I DESTROY THINGS IN MY dreams.
I scream and argue until everyone hates me, then I wake up in tears from how real it feels. Sunday morning is like that. I sit up in bed, feeling battered and alone. And the first thing I see are those six missed texts from Garrett.
Hey, you up there somewhere? I don’t see you!
Yo, are you in the parking lot or something
Where are you?
Ok Greenfeld and I are heading to WaHo with Spier and everyone. You should come!
Oh man, I don’t know how I missed you today. I feel bad.
Oh well, I hope you enjoyed the game anyway. Next time, stick around okay lol. Are you going to the play tomorrow?
Holy shit. I’m the worst.
Garrett thinks I was there. At the game, in the bleachers, probably wearing a homemade soccer ball helmet. As opposed to moping around my bedroom, ignoring his texts.
I am such a dick. Like, I’m an actual flaccid penis of a person.
And now I want to lock myself in my room all over again, but I can’t miss the last performance of the play. I’m not that big of an asshole. I don’t even mind the idea of hanging out with Garrett, in theory. But I don’t want to face him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s apologies. I don’t like getting them. I really don’t like making them.
I think it’s unavoidable.
I dress myself carefully, like I’m going into battle. I feel stronger when I look cute. I zip into my universe dress—the greatest thrift store find of my entire life. It’s cotton, blue and black, sprinkled with stars and galaxies across my chest. My boobs are literally out of this world. Then I muss up my hair so it’s just a little wavy and spend twenty minutes giving myself flawless winged eyeliner. It makes my eyes look super green in a way that almost catches me off guard.
Mom needs the car, so she drops me off at school. I’m early. Early is good. I pick a seat near the front, but I can’t stop turning toward the entrance—and every time the auditorium door opens, my heart jumps into my throat. I have this feeling that as soon as Garrett sees me, he’ll know I was lying. And then he and the guys will be pissed, and it will be this whole big thing, and our whole friend group will implode. Because of me.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I almost fall out of my seat.
But it’s just Anna. “Can we sit here?”
“We?”
“Morgan’s in the bathroom.”
Another conversation I’m not ready for. Oh, hey, Morgan! Sorry you didn’t get into your dream school. Hope it’s cool that I’m totally going there. Panic must be written all over my face, because Anna purses her lips. “You know she’s not mad at you, right?”
“Right.”
“I think she’s worried you’ll be awkward.”
“I haven’t even talked to her.”
“I know, I know. She’s just paranoid. It’s fine. I’m texting her where we are.” But before Anna can hit send, Morgan trails in behind a pack of giggling middle schoolers. She looks miserable. She looks like she just got dumped. She’s in sweatpants and glasses, her blue-streaked hair scraped back into a messy bun. Anna catches her eye and waves, and she cuts down the aisle and across a row of seats.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“How are you doing?” My voice sounds so painfully gentle that I cringe.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
I nod, and Morgan shrugs, and Anna’s eyes shift back and forth between us.
“Sorry about UGA,” I say finally. “That really sucks.”
“Yeah.” She sounds defeated.
“Sorry,” I say again.
She sinks into her seat. “Whatever. I’m not mad at you or anything.”
I perch on the edge of the seat beside her.
She leans back, covering her face with her hands. “It’s just . . . ugh. It’s just so unfair.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Not you. You totally deserved to get in. You’re like a genius. But other people . . .”
I swallow. “I don’t know how they make their decisions.”
Morgan smiles humorlessly. “Well, I know how they make some of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying. I’m ranked eleventh in the class. And some of the people who did get into Georgia . . . aren’t.” She shrugs. Beside me, Anna shifts uncomfortably.
I blink. “You think someone lied on their application?”
“I think I’m white,” Morgan replies.
The whole world seems to stop. The blood rushes to my cheeks.
“Are you talking about Abby?” I say quietly.
Morgan shrugs.
My mouth falls open. “I can’t believe you.”
“Well, sorry.” Her cheeks flush.
“That’s really fucking gross, Morgan.”
“Oh, so you’re sticking up for Abby now. Awesome.”
I lean forward, chest tight. “I’m not sticking up for anyone. You’re being racist.”
I can’t believe this—and coming from Morgan. Morgan, who read All American Boys three times and drove all the way to Decatur to get it signed. Morgan, who once shouted down a stranger in a grocery store for wearing a Trump hat.
“I’m being honest,” says Morgan.
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re being racist.”
“Who’s racist?” Garrett asks, sidling up. I glance up at him, and Bram’s there, too. Morgan sinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.
I stare her down. “Well, according to Morgan, Abby only got into Georgia because she’s black.”
Bram winces.
Morgan’s face is blotchy red. “That’s not what I meant.” She grips the armrest, eyes flashing.
“Well, you said it.” I stand, abruptly, my jaw clenched and sore. I’m furious, down to my bones, in a way I can’t even articulate. I push past the boys and storm up the aisle. Random people tilt their heads toward me as I pass. They know I’m pissed. I always wear it on my face. I slide into an empty row near the back and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Hey,” Garrett says, plopping down next to me. Bram sits beside him.
“I’m so angry,” I say.
“Because of Morgan?” asks Garrett.
I shrug, lips pressed tightly.
Garrett and Bram exchange glances. “She thinks Abby took her spot at Georgia?” Garrett asks.
“I don’t know. But she thinks Abby only got in because she’s black, and that’s bullshit.”
“People think that a lot,” Bram says softly.
“That’s messed up,” Garrett says.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You know, I didn’t realize you and Suso were such good friends.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “We’re not. It doesn’t matter. Jesus. I’m just saying it’s racist.”
He props his hands up defensively. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I huff back at him.
Bram just watches us, not saying a word, which makes me even more self-conscious. I tug my dress down and stare at my knees. Maybe I could send a telepathic message backstage to the powers that be. Dear God and/or Cal Price: please start this show now. Dim the lights so I can disappear.
Garrett nudges me. “So, did you get my texts?”
And . . . fuck my life.
“Yeah. Oh. Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone just . . .” I trail off uselessly.
“No worries. Just wanted to hear what you thought of the game!”
God, I can’t. I’m sorry. I should tell him, but I can’t. I’m like an actual fuse. Overload me, and I shut down. I guess Garrett’s the hair dryer who pushes me over the limit.
I lie. “It was cool.”
“Yeah. Ha. If you forget about the first half.”
“Mmhmm.” I nod vaguely.
“Where’d you run off to afterward?” Bram pipes up. “We missed you.”
“Oh. Um. My mom needed the car, so . . .” I swallow.
“That sucks.”
“Yup.”
The houselights dim. Thank God thank God thank God.
The overture begins, and my whole body sighs.