I remember last May, the end of sophomore year. One day Juniper was joking that Lucas and I would be engaged soon. The next day, he dumped me. When it ended, the choke-chain of a million clichés constricted around my throat, and I didn’t—couldn’t—speak about it. Heartbreak reduces you to what a million other people have suffered a million times before.
I remember feeling too much, and then feeling nothing, and when my heart turned back on, it had a blinking red light to warn off anyone who might try to get close. I remember staring at Juniper, wondering how her hair fell just so. How long had she spent on it? I started wondering where Olivia got her allure. Was it something she bought? Something she sacrificed her integrity for? That had to be it, right? Little by little, my makeup turned from self-expression to war paint, and day by day, my jokes turned into fine-tipped barbs.
And now, staring into Juni’s eyes, it feels like I could summon up every tiny jealousy, every tiny hatred of the last six months. Comparing my grades to Juni’s, my height and weight to Olivia’s, my eyes and skin and face to theirs. As if it were a contest. As if we were placed on two sides of a scale, and I could never measure up.
All my preoccupations, all these months, and here Juni’s been, hiding the secret of a lifetime, not sparing so much as a moment to pit herself against me.
“Oh my God,” I choke, tears burning at the back of my throat.
“Nobody’s perfect, Claire. Everybody’s got shit they want, shit they can’t have, and shit they’ve got to deal with. You know that.” Juni hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder. “I’m no different. Do you understand how often I’ve wished I were you or Olivia since summer? How much simpler things would’ve been?”
I could sink into the ground. I have been so resolutely blind.
The tears spill over. “I—I’m so sorry,” I hiccup. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
She hushes me gently. “I miss you,” she says. “I miss us. I don’t want you to be anybody else, and I’m not expecting you to do everything right. I sure don’t do everything right.” A line draws down between her eyebrows. “But what you did to Lucas, that’s wrong. That’s not you, Claire—who is that?”
“I don’t know.” I sniff. Look up at the sky. It swims. “I would do anything to take it back. G-God, it was twenty seconds and he’s going to deal with that for the rest of high school. The rest of his life. It’ll be one of his coming-out stories, and it’ll be the most horrible one.” I wipe my face. Wipe the tears from beneath my eyes. “Shit, I don’t know what to do.”
Juniper tilts her head. “You always know more than you give yourself credit for,” she says. “I’m sure you know what to do.”
Everything I can, says Grace’s voice in the back of my head.
Looking at Juni, I take a too-deep breath. Tears dry on my cheeks, and pain needles the bottom of my lungs. “I’ll find you later, okay? Can I do that?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Juni says, her voice shot through with relief.
I smile. It’s weak but genuine. I feel like somebody who hasn’t stood in months, finding her feet under her again. Complete with the rush of blood from my head. “Okay. I will. I’ll see you.”
Then I head inside. Down the hall, toward the office, gaining speed. I gather my courage, clenching it in my fists, ready to tell them that I’m the one who lied.
I HURRY UP TO THE ARCHWAY THAT LEADS INTO THE lunchroom. I hate eating here, hate it more than bad traffic and bullies combined, but after three days, I still don’t know what to say to Lucas about Monday. My method of resolute avoidance has worked so far.
As I approach the arch, a nasal-sounding voice says behind me, “Hey, look who it is.”
I turn. “Dean.” I step to the side of the arch, allowing the traffic to pass us. The bridge of his nose is thick and red. I say, “I’ll accept your apology anytime.”
He laughs. “Apology? You think I owe you an apology?”
“Yes.” I fold my arms. “I said it wasn’t true, what everyone was saying about Lucas. So I was right. So you can apologize anytime.”
“You are really asking for it.” He moves forward, and I stand my ground, preparing to duck and run the second his curled fists move.
“Stop,” says a tired voice. Lucas’s voice. I turn toward him.
As people pass, they avoid his eyes. Most look embarrassed, and rightfully so, given what they’ve been saying since Monday. “Stop, Valentine,” Lucas says. “Don’t.”
I point at Dean. “But he keeps saying you’re—”
“He’s right.”
I flounder. “W-what?”
“I am?” Dean says.
“Sort of.” Lucas digs his hands into his pockets. “I’m not gay, but I’m pansexual, which is like—it’s a little like bisexual, but—”
“I know what it is,” I break in.
“Great,” Dean says. “So I was right, Simmons. So take this back.” He points at his nose.
I round on him, narrowing my eyes. “I didn’t punch you for saying he was gay, you cretin. I punched you because you were being an asshole about it.”