“I know I said I’d see you at school…”
I look up to find Blanche. I was too caught up in my own thoughts to hear Big Bertha’s rumble.
“But I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
I bury myself in her arms. “Thank you, Blanche.”
“So are you? Okay?”
I step back, rub my forehead. “Yeah.”
She dips her knees, leveling her eyes with mine. “You ain’t. But I read those confusing medical records, too. So here’s the deal: today is Bonn Day. We can do whatever you want. We can go talk to Dr. Peterson and demand he tell us everything. We can go see a show. Or we can get in Big Bertha and drive. Just drive, anywhere you want. The Gulf?”
“The Gulf? Blanche, the Gulf is five hours away.”
“Or,” she says, twisting her lips, “we can—”
“Go to school,” I finish for her. School is part of my plan, and I don’t want to mess that up.
Blanche slings her arm over my shoulder and leads me toward her car. “I was afraid you’d say that. But I guess that’s okay. I’m kind of jazzed for my first photography class.”
I tilt my head. “Really?”
“Um, should my feelings be hurt that you’re so surprised?”
“You’ve just never expressed an interest before.”
“Well,” she says pointedly, “I just did. Now let’s go have the best Bonn Day ever!”
*
Together, we trek up the three-tiered steps to Southwest Dallas High School. Self-consciously, I keep my head down and pull at the waistband of my new stockings, their tightness confining me. The sweater I bought with Billie feels too heavy for the early fall weather, yet I still wanted to wear it.
I’m supposed to be strutting. I’m supposed to welcome school starting again, be ridiculously excited, ’specially now, when I ain’t feeling so poor. The problem is, I’m feeling guilty—from that kiss with Henry—and afraid—’cause of my ma’s health records—and scrutinized—from the weight of my classmates’ eyes on me. I’ve no doubt those sideways glances I’m receiving have Hazel Griffin’s name written all over them.
And all that leaves me slumped over, studying my shoes, which are also new.
Blanche twists left and right beside me, her school bag knocking me in the arm, as if she’s trying to absorb as much of the attention as possible. “I reckon they’re jealous of our hair,” she says. “Guaranteed, everyone will bob their hair by the end of the week.”
I force a laugh—’cause really, bobbed hair has been popular for years in the big, big cities—and yank open the heavy door.
“Doesn’t this feel surreal?” I ask, surveying the hallway lined with lockers, groups of students in their knee-high skirts and dresses lingering here and there. The walls are already littered with posters for an upcoming bonfire or to sign up for the yearbook staff, the debate team, the glee club, the prom committee. What? No mixology group?
“What’s surreal?” Blanche asks, and dodges one of our classmates.
“Going to school after the summer we’ve had at you know where.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I’m just here for my pa. That man is always raggin’ on me ’bout something. I reckon I won’t last long, though.”
I stop, giving Blanche no choice but to do the same. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinkin’ of dropping out of school?”
“I’m older than the legal dropout age. Why wouldn’t I?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, Blanche … to get a diploma and have a career?”
“Those are merely fancy words. Besides, that’s your dream, Bonn. Not mine.”
“So, what … You’re going to leave me here all alone?”
A girl bumps my shoulder, shouts a friend’s name.
“Hey!” Blanche yells disapprovingly at the girl, but her voice is swallowed by a slew of our excitable classmates reuniting after the long break from school. She turns back to me, her expression no longer annoyed but sultry. “Your Roy Toy is coming this way. I best skedaddle.”
“No,” I say, too quickly, and pull her in the opposite direction of him.
She raises an eyebrow. “Anything you want to tell me, Bonn?”
Only that I’ve double-crossed my boyfriend ’cause I’m a despicable human being.
“Nope.”
I’m too ashamed to admit, even to a best friend who’d shrug it off as nothin’, that I got swept up in being wanted—right into another man’s arms.
The bell rings, and I straighten, telling Blanche we can’t be late for class.
She shouts something at my back—probably how that don’t matter—but I’m already gone.
The rest of my day is spent in a state of fleeing, rushing through the halls between classes to avoid just ’bout everyone: Blanche, Roy, my curious classmates. Of course, Blanche tracks me down, telling funny stories or pointing out how Mrs. Anderson resembles a walrus, but I only chuckle to make her feel like she’s succeeding in helping me have a good Bonn Day.
Finally, one period of the day remains. World history. I slump down in a chair, exhausted, and drop my head onto my folded arms.
I welcome the steady drone of our teacher’s voice going through this semester’s syllabus. What I don’t welcome is the “Psst” and “Bonnelyn” I hear behind me, a few minutes before my not-so-good Bonn Day is finally over. Nor am I happy, when I lift my head and find Hazel’s face, smoothed over with faux innocence.
“How are things with your boyfriend?” she whispers. A few girls ’round her softly titter.
I try to keep my expression blank, and turn away from her, much preferring to watch the clock at the front of the room slowly tick, tick, tick.
Hazel’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, recapturing my attention. “I hope I haven’t said anything wrong.”
I could growl at her sarcasm. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, but Roy and I are fine,” I whisper pointedly.
“Roy?” she asks, her voice rising with the question. “I meant your other boyfriend.”
She pauses and I panic, my body temperature seemingly rising to dangerous levels. She can’t possibly know that Henry kissed me.
Hazel scrunches her brow. “Maybe it was the lighting in that restaurant, but that didn’t look like Roy Thornton’s hand you were holding.”
Buck. She’s referring to that night with Buck.
Hazel rocks her head left and right, no doubt enjoying the amused responses on either side. Our teacher makes a shushing noise, barely lifting her head from the syllabus.
“I knew you were into theatrics, Bonnelyn Parker, but that looked like real life to me.”
I lean closer, hoping the redness of my cheeks don’t betray the sternness of my voice. “What exactly is it that you’re trying to accomplish here, Hazel?”
“Oh no, I’ve upset you.”
“No,” I say.
“Aw, sweetie. There are tears in your eyes. I’m only looking out for you. I’ve seen Blanche Caldwell ’round town with that same boy, doing more than holding hands.” Her friends all nod their heads in confirmation, some covering their mouths as they tee-hee. “I wouldn’t want to double-cross Blanche Caldwell. Besides, I thought she was your best friend.”
“She is.”