“So, I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” says Lipton. “See you in class.”
We nearly collide in the process of trying to walk away from each other. Lipton steps aside then and gestures for me to go first.
I head straight to Mrs. Greene’s office, because I’m feeling good and I don’t want to lose it. The door is open. The twinkly lights are on. Mrs. Greene looks up and motions for me to come in.
I sit. And I breathe. She lets me. I almost feel like talking. Almost.
After a while, she says, “You look happy today.”
I nod and pinch a smile between my lips.
For the first time in a long time, I can’t wait for tomorrow.
The rest of the week is marked by small moments of happiness that make me wonder if I’m imagining things, or slipping into a truly vicarious state. When Lipton’s hand brushes against mine while passing out worksheets in class, I dig my fingernails into my palm to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Five minutes later, I catch myself absently stroking the little spot where he touched me. Like a weirdo.
I keep finding notes on my desk when I get to class, too. Another photocopy of information on the Siege of Jerusalem. The tiniest piece of paper imaginable folded into an even tinier square, with “hi” written on it. A picture of his cat, autographed:
Missing you. —K
I tear off a slightly larger piece of paper and write a note back to him:
Your cat’s name starts with K?
He turns it over and writes something. Slips it to me.
Yes.
But he fails to provide the name. I write back:
Are you going to tell me what it is?
He studies my note a minute, tapping the end of his pencil on his chin. He finally writes back, then folds and folds and folds the note until it’s super tiny.
I unfold and unfold and unfold it to reach his message:
Kitty
I smile. It’s too perfect. He puts his head down and writes again, then flips the page up for me to see.
Yours?
I frown. How does he know I have a cat? For one panicked minute I am sure he’s seen my cat photo on Vicurious and knows that she is me. When I don’t respond right away, he tears off another piece of paper, scribbles what appears to be a really long message, and tosses it into my lap.
What’s your cat’s name? You are obviously a cat person. So I assumed you have a cat. Unless it died? Oh, God, please tell me your cat didn’t die. I’m such a jerk.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling, though it sneaks out the corners of my mouth. His note sounds kind of like one of my own word vomits. Is it possible that another human brain functions even a little bit like mine?
I write on the back of Lipton’s note:
You are not a jerk.
My cat’s name is Kat.
Lipton reads it and laughs out loud, one barking burst of joy. Everyone turns to stare, including Mr. Braxley. I stop breathing. Lipton pops the note in his mouth, as if we were trading world secrets.
Adam expresses his dismay with his signature head-desk move. Mr. Braxley simply points to the trash bin next to his desk. Lipton rolls his eyes, strides up there, pulls the note from his mouth, and drops it in the trash. Everyone’s snickering.
I am mortified.
But Lipton smiles at me as he returns to his desk, and it makes me forget everyone else. I smile back. It reminds me of the way Jenna could set everything right with just a nudge and a “hey.” I didn’t think anyone else would ever wield such powers again. And yet here is Lipton.
He waits for me after class. He walks me part of the way to my next one. Neither of us says anything for a while. Then he stops. And I stop. “I could text you,” he says softly. “If I had your number.”
I stare at his left elbow. That’s as close as I can get to eye contact as I consider his offer. Texts from Lipton would surely add countless happy moments to my life. But it would also put him in the realm of Vicurious, which is all I use my phone for anymore. And I don’t know why. I just don’t want him there.
I want him here. With me. Vicky.
“I don’t want you to text me,” I say.
Before I can explain further, his whole body slumps. “Okay. Fine. I—”
My eyes leap to his, which are all achy and confused.
“Because I like your notes better,” I quickly add. “On paper. They’re, I don’t know . . .”
“Real,” he says.
I nod. “Exactly.”
“Okay.”
We start walking again, the fabric of his jacket touching the knit of my sweater. That slight bit of contact gets me through the rest of the morning, somehow.
When lunch period arrives, I open the door to yearbook and glance at the list of people I suggested for the special section, which has been taped to the wall for two whole days now. I keep expecting to find that Marissa has crumpled it up and thrown it away. I won’t even be upset if she does. But it’s still there.
Marvo isn’t here today. Just us girls. I go to my corner desk and start clicking through photos.
“Have you seen this?” Marissa says to Beth Ann, who leans over to look at her computer screen.
“Yeah. She’s cool. Good taste in tattoo art.” She lifts her red Converse and waggles the yin-yang toe in front of Marissa. “Marvo loves her. He says she’s the only person who understands him, which, thanks a lot, but whatever. She cheers him up when he’s in one of his funks. I hope she posts something today so he can get his butt back to school.”
I stop clicking the second I realize they are talking about Vicurious, and now I’m trying not to gawk. Marvo has funks? I can hardly believe it. He’s always laughing, talking. It’s like he’s standing in a perpetual spotlight, always performing. But I don’t see him every day, come to think of it. I don’t see him lots of days.
“Adrian is totally obsessed with her,” Marissa says. “He wants to dye his hair purple and orange next time.”
I stop breathing.
“It’s cool, I guess,” says Marissa. “But anybody with a wig and Photoshop could do it. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
Beth Ann laughs. “Yeah, and I could’ve written a kick-ass book about a boy wizard, but I didn’t think of it first, did I?”
Marissa sighs. “I just can’t believe she has so many followers. For basically crashing everybody else’s party.”
“It’s more than that,” says Beth Ann. “Have you read the comments?”
“Yeah, I get it. She sees me.” Marissa rolls her eyes. “Now if I can just get Adrian to see me. He wouldn’t shut up the other night about how cool it would be if she Vicurious-ed one of his gigs.”
I’m trying very hard not to let the freak-out that’s happening inside me show on the outside. Adrian wants Vicurious to feature his band? He wants to dye his hair to match hers? I turn back to my computer and pretend to be working but am just zooming in and out on the same photo and trying not to hyperventilate.