WHEN SCHOOL’S OUT, I RACE to the locker room to wash the gym shorts I’ve worn all week. The scramble during mass exits creates the best time to blend in among the mob. I unzip my bag and toss my shorts in the sink. I head-check behind me, then decide to wash my bra and a pair of socks, too. I wait for the water to gain heat and kill bacteria swimming in the ceramic bowl. Then I plug the hole with a wine cork and pump powdered soap into the water. I swirl and splash and soak.
A girl walks in and goes straight to a stall. I rush my process, but the soap takes forever to rinse out. When she walks over to a sink to wash her hands, she shoots me a side eye.
“Damn period,” I say. “Always irregular. Always a mess.” I smile, and she nods as I wring water out of the shorts and cram my bra and socks into a Ziploc bag.
I race to the newsroom for our meeting with Mr. George. Upon my arrival, the chairs are pushed together and desks clothed with oversized squares of construction paper. Beth scribbles wildly with a green marker while Bea hovers over her shoulder, shaking her head. She looks up when we barge in the door and glares at Ham when he steps on a sign, leaving a footprint and a hole.
“Watch where you walk,” Bea snaps.
“And hello to you, too, lovely,” Ham says. “Just the person I want to see.”
Bea ignores Ham’s remark and eyes Beth’s kindergarten-level artwork. “Homecoming is one word, not two,” she says drily, and Beth rips the poster in half.
I ignore B&B’s art-slash-spelling lesson and park my bag at the computer. As soon as my back turns, Bea says, “Are you going to homecoming, Seung?”
There’s a long pause, and I start jabbing a computer key one hundred thousand times. Each tap growing with intensity.
“Might go,” Seung says.
“With who?” Ham snaps, and I flip around, stone-faced.
Seung glances over at me. “Someone,” he says. “Forget about it.”
Lately Seung’s moves are effortless. It’s like he cares nothing of what others think. He messes his hair and leaves it that way. He drives two miles above the speed limit. And he’s still not eating meat, yet his shoulders continue to spread east and west. He’s like me from Christmas past, not giving two shits what anyone thinks. But now I’ve become the old Seung, nervous, sketched out, and questioning everyone’s stares.
Ever since Seung stood up to Toby’s truck and Reed’s chest, he’s calm and casual and shuffling the school’s hierarchy in his mind. It’s Seung’s world now, and everyone else inhabits it. I wonder if he even knows what he’s doing.
Ham picks up on Seung 2.0, too. “What’s with you?” he asks.
Seung brushes his hair back with his fingers. “If you only knew,” he says, and his cheekbones surface when he flashes a smile.
Reed pokes his head in the door and says, “Hello, beautiful people,” and he’s staring right at me, which makes Seung snap his head in my direction and scowl.
“What are you doing here?” Bea mumbles, and checks her phone. “Toby’s not here yet.”
Ham stretches his neck like a giraffe and quick-nods in my direction as if to say, “I told you. She’s cheating. Remember?”
I roll my eyes. I couldn’t care less about Bea and her boyfriends, as long as she stays away from mine. Well, my friend, that is.
“Not looking for Toby,” Reed says. “You and me. We need to talk.”
“No way. Not here,” Bea says, “unless we need witnesses.”
Reed tucks his lips inside his mouth and tilts his head to one side. “My witness is the empty sky,” he says, all breathy, and my stomach drops. I feel a jab in my gut. Quite possibly the slab of cheddar from lunch, or perhaps the sexiness that is Reed Clemmings.
I decide to roll my eyes, though, in case Seung’s watching. In case Bea looks.
Bea grabs her bag and marches toward the door.
Beth says, “Should I come?”
“No,” they both snap, and Beth slumps into her chair.
Mr. George whips around the corner. “Those who’ve been called to a meeting, stay, and those who haven’t, please stray.”
Beth collects her belongings and tidies up the posters, stacking them on a counter near the wall, and leaves the room.
Mr. George sets an oversized coffee cup and a dozen long-stemmed roses on his desk. “Hey, kids,” he says. “I’m only here for a minute. Then I’m outie five thousand.”
We smile at Mr. George’s failed attempt to remain relevant in this decade. He doesn’t need to try so hard, because if kindness were a style, Mr. George would be on a runway in Milan.
He slides a stool up to my computer. “So, Linden,” he says, “what’s hot off the presses?”
“Bea’s not here,” Ham interrupts. “Why is Bea not here?”
Mr. George shrugs his shoulders. “Is she ever here? Does she even still work here?”
“She was just here,” I say flatly. “Maybe you should go find her, Ham.” Ham welcomes the opportunity and stands.
Mr. George shakes his head. “No. Not now. Bea’s not needed.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I punch the keys on my computer, and Mr. George says, “Linden, are you interested in covering a powerful piece for the paper? I need us to write something with meaning, value.”
“Like that sexy tardiness piece,” Seung says, and chuckles.
“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Mr. George says. “But that was a nice piece, Linden. Not sure I’d call it sexy, though.”
Seung winks at me, and my face heats up. I tap the keyboard and fight to regain some sort of focus. My mind is still preoccupied with that Seung Goes to Homecoming comment and how to ask Mr. George what he knows about the journalist lady.
“Something bigger, better, impactful,” Mr. George says. “Something with a punch, a kick. Something, say, scholarship-worthy. Like a piece on underage drinking.”
We all burst out laughing and Mr. George frowns. “What? What’d I say?”
“With all due respect, Mr. George,” I say, “nobody wants to read about the dangers of underage drinking. Everyone drinks, especially in this town. The young, the old. There aren’t many other options. Nobody at Hinderwood High cares what drinking does to the underaged body except us, of course.”
Mr. George’s eyes dart around the room and land on the clock, then his desk. “Well, I’m open to input,” he says, standing up. “Always open to new ideas.” He walks to his desk and grabs a stack of paper. “But I need you to come up with something good, because I’ll be submitting it.” He hands me a folder.
“What’s this?”
“Read and get back to me,” he says. “Ideas, concepts. Something that’ll leave an impression. Something you can bullet. You know how I love bullet points.”
I flip open the packet and scan the paper: Willamette University—National Scholarship for Journalism.
Mr. George scurries to the closet behind his desk and wraps himself in his coat and scarf.
“So is this related to that journalist lady?” I ask.
Mr. George tilts his head. “Who?”
Ham reaches over my desk. “What is that?”
I fan the folder at him. “Principal Falsetto’s, I mean, Principal Falls’s sister was apparently asking some questions about me. Right, Ham?” I smile, basking in relief and possibility.
“Yeah,” Ham says. “She was interested in what you write. I told her to talk to Mr. George.”
Mr. George shakes his head. “Can’t say anyone’s spoken to me about you, Linden. But I’ll let you know if they do.”
I nod and snap the scholarship folder. “Okay, Mr. George. I’ll do this. And I’ll do it well. But I have one condition. If I may ask, of course?”
“Go on.”
“We collaborate. Work as a team. Me, Ham, and Seung. The Triangle.”
Mr. George shrugs. “That might work. Let me know what ideas develop.” He heads out the door and waves without looking.
I twist in my chair and create a new folder on the computer. I name it OH! Short for Operation Ham, or more accurately, The Triangle Goes to College Together.
Ham groans. “More work, Linden? You’re signing us up for more work? You’re already making me waste precious moments of my childhood studying for the SAT. Now we have to research an actual story?”
Ham’s not seeing the potential benefits. He doesn’t see how good I can make him look. London Times good.
Mr. George returns within ten seconds. “The flowers. The flowers.” He frantically dashes to his desk. “My husband is going to love these.”
I smile. “Thanks, Mr. George.”
“Thank me by writing a good story,” he says. “And for God’s sake, lock the door when you leave. Someone left it open last night. If you want to be left unsupervised, then act like supervisors.”
He winks and we wave good-bye. Seung slides his chair behind me. His knee bumps my butt and I shift on my seat. “Sorry,” we say at the same time.
Ham breaks the clumsy silence by saying, “I have an idea for a story.”
“I’m sure you do,” Seung deadpans.
“Well, if you’re not interested,” Ham says. “Because really I’d rather not work unless paid.”
“We are,” I snap. “We’re so interested. What’s your idea?”
Seung’s head falls back against the chair, and he sighs.
I close my eyes as my stomach drops. The new Seung is somewhat irresistible. He sighs more than usual, and his breath smells less like breakfast, more like toothpaste. But then, when Ham opens his mouth, my peppermint buzz dies.
“Let’s write about Bea,” Ham says with enthusiasm.
Seung sits up in his chair.
“Well, not Bea, exactly, but Bea’s little problem,” Ham says.
“Not the cheating crap again,” I say.
“What cheating?” Seung asks.
I lift an eyebrow.
“She’s cheating on Toby with Reed,” Ham says.
“You’re guessing,” I say.
“How do you know?” Seung asks.
I drop my pen. “And why do you care?”
Seung squirms in his seat. “I don’t care. Just curious.”
“You sure about that?” I ask.
Now it’s Seung’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “I’m sure about a lot of things, Linden. Are you?”
Ham groans. “Why don’t you two just bang and get it over with?” I swear I see Seung’s eyebrows fast-dance on his forehead.
Seung pushes a button on his phone and moves his finger like his life depends on the speed of his swipe.
“We all know Bea has a little problem with boys,” Ham says. “I suspect, much like the rest of you, that Toby is a girl beater, or shall I say Bea beater. Clearly it’s why Bea is cheating on him with her ex. He’s getting what he deserves.”
“And this has to do with our story how?” I ask.
“Isn’t it obvious, Linden?” Ham says. “We do a major spread on violence against women and the men behind the violence. You win scholarship money. I gain fame and fortune and status as Hinderwood High’s Male Feminist of the Year. Then we all run away to college together. Boom. Mic drop.”
Seung teeters back in his chair, still staring at his phone. “How could a guy ever hurt a girl?” he mumbles. He sounds so innocent and honest. “A guy hurt a girl, or a guy hurt a guy? When you’re in love, you don’t intentionally hurt each other. Right?”
Ham shifts in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs.
“Clearly it’s not love,” I say.
“Most definitely not love,” Ham says.
The air’s heavy with long pauses. Then Seung shakes his head and says, “I don’t get it. The physical hurt. I mean, heartbreak happens. But a girl has two fists, two legs, a mouth. Why keep going back to take more shit she doesn’t deserve?”
My mind wanders back to a past when I took more shit. Seung doesn’t know anything about me or my haunted past. The history I fight to forget and rewrite. Every time my past calls, I answer. And it never says anything new. It repeats itself, over and over, until I create a new picture, paint a new scene. Seung doesn’t know my mother was beaten bloody by the hands of a man. Seung doesn’t understand the choices some women are forced to make. His eyes see only doting dads who kiss cheeks and rinse dishes. His ears hear only music and laughter and whispers filled with love. My eyes see blood. My ears hear screams. My nose smells death.
Seung scoots his chair next to mine. “Not to get off subject.”
“Please, yes,” I blurt before tears sting my eyes. “We should forget about Bea. She can help herself. She’s not our job.” Of course, I only believe half my words.
Seung nudges closer and whispers, “About homecoming, Linden? You going?”
My eyes fix back on the computer screen. Homecoming?
Seung taps my thigh with his knee. “Did you hear me?”
I fight the urge to rub the spot he bumped on my leg, while pictures of the limo parade through my mind.
“It might be fun,” Seung says. “You know, homecoming, together.”
I shift in my seat. “Together?” Like together, together?
“Yeah. We could all go together. Double-date, or something.”
Screw double-date, it’s the something I want to know more about.
“Double-date?” I ask, fighting to balance my wobbly voice.
“Something like that.”
There’s that something again. The something I want with Seung. And yet there are all the somethings I can’t forget about, too.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” Immediately I’m filled with regret.
Seung’s face drops. He leans back in his chair and scratches his ear.
“It’s just, like, homecoming at this school is a ceremony to glorify football gods like Toby Patters and Reed Clemmings. Hard to care about. Impossible to support.”
Ham plops onto a desk and kicks his feet over the seat. “Don’t forget Jarrell. I mean, you are talking about football gods, yes?”
“Linden. The dance has nothing to do with football,” Seung says, ignoring Ham.
“Well, I don’t dance,” I say, running out of excuses. Besides, I don’t even know if Seung meant he wanted to take me. Double date doesn’t exactly mean date.
Ham laughs. “Well, I dance.”
Seung chuckles. “Yep. You sure do. We’ve all seen your moves.” Ham jumps off the desk and spins around. “All wiggle and shake,” Seung says, and twists back toward me. He whispers, “I don’t dance, either, Linden,” and his breath tickles my ear and inches along my collarbone.
I grab the scholarship folder Mr. George gave me and fan my face. Would it kill someone to open a window? “So,” I say, “who is Seung taking to homecoming, on this double date?”
Seung smiles in slow motion and says, “Well, you’re making this incredibly difficult, but I’d like to take you.”
My jaw drops, even though I don’t want it to. In fact, I’m desperately trying to push out a smile, a grin, or even a smirk. “Whatever,” I say. Why am I even talking right now?
“I’m serious.” Seung leans forward. His chest is practically on my forearm. “I want to take you, Linden, or you take me, or we just take each other.”
I turn and stare at his chin. He lifts it up with two fingers and smiles. “Take each other?” I say, thankful for the grin that fought for my face and won.
“Yeah. That sounds bad, huh?”
Not that bad, Seung.
I swipe my tongue across my lips nervously. Then I turn back to the computer and stare at the screen. Saying yes should be easy. It’s what I want.
“Come on, Linden.” Seung 2.0 won’t relent. “It might be fun.”
He taps my thigh with his knee, once, twice. I’m losing count.
“Let’s go.” He slides his hand along my forearm. “Me. You. Ham. The Triangle.”
I make the mistake of looking at Seung’s hand, and he slips it back onto the table. There’s a pink hue in his cheeks.
Ham sighs, damn loud, busting up my moment with Seung, who turns around in his chair and throws a pencil at Ham’s chest. “What do you say, Hammy? Want to go to homecoming with Linden and me?”
“Uh, excuse me,” I say. “I haven’t exactly agreed to go.”
“And I don’t have a date,” Ham says.
“Ask someone,” Seung says.
“Not likely.” Ham taps his fingers on his chest as if it’s a piano. “I don’t ask—they come to me.”
“Well, I don’t exactly see a line forming,” Seung says. “You have to go, Ham. If you don’t go, you might miss your opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?” Ham asks.
Seung smiles and reclines in his chair. He takes a deep breath and says, “Opportunity for love.”
When I glance over at Seung, he catches my gaze and holds it for a million years.
It is in that moment that I agree to join the boys for homecoming.
Ham says, “I’ll do anything for love,” and Seung whispers, “So will I.” I mean, who can resist this shit?
My two tugboats passing in the night.
With an arm twist, a bend, and one mighty yank, I concede. Our triangle is going to homecoming as an equilateral shape.
But for some reason, I can’t help but feel the punch of a big mistake, deep in the pit of my gut. Can I still fly under the radar when the Friday-night lights beam?