Fern waited outside the wrestling room. She had placed the notes Ambrose had written Rita in a big, Manila envelope. Bailey had offered to return all the notes at practice. Bailey knew all along about the game Fern and Rita had played. He said he would be discreet and just give them to Ambrose after practice was over. Bailey was an honorary member of the team, the statistician, and the coach's sidekick, and he attended wrestling practice every day. But Bailey had a hard time with discreet, and Fern didn't want to make matters worse and embarrass Ambrose in front of his teammates. So she waited, cowering in a nearby hallway, watching the wrestling room door, waiting for practice to dismiss.
One by one, the boys trickled out in different states of dress or undress, wrestling shoes slung over their shoulders, shirts off even though it was ten below outside. They didn't really notice Fern. And for once she was glad to suffer from invisibility. Then Ambrose walked out, obviously freshly showered because his long hair was wet, though he'd combed it back from his face. Thankfully, he walked alongside Paul Kimball and Grant Nielson. Paulie was sweet and had always been nice to Fern, and Grant was in several of her classes and was a little nerdier than his friends. He wouldn't make a big deal about her wanting to talk to Ambrose.
Ambrose froze when he saw her standing there, and the smile that had been playing around his lips dissolved into a stiff line. His friends halted when he did, looking around in confusion, obviously not believing, even for a second, that it was Fern he had stopped for.
“Ambrose? Can I talk to you for a minute?” Fern asked, her voice faint, even to her own ears. She hoped she wouldn't have to repeat herself.
All it took was a brief jut of his chin and Ambrose's friends got the message, walking on without him, eyeing Fern curiously.
“I'll get a ride with Grant then, Brosey,” Paulie called. “See you tomorrow.”
Ambrose waved his friends off, but his eyes skimmed just above Fern's head as if he was eager to be away from her. Fern found herself wishing this confrontation had come even a week later. She was getting her braces off on Monday. She'd worn them for three long years. If she'd known this was going to happen, she might have tried to tame her hair. And she would have put her contacts in. As it was, she stood with her curly hair springing out in every direction, her glasses perched on her nose, wearing a sweater she'd worn for years, not because it was flattering but because it was cozy. It was thick wool in a pale shade of blue that did nothing for Fern's complexion or her slight frame. All this flashed through her mind as she took a deep breath and held the big envelope out in front of her.
“Here. All the notes you sent Rita. Here they are.”
Ambrose reached out and took them, anger flashing across his face. And his eyes found hers then, pinning her back against the wall.
“So you had a good laugh, huh?”
“No.” Fern winced at the child-like sound of her voice. It matched her childish figure and her bowed head.
“Why did you do it?”
“I made a suggestion. That was all. I thought I was helping Rita. She liked you. Then it got out of hand, I guess. I'm . . . sorry.” And she was. Desperately sorry. Sorry that it was over. Sorry that she would never see his handwriting on paper again, read his thoughts, know him better with each line.
“Yeah. Whatever,” he said. She and Rita had hurt and embarrassed him. And Fern's heart ached. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him. Ambrose walked toward the exit without another word.
“Did you like them?” she blurted.
Ambrose turned back, his face incredulous.
“I mean, until you found out I wrote them. Did you like them? The notes?” He despised her already. She might as well go for broke. And she needed to know.
Ambrose shook his head, dumbfounded, as if he couldn't believe she had the gall to ask. He ran one hand through his wet hair and shifted his weight in discomfort.
“I loved your notes,” Fern rushed on, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst. “I know they weren't meant for me. But I loved them. You're funny. And smart. And you made me laugh. You even made me cry once. I wish they had been for me. So I was just wondering if you liked the things I wrote.”
There was a softening around his eyes, the tight, embarrassed look he'd worn since he'd seen her standing in the hallway easing slightly.
“Why does it matter?” he asked softly.
Fern struggled to find the words. It did matter. Whether or not he knew it was her, if he liked her letters it meant he liked her. On some level. Didn't it?
“Because . . . I wrote them. And I meant them.” And there it was. Her words filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the empty lockers and linoleum floors like a hundred bouncy balls, impossible to ignore or avoid. Fern felt naked and faint, completely exposed in front of the boy she had fallen in love with.
His expression was as stunned as her own must be.
“Ambrose! Brosey! Man, you still here?” Beans sidled around the corner as if he'd just happened upon them. But Fern knew instantly that he'd heard every word. She could see it in his smirk. He must think he was saving his friend from being assaulted, or worse, asked to a girl's choice dance by an ugly girl.
“Hey, Fern.” Beans acted surprised to see her there. She was surprised he knew her name. “I need a jump, Brose. My truck won't start.”