I stare at my notebook for a few minutes, tapping my pencil against the desk. Then I look across the room where Will is dutifully participating in a group discussion, gesticulating with a smile as the other members of his group lean on their elbows making googly eyes. I’m not the only character in this room. We all are. And maybe, for once, it wouldn’t be so bad to just accept the want that Lucy Keating has created for me.
I am just grabbing my calculus book out of my locker the next day, when suddenly the usual math equations turn into words:
Suddenly, Will was by Annabelle’s side. “I was thinking of going to the library,” he whispered in her ear.
“I was thinking of going to the library” I hear in my ear now, and notice Will has indeed snuck up next to me.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say with a small smile, also not looking at him, and trying to tune out the narrative in front of me.
“I was thinking it would be more enjoyable if you were also there,” he adds.
I smile bigger, still not making eye contact. “I was going to swing by the paper, but I could probably arrange that,” I tell him.
“Excellent . . .” Will leans in closer. “Do you think, if it’s not too much trouble, you could also arrange to hold my hand?”
“I think I could probably arrange that also,” I say back as we make our way up the stairs to the library.
And I do.
19
That Was Sarcasm
“DID I see Will Hale holding your hand this morning?” Lee asks at lunch that day. I look up, eyes wide, and the whole table inhales in one collective gasp.
“Oh my God,” Ava says. “She did. She told me at first period and I didn’t believe her.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, mixing my fruit yogurt about twenty stirs more than necessary. It’s beginning to look like pink-flecked whipped cream.
“It’s not nothing,” Nisha says.
“He is such a smoke show!” Lee shakes her head like she can’t believe his hotness.
“So you’re dating him?” Ava asks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m not dating him. We haven’t even kissed,” I say. “We’re just spending time together.”
“If I was spending time with him, I would take out an ad on television to make sure the world knew,” Nisha says, raising her eyebrows as she spears a piece of lettuce on her fork.
Before I can respond, I look up and watch as Elliot strides in our direction, his eyes locked on me the whole way.
“Oh, boy,” Ava mutters.
“Remember when Annabelle had no love life to speak of?” Nisha whispers, chewing on a piece of carrot.
“Ladies,” Elliot calls as he approaches the table.
“Elliot,” my friends mumble disdainfully.
“Annabelle,” he says.
“Elliot?” I say expectantly.
“You’ve been ignoring me,” Elliot says.
“I’ve been ignoring you?” I ask. “You didn’t even speak to me at The House yesterday.”
“That’s because you never responded to my text. And you didn’t speak to me, either.”
“A YouTube video of Van Morrison live in concert does not exactly count as reaching out,” I tell him. My friends shoot one another wide-eyed glances.
Elliot sighs. “Can we talk somewhere in private?” he asks.
“Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of them,” I say stubbornly.
“No, I know I can; I just don’t want to.” Elliot crosses his arms in front of his chest, his demeanor hardening. And then he says nothing. Neither do I. We stare at each other for a solid sixty seconds before I finally break.
“Oh my God, fine,” I say, standing up, my heartbeat picking up and this weird tingling sensation creeping up my neck. Elliot has on worn black jeans and a blue T-shirt with a chest pocket. He looks pretty hot. I start packing my stuff.
“You haven’t finished your lunch.” He points at the food in front of me.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, picking up my tray.
Elliot’s shoulders fall.
“Come on, Annabelle, can’t we just talk?”
I set my tray down and shrug. “Okay,” I say. “Talk.”
Elliot shuffles his feet for a second. “I would like you to come to my show on Friday night. I’m asking in advance. Not as an excuse. I genuinely want you to be there. I . . .” He casts a look back at my friends before leaning close to me. “I just really want you to be there. Okay?”
I exhale out of my nose as I look over his face, his brows knitted together, his bottom lip tucked under his front teeth. He’s trying.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“I can live with that,” he replies.
I nod, and then, because I don’t feel like standing here next to him any longer, I turn to go. A million thoughts swim in my head. The fact that I shouldn’t go, but I want to. The fact that I held Will’s hand this morning, but Elliot still has a power over me I can’t explain.
“I know you can hear me,” I say to Lucy out loud. “I know this is the point of a love triangle, but it still sucks.”
I open my locker and a note falls out on turquoise paper. Poor you, it says in scrawling cursive. And a few lines below: That was sarcasm. At the top, in beautiful calligraphy, it reads FROM THE DESK OF LUCY HARRISON KEATING.
20
Animal Man
I’M JUST wrapping up a newspaper meeting at the end of the school day when Will knocks gently on the doorframe.
“Are you busy?” he asks, before nodding to Hector in greeting.
I look at Hector, who is waiting to discuss next week’s layout. “Are you cool to wait a couple minutes?” I ask.
“No problem,” he says. “I’m gonna go grab a soda from the vending machine. Looks like this may be a late one tonight.”
When we’re alone, Will runs a hand through his hair. He seems nervous. “I have something to run by you, but I’m genuinely concerned you might think I’m crazy,” he says.
“Try me,” I say over my shoulder, as I make one last note on the dry-erase schedule. Because nothing surprises me these days.
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you’re definitely going to think I’m crazy when I tell you we can only discuss it in the bathroom,” he replies. Slowly, I cap the marker I was using, and set it down on a table. I have a feeling I know what’s coming.
A few moments later, I am sitting on the sink of the single-person handicapped bathroom, and Will stands in front of me, wielding a comic book. I realize Hector is probably going to think we are making out in here, but I don’t care.
“So, I’m not quite sure where to begin,” Will says. “That first day in class when we met Lucy Keating, I couldn’t figure out what you were so upset about. It seemed really out of character for you, a straight-A student and a writer, to struggle so much with Fiction. But then I got to know you, and I understood. Lucy had described your life. The reason I was late to class that day wasn’t because I was late. I was nervous. I was waiting outside the whole time, and I heard her. So then I started secretly reading her books. And I couldn’t help but think about how odd it was. How familiar. My family moving here on such short notice at such a dramatic time, senior year. The way I . . .” He looks down for a second. “The way I felt the moment I first saw you. Like I’d been struck by lightning.”