Maybe he was crying, I don’t know. I wanted to go to him, give him some words of comfort.
But of course, I just let the door close. I took out a piece of notebook paper and wrote down what I would’ve said to him if I could bring myself to speak: “You’ll never fall so hard that you’ll never get up”—corny, I know, but I was in high school. A platitude was the best I could do.
After I wrote that, I stuck the yellow flower behind my ear and waited. I was too scared to go in, and too hopeful to just go away. So I just waited for him to come out.
It didn’t take long. Guys like James, eighties heroes like James, never spent too much time feeling sorry for themselves.
About fifteen minutes after I finished writing my note, the door to the locker room swung open with a creak, and James emerged, freshly showered and dressed in a striped polo and jeans. He smelled great. He wasn’t wearing any cologne, it was just the pink gym shower soap. But he still smelled good. The static filled my head immediately.
He stopped in front of me, and I could read the “Hi” on his lips.
I held out the note.
“Is this for me?” I think he asked.
I nodded.
His fingers grazed mine as he took the piece of paper from me. And as soon as he touched me, the static stopped. It was like a radio got thrown in my bathwater and my nerves short-circuited, leaving nothing but quiet.
“I like your flower,” he said.
I smiled my thanks.
His eyes skimmed over the words once. Then twice. Then he smiled. At me.
I was fixed to faint. But I kept on my feet, because you can’t get a Molly Ringwald Ending if you’re stone-cold passed out on the ground. That ain’t romantic.
“Thank you,” he said. “This makes me feel a whole lot better. And you know what? I’m going to keep this note, and I’m going to look at it the next time something like this happens.”
It was the perfect thing to say, but I was not surprised. James seemed like the kind of person who always knew the perfect thing to say. In every way, he was the opposite of me.
“What’s your name?” he said next. Another perfect question.
I had thought that as soon as he talked to me the words I had held back all these years would come spilling out. But when I opened my mouth, my throat felt as dry and empty as always and nothing came out.
Then I heard the clicking of heels, coming down the hallway. I knew it was Veronica even before I saw her. A teacher at our school would never wear heels that were high enough to click. And who else but Veronica would wear them to a football game?
I didn’t turn around. Just stood there. Still as a wood dove. Hoping that I would blend into the linoleum floors and beige metal lockers.
“Ronnie,” said James, waving her over. “Come meet . . .” He waited for me to give him my name.
Veronica came to stand next to James, her head cocked to the side, her eyes unreadable. “Davidia,” she finished for him. “We already know each other. We have four classes together.”
Then she actually smiled at me. I very nearly dropped dead of shock. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“She somehow managed to cheer me up,” James said. He winked at me. “Thanks.”
He pocketed the note.
And Veronica seemed to regard me with new eyes. “Do you have any paper?” she asked me.
I handed her my notebook, still not quite believing what all was happening. That James was speaking to me, and Veronica was suddenly being nice.
She wrote in large but elegant and slanted cursive. “Veronica Farrell” and then a phone number.
“Here’s my number,” she said. “I appreciate you cheering up my big brother. Call me if you want.”
She handed the notebook back to me and said to James, “We should get going.”
James gave me another smile and walked away with Veronica, who looked over her shoulder and waved before they turned the corner. She actually waved. At me.