I’ve loved him since the moment I laid eyes on him.
The problem: the boy does not love me back. How do I know he’s not into me? Because if a guy is into you, he’ll fucking TELL you. Even if he doesn’t form the words with his lips—I’m into you!—he’ll find other ways. For example, if he knows you work at the local drugstore, he’ll find an excuse to pick up his prescription during one of your shifts and not send his mom to do it. If he runs into you and you casually mention you’re going to his best friend’s party, he’ll show up at the goddamn party because he knows you’ll be there.
That’s only a small sample of things he would do if he were into me.
But the fact that I love this boy isn’t my nasty secret. In fact, some people know how I feel. Val Diamond knows, because I’ve been in love with him for the better part of my life. In eighth grade, Val and I even came up with a grand plan to make him fall in love with me—I’d enter the spring talent show and sing Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You” while locking eyes with him in the front row. He didn’t even show up for the performance.
Obviously Jade knows how I feel about him, because Jade is my person and I don’t hide shit from her. But she doesn’t know how bad it is. That my feelings for him are like a chronic illness, flaring up at the worst times. And I’ve got it bad again—so bad it’s infected my brain and I think I may actually be going crazy.
So, you want to know the crazy part. The shit that’s too shameful for print. Well, here it goes.
Last night: in my brother’s room next door, where my dad is relegated to every night, he was snoring, the vibrations were coming through the wall and keeping me awake, and I started to itch all over. So I did something I haven’t done in ages, something I used to do when I couldn’t sleep. (No, not THAT, gutter mind.) I grabbed my keys and I snuck out, and I went for a drive. It had been months since I’d done it; I never even told Jade about all the other times, because she’d say I have issues. And I wouldn’t even be able to argue with her because she’s right; what I do is so completely fucked up and here’s why:
I went to his house. HIS HOME.
I parked across the street and turned my headlights off and just watched the house like I did all those other times before I swore to myself that I was sick, I had to stop. You know what the worst part of pining for someone is? Not knowing what they do, who they really are when no one else is around. People show such a small slice of their real selves to the rest of the world; home is the only place where you can act like your real self, where you really are. I want to know who he really is; I want to know what he sounds like when he gets pissed at his little sister. I want to know what he wears to bed and what his sheets smell like. I want to know how his hair looks when it sticks up in the morning or what his breath smells like and what kind of shit he watches on YouTube when no one else is around. I wanted to scream it, text it to someone. I want him so bad!
But poor me, he doesn’t want me. Maybe I’m still Hammy Hammond to him. Maybe he sees into my soul when he looks at me and sees my true self, the one I hide away to everyone but this stupid journal. Maybe he sees the craziness that compelled me to drive to his house in the middle of the night like some creepy stalker.
He will never love a Nothing girl like me. He likes girls like Meg Constanzo, his ex-girlfriend. Meg, who is the holy grail of cute AND hot, even when she’s sweaty from her lacrosse and tennis games. Meg, who posts a picture of a waffle and gets over a hundred likes. Everyone calls her fatty because she’s obsessed with food, even though she’s barely one hundred pounds. Because what’s funnier than a twig who can stuff her face? There’s not a guy in school who would not want to date her. Unlike Bridget Gibson, who is a dick to the lowest members of the high school caste system, Meg is nice to everyone. Everyone loves her.
I fucking hate her.
Before you start thinking I’m a traitor to the female gender or something, it’s important that you know I’ve tried not to hate Meg. Who can hate her when she’s so fucking nice? But I can, because I have been conditioned like a puppy to hate people who have things that I don’t. One of my most vivid childhood memories is running home from the Diamonds’ house and telling my mother they were getting a pool. Well, good old Cathy snapped, that’s a little showy. I have fought against my instincts, even tried to get Meg to notice me and be my friend. But why would she notice a Nothing girl, just like he doesn’t notice a Nothing girl?
How am I supposed to like the girl who has everything when she had the only thing I’ve ever wanted: him?
Have you ever wanted something so badly you thought it just might kill you?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’s snowing lightly Friday morning. There are rumblings the search will be canceled until one of the organizers posts on Facebook. THE SEARCH FOR BAILEY IS ON!!! DRESS WARMLY AND IN BRIGHT COLORS.
Ashley and Andrew are signed up for the search, while my dad is staying home with Lauren. The search is supposed to end at five; Ashley lets me borrow Andrew’s car for the day so I don’t have to wake my dad up for a ride later when we close at three.
I rarely drive. Ashley taught me last summer, so I could get my license, but I don’t have my own car. And the roads here make me nervous. They’re packed with snow, and deer are likely to jump out at any moment.
I leave earlier than necessary and take the whole drive at twenty miles per hour. Andrew’s car feels tiny in comparison to Ashley’s SUV, rattling over every bump in the road. The snow comes down in steady flakes.
I open the café with my key and get several pots of coffee going. Rob is five minutes late, as usual, but we’re hardly busy when I flip the sign on the door to OPEN. The people who do come in are wearing FIND BAILEY buttons.
“Where did you get those?” I ask Meredith, Tom Cornwell’s adult daughter. Her son is in Lauren’s grade.
Meredith looks embarrassed for me. “The Diamonds had them made for the search volunteers.”
“Oh.”
When I bring Meredith her usual cinnamon latte, she uses her free hand to unpin the button. Hands it to me. “You should have it.”
Once she leaves, I pin the button above my right boob. I imagine what Jade would say about it. How is a fucking button supposed to help find her?