Take Me There

  I walk right over the message and push open the door like it doesn’t even interest me. Like I didn’t even notice it. I’m too nervous to stop by Steve’s locker. I keep walking to Earth Science. Did he see it by now? He must have seen it by now. Unless he’s late. I wish I knew what he was thinking right this second.

  By second period, a lot of people are talking about it. I’m pretending to stretch in my squad on the gym floor, but I’m listening to Joni and Maria talking behind me.

  “It’s pathetic,” Maria seethes.

  “How desperate can a girl be?” Joni adds.

  “Which Steve do you think it is?”

  “The sophomore. Mamusu totally likes him.”

  “Totally.”

  “I bet she did it.”

  “He’s not even that cute, though.”

  “Well, it can’t be Steve Cannavale,” Joni says. “Unless . . .”

  Silence.

  I stretch my leg out to the side and grab my sneaker. I peek at them from between my leg and my arm.

  It’s obvious that they’re not only talking about me but they’re talking about me behind my back. Literally.

  I twist around. “What?”

  Maria is inspecting her nails. Joni gives me this look like she feels sorry for me.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you know?” Joni says.

  “About what?”

  “Did you write it?” Maria digs.

  I lean over to stretch again. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I insist.

  I try to look unaffected, but my heart is pounding so hard. Don’t I know about what? It can’t be the whole Gloria thing, because there’s nothing to know. It was just a kiss. Which means absolutely nothing. Steve and I have a history together and what do they have? Some sleazy groping in the hall? Big whoop.

  But then why was Joni looking at me like that? I could ask her, but I’m too afraid of what she might tell me. Maybe it’s just that she doesn’t think the message is going to work. But that’s only because she doesn’t know how it was with us.

  I stretch out my other leg. A group of three girls is whispering, all of them looking over at me. I know the look they have. It’s the look where you know something about someone but you don’t want to be the one to tell them what it is.

  So people are assuming it’s me.

  It’s official. I’m mortified.

  I just hope I’m mortified with a really sweet payoff.

  Question: Why can’t I just stay in bed, where it’s safe?

  We’re supposed to be working with our neighbor on this math worksheet. But I’m not paying attention to any of the problems. Because I’m trying to hear if anyone else is talking about what I wrote.

  “. . . You’re supposed to minus point A from point B.”

  “Let me see your calculator?”

  “You don’t need a calculator for twelve minus five.”

  “What is it then? . . .”

  “. . . Clements gave homework?”

  “Not in my world.”

  “Nice. . . .”

  “. . . Do it like how he did on the board.”

  “That is how he did it.”

  “Oh snap. . . .”

  It all sounds like normal conversation. But I keep listening just in case.

  Today Mr. Farrell is wearing his light blue shirt with the dark purple tie and navy pants. Someone needs to sit the man down and have a serious conversation about color coordination.

  I glance back at Nicole’s desk. I want to give her a look like, Get me out of here. Now.But she’s weaving through the desks up to the front. Then I hear her tell Mr. Farrell that her pencil ran out.

  “So you’d like to borrow another one?” he says.

  Okay. This is weird. Nicole knows I always have a whole row of mechanical pencils, plus sharpened ones, all lined up in my bag. And a pencil sharpener in my pencil case, which also has erasers and mini glitter pens. So why is she even up there? She always asks me for a pencil or my sharpener or whatever else she needs. Since when does she go to someone else? Especially a teacher? Plus, a few minutes ago she was totally zoning out, which she never does in math.

  I swear, between this and everything in gym and Steve avoiding me all day, I’m seriously angsting. At least, I think he’s avoiding me. I didn’t see him at any of our usual places. Even though it’s only third period. But whatever. We have lunch next. There’s no way he won’t want to make up by then.

  And maybe I’m just being paranoid about the people-talking-about-me thing, because I still don’t hear anything. All I hear is a group arguing about the answer to number four.

  “OD! Why you beastin’, son?”

  “That’s it. No more answers for Lemarr.”

  “You’re fired!”

  “Except you can’t be fired from school, genius.”

  That would be so cool. If the same rules applied to school as they do to jobs. I could really use a personal day. You can take personal days at work. Which would only be fair, since we’re forced to do all this work and we don’t even get paid for it.

  Thunder rumbles. Everyone looks out the window. The sky is all dark. Great. I just had to wear my new sparkly flip-flops today. And I didn’t bring my umbrella. The sidewalk chalk is going to be washed away soon. I hope Steve saw it. But like duh. Of course he saw it. Everyone’s probably been interrogating him about it all day. And as much as I want to pretend the queer looks I’ve been getting from people are just a figment of my imagination, I should probably admit that they’re real.

  Nicole passes my desk on the way back to hers. She’s been talking to Mr. Farrell this whole time, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying because everyone else was talking too loud. She glances at me and then looks away quickly. I get that bad feeling again. Maybe she’s heard stuff about me.

  I look over at Mr. Farrell. He’s staring out the window.

  When I get to the cafeteria and see Steve, I don’t even look for James or put my stuff down. I just go over to his table.

  But right before I get there, Gloria slinks over. And all of a sudden I get it. Everything that’s been happening comes rushing in at me. I know before I know. I know she’s going to sit down next to him.

  And I know it wasn’t just a kiss.

  Oh my god. This is why.

  Gloria sits down next to Steve. She pulls her chair all the way over so it’s touching his. She puts her hand on his shoulder. You can see her perfectly done nails from all the way over here. She has this clingy black shirt with bold-colored stripes, and jeans that fit all her curves perfectly. And her perfect hair has that glossy thing going on that boys love.

  That’s the thing with Gloria. She’s beyond gorgeous. So it’s obviously a physical thing. I just can’t believe that Steve would be such a guy. But there it is.

  Gloria leans toward Steve and says something.

  And that’s when he finally looks up and sees me staring at them.

  My stomach churns. I have no idea what to say. Her hand is still on his shoulder. He’s avoiding eye contact with me.

  Maybe I’ll say something like, “So . . . did you get my message?” all facetiously, the way we like to joke around. The way we used to.

  Some boys at the table look up at me. Then they look over at Steve and crack up. They make noises. They snort into their cheeseburgers.

  It’s official. I’m pathetic. I’m a pathetic, groveling, desperate ex-girlfriend.

  I wish I had never come over here. I wish I could erase everything that’s happened since last night. But it’s already out there.

  So I say, “Hey, Steve.”

  When he looks up at me, he’s not Steve anymore. He’s someone I don’t know. My Steve would never look at me like that. Like I don’t belong here. Like he doesn’t even know me.

  Gloria examines me through perfectly mascaraed lashes. She goes, “Hey, Rhiannon.”

  Question: Why is she answering for him?

  “We’ve been go
ing out for two weeks,” Gloria informs me. “Which is why he dumped your ass. Or didn’t he tell you?”

  I stare at her.

  Gloria glares at Steve. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “No—I . . .” Steve rips a piece of his napkin off.

  “You did or you didn’t?” Gloria demands.

  “Um . . . I was . . .”

  But Gloria looks back at me. “Haven’t you been scary stalker chick enough for one day? Or are you a masochist, too?”

  The whole table cracks up.

  Steve doesn’t defend me. He just keeps ripping his napkin apart.

  I turn around and look at the table I usually sit at with James. But he’s not there. He’s not anywhere. I’m all alone.

  I can’t escape fast enough.

  That did not just happen. There is no way that just happened.

  I keep walking down the hall. Blocking out the hall monitor who asks for my pass. Blocking out the sound of everyone laughing at me. Blocking out everything. I have four more classes today. I won’t be in any of them.

  The front doors double-dare me to push them open and ditch this disaster area. It’s not just raining. This is technically a torrential downpour. Rivers of water flood down the street. I stand in the hall, looking out at the world. The sky is so dark it’s like night out. Lightning flashes. Thunder booms so loudly the floor vibrates.

  Normally in a situation like this, I would wait it out. Well, no, normally I wouldn’t cut class in the first place, but drastic times call for drastic actions. Or I would walk with James. I know he has an umbrella, because he listens to the weather forecast every morning. But James can’t save me this time. No one can save me except myself.

  I push the door open. I step outside. I am immediately saturated. My message is a smeary swirl of purple and pink and blue, written for someone here who was already gone.

  I don’t make a run for it. I’m walking all the way home.

  I walk slowly in the rain. It feels like buckets of water are being dumped over my head, one after the other. My jeans are soaked. My white T-shirt is totally see-through now. Two crusty guys standing under a deli awning whistle as I go by. My flip-flops are drenched, squishing over puddles.

  I need this rain to wash it all away.

  It’s not until I get home and put my bag down that I realize my shirt is destroyed. My bag is from the Strand, this bookstore that sells dyed canvas bags. I guess I never thought about what would happen to a red bag against a white shirt in a downpour. I peel my shirt off. It was my favorite white shirt. Now it’s all streaked with red blotches.

  Everyone has a breaking point. I’ve just reached mine.

  The crying starts. And it doesn’t stop.

  My phone’s ringing for like the tenth time. I let my machine pick up again. My cell is off. I don’t even care who it is. Probably James or Nicole. But I don’t feel like talking to anybody.

  I open my lists journal and make a new one.

  Top Five Reasons to Avoid Killing Myself

  5. Won’t ever get to meet Topher Grace.

  4. Would miss out on the whole career/travel/ family thing.

  3. Snickers would be lonely.

  2. No more cupcakes at Magnolia.

  1. Being dead probably sucks.

  Snick-Snick purrs like a motor. He’s in this fluffy sleeping ball next to me on my bed. I wish I could be like that. All oblivious to how disgusting life can be.

  I’m listening to “My Immortal” on repeat. Because apparently I haven’t felt enough pain for one day. Bring it. Maybe next I’ll even read over all of Steve’s old love letters.

  The pain.

  There’s a knock on my door. I look at the clock radio. 6:42. Mom’s home early.

  So real.

  She opens my door. “I’ve been calling you for dinner. I got Chinese.”

  Too much.

  “You okay?”

  I turn over. Mom lingers in the doorway.

  But then she sees how damaged I look, so she comes in. “I got your favorite. Pot stickers.”

  Even that doesn’t make me smile.

  “Do you want to talk about something?” she says.

  Maybe. But talking to her feels like work. And I’m just too exhausted.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I crawl over Snick-Snick and slide out of bed. I feel like I’ve been run over by a cement truck and then pounded by a wrecking ball. “Yeah,” I croak. I’m all groggy. “I’m going to the bathroom first.”

  But I’m not okay. I can’t imagine ever feeling okay again.

  Question: Is it possible to die of a broken heart?

  When I check my messages I can’t believe it. James only left one message. Then there’s a bunch from Nicole.

  Normally he’d leave more than that. Normally he’d be crazy worried about me.

  It’s like he doesn’t care as much as he used to.

  I call his house. His mom answers.

  “Hi, Mrs. Worther,” I go. “Is James there?”

  “Hello, Rhiannon! He’s not here right now.”

  I hear Brian in the background, asking if he can talk to me. But I don’t have the energy right now.

  “Oh. Well . . . do you know where he is?”

  “It’s laundry day.” Which means he’s at Wash World. “I’m sure he’s having a marvelous time over there. Maybe you could keep him company?”

  “I think I might. Thanks.”

  The second I walk into Wash World, I feel a little better. It’s an automatic response. I’ve sat here with James so many times while he did laundry. He hates being here by himself. So we sit on the couch and talk, and whatever’s bothering me usually gets worked out by the time we leave. Kind of like an eighties sitcom.

  I find him sitting on the couch, reading a book.

  I’m like, “Hey.”

  James looks surprised to see me. He says, “Hey.”

  The dryer dings. James gets up.

  “I, um. Are you mad at me or something?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’m all shy for some reason. Which is really weird. Because James and Nicole are the only people I feel totally myself around.

  James takes a load of clothes out of the dryer and starts folding them.

  I just stand there. Watching him fold.

  “Why would I be mad at you?” he finally says.

  “I don’t know.” I can’t exactly tell him. Like, how would that go? Hey, yeah, so I noticed you only left me one message instead of five. What’s that about?

  “I got your message.”

  “I’m sorry about—”

  “Yeah.” The whole thing is beyond words. That’s the cool thing about having a best friend. They know what your pain feels like already, so you don’t have to explain it.

  I want to ask him why he wasn’t there. I want to tell him how hard it was for me. How alone I felt. But I have this feeling that I shouldn’t talk about Steve anymore. With Nicole, yeah. Just not with James.

  He has to wait for another load of laundry to get done. So I wait with him. I lean back against the couch, sitting really low the way I like. I scrunch over and put my head on his shoulder.

  We sit like that for a long time. Watching other people’s laundry dry.

  CHAPTER 14

  Thursday

  MIGUEL’S RIPPING APART his notebook, frantically searching for the extra-credit assignment. “I had it right here,” he gripes to no one in particular. “It was right here.”

  The thing about extra credit for Earth Science is that Ms. Parker hardly ever gives any. And when she does, the only way to get it is if you’re the first one to hand it in. Thus, Miguel’s present state of conniption.

  I feel bad for him, all frantic and scrabbling through his harassed folder like he misplaced the cure for sleep or something. He’s super smart, but I’ve told him a thousand times how his life would run a lot smo
other if he’d just organize his binder.

  Question: What’s so hard about understanding that?

  Miguel wildly flips through more papers. “Where the—?” A wave of papers crashes to the floor.

  He’s on the floor picking everything up when Eliezer creeps in, still half asleep as usual. He saunters by Ms. Parker’s desk with this bored expression that makes you tired just looking at him. Then he takes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and drops in on her desk and goes, “Here’s the extra credit,” just as Miguel triumphantly whisks the paper he’s been looking for out of the mess on the floor and yells, “I found it!”

  Life is so not fair. Kids like Miguel who work crazy hard and do all these activities like being in charge of lighting for plays and community service in the South Bronx are constantly disappointed. While burnouts like Eliezer think they can do one extra-credit assignment and it’ll make up for an entire marking period of failing tests and not doing homework. It’s some kind of twisted slacker logic.

  We’re doing a rock-identification activity. Ms. Parker tells us to get into think tanks, which I hate. It’s her idea of working together and helping each other to make sure everyone understands everything. When really it’s just a smart kid paired up with a slow kid, and the smart kid ends up doing all the work and the slow kid just copies because it’s easier than the smart kid trying to explain a bunch of stuff the slow kid will never get.

  So I’m paired up with this girl Heather who never talks. I guess Ms. Parker ran out of smart kids when she matched us up, because we’re both lost when it comes to science. All I know about her is that she’s into designing water fountains.

  We use the Reference Tables to figure out the name of a weird rock that looks like sheets of paper all stuck together. Since we’ve been on this one for like five minutes and Heather’s not exactly an abundance of assistance, I listen to another team to see if I can hear what they got for it.