“I’m not trying to be a dick,” I say. “I’d just really like to understand you.”
She takes a deep breath. Stares at her still-kicking feet for a long second. “Okay, fine. It started when I came back from summer break between sixth and seventh grade with boobs. I’d always been happy being a wallflower, but suddenly some of the boys started talking to me. Flirting, even, not that I really knew how to interpret it. Some of the popular girls, one in particular, Jenna McCoy, did not like it. She spread rumors about how I was easy, as if a twelve-year-old could be easy. She and some of the other girls would corner me in the hallways and write ‘slut’ on my clothes or sometimes on my skin with permanent marker—I’m pretty sure Sheila got the idea for my jacket from someone who went to my middle school.”
“Shit.” That makes what Sheila did so much worse.
“Yeah. My mom tried to talk to the teachers and the principal about it, but they didn’t do much. And Jenna didn’t let up until everyone hated me, or feared her too much not to at least pretend to hate me. It was brutal.
“Then one day at lunch, I found myself staring at the goth kids and I thought they looked like they just didn’t give a shit, you know? So I went out and bought some makeup and a billowy black shirt that covered my boobs and tried it out the next day. Something else came with the makeup and the clothes, something I didn’t expect.” She smiles. “Balls.”
I laugh. “Balls, huh?”
“Yep.” Then her face goes serious again. “When Jenna finally realized I was me one day at lunch, it was more slut-shaming humiliation. But this time I didn’t let her get away with it. I threw my tray down, shoved her up against the wall, and got right in her face, swearing I would kill her if she didn’t leave me the fuck alone. I think she believed me too, because she did.”
Jordyn’s quiet. I wait.
“I thought about ditching the look when high school started,” she says, “because Jenna was going to a different school and I wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe I do use it as a way to keep people at arm’s length. It’s worked pretty well, until you.”
I smile and roll my eyes. “I’m really sorry we lost touch. I would have set them all straight. Even that Jenna McCoy.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers.
When I turn to smile at her, I notice she’s covered in goose bumps. “Shit. I’m such a dick. Here.” I pull off my jacket. I think she’ll say no because she’s such an I-can-take-care-of-myself kind of girl, but instead she pulls it tightly around her shoulders.
“Thanks.” We’re quiet again awhile after that. Then she says, “I read this study that said twenty percent of all suicides don’t leave a note.”
I nod. “I know the one. My shrink brings it up constantly.”
“That’s really messed up.”
“What, that I have a shrink?”
She swats at me. “The twenty percent thing, asshole.” She’s smiling again.
“Yes, yes it is. It would have been nice to have some kind of explanation, since it basically came out of nowhere.”
“She really didn’t give any indication at all?”
“Not a goddamn thing. She didn’t even seem depressed that day. She used to be depressed when I was younger. She thought she hid it from me, telling me she was sick, but I figured it out by about junior high. Though it was never so bad that I thought she’d resort to suicide. And with all the good things that were happening for me last year, she’d been happier than I’d ever seen. We had a lot of fun those months leading up. And she was business as usual right up until I left for practice that morning.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.” Now her feet have stopped kicking. I’m such an idiot. I should have realized she was cold. “Should we head back in? I’m sure Henry probably needs to switch lenses for the thousandth time tonight.”
She gets up and takes my jacket from her shoulders.
“You really look beautiful tonight, you know.” I take my jacket from her hands.
She stands there, not looking me in the eyes for more than a second at a time.
“What? It’s true. I’m being completely sincere. I, Tyler Blackwell, think you, Jordyn Smith, look quite beautiful without all that shit on your face. But if you feel like you still need it, I promise I won’t bring it up again. Shall we?” I hold out my elbow in a gentlemanly fashion, bracing myself for her to slap it away, but she surprises me and takes it.
I glance down at her to be met with a somewhat reluctant and embarrassed smile.
“I’ll take your opinion under advisement,” she mumbles.
As we walk back into the reception, I smile to myself. Maybe I’ve managed to get through to her. But I doubt it.
TWENTY-TWO