BETWEEN SIXTH AND SEVENTH PERIOD, I PASS BY ONE of the student-government lists I taped between rows of lockers. A flash of red catches my eye, and I glance up at it. Somebody has taken a pen to Olivia's name. Now it reads: OLIVIA SCOTT SUCKS DICKKKK!!
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
Halfway down the hall, I realize I should have taken that list down, or at least scratched out the graffiti. Why didn't it occur to me to do that? God, I'm the worst friend.
I stop at my locker, loosing a sigh. The way Olivia bounces from guy to guy these days, I can't get away from references to her sex life. It's wearing on me—the graffiti, all the talk in the halls, the muttered conversations I overhear in class.
This stuff doesn't happen in a vacuum—if you sleep around, people think about you differently. Maybe it's shitty, but that's the way things work, and Olivia knows it as well as I do. I've never spoken up. It's not like I condone her sleeping around, and insults have always seemed to roll off her back, so why should I bother interfering?
Still, I have a sneaking feeling that it makes me a terrible person not to stick up for her. A lot of the time, I worry that I am a terrible person and just haven't had it confirmed yet. After all, how are you supposed to know for sure? Who's going to tell you? Who's going to be the one to break the news?
I scoop up my Young Environmentalists brochures and continue down the hall. Why are all my friends going off the rails lately? Juniper has the alcohol tolerance of a five-year-old, but last Saturday she shotgunned three beers in a row for no apparent reason and ended up wasted. Olivia guessed it was because Thomas Fallon kept hitting on her and she was getting annoyed, but I think if Juni wanted some guy to leave her alone, she'd tell him.
She'd tell us if something was wrong, right?
Maybe it's good that she's loosening up, making mistakes. That's how you learn, isn't it, through mistakes? Maybe Juni's tired of doing everything right.
Heading back down the hall, I pass Andrea Silverstein. A couple of guys beside me wait until she's gone and then start snickering about the streak of green dye at the front of her hair.
As always, I feel like I should tell them to stop. But—as always—the idea of speaking up paralyzes me, like, if I say a word, their laughter might turn on me. One time, back in sixth grade, I got caught texting in class, and Ms. Rollins read it aloud. Zomg Eddie is so cute, I'd texted to Olivia. I want us to exchange numbers and it'll be super romantic and perfect XD
People lost their minds laughing. I thought I was going to pop from shame, but Juniper stood up for me. I remember that day like quartz, hard and clear: November, five years ago now. "Grow up," Juniper had said to the other kids. "Would you want her to laugh at you?"
I'd never spoken to Juniper in my life, but she found me after class and asked me to sit with her and Olivia at lunch. I was hideously grateful, feeling so lucky to be with the two of them. They weren't just smart—they were pretty, too, with their straight, perfect hair, their clear skin. I was the kid with headgear for my braces and medication for my acne. I remember how surprised I was that they laughed at my jokes, that they would even look at me, let alone talk to me. I remember adopting their mannerisms, terrified that they'd let me go as quickly as they'd picked me up. I remember easing in, finding my niche with them, sleepovers and movie nights.
I picture a twelve-year-old Juniper swinging a tennis racket around in figure eights one summer afternoon, her hair whirling out in a blond pinwheel. She lost her grip, and the racket spun over our heads and into the lake with a miserable splash. We laughed until our stomachs ached. It was easy back then.
I hurry into the stairwell and leap up the steps two by two. My mind wanders back to the words scribbled beside Olivia's name, and I can't help but think, At least people want to sleep with Liv. I bet nobody would give me the attention she gets even if I hung a neon OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign on my back. Or on other regions.
It's not like I'm jealous. I went out with the hottest guy at Paloma High for thirteen months. So what if he dumped me and hardly even gave me a reason?
Okay. I am maybe a tad jealous.
He started to tell me why, the day we broke up. He said, "You can't compare …" before cutting himself off, falling back on some empty-sounding apology. I didn't push it—I was busy crying—but now I wish I'd demanded that he finish the sentence. You can't compare—you can't compare—you can't compare, you can't, you can't— Lucas's words play on a loop in my mind. I can't compare to what?
There's only so much you can discuss a topic before everyone hates you a little when you bring it up. For two months, I haven't said a word, but God, it still hurts to see his face. Tall, burly, impeccably dressed Lucas. I remember the warmth of his bear-hug arms, the mint taste of his kisses—everything, down to the texture of his curly hair. I remember the first time he showed me his most personal possession, the journal filled with lists. To-do lists. Bucket lists. Lists of things he's grateful for, people he loves, and people he wants to get to know. I wonder if I'm still on any of those pages. I used to have my own page: Reasons Claire Amazes Me.
Now I'm just another face in the halls to check off the Vague Acquaintances list. Lucas could find some rando off the street and be their new best friend within five minutes; he is the people person to end all people persons. He collects people like some people collect coins, indiscriminately and greedily. Now I'm lost deep in his catalog, undeserving of any distinction.
I exit the stairwell on the third floor, my teeth buried in my bottom lip. Some guy calls over my head. His friend, leaning on the lockers, unleashes a braying laugh right in my ear, and I let out a measured breath. Ignoring the boys in this school is impossible. They clumsily hit on my friends every hour of the day, and they're so loud in class, making dumb jokes everyone laughs at anyway. Also, of course, the football team, which has never done close to as well as the girls' tennis team, gets everybody's attention just because. Part of me feels like, hello, of course I'm fixated on a boy. Everything is.
I stride into calculus class. Taking my seat in the front row, I wonder: is it like this for all girls, or am I just pathetic?
I don't understand. I still need to know why it ended and what it is I can't compare to.
"ALL RIGHT," MR. ANDREWS SAYS ONCE THE BELL rings. He sweeps down the aisles, dealing out bright green papers. "Questionnaires. Don't put your names on them." He stops back at the front of the room and folds his arms. His eyes glint behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
"We've been asked to give these to our fifth-period classes. I know they're anonymous, but take them seriously," he says. "They're about the, you know, Monday's assembly." He clears his throat, his cheeks coloring.
I can't help wondering if it's Andrews. He's only a couple of years out of college, and single, and way too intense. I bet lots of people think it's him. Since the assembly, I keep looking at teachers with critical eyes, wondering. Could they be interested in someone our age? Is this one hiding anything? How about that one?
Yesterday, the letter Turner promised arrived at my house. My parents were horrified. They even brought up the possibility of withdrawing me from school until they catch whoever it is. As if that were an option. Without me, tennis would collapse. And student government. And Young Environmentalists.
Sighing, I look down the question sheet. Three questions and lots of blank space.
Have you ever been romantically approached or sexually propositioned by any teacher or staff member at Paloma High School? Explain.
Have you ever experienced sexual harassment or unprofessional behavior (hugs, unwanted shoulder touching, etc.) by any teacher or staff member at Paloma High School? Explain.
Do you have any information about the identity of any party who may be involved in an illicit relationship?
I scribble no under every question and flip the page over. I bet at least one person at this school will write down some stupid joke as an answer.
When the last bell rings at 3:30, the hall echoes with end-of-day noise. Kids in the halls jostle one another, giving exaggerated hugs and pointedly touching shoulders, laughing about "unprofessional behavior." I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. It might be a joke to them, but there's some teacher whose career might get ruined over this, and some kid who's probably being manipulated. What if the kid needs years of therapy or something? Yeah, hilarious.
I follow the crowd receding down the sun-drenched hall. The light glares off the walls plastered with neon flyers and posters: advertisements for clubs, maybe fifty percent of them mine. I stop off at my locker to stow my chemistry textbook, and as the lock clicks back into place, a cheery voice says, "Claire, hey!"
Sweat springs to my palms. I don't need to look to know it's him.
I turn to find him standing selfishly close. Doesn't he know I can't breathe in this sort of proximity? His closeness fills my head with sickly sweet yearning.
He looks better than ever these days, his loose, curly hair bouncing over his high forehead, his left ear pierced. The sweater stretching across his square shoulders has some fancy-looking logo, and a white collared shirt peeks up above its neck, framing the inside tips of his prominent collarbones.
Looking up into his eyes, I catch a brief camera flash of memory—the look he used to give me before he kissed me. That look rang with warmth, so filled with contentment that every frantic thought in my head stilled. I could lose every shred of anxious energy in the knowledge that we were each other's.
Does Lucas remember anything like that? Does he miss anything about me?
"Hi," I say, with one thought on loop: Act normal. I've gotten better at it—I measure my progress against my mental state last summer. Sometimes I think it's another girl's memories I'm peeking into, some miserable stranger with wild eyes and a surfeit of tears.
I try a smile as the current shuffles us toward the door. "What's up?"
"I got in a car accident earlier!" he says with so much enthusiasm, he might as well have said he adopted a kitten.
"What? Are you okay? What happened?"
"It was great. I value life so much more now."
I laugh, but it sounds weak. I watch his hands as he pushes his hair back from his forehead. I ache to trace the chunky silver ring on his pinky finger. He still wears half the money he makes, trading it in for appearance. He buys leather shoes and designer jeans, rich felt coats and flashy sunglasses, T-shirts that used to feel like tissue between my fingers. At home, his room is littered with treasures, too: the newest MacBook Pro and bulky, noise-canceling headphones. In his small, shabby house, Lucas's acquisitions glare like diamonds.
As we clank through the doors, someone calls, "McCallum!" I flinch back just in time—good to see I still have my bro-dodging reflexes. Lucas's teammates swoop down on him from the green. One wiry kid jumps onto Lucas's back, hollering something about weight lifting. Another buries both his hands in Lucas's hair, ruffling it until it resembles a tumbleweed. I swear, the swim team has the gayest straight boys in the world.
"Whoa, whoa, unprofessional behavior," says Herman, the one with the long hair. He wrestles off the guy on Lucas's back. "Careful, or they're gonna call another assembly."
"I'll see you around," I say to Lucas, but his only response is a hasty wave as he disentangles himself from his friends. The wordless dismissal stings like a nettle, and I hold my head higher as I stalk down the green.
When I reach my car, I stow my backpack and pull out my gym bag, trying to shake off the sight of him. It clings stubbornly. When I blink, I see him printed in the dark.
Every couple of weeks, Lucas springs himself on me like this, and for the rest of the day, sometimes longer, he's all I can think about. When he dumped me, he asked, "Can we still be friends?" and like an idiot, I said, "Sure." So now I have to grin and bear it every time he treats me with this impersonal brand of friendliness.
As I head back toward the green for the Young Environmentalists meeting, my eyes fix on Juni's car, which sits in a far corner of the junior lot. Behind the windshield, Olivia props up her feet on the dashboard. Juni's eyebrows are drawn together. Is she explaining why she blew up at lunch earlier?
I can't remember seeing Juniper so stressed so often. Usually, nothing fazes her, gets through her seemingly impervious layer of levelheadedness. But I could swear, she looks an inch from tears.
For a moment, I consider veering their way, to figure out what's wrong once and for all. But then I remember Juni's voice echoing through the bathroom door—"I need some time."
Did she need time? Or did she simply want a pair of ears that wasn't mine?
I force myself not to be curious. If she wanted to, she'd tell me what's wrong.
I duck my head, my cheeks aflame. I hurry away from the car and down the green.