“Kyle, why do I have news reporters calling me? And your principal? Why did I have to pretend I knew why my paralegal saw you on television during her lunch break?” My mom’s voice was high with strain. “What in Pete’s name is going on?”
“Do you have a minute?” I sighed, leaning back against the wall. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
chapter nine
RACHEL
WEDNESDAY, 1:15 P.M.
I was halfway across the junior lot before I realized I’d left my bag in Mr. Jenkins’s room.
It was devastating enough that I actually stomped up and down in the middle of the rows of cars like a rampaging toddler, screwing up my face against tears just a pinprick beneath the surface.
How was I gonna get in my car and drive as far and fast and recklessly as I could if I didn’t have my fricking keys?
I moved to the curb and plopped down, hanging my head between my knees.
This day would end—it had to eventually—and people would move on. How could they not? It was Flit for Christ’s sake.
Besides, who cares about people so devastatingly shallow that they spend their free time trolling strangers over the internet? Or pulling mean-girl stunts so cliché I wouldn’t even put them in a play? I’d never cared what people thought of me before, why start now?
I was not making very convincing arguments.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up, startled. Not like the junior parking lot is some sacred space, but I didn’t think I’d run into anyone.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. I blinked; the sun reflecting off the cars was so much brighter than the space I’d created between my knees. The girl in front of me wasn’t very tall—maybe half a head taller than me. Her short, dark, shiny curls were like a rebuke—curly hair doesn’t have to look like a metaphor for chaos theory.
I didn’t know much about Emma Stashausen, beyond the fact that she was on the Wolfettes. They were like the ur-cheerleaders at Apple Prairie—if you weren’t on top of the social ladder when you made the team, you were from then on. It made Jessie even more confounding—what else did she have to prove?
And of course I knew Emma and Kyle were a thing.
“You’re her, aren’t you?” She squatted down to my level. “You’re that girl who took Kyle’s picture.”
I sighed, looking down at the blacktop. “Sorry,” I squeaked. “I really didn’t mean anything by it.”
Emma squinted for a second, tilting her head to one side to take me in.
“I know,” she said finally, rocking back on her heels to stand again. “You didn’t know what would happen.”
Something around my lungs loosened for the first time all day. I drew in a deep breath, a little ragged around the edges, and squeezed my eyes shut hard. Tears started sneaking out the corners.
Emma patted me softly on the top of the head. It was the kind of thing you’d do for a child, or a dog, but still, it felt good.
“It’ll be okay.” She sounded calm, like she had practice at this. It made me feel better and sadder at the same time.
“Sorry, I’m totally embarrassing right now.” Deep breaths, Rachel. Focus on deep breaths. “What are you even doing out here?” I asked, once I thought I could speak without ripping through the spiderweb-thin net currently holding my insides together.
“Sinning.” Emma smirked mischievously, and brought two long fingers up to her lips to puff an air cigarette. “I don’t usually, but it’s been a stressful day.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Emma laughed lightly.
“I should go, I’m super late. Just remember, people are awful, but it’s not about you,” Emma said with a half smile. “It’s almost always about them.”
“Thanks,” I called after her already-retreating form.
Then I was alone again.
Now what?
I had to get my backpack. Even if I skipped Chem too, I’d need my keys.
I’d just wait until class let out, then duck in for my bag after everyone left. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, except maybe Mr. Jenkins. He was cool though. If I told him I was having emotional issues today, he’d probably hand me a copy of The Bell Jar and tell me to tap into the pain for my art.
Ha. Right.
I pulled my phone out to see how long I had until I had to head back in.
296 notifications
That was encouraging. It was only since the beginning of lunch, but maybe it meant things were dying down.
I clicked to Kyle’s page.
Jesus, he had over two hundred thousand followers.
I felt the tiny bubble of hope that had been floating up through my chest pop and dissipate. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Sighing, I wove my free hand into my tangle of hair and started scrolling through his feed.
So far all he’d flitted since the picture were a couple inoffensive sentences—“hi everyone,” “wish me luck!” It was kind of adorable, how straightforward they were. If I had that many followers I’d try to mess with them—post something weird to see how people would react, if they’d pretend to like it or something.