I am not brave enough for any of it. I am only brave enough to sit at a quiet lunch table, to hide in my bedroom, to pretend to my friends for only ten minutes at a time that everything is—that I am—okay.
“I don’t just want to go with him, I want him to ask me. Duh,” Annie says, and peers into my locker. As if its dark, woefully underdecorated depths will tell her something. “It doesn’t matter. I bet he’s going to ask Willow.”
“I’m getting a little tired of those girls,” Violet says.
“I’m so over them,” Annie says. “Kit, they show up at Pizza Palace every day now, and they act like we’re not even there. Like Justin and Gabriel are only their friends.” As she speaks, she somehow conjures them up, and Willow, Jessica, and Abby walk by. They don’t say hello, just pick up their hands in a silent simultaneous wave. Like they choreographed it. Annie, Violet, and I used to be in sync like that, I think. But not anymore. Another thing that’s my fault.
“I overheard them talking about David Drucker,” Violet says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Everyone is talking about D.D. That’s what they’re calling him now. D.D.,” Annie says. I don’t ask who they are. Again she works her magic, because suddenly David appears. He walks by, his headphones covering his ears, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and he doesn’t see us. He’s obviously off in his own world, so I can get a good look at him without getting caught. His hoodie pulls across his broad shoulders and he’s muscly under there. He smells good too. David’s lemony. Fresh. Sweet.
“Is that an outline of a six-pack?” I ask.
“Never noticed that before,” Violet says.
“Yum,” Annie adds after he passes, her eyes now fixed on his butt, which is showcased in perfect jeans. “I mean. Just. Yum.”
—
My phone buzzes in physics and I sneak it out of my bag and glance at it under the desk.
David: Busy after school?
I glance back at him. For a moment I forgot how different he looks, and I’m startled all over again. My stomach clenches. Annie’s not wrong. He’s delicious.
Me: Nope. What’d you have in mind?
David: First we need to feed you.
Me: K.
David: Then we start the Accident Project like we talked about.
Right, the Accident Project. David’s idea to help me figure things out. Is there such a thing as Masochists Anonymous? Because clearly I need to go there pronto.
I look at Mr. Schmidt. I don’t want to listen to him drone on about Newton’s third law and stare in suspense as I wait for that little flake of tuna fish stuck to his mustache to fall. I’d much rather be out of class, eating with David and even, yes, undertaking the Accident Project, as sick as that may be.
Me: Let’s go now.
David: Now? But…physics.
My hand raises in the air, an impulsive move, and I talk without waiting for Mr. Schmidt to call on me.
“I’m going to the nurse,” I say assertively, like I’m not asking for permission. I pack up my books and my computer and walk out the door, my brain still a few steps behind my legs. Better make good use of my one short life.
I leave it up to David whether he wants to follow me.
If I hadn’t gotten Miney’s makeover, I could have just walked right out. Slipped through the door without a single person noticing. Now, because of new clothes and three fewer inches of hair, I need to come up with an excuse, a lie, because I have shed my cloak of invisibility. Of course I’m following her. That’s not even up for debate. There’s just no way I could stay here and finish out the remaining forty-two minutes of this period staring mournfully at her empty chair. Also, Gabriel is sitting next to me in all his olfactory glory and I can’t bring myself to ask about my missing notebook. It’s gone. Stolen. I feel it nearby, though, like a phantom limb. I’ve decided not to worry. Surely they’ll read the first page, realize it’s not full of history or physics notes, and then give it right back. No harm, no foul.
“Mr. Schmidt? I need to…” I make a mental note that next time I will think of my excuse before I raise my hand. He’s looking at me. No, not just Mr. Schmidt. The entire class. Again. “I need to empty my bowels.”
I say it loudly and with confidence, which Miney claims is the key to a good lie. Sounding like you believe it yourself. There is laughter, but it holds a different quality than usual. It doesn’t sound like breaking glass. It sounds collaborative. Could the change be a result of my haircut and new clothes? Nah. I may not like my classmates, but they can’t be so stupid that their opinion of me could be swayed by something as inconsequential as my appearance.
“TMI,” Mr. Schmidt says, which I know from Urban Dictionary means too much information, an expression that makes little sense to me, because my defining ethos is that there is never enough information. That’s how one gets smarter. “Go, Mr. Drucker.”
He points to the door, and though it doesn’t fit my cover story—I’m a terrible liar—I throw my backpack over my shoulder and run.
—
I find Kit in the school parking lot, standing in the middle of the road with her head back and her arms outstretched.
“It’s snowing,” she says. “Can you believe it?”
I nod because I can believe it. Last night, when I checked my NOAA Radar Pro weather app, it said there was a seventy-two percent chance of precipitation today between the hours of one and five p.m. It’s twenty-six degrees.
“Sorry to make you skip. I just thought—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, just lets the words trail off into the air. Sublimated into another form, like snow to fog. I reach over and catch a flake just before it lands on her cheek.
“Did you know that it’s not mathematically impossible for two snowflakes to be identical? They’re made up of a quintillion molecules that can form in various geometries, so it’s just highly improbable.”
“A quintillion?”
“Picture a one and then add eighteen zeros.” She shrugs and I don’t think she pictures it. Which is too bad because the image of a quintillion looks just like a line of poetry. “The point is it’s totally possible. Unlikely, of course. The chances are like one in a gazillion. Which is not an actual number but an exaggerative placeholder, but you get my point. It’s possible.”
I look at the falling snow. Wonder if any of these flakes have a twin somewhere, if they have somehow defied the odds. Here’s the thing about making a friend that I didn’t understand before I started talking to Kit: They grow your world. Allow for previously inconceivable possibilities.
Before Kit, I never used the word lonely, though that’s exactly what I was. My mind felt too tight, too populated by a single voice. I don’t like excessive noise or light or smell, which are the inevitable by-products of human interaction, and yet my consciousness—that which will hopefully survive my inevitable death—still longs for personal connection. Just like everyone else’s.