Day Two of our painfully early, painfully awkward punishment.
Kahn has us scrubbing lockers. Well, first he has us listen to an excruciating lecture on proper locker-scrubbing technique (it turns out spray paint comes off with non-acetone nail-polish remover, but you have to wipe that off with soapy water or it’ll take the paint off the lockers). Then, he has us scrubbing lockers. Hope grabs a bucket and gets right to it. She’s still not talking, but she’s not stomping, either. Sometimes I think about saying something. And by sometimes, I mean every five minutes because this is so. Freaking. Awkward. I’m serious. This silence has hands and they’re choking me.
I dunk my rag in the soapy water and think about saying, “Man, this sucks.” But I don’t.
Hope scrubs at a four-letter word, and I contemplate telling her how glad I am that they never got around to releasing the crickets. Those would have been a beast to track down. I don’t say any of that, either.
When I go to rinse my rag, I decide I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to say something. Anything. Nothing could be worse than this silence.
I open my mouth. Give myself a second to clear my throat. And then another second. The problem is, I keep thinking about what I’ll say. And then I practice it in my head. Approximately 2,367 times. And once you’ve said something in your head 2,367 times, it doesn’t sound cool anymore. Hell, it doesn’t even sound like words anymore. And then I’m back to clearing my throat, trying to think of something else.
Maybe I should wait until she turns around. Yeah, that’s it. If she turns, it’s a sign that I should say something. So, I wait. And I wait. And then I wait a little more. I mean, she’ll have to turn eventually, right? But she doesn’t.
Well, if she’s not going to turn on her own, maybe I could do something to help her along. I let my rag fall into the water with a splash that echoes down the empty hallway. She flinches. My heart forgets to beat. Her shoulders start to twist around! And . . . it’s just so she can reach the next locker better.
I know it doesn’t really mean anything. That I could still say something. But I go back to scrubbing lockers, because I don’t have the guts.
Day Three
Is even worse.
We have to pick up all the penis confetti in Vice Principal Kahn’s office. By hand. I asked if we could have a vacuum or broom or something, and was told that this way is better because it builds character.
Neither of us says anything today. With Kahn hovering over us, and the fear that the slightest misstep could trigger a lecture, there’s no way we’re risking it. At one point, though, he blows his nose, and it sounds like a foghorn, and we can’t help but smile at each other.
Day Four
We’re peeling an ocean of Post-its off the outside of the administrative suite. I’m standing on a ladder and ripping off the highest ones, while Hope works on the bottom ones. It’s really pretty cool looking when you stare at it from a distance. Two whole walls blanketed in bright, bright, bright Post-its spelling out SENIORS, with a different font color and background color for each letter. It almost looks like pop art. I wrench off a row of Post-its in rapid succession. It would be easier to appreciate their artistic potential if it wasn’t 6:15 in the morning.
I peek down at Hope to see how she’s doing, and suddenly her face is tilted up, looking back at mine, and I whip my head back to my Post-its like, No, I wasn’t looking at you. I’d never even dream of looking at you, like ever. Especially not right now when you’re reaching for a Post-it, and it’s making your shirt pull away from your jeans, and there are entire square inches of skin showing. And then it gets worse—there are back dimples. I wait for something to happen, like me falling off this ladder. But I’m good. No weird butterflies or sweaty palms. No heart palpitations. See? I can be around her and be normal. I don’t have to totally freak out and make an ass out of myself. I mean, yes, there was that thing with our eyes in the parking lot when I was talking to Jayla, but I’m counting that as an anomaly. Because back dimples, well, that’s about the highest form of temptation, right?
Learning to be around her as friends and only friends—it just takes practice is all. It’s like my brain has formed all these little “I love Hope!” connections, and now I have to rewire everything so that my brain knows I love Jayla, not Hope. And honestly, I don’t know if I ever loved her. Can you really love someone who you put on a pedestal? It’s different with Jayla. Real. Reciprocated. So, I just have to keep practicing being around Hope so I can develop an immunity. It’s kind of like she’s a virus.
Hope shifts, and the back dimples disappear. I start on another column of Post-its. They keep my hands busy, but my mind can roam anywhere it wants, which is maybe or maybe not a good thing. Isn’t this what I wanted? To be alone with her? So why can’t I make something happen?
I’m at the part where I sigh and give up for the day. Except this time I don’t. I don’t know what makes this moment different, but before I can second-guess myself, I hear my voice say, “Man, it sucks to be up this early in the morning. I could really use some caffeine.”
Holy shit, I did it. I want to clap my hand over my mouth and shove all the words back in, but it’s too late for that. All I can do now is watch her and see how she responds. If she responds.
Hope squints up at me. She does this nodding/shrugging thing, and says, “Yeah.” Then she goes back to her Post-its.
Well, that went great.
You’d think the silence wouldn’t be so bad now that I’ve punctured it, but it swells against me like it’s going to sweep me off my ladder and out the north lot doors. I keep pulling Post-its, and she keeps pulling Post-its, and I’m thinking there’s going to be silence for the rest of our shift when:
“Ow!”
The sharpness in her voice startles me, but thankfully it’s not a fall-off-your-ladder level of startle. She’s hunched over, inspecting one of her fingers.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, paper cut,” she says. And then it’s almost like she’s embarrassed about the intensity of her reaction because she hurries to add, “But, like, the super deep kind where you can see both sides of your skin around it.”
“Yikes.” Yikes? Did I really think it was a good idea to say yikes? Kill me now.
She puts her finger in her mouth and sucks on it, and I have to turn away because it’s kind of sexy. Her putting on socks would be kind of sexy.
Okay, so immunity to back dimples: check. Immunity to finger sucking: still pending.
I hop down off the ladder. “Is it bleeding?”
I reach for her hand, but her face has gone tight. “It’s fine.”
“Do you want me to see if the office has Band-Aids or something?”
“I said I’m fine, okay?” Then she flips her hair over her shoulder like it’s a shield against my weirdness.
Okay, cool. I offer to do something nice for you and you act like I’m some kind of creeper who asked if I could have your toenail clippings. That’s just awesome. It’s like I can’t even approach normal human decency without her thinking I’m about to go all “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.” And you know what? I’m not going to let it slide this time.
“Hope,” I say. Period, not question mark.
“Yes?”
And she’s turning and wincing and shoulder-hunching like, Here it comes, he’s about to do it again. And I’m so dang frustrated that before I can stop myself I say, “I don’t like you.”
Her head whips up. “What?”
Ooops. “I mean. I don’t mean I hate you or something, I just mean I don’t like you. I know I used to, and I know it made things weird, but it’s over now, so maybe things could be normal again.”
“Um, okay.” She shrugs, and I feel like the biggest tool in all of the southeastern United States.
Way to go, Spencer. Way to take the fragile friendship that was maybe forming and just step on its neck and kill it with your brutally honest confession of un-love.
The bad kind of silence is back, a brittle thing that suggests every baby step we’ve made over the past few days is about to splinter into a billion pieces. It’s so awful that when Hope gets up and heads in the direction of the girls’ bathroom a few minutes later, I’m relieved. My lungs feel like they can open completely again, and I take a few deep breaths.
A little while later, I hear her footsteps tapping their way back. She brushes against the ladder on her way to her spot, but I’m not going to look down. Not until I hear the unmistakable crack-hiss of a can of Coke being opened. Hope tilts back a can of Cherry Coke, and it looks mouthwateringly good. Then I notice there’s another can, resting on the first rung of my ladder. It’s a Coke Zero. Hope doesn’t drink Coke Zero.
I climb down and grab the can, waiting for her to stop me or say it’s hers or tackle me off the ladder or something. But she doesn’t. So, this is mine—I mean, she definitely bought this for me. The warmth of possibility rushes through me and a feeling of “Hey, maybe all isn’t lost after all.” I realize I’ve been staring sappily at my Coke can for entirely too long, so I hurry to say, “Thanks.”
Hope shrugs, but she doesn’t look pissed or anything. “Sure.”