“She didn’t even yell, Bridge,” Rita says quietly. “She just walked up here last night, real calm, and said to tell you not to come back again. Said your services were no longer required.”
No longer required. I swallow the lump in my throat, but it bobs right up again. “Rita. You have to let me in. Please. I was trying to do something good for her. If she understood where I was coming from, maybe—”
Rita shakes her head. “I can’t, baby. I’ll lose my job.”
“Right.” A weird strangled sound is trying to force its way up. “I wouldn’t want—I get it.”
“Plus she told me if I let you in, she’d come up here and personally kick my ass, and I think we both know she could do it.” She says it to make me laugh, but I don’t and neither does she.
“Will you tell her I stopped by, though? Will you tell her this is all one big misunderstanding?”
Rita nods. “I’ll tell her.”
I have to do a nine-point turn to get the truck headed in the right direction, and I stop fighting the tears on the fourth point. Rita is sweet, and pretends not to see me coming apart.
*
I’m late for graduation rehearsal. Late enough that Se?ora Thompson decides to stop talking entirely and breathe into her wireless microphone like a phone stalker while I slap across the shiny gym floor. The walk to the bleachers is long enough that I have time to think about things, like how I never realized that the gym is thousands of miles long, or how flip-flops are much louder on buffed wood than any logical person would guess. I sweep the crowd for Leigh or Wil or even Ned Reilly or Susan, but all the student-blobs look exactly the same.
“As I was saying. You’ll arrive here at school promptly at eight-thirty this Saturday morning.” Se?ora is staring at me, and I blink back, like, Nine-fifteen, then? “Caps and gowns will be distributed in classrooms M-102, M-103, and M-104, alphabetically by last name. We will line up just outside the double doors and process down the hall and into the gym. Mr. Reilly and Ms. Choudry, your valedictorian and salutatorian, will lead.”
“Ned Reilly!” someone hoots, and half of the senior class chants, “Ned. Ned. Ned,” until Se?ora Thompson thumps the microphone.
“Followed by your senior class, again in alphabetical order. The faculty will bring up the rear.” She says something about how showing up bombed or naked underneath our graduation robes will seriously jeopardize receipt of our diploma, which everyone knows is bullshit. That kind of warning didn’t exist before the legendary Chaz Foster, who was a senior here when we were in middle school. Chaz reportedly showed up to graduation bombed and naked under his robe, and he flashed the crowd after the principal handed over his diploma. Now he works at his dad’s investment banking firm in New York City and makes quadruple Se?ora Thompson’s salary. So.
“Here we go. Let’s see if we can line up in six minutes or less.” She releases us and we clog the exits immediately.
“Hawking, right? So we’re probably next to each other.” Wil’s breath on my ear sends a molten shiver through me. I don’t mean to jump.
“Ohmygod. You scared me.”
He gives me a confused smile and slips his arm around my waist, tight. “You okay? I stopped by this morning, to see if you wanted a ride.”
“I’m fine. It’s been a weird morning, so . . .” I study him. There is no trace of yesterday’s exchange in the parking lot. “Is everything okay . . . with your mom?” I ask carefully. “I’ve been thinking about you guys. I was kind of worried, actually.”
“Oh. Yeah.” A shadow stains his features and then disappears as quickly as it came, like an afternoon storm. “I don’t think we realized how hard it would be to think about seeing the guy again.”
“I’m sure,” I say carefully.
“I just feel like I have to protect my mom, you know? Make sure nothing bad happens to her.” Wil’s brow furrows, drawing into familiar lines. They’re the same lines that surfaced when he cheated on a math test in fifth grade; when he invited me to his twelfth birthday party and conveniently forgot to tell me I was the only girl guest.
He’s lying.
“From—” I start.
“Huh?”
“Protect her from what?”
“Just . . . emotionally,” he says vaguely. “You know.”
But I don’t. I don’t because he won’t tell me. I let him guide me through the crowd. I tell myself, I know this boy. I know him deep. He’s not lying about wanting to protect his mother. I’ve watched him carry her through this. He’s calmed her; he’s stood between the cops and her; he’s spoken for her. And all to protect her. From what?
“You cold?” Wil rubs my shoulders.
“I’m fine.”
“Bridge?”
“Huh?”
“I asked what you were doing after this. I have something I want to show you,” he says.
“Sure. Okay.” I catch a flash of Leigh’s dreads, the tips dyed purple. “Hold my place for a sec?” I push through a swaying circle of stoned beach rats and grab her embroidered sleeve. “Hey. Hey.”
Her face hardens when she turns around. “Oh. Hey.”
“What’s—” I try to decode her. “What’s wrong?”
“You cannot be serious, Bridge.” She drags her fingers through her hair. “You’re like—I don’t know. Unbelievable.” She whips her head around, like Is anyone seeing this?
“Leigh. Just tell me.”
“That’s just it, Bridge,” she says. “I shouldn’t have to tell you. I shouldn’t have to say that you missed the unveiling of my art project Saturday morning.”
My stomach bottoms out. I can’t breathe.
“Oh, shit. Leigh.” I told her I’d be there. I’d promised.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you that it’s not friendship when you drift in and out at your goddamned convenience.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Leigh,” I say again. Like if she would just give me a second, I could explain! Everything would make sense! Only we both know that I won’t be able to fill that silence.
“What, Bridge?” she snaps. “It’s just . . . I’m here. And unlike Wil, I’ve been here the whole time. All of high school. I’m not his understudy, you know? I’m not.”
“Leigh,” I say again. “You’re not an understudy. You’re not—”
One of the beach rats yells, “Ooooooh, tell her,” and I whip around to tell him off. By the time I turn around again, Leigh and her purple hair are gone, and Se?ora Thompson is steering me toward the H section, where I belong.