Now I’m just another face in the halls to check off the Vague Acquaintances list. Lucas could find some rando off the street and be their new best friend within five minutes; he is the people person to end all people persons. He collects people like some people collect coins, indiscriminately and greedily. Now I’m lost deep in his catalog, undeserving of any distinction.
I exit the stairwell on the third floor, my teeth buried in my bottom lip. Some guy calls over my head. His friend, leaning on the lockers, unleashes a braying laugh right in my ear, and I let out a measured breath. Ignoring the boys in this school is impossible. They clumsily hit on my friends every hour of the day, and they’re so loud in class, making dumb jokes everyone laughs at anyway. Also, of course, the football team, which has never done close to as well as the girls’ tennis team, gets everybody’s attention just because. Part of me feels like, hello, of course I’m fixated on a boy. Everything is.
I stride into calculus class. Taking my seat in the front row, I wonder: is it like this for all girls, or am I just pathetic?
I don’t understand. I still need to know why it ended and what it is I can’t compare to.
“ALL RIGHT,” MR. ANDREWS SAYS ONCE THE BELL rings. He sweeps down the aisles, dealing out bright green papers. “Questionnaires. Don’t put your names on them.” He stops back at the front of the room and folds his arms. His eyes glint behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
“We’ve been asked to give these to our fifth-period classes. I know they’re anonymous, but take them seriously,” he says. “They’re about the, you know, Monday’s assembly.” He clears his throat, his cheeks coloring.
I can’t help wondering if it’s Andrews. He’s only a couple of years out of college, and single, and way too intense. I bet lots of people think it’s him. Since the assembly, I keep looking at teachers with critical eyes, wondering. Could they be interested in someone our age? Is this one hiding anything? How about that one?
Yesterday, the letter Turner promised arrived at my house. My parents were horrified. They even brought up the possibility of withdrawing me from school until they catch whoever it is. As if that were an option. Without me, tennis would collapse. And student government. And Young Environmentalists.
Sighing, I look down the question sheet. Three questions and lots of blank space.
Have you ever been romantically approached or sexually propositioned by any teacher or staff member at Paloma High School? Explain.
Have you ever experienced sexual harassment or unprofessional behavior (hugs, unwanted shoulder touching, etc.) by any teacher or staff member at Paloma High School? Explain.
Do you have any information about the identity of any party who may be involved in an illicit relationship?
I scribble no under every question and flip the page over. I bet at least one person at this school will write down some stupid joke as an answer.
When the last bell rings at 3:30, the hall echoes with end-of-day noise. Kids in the halls jostle one another, giving exaggerated hugs and pointedly touching shoulders, laughing about “unprofessional behavior.” I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. It might be a joke to them, but there’s some teacher whose career might get ruined over this, and some kid who’s probably being manipulated. What if the kid needs years of therapy or something? Yeah, hilarious.
I follow the crowd receding down the sun-drenched hall. The light glares off the walls plastered with neon flyers and posters: advertisements for clubs, maybe fifty percent of them mine. I stop off at my locker to stow my chemistry textbook, and as the lock clicks back into place, a cheery voice says, “Claire, hey!”
Sweat springs to my palms. I don’t need to look to know it’s him.
I turn to find him standing selfishly close. Doesn’t he know I can’t breathe in this sort of proximity? His closeness fills my head with sickly sweet yearning.
He looks better than ever these days, his loose, curly hair bouncing over his high forehead, his left ear pierced. The sweater stretching across his square shoulders has some fancy-looking logo, and a white collared shirt peeks up above its neck, framing the inside tips of his prominent collarbones.
Looking up into his eyes, I catch a brief camera flash of memory—the look he used to give me before he kissed me. That look rang with warmth, so filled with contentment that every frantic thought in my head stilled. I could lose every shred of anxious energy in the knowledge that we were each other’s.
Does Lucas remember anything like that? Does he miss anything about me?
“Hi,” I say, with one thought on loop: Act normal. I’ve gotten better at it—I measure my progress against my mental state last summer. Sometimes I think it’s another girl’s memories I’m peeking into, some miserable stranger with wild eyes and a surfeit of tears.
I try a smile as the current shuffles us toward the door. “What’s up?”
“I got in a car accident earlier!” he says with so much enthusiasm, he might as well have said he adopted a kitten.
“What? Are you okay? What happened?”