“Hey, Hawthorn?”
Mychelle Adler. She’d been off my radar for the last couple weeks, blending into the regular annoyances of school. But her standing there in the hall with such a smug look on her face brought back all of my hatred.
“What?”
Mychelle waved a spiral notebook in the air. “Recognize this?”
“It’s a notebook. That was easy. Give me another question.”
“Not just a notebook. Your notebook. You left it on your desk in first period.”
I thought back to how I’d run out of the room. “How nice of you to return it.”
I grabbed for the notebook, but Mychelle pulled it back, out of my reach. “You should be more careful where you leave your personal things.”
“Personal?” I laughed. “It’s math homework.”
“Oh, is that all?” Mychelle smiled at me, baring shark teeth behind lips that were stretched too wide. She had gossip. Or at least she thought she did. Something I wouldn’t like. But it was just a math notebook.
Then I got it.
I pictured myself, less then twenty-four hours before, sitting on my front porch, writing down my feelings about Enzo. Then Connor showed up, and the notebook got shoved in my backpack. Until I took it out in algebra.
It wasn’t a mistake I normally would have made, leaving those pages in my notebook and bringing it to school. But going over to a guy’s house to confront him about how the picture he painted for you was an insult, having sex for the first time, and spending most of the night walking home could really mess with your head.
“OK,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I want to congratulate you, Hawthorn. Your first kiss with Lizzie Lovett’s boyfriend. I believe you called it passionate. That sort of thing never happens to lonely, pathetic girls like you, does it?”
Shit. I’d written a lot of other embarrassing things.
“Just stop, Mychelle.”
“Stop? But you were so excited about it. Your very first big-girl kiss.”
I shook my head. “God. Why are you such a bitch?”
“Me? What about you? Lizzie Lovett is missing, and you hook up with her boyfriend? I guess taking advantage of someone who’s grieving is the only way you can get a guy to pay attention to you.”
“Give me my notebook back,” I snapped.
“Sure.” Mychelle handed over the notebook. “Your diary entry isn’t in there though.”
I didn’t figure I’d be so lucky. “What did you do with it? Photocopy it and pass it out all over the school?”
“Something like that.” Mychelle’s smile widened. “I told you not to mess with me, Hawthorn.”
“You think a little embarrassment is going to ruin me? You’ll have to try harder than that.” I was bluffing though, and Mychelle probably knew it.
“Don’t worry. I’m not finished yet.”
Then Mychelle sauntered away, her hips swaying, oozing confidence with every step.
? ? ?
I wished Mychelle’s hair would get tangled in her homecoming queen tiara. I wished a strap on one of her high-heeled sandals would break. I wished she would always weigh two pounds more than she wanted to. I wished her mascara would dry out after she’d only done one eye.
I had stupidly thought that because I hadn’t been thinking of Mychelle for the last few days, she wasn’t thinking of me either. But of course, she was. What else did she have to think about? I was probably the only person in her life who wasn’t doing exactly what she expected, and that made her furious.
It turned out Mychelle hadn’t made photocopies. She’d scanned the notebook page and posted it on her blog. Only a few kids made mocking kissy faces at me, but there was a lot of whispering. People kept looking up from their phones and smirking at me.
Ronna Barnes, whose pregnant belly was starting to swell, came into the bathroom where I was hiding between classes. “Sorry about your diary. Thanks for giving me a break though.”
“I wish I could say I was glad to be of service.” I glanced down at Ronna’s stomach. “How’s the pregnancy thing going?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and I wondered if I’d said something wrong.
“Was I not supposed to mention it?” I asked.
“You’re just the first person who’s asked how I’m doing.” She rested her hands on her stomach and frowned. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Instead of mumbling something incoherent and scurrying out of the bathroom like I normally would, I boldly said, “Well, I don’t have, you know, firsthand experience or anything. But if you ever need someone to talk to, let me know.”
Maybe it was just pregnancy hormones, but Ronna looked like she might cry.
My next encounter was far less pleasant. The jock who sits next to Mychelle in math stopped me in the hall and said, “You want some more fireworks and passion? Meet me in the locker room in five minutes.” The guys who were with him, other football players, laughed.
“You wish,” I muttered. Only he didn’t wish that at all, which was part of the joke.