“Okay, check this.” Oliver merges onto the highway. “Rock salt.”
“Rock salt,” I repeat.
“We’ll use it to write our class year in huge numbers on the football field.” He holds up a hand toward my face. “Hear me out before you start squawking.” Since I am, in fact, poised to squawk, the only thing I can do is clamp my mouth shut. “No one will be able to tell at first. The field will look exactly the same as it always has, but then the salt will slowly kill the grass and the numbers will gradually appear. Like magic.”
“Magic.”
“Magic!” Oliver does a sparkle thing with his hands, as if he’s revealing a card trick. “Best of all, no animals!”
I smile because he’s so goofy, but of course I still don’t approve. However, I pretend to consider it. “It does seem like a reasonable prank, because you’re not really harming anything.”
“Exactly! Just the grass!”
“And grass will grow back sometime, right? It’s not like it needs to be on the field permanently or anything.”
Oliver grins, triumphant. “Finally, something the relentless June Rafferty will approve!”
“Yeah.” I nod, still pretending. “I mean, it’s just a football field. Only the stage upon which plays a myriad of high school dramas that will fade into obscurity the minute we all disappear…much like the grass under your salt.”
Oliver deflates. “You don’t actually approve, do you?”
“Nope.”
“And you’re taking a new song.”
“Yep.”
“You’re the worst,” he tells me.
“You’re going to be hearing a lot more of the Clash.”
“Fine,” Oliver says. “Back to the drawing board.”
I’m almost done with my sandwich when I ask it. “Where’s Itch?” It’s a reasonable question, since he’s been sitting with us for the past few weeks.
Darbs’s soda pauses halfway between the table and her mouth. “I don’t know.” Her gaze slides to Lily.
“What?” I ask. “Lily, I saw that. What was that? What?”
“Calm down,” Darbs says. “You weren’t here yesterday. You were off with the pom-poms again. Itch can do the same thing. He can have lunch elsewhere.”
I look around the cafeteria. No Itch at any table that I can see. “Where else would he be?”
Lily’s the one who tells me. “He’s eating in the art room.”
“The art room? Itch doesn’t do art. Is he being weird about me again? I thought we were over that. We’ve been fine. Haven’t we seemed fine?…What?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with you,” Darbs says in an overly gentle tone.
“Of course it does. Why else would he be in the art room?”
“Because that’s where Zoe eats,” Lily tells me.
“Zoe Smith? What does Zoe Smith have to do with…oh.” The synapses suddenly connect. “Itch likes Zoe.”
“Zoe likes him back,” Darbs says helpfully, and Lily elbows her. “What?”
“It’s cool,” I tell them. “Really, it’s totally fine.”
And it is. Or at least it should be. Just like I told Oliver, none of this really matters anyway. In the grand scheme of life, Itch is just some guy I dated for a little while in high school. A bump in the road.
Still, it’s inordinately annoying when your bump is with another bump so soon after the road got paved.
Or something like that.
“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?” Oliver asks me.
“Nothing,” I say on autopilot, because I’m busy trying to add my latest win to our shared playlist. (Thanks, blog post about teenage conformity contributing to limitations in success!)
“Aren’t you going to at least bake him cookies or something?”
Oh hell. He’s talking about Itch. I still haven’t told Oliver that we broke up, and the longer it takes, the weirder it’ll be to mention it.
“Uh, yeah. I guess so. Cookies. That’s great.” Hell hell hell. “What are you guys doing?”
“I was hoping you’d have a brilliant idea. Maybe something a little unique.”
“Flowers?”
“Call me crazy,” says Oliver, “but I sort of thought that you, with your genius brain, might come up with something slightly more original than flowers.”
“Cookies shaped like flowers?”
“You suck,” says Oliver, but he laughs.
I don’t laugh. I’m bugged. Seriously bugged. Worst of all, it’s not just that I’m continuing this stupid lie-by-omission. It’s that I don’t want to come up with a cutesy gift for cutesy Oliver to give to cutesy Ainsley on Valentine’s Day.
Jeez.
Get a life.
I bring it up to Darbs later in the day. “Are you doing anything for Valentine’s Day? Like with Ethan or something?”
“Gross, no.” She picks through the wads of paper crammed in her locker.
“Hey, I don’t know. You think stupid prom is so romantic.”
“Yeah, because you can smuggle in beer. Make a date out of it. Valentine’s Day isn’t even a real holiday. It’s made up by people who sell cards.”
She’s got a point.
Suddenly, Theo is between us, leaning against the lockers and looking down at Darbs. “I got a fake ID,” he tells her. “I can hook you up with beer for Valentine’s Day.”
Darbs gives him the once-over. “In exchange for what?”
“A blow job.”
Seriously, a nuclear bomb is more subtle than Theo.
“I’d rather be boiled in hot oil,” Darbs tells him. “Or die from a thousand salted paper cuts.”
“Why not?” He points at me. “She gives road head every day.”
“I do not!” I explode, furious and mortified. “And do you have any idea what an epic douche you are?”
“Whatever.” Theo stays focused on Darbs. “Come on, you’ll do anyone. Boys. Girls. Everyone’s your type. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Darbs and I both glare at him. “Actually, I only have one type,” Darbs says. “Human. And you don’t qualify.”
She slams her locker door shut and starts down the hall. I’m about to follow when Theo grabs me by the shoulder. “Hafferty.”
I yank away. “What do you want?”
“Stop cock blocking me, already.”
I laugh out loud. “I could roll a red carpet out for you, and Darbs still wouldn’t be into it.”
“Not her,” says Theo. “Oliver.”
I momentarily wonder if Theo has lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just grass.” Theo frowns down at me. “But of course you say no, because you’re a loser killjoy, and he listens. Back off already. No one’s buying the ‘now I’m cool’ act. Let us have some fun.” He glowers at me before stomping away.
Maybe I should be upset about the slam, but instead, I zero in on the part that seemed like a compliment. Like a good thing. It was a reminder: Oliver listens to me.
The next day, I’m in physics. Class started ten minutes ago and Oliver still hasn’t shown up. I wouldn’t think twice about it except he drove me to school this morning and never said anything about missing class. Also, Ainsley stopped by my desk on her way in to ask if I’ve seen him.
No idea.
I’m taking notes on rotational inertia when a hesitant underclassman opens the door. As he walks to the teacher’s desk, I realize why he’s familiar. It’s because he’s the smallest sophomore on the football team, the one who once—very temporarily—sported the silhouette of a penis and balls on his head, thanks to Theo Nizzola.
He says something quietly to Mrs. Nelson and they both look at me. Mrs. Nelson crooks her finger for me to approach her desk and I comply, knowing the rest of the class is wondering what I did wrong. “Go down to the office,” she says.
“Why?”
The sophomore shrugs. “They said they needed your information. I think some files got corrupted in the school computer or something.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, and he nods before padding from the room.
“Should I take my stuff?” I ask Mrs. Nelson, but she’s already at the board, writing about triple integrals in her big, loopy scrawl, so I make an executive decision and pack everything up. Better safe than sorry. I head out, taking care to pull the physics door closed behind me, and turn to go down the hallway….
Oliver is standing right in front of me.
I jump. “What the hell!” I say out loud, and then remember we’re right outside a classroom. I bring my voice down to a stage whisper. “What are you doing here?” Oliver opens his mouth but I cut off whatever he’s about to say. “Actually, tell me later. I got called to the office.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. Someone came in and—”
“That was me. He did that for me. The office doesn’t need you.”
I gape at Oliver. “You really are the King of Everything.”
But Oliver doesn’t seem amused. In fact, he looks pissed. “I just did something that may surprise you,” he tells me. “Three guesses. Go.”
This is the weirdest thing ever, Oliver busting me out of class to angry-quiz me in the hall. Since I don’t have the faintest clue what he might have done, I toss out something facetious. “Got an A on a new recipe in family sciences class?”
“Wrong,” says Oliver. “And whatever your next two guesses are, they will also be wrong, so I’ll go ahead and tell you. I punched Itch in the mouth.”
“What?” My backpack hits the floor. “Why?”
“It’s kind of a funny story.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Now I’m pissed, too. What kind of Neanderthal goes around hitting people?
“I was heading to my locker to get my physics book, minding my own business, when guess what I saw in the stairwell?”
“I think we already established that you’re not interested in my guesses,” I tell him, setting my fists on my hips.
“Good point,” says Oliver. “I saw Adam ‘Itch’ Markovich rounding first base with Zoe Smith.”
It takes me a second to put the pieces together. My ex-boyfriend making out in our ex-make-out place with his new girlfriend. Utterly rude. But why did Oliver…
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Of their own accord, my hands have flown to my face to cover my mouth. “Oliver, I—”
“I was furious,” Oliver continues. “Furious on behalf of my very good friend June Rafferty, one of my best friends, the one with whom I made a solemn fist-bump promise to always speak the truth, the one whom I don’t want to see get hurt. That is why I followed Itch to study hall, and why I punched him in the mouth. Because he was cheating on my very good, very honest friend.”
“Oliver…” I try again, except I don’t know how to follow up after I’ve said his name. Words have completely escaped me.
“Itch was a little confused about why I was hitting him,” says Oliver. “He didn’t try to punch me back or even defend himself.”
“What happened?” I whisper from behind my fingers.
“He said, ‘Dude, what the hell?’ and then he wiped the blood from his mouth and looked at it like he was shocked. And I realized that he was, in fact, shocked. So I explained to him why I had felt the need to defend your honor.”
“I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing else to say.
“And then I find out there is no honor to defend, that you and Itch are broken up, that you broke up weeks ago and never happened to mention it to me even though we spend every morning together. Even though only yesterday—yesterday—I asked what you and Itch were doing for Valentine’s Day, and instead of telling me the truth, you pretended you were still a couple.”
“Oliver.” I take a step toward him, but he pulls back.
“Don’t,” he says. “You can’t make this better with big words or flowery speeches. Maybe you think I’m this big, stupid jock who always runs around punching people—”
“I don’t think that, I swear!”
“—but just for the record, I’ve never hit someone unless it was during a football play. Now, because of you, I’m a guy who punches people.” He glares at me and I’m scared by what I’ve done to him, by his anger. “Thanks for that, June. Thanks a lot.”
Oliver whirls and stalks away down the hall. I watch him go, the fear blossoming, expanding inside me. It’s not that I’m afraid he’ll hurt me. I’m terrified that I have hurt him in some way that can never be healed.
I don’t go back to physics. Instead, I wait by study hall until the bell rings and students pour out of the classroom. When Itch sees me, he turns and walks in the opposite direction, so I have to run to catch up with him.
“Itch, please.” I’m practically jogging beside him. “I’m sorry Oliver hit you.”
He jerks to a halt and narrows his eyes at me. “Oliver is already sorry that Oliver hit me. Oliver told me so about a hundred times, and then Oliver insisted on buying me several cold sodas to hold against the place where Oliver’s fist connected with my mouth.” I zero in on Itch’s lower lip. It’s swollen but not too bad. I feel a tiny bit better. After all, I’ve seen Oliver throw a football. He has a hell of an arm. There’s no way he put full effort into that swing.
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Itch demanded. “Why pretend we were still dating? You’re the one who broke up with me, so what the hell is your problem?”
The only thing I can say is 100 percent true: “I don’t know.”
For a while, Itch stares down at me without speaking. He finally says, “Actually, I don’t really care what your problem is. Your problem is not my problem. Not anymore.”
And for the second time in one day, I’m left standing in a hallway while a boy walks away from me.