Keep Holding On

  I slam against the door to push it open. The monitor is yelling at me that I can’t leave. I want to yell back that he should do his job. Where was he when the mashed potatoes were flying?

  But I don’t yell. I don’t say anything. I just leave. And I’m never going back.

  seven

  tuesday, april 19

  (43 days left)

  Study hall is a lot less interesting when you’re not making out with a hot boy. I thought about cutting. But where would I go?

  I’m about to take out my physics worksheet when something outside catches my eye. These windows overlook the student parking lot. Carly and Audrey are messing around out there like they don’t even care that anyone could see. When I sneak out to hook up with Matt, I always use the side door by the gym. There aren’t any windows down there. And our place is so desolate that no one’s ever caught us. But Carly and Audrey are practically daring someone to catch them. Carly is sitting on Audrey’s hood. Audrey is telling a story with lots of animated hand motions.

  It’s so weird that Audrey hangs out with Carly now. I’ve watched her go from a Pretty Perfect Popular girl to getting tangled up in this bad-girl phase. What would make a person trade in that life for this one?

  I have a plan. It’s temporary, but it should let me avoid the cafeteria for the rest of the week. Instead of shuffling along with everyone going to lunch, I’m pretending that I have to get something from my locker. I keep pretending until the bell rings.

  When the halls are almost empty, I take out my flat lunch bag. This is the tricky part. There’s usually a monitor standing just inside the cafeteria door trying to herd in loiterers. If he catches me darting for the stairway near the door, he’ll yell at me to come back. The dude knows who has lunch when.

  I head toward the cafeteria. The monitor’s stationed at his spot by the door. There’s a loud banging noise from inside. Kids start yelling. He goes to investigate.

  Now’s my chance.

  I lunge for the stairway and fly downstairs. The girls’ room is near this end of the hall. Teachers down here have already started their next class. So the chances of getting caught in the hall are slim.

  I slowly press the bathroom door open. I don’t hear anyone inside. I go in. Still no one. I quickly look under the stalls. They’re empty. I go inside the last stall, lock the door, and wait.

  No one comes in.

  Sitting on the toilet with my feet up, I uncrinkle my lunch bag as quietly as possible. If someone comes in, I’ll stop uncrinkling until they leave. I unpack my “lunch.” There wasn’t any bread to make a sandwich, so I just have a store-brand toaster pastry and some raisins. I gobble everything down.

  My stomach growls for more.

  I keep replaying yesterday’s cafeteria scene. How Julian was looking right at me when I snuck a look at him. How he didn’t look away. How he smiled at me.

  How that gob of mashed potatoes splattered against my head.

  I’ll never be able to face Julian again.

  There’s a note in my locker before gym.

  If he’s so sorry, why didn’t he call me back? Or write why he didn’t show up in his note? Plus, he’s obviously been avoiding me in the halls.

  I shouldn’t meet up with him. But of course I will. I want to hear what he has to say. And I’m not about to randomly confront him or anything.

  Matt can’t just throw away our entire relationship. You don’t feel one way about somebody and then feel a totally different way two seconds later. There has to be a good reason why he didn’t show up.

  If Matt doesn’t want me, no one will.

  When the last bell rings, I almost trip over myself racing to my locker. I fling it open and start shoving stuff in my bag. Being alone before mother gets home is the only time I can breathe. I’m already anticipating my stress level dropping when I get to The Fortress, put on my yoga pants, and start reading on my bed.

  “Hey,” Julian says.

  The textbook I was about to put in my bag drops to the floor. It somehow manages to fling itself open in midair, hitting the floor with a sloppy smack.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He bends down to pick up my book.

  How can my heart be pounding this hard without busting an artery?

  “Sorry about yesterday.” Julian hands me my book. The corners of some pages are bent. When I take it from him, I swear I can feel electricity zing from his side of the book to mine. Miraculously, the book does not burst into flames.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “About what happened at lunch. Those guys are morons.”

  I can feel my face getting red. I stick my head in my locker, pretending to look for more things I need to take home. This is the part where Julian says he has to go and then he leaves and never talks to me again. Why would he want to be seen associating with such a freak?

  But that’s not what happens. Julian’s still here.

  “I looked for you at lunch today,” he says.

  “Oh. I’m doing this thing fifth period now, so I won’t be in that lunch anymore.”

  “What thing?”

  “Just this thing for lit mag.” I have no idea where that came from. I don’t even want to join lit mag.

  “That’s cool. I didn’t know you were on lit mag.”

  “I just joined.” Why am I such a lying liar? Do I really think Julian won’t find out I’m not on lit mag?

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s …” I close my locker. “Yeah, it’s fun. I’m—” I almost say I’m going to miss my bus. Then I catch myself. “I have to go.”

  I cannot leave fast enough.

  In an alternate universe, Julian Porter and I would be together. I’d have a normal home life with parents who love me. No one would have any reason to torture me at school. I’d fit right into Julian’s world.

  But we’re in this universe.

  I’m sure he doesn’t even like me. But let’s say he did. There’s no way he could ever come over. He’d see my corroded apartment. He’d see how there’s never anything to eat. He’d see how my closet is practically empty. And what a lunatic my mother is.

  Assuming he didn’t immediately run away after witnessing my pathetic existence, then what? We’d start going out. We’d get closer. And eventually our clothes would start coming off. I am the proud owner of exactly two bras that fit. Sexy much? Before I go to bed, I hand wash the bra I wore that day and hang it up to dry. The other one is usually dry in time to wear the next morning. If not, I finish drying it with my blow-dryer. I’d use my babysitting money to buy more, but bras are expensive. It’s all about saving enough to get out of here. One day when I can afford nice things, I’m going to have one whole drawer with fancy bras and another whole drawer with matching panties. They’ll all have cute colors and fun patterns. My tattered, old underwear will be a distant memory.

  Anyway. I’m sure Matt is going to explain himself tomorrow and everything will go back to our version of normal. Which is the most I can hope for right now.

  eight

  wednesday, april 20

  (42 days left)

  “So where were you?” I ask Matt. He was waiting for me when I got to our place.

  “It was stupid of me not to show,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At home.”

  “You stayed home?”

  “I wanted to see you, but it was like … suddenly there was all this pressure to make things official.”

  “But we’ve been together for over a month.”

  “It doesn’t work that way for guys. We don’t go, ‘Oh look, this much time has passed, now things need to get serious.’”

  “Then why’d you ask me out if you didn’t want to go out with me?”

  “I do want to go out with you. I just don’t think I’m ready to make it public yet.” Matt comes over and puts his arms around me. I love it when he holds me. It makes me feel wanted.

  “Why no
t?” My voice is muffled by his motorcycle jacket.

  “My last girlfriend burned me. She kinda went psycho. Totally humiliated me in front of my friends.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “I know. I’m just not ready to announce that I have a new girlfriend.” He rubs my back in slow circles. “Can you give me a little more time?”

  This is the first time Matt has called me his girlfriend. Which makes it hard for me to stay mad at him. I’m sure it won’t be much longer until he’s ready to tell everyone about us. And I mean, what, like I’ve never done anything stupid? We all do things we regret. My past is packed with things I wish I could take back. And there are lots of things I’m afraid of. Fear is understandable. So I can forgive Matt for being scared.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  We spend the rest of third period making up.

  It’s official.

  I’m on lit mag.

  It’s not like I’m joining yearbook. Yearbook is such a lie. It only has pictures of the popular kids. One time part of my arm snuck into a yearbook picture. I wrote My arm! with an arrow indicating the correct arm. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to being included in the yearbook. Other than my dorky school pictures, which are consistently repulsive.

  I didn’t join lit mag just because I told Julian I was already on it. Simon said I could use the lit mag office fifth period when he’s in there. Which gives me a valid excuse to get out of lunch. The faculty advisor, Mr. Gilford, doesn’t care if you eat in there because that’s when most of the other kids have lunch. So not only am I excused from the cafeteria for the rest of the year, but I get to hang out with someone really cool. Maybe we’ll even become friends.

  This. Is awesome.

  “As coeditor, you get your own desk,” Simon tells me. “It comes complete with wheely chair.” Simon demonstrates that the chair indeed rolls by pushing it back and forth. Then he shows me how everything else in the lit mag office works and explains what I’m supposed to do. “Do you know how to use the editing program in Word?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No worries, it’s really simple. I’ll show you.”

  Simon is rocking his typical metrosexual hipster look. Today he has a worn maroon tee that says HOLLA BACK in yellow seventies bubble letters, a black vest, dark skinny jeans, and black combat boots. I love how he never seems to care what anyone thinks. The wild thing is, it makes them leave him alone. Trying to ignore a bully when you’re bothered by what they’re doing is completely different from not caring. They can tell you’re trying really hard to ignore them when you care. They know they’re getting to you, which makes them want to harass you even more.

  But Simon’s not playing. He really is that confident. Sometimes people say stuff about his ties or his hair. He has tousled, wavy brown hair and he’s not afraid to use the product. If anyone snarks at Simon, he just snarks right back full force. The boy is impressive. Like when we were going to lit mag, Simon was singing some Bee Gees song.

  In the middle of the hall.

  In a falsetto voice.

  Loudly.

  A bunch of Pretty Perfect Popular girls glared at Simon like he was an escaped mental patient. Which of course made Simon sing even louder. He sang right at the girls, flashing them the peace sign.

  Simon Bruckner is my hero.

  Sherae comes running up to my locker.

  “Did your hear?” she says.

  “About what?”

  She pauses for dramatic effect. “Julian Porter and Warner Talbot got into a scuffle.”

  “What? Where?”

  “In gym. Apparently, they had some kind of confrontation playing basketball. I heard that Julian knocked Warner down. And when Warner tried to get up, Julian pushed him down again.”

  That is so unlike Julian. He never gets in trouble.

  “Julian was totally defending your honor,” Sherae says.

  “He was not.”

  “He obviously was! Why else would he be pushing Warner around?”

  Sherae is ridiculous for thinking Julian was defending me. But the possibility that it might be true makes me happy.

  When I get up from my chair after precalc, my heart slams against my chest in a surge of panic.

  I cannot believe this happened again.

  No one else seems to be noticing. Everyone’s shoving papers in their notebooks and rushing to go home. I linger at my desk, flipping through my day planner. I wait until everyone’s gone. Then I look back down at my chair.

  There’s blood.

  My blood.

  This hasn’t happened since ninth grade. That was before Sherae had a car and she started taking me to the mall so I could get what I needed. Back then, I didn’t have anyone to help me get the things mother should have been getting.

  Good thing I’m wearing dark jeans. I’ve learned to get creative with toilet paper, but it’s not a reliable method. There’s no way I’m going to the nurse. I’d feel even more embarrassed begging her for tampons.

  I drop my pencil on the floor and slowly bend over to pick it up, just in case anyone comes in. I check my jeans. You can’t really see anything from the back. I should be able to get to my locker without any drama. There’s an old cardigan I always keep in there for emergencies. I’ll wrap it around my waist. Luckily, Sherae’s not waiting for me today. I don’t want her to see me like this. I’ll have to take the late bus.

  But first, I have to get this blood off the chair.

  I rummage through my bag until I find a copy of the school newspaper. I put that on my chair, covering up the stain. Then I put my bag on top of the newspaper and go to my locker. Kids are yelling and slamming lockers and leaving. No one notices me.

  Please don’t let Carly be here.

  I make it to my locker and tie the cardigan around my waist. Then I get a few wet paper towels from the bathroom. I scrub my chair. The paper towels work. I quickly wipe the seat clean and dry it. You can’t even tell what happened.

  Not like last time.

  When this happened two years ago, it was the middle of the day. I got up, saw the blood, and there was nothing I could do about it. The next class was already coming in. There wasn’t any time to clean my chair. I was horrified that I had to leave it stained, but I didn’t have a choice.

  I ran out before anyone saw.

  In the hall, I could hear the boy who sat there after me complaining. He yelled how there was no way he was sitting there and that was disgusting and who sat there before him?

  Of course Ms. Morrison knew it was me. I had no idea how I’d ever be able to face her again. And she had no idea I was sort of friends with Ali Walsh, who was in her next class with Yelling Boy. So Ms. Morrison assumed I wouldn’t find out what happened next.

  She took out a box of latex gloves, pulled a pair on, and got out some Windex and a roll of paper towels. Then she cleaned the chair while everyone freaked out. Freshmen are the worst. Ali told me that everyone was making retching noises and period jokes and Caitlin Holt actually screamed. As if the blood were going to spurt off the chair and destroy her couture. Ali didn’t want to tell me any of this, but I made her. I needed to know how bad it was.

  After Ms. Morrison cleaned the chair, she told Yelling Boy to sit down.

  He would not.

  “There’s no way I’m sitting on that,” he repeated. “It’s contaminated.”

  “You just saw me clean it,” Ms. Morrison said.

  “Windex doesn’t cut it, miss.”

  Ms. Morrison ripped some fresh paper towels off the roll. She put them on the chair.

  “Germs can’t travel through a paper boundary,” she explained. “I’ll make sure the janitors clean the chair later.”

  That sounded like a crock, but it worked. Yelling Boy sat down and shut up. Which should have been the end of it.

  But it wasn’t. He showed up early the next day to see who sat there before him.

  It didn’t take long for the whole sc
hool to hear that I’m a chair contaminator.

  Item on Things to Remember When I’m a Teacher list:

  If a student needs help, help them.

  Something tells me I won’t forget this one.

  The phone rings as I’m studying for a Spanish test. I’m assuming it’s a bill collector. So I’m not exactly jumping out of my chair to get the phone. But if I don’t get it, mother will barge in and make me. She always forces me to answer and tell bill collectors she’s not here. Avoiding unnecessary mother drama is always the best tactic.

  I pick up the phone in the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is Noelle there?”

  “This is Noelle.”

  “Hey, it’s Julian.”

  I’m shocked into silence. Julian never calls me. Ever.

  “Julian Porter?” he says. “From school?”

  “Yeah, no, I … hey.”

  “Are you studying for our Spanish test?”

  “Ugh.” I run into the living room to make sure mother’s not in there. “That preterite conditional is killing me.” She must be in her room. But her door is halfway open. She could be listening to my entire conversation. “What about you?” I run back to the kitchen, trying to keep my breathing steady.

  “Haven’t even started.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hunker down against the farthest cabinet. Mother shouldn’t be able to hear me this way. I’ve caught her spying before.

  “So …” Julian says. “Do you ever go into the city?”

  “Not as much as I want to.”

  “It’s awesome there.”

  “Like a whole other world.”

  “Do you want to go with me sometime?”

  Wait. Is Julian Porter asking me out?

  “It doesn’t have to be like a … date,” Julian says. “Or whatever. We could just go have some fun.”