I owe you an apology.
I am still pissed you abandoned me.
I’m serious. I never ask you about Jake.
Oh.
So what’s happening with Jake?
Are we doing this? I thought...
I wait while the bubble showing that Sophia’s typing bounces at the bottom of the screen.
I didn’t know how to bring him up because of... before.
I fire off a series of one-line texts. I know. I haven’t been fair to you. He didn’t like me back. Nothing happened. I live halfway across the country. I need to get over myself.
You are pretty self-centered.
So. Jake?
He’s awesome.
My chest tightens, like it’s too full. It’s because I’m happy for her, I tell myself. My screen fills with details of their latest date and how he kisses and basically how perfect life is. I’m not jealous. I won’t be jealous of Sophia. Her happiness leaps through the screen and it strikes me again what a horrible friend I’ve been for making her think she couldn’t talk to me about him.
I’m glad you’re happy. He sounds perfect for you.
The bubble bounces on the screen, goes silent, then bounces again, like she keeps changing her mind about what she wants to say. Finally the message comes through.
And what’s your boy situation?
I decide to leave out the Evan and Mike situation and jump straight to my biggest problem.
I convinced Dad to let me have a party Friday and I want to invite Blake.
But you haven’t talked to him.
Correctamundo.
You need to step up your game. What have you been wearing?
I look down at my standard uniform of jeans and a sweater.
Ball gowns.
Maybe try a dress?
It’s winter.
You have cute boots. I packed them myself.
The boots in question peek at me from the back of my closet, where they’ve sat since I unpacked.
Okay, boots. What else?
Skinny jeans.
Ugh.
You’re not supposed to wear boyfriend jeans unless you actually have a boyfriend.
There’s incentive. Can I still wear a sweater?
Anything but that holey knit thing you love.
I pick at the hole on Old Faithful’s sleeve. It’s not so bad.
Cally.
Fine.
I want a picture before you leave.
Okay mom.
There’s another pause. I don’t throw that phrase around lightly, and I want Sophia to know I’m grateful for her help. There are some things Dad just can’t do.
Love you.
xoxo.
***
Tuesday I squeeze into a pair of dark skinny jeans—I own several pairs thanks to Sophia, but I never wear them—and toss Old Faithful, my favorite sweater, on the floor of the closet. “I’ll see you after school.” Smoothing the aqua fabric of a Sophia-inspired sweater over my belly, I contemplate the boots. Sophia’s always going on and on about fashion over comfort, but my sneakers are beyond comfy. “Fine.” I huff as I carry the boots to my bed and yank them up to my knees.
Okay, these are more cushiony than I remember. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
Dad’s waiting for me downstairs. “You look nice. What’s the occasion?”
I need to catch myself a man! “Nothing. Just thought Old Faithful could use a break.” I pour my cereal and slide into a chair at the table. “So you’re sure you’re okay with me having a party?”
He tilts his head. “Having second thoughts?”
I sometimes forget how well he knows me. “No, I just...” This is when it’d be really helpful if Mom were here. “Remember Blake from Thanksgiving?”
“How could I forget? Have you heard from him?”
I brace myself. I haven’t told Dad that Blake goes to my school because if I did, then it’d feel more... I don’t know... real. “He goes to my school.”
Dad chokes, spraying coffee across his notebook and all over the counter. He presses a towel against the pages, then wipes his mouth.
“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction.”
“You don’t seem happy about this.”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“Ahh.”
“And I want to invite him to the party.”
He gives my outfit a once-over and raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, I have ulterior motives.”
He crosses the room and plants a kiss on my forehead. “You look great. And as your father, I’m grateful that whatever you have planned doesn’t require skimpier clothing.” He tousles the back of my head. “Good luck.”
I don’t feel lucky at the end of lunch. My feet move slower than normal and the slice of pizza I ate is churning in my stomach. My hand slips on the doorknob to English class, so I wipe my hand on my jeans, adjust the hem of my sweater, and try again.
He’s already sitting at his desk. I duck my head and make my way to my row, but it’s impossible not to stare at him. I slide into my seat and risk what I hope is a subtle glance.
My stomach flips.
He’s staring back at me.
My legs go all wobbly just thinking about the chance at time alone with him.
But first I have to figure out how to get him to A) talk to me, and B) come to my party. Does he still have feelings for me? I believe he really liked me over Thanksgiving, and that doesn’t just go away, right? I peek at him again.
He’s still looking.
Heat flushes through me and I tug at the neck of my sweater.
Ms. Simpson rises from her desk and faces the whiteboard, marker in hand, and writes the word EXPERIENCE in large letters.
Several kids snicker, but I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about that kind of experience. At least I hope not. I open my notebook to a fresh page and scribble it across the top, then rest my head on my fist to stop myself from looking at Blake. At the moment, ninety-nine percent of my experience has been with him and I’m sure he can feel the heat rising off my body from the next row.
Ms. Simpson faces us, hands clasped against her belly. “Our experiences make us who we are. Good, bad... each thing that happens to us builds upon the last thing, forming the way we think, how we react, and ultimately, who we become.”
“Woah, that’s deep,” says a boy from the back of the room.
She shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. “I minored in psychology. Anyway, right now, the things in your life feel massive. Each slight is monumental. A pleasant surprise can make you feel higher than a kite.”
More snickers. “Or as high as Durbin.”
I turn to see Luke shove Blake in the arm.
“Boys, quiet. I’m trying to make a point.”
They settle down and she paces the length of the board. “Over the next month we’ll be studying memoirs, an account of one’s personal life and experiences, also known as an autobiography. They’re usually written as a narrative—like a novel—but are entirely true.”
A girl across the room raises her hand. “Like the Diary of Anne Frank?”
Ms. Simpson nods. “Yes, exactly. You don’t have to be famous to write a memoir. All it takes is an interesting story.”
“Then how did Bieber get one published?”
She laughs. “Money does have its advantages.”
“Then I’m screwed.”
I barely heard it over the laughter, but I still hear Blake’s voice in my dreams and I swear that was him who said it. I risk a glance at him. He’s staring at his desk, the light mood of the class unable to penetrate the barrier that seems to have gone up around him.
Ms. Simpson clears her throat. “Your first assignment is to read a couple passages from well-written memoirs. I’ll email the links to you by the end of the day. Then you’ll write your own.”
“A freaking memoir?”
“An essay. Five hundred words on the best day of your life. Due at the beginning of class on Monday.”
Easy. The first time I nailed the inverted iron cross. How I’m gonna put that in five hundred words, though, I don’t know.
“We’ll follow that up with the worst day, the most memorable, then end this unit with the event that most changed your life.”
Memories of Mom rush through me like a tsunami, leaving me gasping for breath. Usually I have a minute to prepare myself—Dressing rooms are the worst. Do you know how many kids call for their mom in there?—but this catches me off-guard.
“What if the most memorable is also the best?” the girl behind me asks.
“That’s why I’m telling you all four assignments now. Take some time to reflect on your topics.”
Worst Day.
Most Memorable.
Event That Changed My Life.
Mom. Mom. Mom.
Ms. Simpson begins reading aloud from a book on her desk and my head sinks lower down my arm. I can’t write about her for all three, but nothing else compares. I could include the move here, but it feels weak in comparison.
When the bell rings I’m no closer to figuring out my topics and the excitement I felt earlier about Blake has deflated like a limp balloon. Cute outfit or not, I’m no longer in the mood to chase him down.
I step into the hallway, eyes on the ground.
“You okay?”
My heart flips. His voice hasn’t been this close since—
“Cally?”
I meet Blake’s blue eyes and everything around us drops away.
He holds my gaze for a moment... two... then his brow furrows.
A strong case of word vomit is coming, but all the things I’ve wanted to say get caught in my throat.
“You seemed upset when Ms. Simpson talked about the assignment. I figured you were thinking about your mom.”
He was watching me? My voice comes out small. “You remember that?”
His voice is equally soft. “I remember everything.”
My insides go all gooey and I start to step toward him, but a rush of anger stops me. “Then why have you gone all Jekyll and Hyde on me?”
He rubs his hand over his face, then up through the hair that hangs near his eyes. “What does it matter now? You’re all tight with the Snow Bitches.”
“Wait, people actually call them that?”
“I do.”
See! We’re meant to be together!
“The first time I saw you Brianna dragged you away. You haven’t said anything to me since then so I figured you know the truth about me and that was that.”
“So you’re accusing me of being judgmental—which I’m not—when really you’re the one who’s judging me.”
His lips tighten and I’m distracted by the line of his jaw. It seems like a dream that my lips once trailed over—
He waves a hand in front of my face, scowling. I seem to be the only one affected by our proximity. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not upset.”
“But just about my mom. Not you or the fact that you act like we never met.” I lower my voice as hurt and anger roll over me. “That nothing happened between us.”
His face pales and his jaw clenches. “Do we have to do this now?”
I cross my arms over my chest to keep myself from running my fingers through his hair and shaking his head until he says something that makes sense. “Come to my party.” The words escape before I can think about it.
He cocks his head. “What?”
I wave my hand at the kids around us. “I don’t want to do this where everyone can watch. Brianna convinced me to have a party Friday—” more like forced, but whatever, “—and I thought maybe, if you’re not busy...” I trail off. Heat flushes my cheeks and I can’t meet his eyes. This is why I don’t go on dates. THIS—asking boys out—is mortifying.
His finger touches my cheek and I startle. He’s leaning close, his face inches from mine. “I’d love to.”
The warning bell rings and we jerk apart. He hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that melts my heart. “Until then.”
I float to my next class, not quite sure that actually happened. I text Sophia as I slide into my seat. Party invitation accepted.
Emotional whiplash has completely drained me. It seems like he’s still interested, but has he been reliving our time together the way I have? Sometimes I can still feel his arms around me, can taste him on my lips, but I can’t tell if he’s affected the same way.
As I replay our conversation in the hall, one thing keeps getting stuck: I figured you know the truth about me.
What is he hiding?