of guys as big as the football field. They go, “What’s up, Mass? Heard you had a nice time at the party.” And they laugh hysterically. I may not recognize them, but these are apparently friends of mine. One of them rams his shoulder into some poor kid slinking past and then tells the kid to watch where he’s going.
I say to the football field, “Dude, show some respect.” And nod at Reed. Then I say to him, “Really, man. You’re a good friend.” This isn’t exactly true, but he and I have been on the baseball team together since freshman year.
“Well. I still want to kick your ass, but don’t let it happen again.”
“Never.”
He looks toward the library. A girl stands at the lockers opposite, talking on her phone. He shivers. “I wouldn’t want to be you right now.” And he bolts in the other direction, followed by the human football fields.
As I get closer to the girl, I can see the light eyes against the dark skin and the mole she paints on by her right eyebrow, even though everyone knows it’s not real.
Run away while you still can.
She looks up. “Seriously?” she says, and yep, it’s Caroline. She doesn’t wait, just turns to go into the library, where I can see the librarians behind the desk, waiting for me to walk in there so they can make a fool out of me.
I grab her arm and spin her around and even though I don’t want to, I pull her in and kiss the breath out of her. “That’s what I should have done on Saturday,” I say when I let her go. “That’s what I should have been doing all summer.”
Caroline’s Achilles’ heel is rom-coms and vampire romances. She wants to live in a world where the hot guy grabs the girl and just plants one on her because he’s so overcome with desire and love that he’s rendered brainless. So I touch her face, push her hair behind her ear, careful not to mess it up or she’ll be madder. For some reason, eye contact, as a rule, is tough for me, which means I focus on her mouth. “You’re beautiful.”
Be careful. Is this what you want? We’ve been down this rabbit hole before, buddy. Do we really want to go down it again?
But there’s a part of me that needs her. And hates that I need her.
I can feel her softening. If I know Caroline, this is the greatest present I could ever give her—letting her be the forgiver. She doesn’t smile—Caroline rarely smiles anymore—but her eyes dart to the floor, fixing themselves on some invisible something there. The corners of her mouth turn down. She is thinking it over. Finally, she says, “You’re the worst, Jack Masselin. I don’t know why I even talk to you.” Which is Caroline-speak for I love you too.
“What about Zach?”
“I broke up with him two weeks ago.”
And like that, we’re back together.
She takes my hand and we walk through the halls, and my heart’s beating a little fast and I’ve got this feeling of I’m safe. Without even knowing it, she’ll be my guide. She’ll tell me who’s who. We’re Caroline and Jack, Jack and Caroline. As long as I’m with her I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
According to Mr. Dominguez, if he wasn’t teaching driver’s ed, he’d be repossessing cars. Not the cars of people who can’t afford payments. No, he’d reclaim the cars of the people who are bad drivers, and then, like Robin Hood, he’d give those cars to an orphanage or to good drivers who can’t afford their own set of wheels. It’s hard to tell if he’s serious because he has absolutely no sense of humor and he glares at everything. He is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.
“A lot of schools are doing away with driver’s ed. They send you out somewhere to take classes …” The way he says somewhere makes it sound like a dark and terrible place. “But we teach you here because we care.”
And then he shows us a film on underriding, which is when cars rear-end semitrucks and go plowing under them. At first, this boy named Travis Kearns is laughing, but then he utters one last “Goddamn” and goes quiet. Ten minutes later, even Bailey Bishop isn’t smiling, and Monique Benton asks permission to go throw up in the bathroom.
After she leaves, Mr. Dominguez says, “Anyone else?” As if Monique walked out in protest and not clutching her stomach. “Statistics say you’re going to die in a car crash before you’re twenty-one. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
My skin prickles. I feel like he’s preparing us to go to battle, like Haymitch to our Katniss. Across the room, Bailey goes, “Oh my golly,” which is her equivalent of “Holy fuck.” Everyone looks ill except me.
This is because in that moment, as someone’s head goes rolling off down the highway, I know the part I want to play here in this class and at MVB High. I’m not going to be a statistic—I’ve beaten statistics for most of my life. I’m not going to be one of those drivers who gets smashed under a truck. I want to be the girl who can do anything. I want to be the girl who tries out for the MVB Damsels and makes the team.
I raise my hand. Mr. Dominguez nods at me and my skin goes electric.
“How soon do we drive?”
“When you’re ready.”
Top 8 Things I Hate About Cancer
by Jack Masselin
It runs in families, which means even if you’re my age, you can still feel like you’ve got a target on your back.
It runs in my family.
The way it can hit you like a meteor, completely out of the blue.
Chemo.
It’s really goddamn serious. (In other words, do not, whatever you do, smile or laugh about something in an effort to lighten the mood.)
Having to bribe/bargain with God, even though you’re not sure he exists.
When your dad gets diagnosed your sophomore year one week after you find out he’s been cheating on your mother.
Seeing your mom cry.
I stop in the office of Heather Alpern on my way to fourth period. She is eating apple slices, long legs crossed, long arms draped like cats on the armrests of her chair. Before she was coach of the Damsels, she was a Radio City Music Hall Rockette. She is so beautiful that I can’t look directly at her. I stare at the wall and say, “I’d like a Damsels application, please.”
I wait for her to tell me there’s a weight limit and that I am far, far beyond it. I wait for her to throw her beautiful head back and laugh hysterically before showing me the door. After all, the Damsels are high-profile. In addition to football and basketball games, they entertain at every big event in town—grand openings, parades, dedications, concerts.
But instead Heather Alpern rummages through a drawer and pulls out a form. “Our season technically started this summer. If we don’t lose anyone, the next tryout period isn’t until January.”
I say to my feet, “What if you do lose someone?”
“We’ll have auditions. We’ll make an announcement and post flyers.” She hands me the application. “You can fill this out and bring it back to me and I’ll keep it on file. Just make sure to get your parents’ permission.” And then she smiles this beautiful, encouraging smile, like Maria in The Sound of Music, and I float out of there like I’m full of helium.
I bob and bounce like a balloon through the halls feeling as if I’m carrying the world’s greatest secret. You may not know this about me, but I love to dance.
I am looking at the faces of everyone passing by and wondering what secrets they’re keeping, when someone slams into me, a square-headed boy with a big, ruddy face.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Is it true fat girls give better blow jobs?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never gotten a blow job from a fat girl.”
People are passing by on all sides, and some of them laugh at this. His eyes turn cold, and there it is—the hatred a total stranger can feel for you, even if they don’t know you, simply because they think they know you or hate what you are.
“I think you’re disgusting.”
I say, “If it’s any consolation, I think you are too.”