“No, no, I’m being a dick,” Seth insists. “You don’t have to apologize. You should be with your friend.” He nods his head, like he’s trying to prove to me how he really feels. And maybe to himself, too.
“We can hang out tomorrow? And every day this week? And maybe this weekend?” Why is everything I say coming out like a desperate question? Having a Real Boyfriend is so much more complicated than having a Fantasy Boyfriend.
“It’s cool, Vivian,” Seth says. “I should probably make some more guy friends around here. Maybe start brushing up on my obscure baseball stats so I fit in more with the guys I eat lunch with.” He shoots me a warm smile. The kind of smile that makes me want to evaporate into a mushy, crushy girl puddle. Then he asks for directions, and it’s not long before we pull up in front of Lucy’s grandmother’s house.
“Thanks for the lift,” I say, turning toward him. “And I’m really sorry we couldn’t hang out.”
But Seth doesn’t say anything. Just leans in and kisses me, all soft and warm and perfect, and my head is dizzy as I make my way up the front walk to the door.
“Hey,” Lucy says, pulling open the door in one swift motion just as I make a move to knock. “I was watching for you. Thanks for coming.” Her face looks a little pale, and she’s not smiling.
As I walk in, I realize how little I really know about Lucy’s life outside of school, and how much you learn when you see where someone lives. Lucy’s grandmother’s house is crammed with large pieces of dark wood furniture and tons of knickknacks, like a collection of ceramic sewing thimbles on the coffee table and a shelf full of nothing but conch shells. The walls are decorated in gold-and-white-striped wallpaper, and there are framed photographs everywhere. The smiling eyes of people I can only guess are Lucy’s relatives watch my every move. I focus on a few that must be of Lucy as a little girl, complete with an infectious grin and smiling eyes.
“Are you here by yourself?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “My grandmother and little brother are in the den watching television. Wanna say hi?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as she leads me toward the back of the house, where a woman with salt-and-pepper hair is curled up with a little boy on the couch. They’re watching PBS Kids. Lucy’s brother never breaks his gaze from the television screen.
“Hey, Abuelita,” Lucy says, waving. “This is my friend from school? Vivian?”
“Hi, dear,” the woman says to me, nodding. “Are you here to help keep our girl out of trouble? She’s never been sent home early from school before.” She pitches an eyebrow up high, and Lucy just sighs and rolls her eyes.
“Abuelita, I told you it’s not like that,” she says, and she drags me by the wrist out of the den and up the stairs.
“God, I love her, but I really, really want us to get our own place,” Lucy says, leading me into a tiny room the size of a walk-in closet. She shuts the door behind me, and I let my backpack slide to my feet. Lucy kicks off her shoes and I follow.
“This is where I sleep,” she says, motioning her hand around. “At least I get my own space. My poor brother sleeps on the couch downstairs and keeps all his stuff in my parents’ bedroom.”
Lucy sits down on the unmade twin bed that’s tucked into the corner and motions for me to join her. It’s really the only place to sit since the floor is covered in books and papers and schoolwork. The rest of the room is covered, too, with every inch of wall space decorated in postcards and music posters and ripped-out pages from magazines. Along the side of the one tiny window next to Lucy’s bed is a series of bright-yellow Post-its. Each one has a single word on it, spelling out the vertical message YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU. When Lucy catches me glancing at it, she tells me it’s a quote from a poet named Audre Lorde.
“Cool,” I say. “I like it.”
“Yeah, she was a badass. She died a long time ago, though.”
“How long until your family gets its own place?” I ask.
“Well, my mom just got a job doing medical billing at the same retirement home my dad works at,” she says, “so it’s looking up. Maybe by the end of next month.”
“That’s good,” I say, nodding my head. I’m trying to act supportive and casual, but suddenly, I feel like I’m going to cry. I keep picturing mean Mr. Shelly marching Lucy down the hall. I keep imagining her all alone with him.
“So,” she starts, dragging her long hair up and tying it effortlessly into a knot on top of her head, “do you want to know the gory details?”
“Please tell me you’re not in huge trouble,” I say.
“Well, I’m not going to be named student of the week anytime soon, that’s for sure,” Lucy says, her voice softening. “Mr. Shelly hauled me into his office, wanted to know all about the Moxie club. He said everything I told him would be reported back to Principal Wilson and they’re all watching me.” At this, Lucy’s cheeks flush, and she stares down at the bedspread. “I told him I had nothing to do with the stickers. I mean, I left out the part about putting them on lockers, which of course I did. But I didn’t make them.”
“Did he believe you?” I ask, my heart fluttering.
“Maybe,” says Lucy, still not making eye contact with me. “It was hard to tell. But I wasn’t lying, Viv. I really didn’t make them. You believe me, don’t you?” She finally looks up. The half-queasy feeling I had earlier is a full-on wave of nausea now.
“I believe you,” I insist. God, I’m a shithead.
“Mr. Shelly said if I do anything Moxie related, I’m suspended and probably expelled,” Lucy continues.
“And then what happened?” I ask.
“Then he sent me home early,” Lucy says with a shrug. “He said it wouldn’t go down as a suspension on my record this time, but he still wants me to take it as a serious warning or whatever.” She scowls, but then, out of nowhere, her eyes glass over and a tear or two tumbles down her cheek.
“Fuck it,” Lucy says, wiping the tears away. “I’m sorry, I hate crying in front of people.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say, looking around the room for a tissue or a napkin or even a semi-clean piece of laundry for her to wipe her eyes with.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, shaking her head and sniffling. “I’m fine. I’m … fine.”
I can’t remember the first time I saw Claudia cry or the first time she saw me do it. It was always something we knew we could do in front of each other, but with Lucy, our friendship still feels fresh. Fragile even. I’m not sure if I should hold her in my arms like I did the morning Claudia came over to tell me about Mitchell. Lucy’s eagerness to shut down her crying makes me think she wouldn’t like that, so I just scoot a little closer to her and rub her shoulder a bit.