The Creeping

I don’t know if I want to scream or cry at what he says. It wasn’t what I was expecting. Instead I smirk and vomit up a “Whatever.”


With that one little word he stiffens, and his head jerks back like I hit him. Three long steps to the front door, and he pauses at the threshold. Anger makes his whole body rigid. “You want to play nothing but games with guys who don’t give a shit about you, who don’t even know you. And that ‘stuff’ you’re talking about that I have—friends who don’t choose who I talk to, who are my friends regardless of who my other friends are—you’d be lucky to have stuff like that. You had a friend like that until a minute ago, despite how little of you there is left.” He leaves, closing the door so quietly I don’t hear the latch click. Somehow that’s worse than if he’d slammed it.

I’m speechless. I’ve never ever seen Sam angry before. I was trying to make things better. How did he end up even more pissed? I’d be lucky to have friends like his? Despite how little of me there is left? He doesn’t know anything about me anymore. He doesn’t have an inkling as to what kind of guys I like or how much they care about me. I haven’t even had an actual boyfriend in years. And it’s not like it’s not my choice. Loads of guys are interested—Taylor is interested. But being interested in dating is different from sticking your hand in the fire and expecting not to get burned. I don’t do the “feelings” that the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing involves. What’s the point? I’m seventeen, and it’s not like things will last. Someone always ends it. I don’t need to experience that for myself to know it’s true. I’ve seen too many girls hoovering up whole cans of Funfetti frosting to know that’s not for me.

And the bit about my friends? Okay, so it’s not total BS. At twelve, Zoey told me that I’d have to choose: her or Sam. It was the summer before seventh grade, and Zoey had plans for us. It was a hard choice to make, but in the end it was always going to be Zoey. Zoey is savagely tempered, but she’s my best friend. Mom used to laugh at Zoey’s antics. She said that if the devil existed, he was a teenage girl. Well, Zoey is my devil, and I love her. If Sam’s so effing smart, why can’t he see that?

I pound my fist in the soft stuffing of the love seat, pretending it’s Sam’s face. It doesn’t help nearly as much as it should. I’m doing him a favor. I’m sure there are tons of perky little band geek or show choir or auto shop—or whatever it is that Sam’s into—girls who’d be all over him. Girls who he actually has a shot with. Girls like this Anna whatever-her-last-name-is he left the bonfire with last night.

I huff and puff up the stairs to my bedroom. I feel cruel. I also feel burned, more hurt by his words than I should be. What gives? With everything going on, why would I let Sam Worth under my skin? Why am I even so effing aware of the way he treats me?

I flop down on my bed, roll over on my back, and text Zoey, jabbing my thumbs into the touch screen of my cell. I get no response. I try to relax, but when my mind wanders, it veers toward Sam. Do all his friends dress like that? I bet even the girls in his group walk around with shoelaces laced in their jeans. I picture the shuffling, twitchy group of guys from last night that I immediately identified as catastrophically clueless enough to be his. I snort. With friends like that, he’d be better off alone. I don’t even know who Harry with asthma is or where they eat lunch at school. Probably in the bio lab, or the library, or the band room. What is Sam even into? How do I not know if he’s in auto shop, or any sports, or any clubs?

To stop myself from obsessing, I roll off my bed and flatten myself on the floor. My navy violin case is under the bed, where I deserted it ages ago. And eons’ worth of dust bunnies and grime cover it now. I take the instrument out and spend the next thirty minutes plucking its strings until they’re tuned. There’s something so predictable about the way it works; how the pegs feel smooth under my finger pads as I twist them. I forgot how much I like the way it looks resting on my shoulder, its neck supported by my palm with fingers curled on the strings. Fingers. I stare at my bent index finger. Was it a child’s that ended up in Jane Doe’s little fist? I shove the thought from my head and dust the violin with a cloth, carefully uncovering the grain of the wood with each swipe.

“What’s with the cello?” I whirl around. Zoey stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She pops a handful of gummy bears into her mouth from a bag she’s cupping. “You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I let myself in,” she says, multicolored gummy carnage visible in her chomping teeth.