I didn’t stop him again.
Tears burned the back of my throat and somehow I made it to English 102, which was in the same building as him. The morning was a numb blur and when I met with Jacob and Brit in the den for lunch, I barely followed their conversation as I picked at my sandwich. I think they were used to it though, because neither of them pointed it out.
As Brit and I walked to Whitehall for economics, I told her about my run in with Cam. “He didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“I don’t think that’s the case, Avery.”
“Oh, it is. He was in a hurry to get the hell away from me. Actually said he couldn’t be late for class, and come on, Cam never cares about that.”
Brit tugged her cap down over her ears as we stopped near the pavilion in front of the social sciences building. “Can I be real with you?”
“Yes.”
She clasped her glove covered hands together. “You know I love you, right? So I’m just going to put this out there. You avoided Cam since Thanksgiving, and to me, to him, and baby Jesus, it seems like that was what you wanted. For him to just go away.”
I opened my mouth, but what could I say. That was what I wanted.
“And so he has gone away. You can’t blame him for that. The guy is only going to put up with so much, you know?” She pursed her lips. “And after ignoring him for that long, he’s probably not going to be thrilled talking to you.”
“I know,” I admitted. “It’s just…”
“You’ve finally pulled your head out of your ass and you’re worried it’s too late?”
Was that it? I wasn’t sure, but I hoped not, because at least with my head in my ass, it was a little less depressing.
“Give it some time,” she said, dropping her arm around my shoulders. “If he doesn’t come around, then fuck him.”
“Fuck him,” I repeated, but I really didn’t feel it.
Brit squeezed me anyway. “That’s my girl.”
#
Friday night, I stared at my econ homework, convinced it was a totally different language designed to confuse the hell out of people. Concentrating was proving difficult for several reasons. Several times I found myself staring at the TV screen, not really seeing what was on the television, my head going in different directions, most of them leading back to Cam.
I was getting sick of myself.
My phone suddenly went off, ringing from deep inside my bag. Digging it out, I groaned when I saw the caller’s name. My cousin. I was a bit surprised that he was actually calling me after the dozens of emails I’d ignored.
But the fact that he was calling me is what made me bite the bullet and answer.
“Hello,” I said, my voice monotone.
There was a silent moment and then, “You answered the phone?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Yeah, that sounded ridiculous even to me. “What’s up, David?”
“Have you’ve read any of my emails?” The uppityness that was normally in his tone was absent. Shocking.
“Ah, I read one or two, but I’ve been busy, with college and all.” I stood and nudged my bag under the coffee table. “So…”
David’s sigh was quite audible. “You don’t know anything? Have your parents tried to contact you?”
I snorted. “Um, no. They forgot my birthday.”
“Sorry about that,” he replied, and I could practically see his cringe. “I thought that they might have tried to tell you about what’s been going on here. It sort of has to do with you.”
Walking into the kitchen, I frowned as I grabbed a soda out of the fridge. “How does anything back there have anything to do with me?”
There was a pause and the bomb of all bombs was dropped. “It’s about Blaine Fitzgerald. He’s been arrested.”
The can of soda skipped from my fingers and clanged off the floor. It rolled under the table. I stood there, staring at the fridge. “What?”
“He’s been arrested, Avery. That’s why I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. I thought… I don’t know, I thought you would like to know.”
My legs felt weak, so I turned and clutched the counter with one hand. The room tilted like I was sick again.
“Avery, are you there?”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “What happened?”
“It was at the start of summer, but it was kept quiet until about the middle of August, when he was arrested. There was a party being thrown. Some younger kids were there from what I heard,” he explained, and I closed my eyes. “It was a girl you went to school with. I think she was a year younger than you—Molly Simmons.”
I remembered seeing her name in one of his emails and assuming something totally different. “What… did he do?”