I take out a granola bar and cradle Flannery’s complete stories in my lap. With the first taste of oats ’n’ honey, I fall into “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.” It’s shady here due to an old oak tree standing sentry beside the steps, and I’m doing okay so far.
But the light shifts, maybe a cloud moves, and that or something else makes me look up, toward the front of the building. Jeremy’s getting out of his car in the parking lot, his arm outstretched, opening the door. I lean back and lift Flannery up to my face, thinking Tats would call this cosmic, me reading the line Are you married or are you single? just as Jeremy appears on the horizon.
His arms appear in my mind. The arms I saw when I searched for him in last year’s yearbook. He was standing with some of the guys from the baseball team, strong, tan arms crossed so hard across his chest that the veins etched an imprint in me. I never knew until that moment that you could look at someone’s arms and want them around you so badly.
I wonder if Flannery ever felt that way. There was only one guy linked to her and only one recorded kiss. According to her notes, she didn’t think much of that kiss. According to his notes, neither did he.
I lower the book, thinking Jeremy would be gone into school by now.
He’s walking toward me. He’s in the middle of the lawn between me and his car.
I look around for help and then gather the remains of my breakfast and stand up, flushed, realizing just how hot it is. Oh God, I can’t talk to him now; I don’t know what I’d say; I don’t have Tats with me. All this time I’m holding Flannery open on the page that says, right at the very top, Are you married or are you single?, fluttering it around as I move in ambivalent ways to collect myself.
Was there ever a bigger geek than me? Ya Allah, save me from my geeky self, I’m praying when the side doors open. Soon-Lee spills out, holding her boyfriend’s hand. “Hi, Janna.”
“Soon-Lee! Can we talk? Something serious.” I’m walking away from the steps, backward, increasing the space between Jeremy and me, with Soon-Lee the monkey in the middle.
“Sure,” she says, letting go of her boyfriend. He shrugs and puts his hands in the pockets of his Bermudas.
Jeremy is almost at the steps when I back myself into the corner where the arts wing juts out.
“The exam, did you look at it?” I gaze over Soon-Lee’s petite shoulders. He’s standing on the steps, like he’s waiting for me.
“My conscience only let me look at the parts we didn’t learn about. Here, look.” She bends over her open messenger bag. I look. Still there, thumbing his phone.
“See, I even blocked the questions we should’ve known all about with a Sharpie.” She holds up a stapled set of papers that look like a formerly classified, now somewhat declassified CIA document. “Ethical or what?”
“Good idea. Can I get a copy of that?” He’s talking on his phone now.
“Course. Want my notes, too? On the topics Mason didn’t teach us?”
“Awesome.”
Soon-Lee turns to look at her boyfriend. He’s wandered off to stand by the fence across from the steps, watching us with his elbows resting on the metal railing.
I glance again at Jeremy and catch his eyes. He smiles in the middle of his phone conversation.
“Who’s that? And why are you hiding from him?” Soon-Lee adjusts her dark frames to peer at me.
“I’m not.” I reach out for the papers she’s holding.
“Oh come on. Who’s he waiting for over there then?”
“I really don’t know.” I flip through the exam as Soon-Lee leans against the wall beside me.
“He’s hung up. And now he keeps glancing over. Don’t worry—I’m looking at Thomas and just using my powerful peripheral vision to relay this information to you.”
“Does he look happy? Confused? Annoyed?”
“He looks hot. As in temperature hot.”
“I wish he’d just go in.”
“Oh my God, is he stalking you?”
“No! He’s not stalking me! No way.” I’m sure I said that a bit too loud. I’m afraid to look his way to check.
“Aw, he likes you then?” She turns to me, her left shoulder pressing into the bricks. “And you so like him back. It’s written all over your face.”
“Soon, are you coming back to me soon?” Thomas calls.
Jeremy’s no longer on the steps. He gave up on me. Yes!
What is wrong with me?
“Sorry, math troubles,” Soon-Lee says as we join Thomas again. “Thomas, do you know the guy that was standing here just a minute ago?”
I hit Soon-Lee with Flannery.
“Yeah, Lauren’s cousin?”
“Lauren? Lauren Bristol?” Soon-Lee’s incredulous.
“As in the bitch herself.” Thomas drapes his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
After agreeing to a study session on Monday, I make my exit with a wave, walking to the more accommodating, less happening, front doors.
Lauren’s cousin?
? ? ?
History is awkward because I can’t stop myself from glancing at Lauren periodically to find the Jeremy resemblance I’ve been missing all along. She’s nothing like him, from hair to facial features to stature to style. She looks old money, with the tiny, perfect diamonds in her ears to prove it. I don’t get why she’s not in a private high school.
Mr. Pape seats himself on top of an empty student desk.
“Last day for questions before exam week.”
“Okay, do you have to be antiwar to pass the exam?” Oliver says, amid laughter. He occasionally takes Mr. Pape on when he’s bored. Usually on points related to his love of the right to possess guns.
“No, but if you’re pro-war, articulate your position clearly in the essay portion, using proper citations, and you get an A.”
“See, I don’t like that: Why’d you call it pro-war? It’s called antiterrorism.”
“Sure, sure, whatever you call it, just do a good job with your reasoning.”
“Are you antiterrorism, sir?”
“Of course. I’m antiviolence.”
“So, why do you cut up antiterrorism tactics?”
“I don’t believe more violence solves the problem of violence. Anyway, my opinions don’t constitute the exam.”
“They do, if you designed the exam.” The class goes silent for a second before a few guys begin hooting.
“Oliver, if you see that the exam is, in any way, unfair to your beliefs, you can take it up with the office. But not before you have evidence of it.” Mr. Pape’s knuckles on the desk are white, the only telltale sign he’s getting stressed.
“I have evidence plenty in all the stuff you’ve given us.” The guy behind Oliver makes a sizzling sound.
Mr. Pape stares at Oliver.
I slump down on my desk. I hate, just hate, this.
Sandra’s hand rises in the air. We look at her.
“Mr. Pape, how detailed do we have to get for the short-answer questions?”
“Thanks for asking, Sandra.” He jumps off the desk and strides to the board and begins to talk about the perfect short-response algorithm.
I give Sandra five. Her first oral contribution the entire year, and it cut the tension like a birthday cake knife.
? ? ?
“He waved at me again. From five o’clock,” Tats says as we make our way to our table at lunch. “Did you see it?”
I look at Matt and his friends. They appear to be laughing, huddled over a phone. “No, I missed it.”