Noodly is how I feel right now, despite there being no blood in sight. And I am determined not to feel this way for the rest of the year.
Don’t be creepy don’t be creepy don’t be creepy, I repeat to myself as I make what feels like an epic journey across the well-manicured lawn. I have a million introductions swirling around in my head. Phrases that will make me seem witty and cool, a femme fatale of someone’s dreams, which technically, I am. His. Like, “Fancy meeting you in reality,” or, “Have any good REM cycles lately?” He will smile and pull me to him and we will kiss and he will explain everything and he will never let me go again.
“Hi,” is all I actually manage to say, staring down at Max and rocking on my heels a little. It feels like every nerve in my body is suddenly screaming, and I have the urge to run very fast and very far away.
Max takes his time before looking up, giving me the impression he’s seen me quietly stalking him across the quad this whole time. He finishes highlighting a sentence with exaggerated diligence, then sets his book to the side.
“Hi,” he says back, finally looking me square on and folding his hands in his lap. There is something behind his eyes I can’t read that I’ve never seen before. There is a formality to them. It’s almost . . . challenging.
Suddenly, the idea occurs to me that I may truly be unhinged, like the homeless lady who used to call our apartment every Saturday from a pay phone down the block and ask what the lunch specials were. If I was in a good mood, I’d humor her. “Baked ziti!” I’d proclaim. “Is it good today?” she’d ask, and I’d say, “Oh, absolutely, our chef is famous for it,” as my dad gave me a skeptical look over the top of one of his medical journals. But now that I’m standing in front of Max, he’s so familiar that it’s almost overpowering. This isn’t a face I Photoshopped from the web into my subconscious. This is the guy I know and love. My guy. He is mine and I am—
“Did you need something?” Max cocks his head to one side.
I swallow. “Do—do you remember me?” I finally ask. And as I search his face for recognition—something like what I thought I saw in the doorway to Levy’s classroom—it feels like my heart has fallen into my stomach and the sides of my stomach are folding around it like caramel on a candy apple.
Just then a wash of shining black hair leans over the back of Max’s bench, and a pair of tan, toned arms encircles his neck. The arms belong to a girl, and she’s kissing him.
“Hello,” the-girl-who-apparently-also-kisses-Max says. “Who are you?”
Who are YOU? I want to yell. I feel tears forming behind my eyes, and I am doing everything in my power to keep them there.
“She’s new,” Max cuts in. For a moment his face shows the smallest sign of sympathy, but it is immediately replaced with the same eerily calm look. “It’s Alice, right?” he says. The-girl-who-apparently-also-kisses-Max is still hovering over the bench, her elbows on Max’s shoulders, her pretty face next to his.
It’s Alice, right?
“Yeah,” I muster, and extend a hand. The girl takes it, smiling politely.
“New blood.” She nods. “I’m Celeste.”
Oh god. Celeste? Names like Celeste kick dirt on names like Alice on the playground. Names like Celeste steal names like Alice’s prom dates. Names like Celeste are apparently dating names like Alice’s imaginary dream boyfriends.
“That’s a pretty name,” is all I say.
“Thanks. How do you two know each other?” Celeste asks.
Neither Max nor I speak. I can’t bear to look at them together any longer, so I just stare at the ground, waiting for his response. And when it comes, I just shut my eyes altogether.
“We don’t,” Max says quietly.
Now I don’t just feel noodly. Now I’m a noodle that’s been chewed up by a mother bird, regurgitated, and fed back to her babies in the nest. My brain knows it’s completely idiotic, to feel rejected by someone you aren’t sure you actually know . . . but my heart does not seem to have gotten the message yet.
Thankfully we are interrupted by what sounds like a broken AC unit coming toward us, and I turn to find Oliver speeding down the path on a lime-green Segway. All across the quad people are laughing or rolling their eyes. Oliver just grins.
“Alice!” he cries when he gets closer. He makes a circle around me as he asks, “Care for a ride?”
“I thought you had your vehicle privileges revoked,” I say.
“Oh, that situation. Turns out under article seven, section two of the Bennett Academy rule book, students cannot be prohibited from using a personal transport vehicle if they can provide documentation of a disability requiring such vehicle, be it physical, mental, or cognitive.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Max snorts. Then without pausing he says, “How do you know Alice?”