The two of us weave in and out—at one point she’s only a line away—but we still don’t talk.
It takes a while, but finally I make it. I stand in the center, looking out over the vast field and foggy sky. When Emerald joins me in the middle, she glances around, a brief flicker of triumph in her eyes before they fill with hurt. Whatever Brett did, he’s an idiot.
She turns, already leaving.
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t go yet.” She pauses. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I mean I’ve seen you, but we haven’t talked. It feels like a divorce or something. Like we’re all gonna be sent to different families.”
“And which side will you be on?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“If it’s a divorce, I guess you’ll be on Camila’s side.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I know what happened between you two, Adam. I saw you.”
“You saw us kissing?”
“It looked like more than kissing.” It probably would’ve been if Camila hadn’t puked on the floor of my car about five seconds after shoving her hand down my pants. “Are you two going out now?”
“No.”
“But you liked kissing her?” Her tone’s way too intense, and even though she hasn’t moved, I feel like I’m being driven toward the edge of a cliff.
“Well, yeah, of course I liked it. Why are you—”
“She knows I like you!” Emerald never does anything undignified, but here she is, shouting so loud it echoes.
“Wait, what?”
“Camila knows, and she kissed you.”
“But you’re going out with Brett.”
“Oh God. You don’t get anything!” She spins around and I follow, landing in front of her so we’re still face-to-face.
“I don’t get what?”
“There is no Brett.”
“There is no Brett?”
“No.”
“But Brett has such a detailed backstory. I feel like I know Brett.”
“There is no Brett!” Her eyes shine with tears, her chest is heaving, and bright blotches of color stain her cheeks. This is the most emotional I’ve ever seen her.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“This is humiliating.”
“What is?”
“I was trying to make you jealous, but you’re incapable of normal guy feelings.”
“Wait…does Camila know there’s no Brett?”
“Everyone knows there’s no Brett! Can you please focus?”
“So you like me?”
She looks at the ground. “Yes.”
“Really like me?”
The blush spreads from her cheeks down her neck, so dark I can barely see her little moles. “Yes.”
“Since…”
“Forever. Since forever.” She makes eye contact, and she’s so beautiful, my chest hurts like asthma or a heart attack.
Her eyes widen, a perfect startled blue, when I press my lips into hers. Not very smoothly either. She presses back, just as clumsy. For a minute it’s like that—rough and messy like we’re doing this for survival instead of fun.
Then I’m touching her hair and slowing down, and it becomes something softer and deeper. She pulls her head back just a little, so our mouths are no longer touching. Her eyes darken, steady laser beams on mine, and it’s as if she’s about to tell me the most important thing I’ll ever hear. She takes a breath. Exhales. But doesn’t speak.
I cup her cheeks with my palms and kiss her again. I wish there were tall green hedges with lots of corners to hide in, but this time for entirely different reasons. We keep kissing and I can feel her lips smiling against mine.
MISS WEST IS sitting silently at her desk, staring at nothing. I can tell she’s upset, but I’m relieved, because it looks like I won’t get called on today.
A couple of boys start to whisper, daring each other to ask her a question about the assignment, but neither of them actually does it. A couple minutes later a different boy asks if he can go to the nurse, and she snaps at him so viciously that no one tries it again. Other than that everything is quiet, and Miss West just keeps staring.
When the bell finally rings and the room clears, I approach her desk, my heart pounding hard against my ribs. “Miss West?”
“What?” Up close she’s even scarier, with eyes that glow and skin shiny like wax. “What?” she repeats.
“Are…are you okay?”
Her dark ink-eyebrows rise up. Her chin quivers.
Then she starts to cry. I don’t know what to do, and I’m afraid anything I say might make her yell again.
“It’s my son’s birthday,” she says.
And immediately, I understand. “I’m sorry.”
“He was twelve. Only twelve.”
She looks younger and frailer now, but I’m still not sure what to say. My father never really talked about what happens when you die. I remember one vague comment that you go somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder if my mother and father haven’t stopped at all. Haven’t stopped reading or drawing or singing. They’re just doing it somewhere else.
I pull a tissue from the box on her desk and hand it to her.
She wipes her face, smearing the makeup below her eyes.