No, that’s not really the question at all. Being seems to be the only thing not entirely up to us.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, which I realize is not the point. She’s not mad at me—I’m the obvious victim here—but I’m choosing anger over the tears. Anger is slightly less humiliating. Anger is more consistent with the vibe Agnes claims I give off: badass and above it all.
Mrs. Pollack pulls her desk chair out and straddles it backward. She too wants to seem cool and casual. Like she’s a student, not a teacher.
“I just wanted to see how things were going. If there was anything you wanted to talk about,” she says.
“Nope.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. The tears are filling my eyes but have not yet betrayed me by falling. They wait on the verge. If I ever write a memoir, that’s what I’ll call it: On the Verge. “I tripped. It happens.”
“Switching schools can be tough.”
“I’m fine.”
“And I hate to say it, but girls in particular can be really cruel at your age.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not sure what to do here. I mean, I can talk to Principal Hochman. We have a zero-tolerance policy toward bullying.”
“I’m fine.”
“But I have a feeling that just might make things worse for you. Gem’s dad is a big donor here, and—”
“Seriously, I’m fine.” She looks at me expectantly. What does she want from me?
Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch.
“Did you do something to cause her to say those things? I’m just trying to understand,” she says, and leans on the pillow she has made with her arms. As if to say We’re just hanging, no problem.
“Are you asking me if I did something to deserve Gem tripping me and calling me a whore, a slut, and a fat ugly bitch? Seriously? You are asking me that?” I forget that this woman is responsible for one-sixth of my GPA, that she can keep me from getting a college scholarship. I should play nice, but it turns out anger is not only preferable but easier. Comes naturally.
“I didn’t mean…I’m sorry, I’m just trying to understand—” She looks hurt now, like she’s the one who’s about to cry. Like she’s the one who just busted her face in front of the entire class.
“The answer is no. I have not touched a single guy in this school or actually pretty much ever, not that that would justify a fellow student calling me a whore or a slut. And as for the ‘fat ugly bitch’? I presume that’s subjective.” If I weren’t so upset, I’d take a moment to revel in the fact that I found the right words for once, that I said exactly what I wanted to say. But I don’t feel like reveling. I feel like running away. “Do you need my BMI? I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“No, you got it all wrong. I didn’t mean—”
“Are we done here?” I ask. Screw it. It wasn’t like my grades were going to be so stellar at Wood Valley anyway. I’m pretty sure that college scholarship thing was just a pipe dream. And at least one mystery has been solved: Gem can do or say whatever she wants because her dad pays off the administration. I guess that’s what a little tax fraud buys you.
“I’m just trying to help,” she says. “I don’t want to make things worse—” But I don’t hear the rest of Mrs. Pollack’s sentence, because I’ve already run out the door.
CHAPTER 22
Head down. Thirty feet until I reach my car. Jessie, you can do this. Twenty feet. My hands are shaking, but I keep them in my pockets so no one can see. I keep walking. No one is looking, I tell myself. No one can see you. Fifteen feet. Almost there. I will get into my car, I will put the key in the ignition, I will drive and not stop until the gas light comes on. I will head east, find whatever major highway takes me to Chicago. I will show up at Scarlett’s in time for her mom to serve me homemade kimchi.
“Hey. You okay?” I see his shoes before I see his face, the guitar strap across his chest, but that’s because I don’t want to look all the way up. Liam is the last person I want to see right now, except maybe his horrible girlfriend, but at least if I saw Gem, I would find a way to draw blood. Scratch her with my nails. Break her surgically crafted, six-figure nose. Crack her porcelain veneers.
“Please. Just. Leave. Me. Alone.” Tears are kind of like urine. There is only so long you can hold them in. My car is ten feet away. Ten short feet, and then I can drive and cry without anyone ever knowing. I look forward to crossing state lines.
I picture the sign: YOU ARE EXITING CALIFORNIA.
“Whoa, hold it. What’s going on?” Liam asks, and grabs my shoulder to stop me from storming off. I shrug, but his grip is strong. “You need me to call someone or something?”