“Mclean Sweet?” I looked up to see the nurse, a clipboard in hand, standing in the doorway to the examining room. “Come on back. Let’s take a look at that bump.”
I stood up, picking up my bag. “Thanks for coming with me,” I told Riley. “I appreciate it.”
“I’ll stay until you’re done,” she said.
“You don’t have to.”
She settled back in her chair, pulling out her phone from her pocket. “I know.”
I followed the nurse into the room, taking a seat on the cot as she shut the door behind us. What a weird day, I thought as she rolled a stool over, gesturing for me to remove the peas. As she leaned in to inspect the damage, I looked through the glass of the door out into the room beyond. It was blurred and thick for privacy, so you couldn’t really see details. Even so, I could make out the shape of a figure sitting there, a presence nearby, waiting. For me.
At lunch, walking out to the courtyard with my burrito and bottled water, I got the distinct feeling people were staring at me. Or maybe gawking was a better word. I knew my nose was swollen, but the attention I was getting—and had been getting since my run-in with the locker—seemed excessive. Then again, maybe a girl who looks like she’s been in a bar fight is just big news on a slow Monday.
Riley and Heather were nowhere to be seen, so I walked over to Deb, who was sitting alone under her tree. She had an iPod on and her eyes were closed, listening.
“Hey,” I said. When she didn’t look up, I nudged her foot, and she jumped, then opened her eyes.
“Oh, Mclean!” she said, hurriedly taking out her earbuds. “It is true! I thought it was just a vicious, nasty rumor.”
“What?”
“You and Riley,” she said. When I just looked at her, she added, “Your fight? I heard she punched you, but I didn’t want to believe—”
“Riley didn’t punch me.” I looked around the courtyard again. Several people were looking right back, and didn’t even bother to break their gaze. “Who said that?”
“I heard itin the bathroom,” she whispered. “Everyone is talking about it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I sat down, putting my lunch on the ground beside me. “Why would she punch me?”
Deb picked up her Diet Coke, taking a sip from her straw. “Jealous rage,” she explained. “She saw you and Dave Wade at the game this weekend and just lost it.”
“She and Dave aren’t together,” I told her, unwrapping my burrito. Honestly, though, I’d kind of lost my appetite.
“I know that, and you know that. But apparently, the rest of the school does not.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You know how it is. Most people think a girl and a guy can’t just be friends, that there has to be something else going on. It’s basic.”
“I guess,” I said.
“So . . .” she said slowly, studying my face. “What really happened? ”
“I clocked myself with my locker door.”
“Ouch.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Really, though,” she said, taking another sip, “it doesn’t look that bad at all. If it wasn’t the girl-fight angle, nobody would even notice.”
Time to change the subject. I nodded at the iPod, on the ground between us. “What are you listening to?”
“Just this mix I made,” she said. “Music, you know, calms me down. I find it’s helpful to just sort of zone out to it when I’m having a long day.”
“I hear that,” I said. “I could use some calming myself. Can I listen?”
“Sure,” she said. “But—”
I was already reaching over, picking up her earbuds and sliding them into my ears, expecting to hear the soft, lulling tones of adult contemporary. Or maybe a peppy show tune. Instead, I got a blast of feedback, followed by a drumroll.
I recoiled, pulling out one earbud. The other one stayed in, filling my head with the sound of someone screaming incoherently over what sounded like a chain saw. “Deb,” I sputtered, turning the iPod over and peering down at the screen. “What is this?”
“Just this band I was in at my old school,” she said. “They’re called Naugahyde.”
I just looked at her. “You were in a band?”
She nodded. “For a little while.”
The person in my ear was still going, their voice ragged and loud. “You,” I said slowly, “were in this band?”
“Yeah. I mean, it was a small school. Not a lot of options.” She adjusted her headband. “I’d been taking drum lessons forever, but I really wanted some collaborative experience. So when I saw the ad for a drummer, I applied, and got to sit in for some session work.”
“Deb,” I said, holding up my hand. “Hold on. Are you messing with me?”
“What?”
“You just . . .” I trailed off. “You don’t exacayed in, flook like a speed-metal drummer.”
“Because I’m not,” she said.
“You’re not.”
“I mean, I don’t quantify myself that way. I’m trained in all genres.” She reached into her bag, taking out a pack of gum, and offered me a piece. When I declined, she stuck it back in, zipping it shut, then looked up at me. “Although I do like the faster stuff, if only because it’s more fun to play.”