I'll Be Here Page 6

  “Thanks,” I mutter when he flips his textbook open to the page our teacher has noted on the board.

  Nate smiles. I notice that he has a gap between his two front teeth and that he smells like cinnamon.

  “No problem,” he says and then he looks down at his book and grimaces.

  “What’s wrong?”

  When he looks up at me he’s got this tight smile on his face. “Oh, you’ll love this.” He laughs. “Question number one: Have you ever felt like an outcast from your peer group?”

  “Ha!” I roll my eyes. “Next question.”

  The rest of the hour isn’t so bad. Nate is funny and surprisingly smart and I enjoy the stories that he shares in response to the questions.

  I probably laugh more than I should when he launches into a whole tirade about being stereotyped as a juvenile delinquent that survives on a diet of fried chicken and watermelon just because he’s black. He looks surprised when my giggle becomes a cackle. I guess being starved for social interaction will do that to a person.

  As I walk out of the class, I’m actually smiling.

  It’s one of my first spontaneous, not forced-so-that-I-can hold-my-head-up smiles in days and the muscles in my cheeks are a little sore from the disuse. It’s such a change that I almost expect a cartoonish bluebird to land on my shoulder and start whistling the “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” tune.

  “Whoa!” My foot gets caught up on something solid and I lurch forward catching myself against a desk before I can full-on face plant.

  “Whoops!” Felicia Quinn smiles sweetly and yanks her foot out of the aisle as she stands with a bounce.

  She slides past me, her red ponytail swinging with the exaggerated motions of her stride. “You should really be more careful where you step Willow.”

  Sure, it could have been an accident, but Felicia is a junior on the pep squad with Taylor so probably not.

  As I walk to my next class I think that it’s like the past two years have been erased in mere days. No more beach parties or late-night yacht runs for Willow James. Clearly anyone and everyone think I am the wrong kind of people and I would only do when the Great and Powerful Dustin Rant was giving me the time of day.

  ***

  After the basketball fiasco in elementary school I’d given up the hope of being an athlete, but in the sixth grade my history teacher Mr. Dillon, who was also the junior varsity softball coach, talked me into joining the team with a promise that he could turn anyone into a “player.”

  Honestly, I joined mainly to bask in the glow of the dreamy Mr. Dillon, who wore too-short pants on purpose and a chunky leather bracelet on his left wrist. I didn’t know at the time, but he was carrying on a covert relationship with Ms. Sue, the secretary from the front office whom he would later make an honest woman of.

  “You’ll thank me when you get a scholarship,” he’d said, smiling from the swivel chair behind his desk.

  Yeah right.

  I decided he would regret asking me to join his team, but I signed my name to the bottom of form and was issued an emerald green and white uniform shirt.

  I lasted four games.

  Mr. Dillon didn’t kick me off the team. No. He was too much of a nice guy for that. He spent extra time with me during practice and he gave me little pep talks as I filed out of his class. I knew that these were supposed to inspire confidence in me, but the truth is that they only made me feel like more of a loser. In the end, I quit on my own.

  I quit because I couldn’t handle going to the plate. The outfield I could deal with—if I missed a ball or let my mind wander, no one noticed most of the time. But stepping up to bat while all eyes fell to me—digging into my skin like tacks on a cork pinboard—was too much.

  My heart beat deeply in my chest and the blood swirled underneath the skin of my temples as the red dust of the field whirled around me and I felt all wrong. I knew that I looked ridiculous up there waiting for the other girl to throw to me. I hated the waiting for failure that would eventually come from the whole thing.

  As a rule, I liked beginnings and endings—not the middle parts. And it seemed to me that going up to bat was an endless cycle of middles. I was the kind of girl who snuck ahead to read the last chapter of a novel. When I was little I would creep into my mom’s closet to find my birthday presents early because I couldn’t stand the not-knowing.

  No, I am not the kind of girl who goes up to bat with anything on the line. I wasn’t then and I’m not that girl now. But with my whole world shifting and this empty feeling inside of me, I don’t really have a choice.

  I find Taylor by her locker and take a deep breath and pretend that my heart is not knocking. My left hand is holding the strap of my bag so tightly that my knuckles have gone exceedingly pale.

  “Excuse me.” I tap her on the shoulder and clear my throat.

  Taylor turns to me and raises a perfectly plucked brow. She looks graceful, feline. “Can we talk?” I ask in a low voice.

  Even though I’m taller than Taylor by at least three inches, she somehow makes me feel small. She always has. Maybe it’s the way she stands with her hands on her hips like she’s modeling for the summer swimsuit catalog, or her perfectly styled blonde hair, or the designer handbags she cycles through, or the sleek black sportscar that her father bought her for her sixteenth birthday. Think posh. Think elegant and sophisticated. Think a young Gwyneth Paltrow with larger breasts and a cuter nose.

  Taylor’s looking at me with an unreadable expression. If I didn’t know better, I would think that she’s slightly bored.

  “What do you want to talk about Willow?” Her tone is casual, unconcerned. As if we don’t have this big elephant standing next to us. As if we weren’t friends five minutes ago. As if she hadn’t betrayed me in the worst possible way.

  Emotion swells inside of me, threatening to spill over like water lapping at the brim of an overfilled bathtub. Taylor’s eyes remain quiet and cutting which unnerves me even more.

  How is it possible that she looks so composed? Shouldn’t she be apologizing to me?

  I look down and pick away phantom lint from my jeans and then scan to the left and right of us. Expecting to find privacy in the hallway of Northridge High is like looking for something decent to eat on the cafeteria menu. Not going to happen.

  I inch closer, trying not to notice the people pretending not to watch us. They feign interest in their lockers, or the laces of their sneakers, or the funny thing that a friend said, but really they are waiting—hopeful that something dramatic is going to happen here. Their stares soak me.

  Finally, I speak. Slowly. Carefully. “Look Taylor, I want to know what you’re doing. I mean, why is it that everyone is treating me like I’m the one who’s done something wrong here? I—” Grimacing, I pause and swallow a gulp of air, “I’m not the one who stole her friend’s boyfriend.”

  Taylor smiles her fake smile and it feels like spiders crawling all over me, scurrying under my clothes and across my bare skin. Her chuckle is hollow.

  “Two things Willow. First, you assume that we were ever really friends. The fact is that Dustin was always my friend and I put up with you for his sake and that’s all so don’t continue to live in some delusional world where we were all buddy-buddy . And just so we’re clear—that’s how everyone feels about you.”

  “Second, in order to—as you put it—” she makes air quotes, “steal something from someone, that something has to be a possession. The last time I checked, Dustin is still considered a human being, not a commodity.”

  She has spoken too loudly and I hear a snip of laughter from behind me. It sounds like Felicia, the girl that tripped me in Sociology. My neck burns. A flush is rising from beneath my collar and creeping up to my face. Taylor sees that my embarrassment is enormous and pounces.

  “Plus, between us girls, I can’t say that Dustin put up much of a fight at being stolen, as you so eloquently put it.”

  She tilts her chin and bites her lip coyly. “Actually, you
should know that he came to me. And I didn’t want to string you along for so long but Dustin felt sorry for you. I thought his charity was cute so I obliged.”

  I rock. This was not at all how the conversation was supposed to go. Words, phrases buzz through my brain like electricity but they don’t make it out my lips. My throat is closing up and I’m seeing black spots in my peripheral vision and I can feel the waterworks kick into gear.

  I feel crazy. Hot and cold all at once. I start to think of strange things—like I wonder if spearmint is an actual type of mint plant or if it’s something else entirely. And I remember that I should have picked up Ferdinand’s flea medication from the vet yesterday but I forgot. It’s paid for and everything—just sitting there on the counter waiting for me.

  Taylor’s considering me and she’s got this look on her face that eats up all the air around us. She doesn’t even look like a human. I don’t know what she is but she’s something else. Dustin comes up beside us then and I think he looks upset. His eyes are on me and I could swear he seems concerned.

  Ack. I don’t have time to analyze his expression because I’m too busy trying not to have a meltdown in front of the entire school. Dustin says something to me but I don’t hear the words over the buzzing in my brain.

  I squeeze the strap of my bag a little harder and rush off before my knees buckle and give me away.

  ***

  Books are different. They accept me. They watch over me in silence as I eat my lunch. They make no comment about me eating alone. They do not mind that I can’t or won’t speak for one is supposed to be quiet in a library.

  I’m fine.

  I don’t want to think about Dustin or Taylor Irwin or them being a “them” or the judging eyes of my classmates or my beautiful gold prom dress suffocating between two winter coats. I want to think about this sandwich that I’m eating and the Spanish vocabulary words written in my even print on a stack of index cards.

  la cartera… presumido… el hocico… la oscuridad… celosa…

  “Willow?” The voice nudges me. A familiar voice.

  I look up from the flashcards. The voice goes with the face. This is Laney Putnam: pale, round, a blush of freckles across her sloped nose, soft grey eyes rimmed with thick charcoal liner, a fringe of deep brown hair cut brutally short like a pelt of fur. She wears a chunky black bangle on her left wrist. Bright green socks peek out from above her lace-up boots. Her backpack is covered in stickers of bands. I wonder if she’s seen them all perform live. Probably so.

  She slides into the seat across from me. “What’s up?” She asks like we do this all the time.

  Air rushes into my open mouth. I swallow confusion and blink.

  She blinks back.

  In the past two years I can count on one hand the number of times that Laney and I have spoken to each other. Today she makes me nervous with her fluttering grey eyes and her open face, but I’m also curious. So what I say is this: “Not much, just homework and stuff.”

  She nods like she’s taking it all in and deciding something. Her hands are clasped in front of her and she uncrosses and then recrosses her legs. “How are you doing really?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Laney’s silver earrings sway when she shifts positions. “You cut your hair,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I reach up and try to brush the awful bangs from my face. I’ve been pinning them back with a bobby pin but they keep breaking free and dancing across my forehead. “Yeah. I’m not so sure about the bangs though.”

  Laney smiles. “I think bangs are cute on you with your heart-shaped face. They make your eyes look even larger.”

  She leans across the table and pulls the pins out with her long fingers like it’s no big deal to be touching me. I catch the scent of her minty shampoo. “If you want my opinion, you should wear them like this tomorrow.”

  We stare at each other for a minute not speaking.

  Finally: “Macy told me that she saw you crying in the bathroom. She was worried.” Laney shrugs. “I’m worried.”

  This whole week has been so weird and shitty, and now the one person who I used to be able to tell anything to is sitting across from me feeling sorry for me. It hurts too much. It’s too overwhelming.

  Finding out from Taylor that Dustin stayed with me out of pity is killing me and I don’t think that I can take any more. I’d rather be alone than have someone talk to me out of charity.

  My voice comes out all full of hard edges. “Laney, you don’t have to do me any favors by checking up on me. In the past two years we’ve barely spoken to each other.”

  “I know that you don’t like me very much anymore and you have every reason to laugh in my face right now and tell me that you told me so about Dustin. I wouldn’t even blame you. But seriously, can you just cut the bullshit and leave me alone right now because I’m not exactly having a perfect week if you know what I mean?”

  A minute ticks by in silence. Then two. I think that Laney will just get up from the chair and walk away, but she stays where she is.

  Finally, the corners of her lip curls and she snorts through her nose. “Perfect’s fucking overrated.”

  This makes my eyebrows lift. Then the situation strikes me as funny. Hilarious even. I start to giggle and pretty soon I’m laughing so hard that tears are steaming down my face. Laney smiles but she doesn’t join me—she patiently waits for me to pull it together.

  “Sorry,” I say wiping the tears from my face. They taste like salt.

  “Don’t be.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a compact. I must look confused because she gestures to her face and says, “For under your eyes.”

  Oh God, I look like a raccoon. Luckily I’ve got a napkin from my lunch to get rid of the mascara trails.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Laney starts, and I remember that this is something she says often. It’s a Laney Putnam signature saying. A Laney-ism. Here’s what I’m thinking.

  “My friend Kara is singing at a club Friday night and she’s pretty amazing. Sort of a Lily Allen meets Billie Holliday.” She stops to pick up a piece of paper that’s slipped onto the floor. “So… what do you think? Do you want to hang out or not?”

  Since when do Laney Putnam and Willow James hang out again?

  I look away, down to the mascara-smudged napkin in my hands. It looks a little like one of those ink blots that psychiatrists have you interpret to figure out what your mental state is. I think my mascara blot looks like a cat yawning so what does that say about me?

  “Sure.” My voice is slow, deliberate. “That would be good. I—I love Lily Allen.” And now I look her straight in the eye. “Thank you.”

  Laney shrugs like it’s no big deal. “No problem. It will be fun. I’ll be at your house to pick you up Friday night around eight.”

  She considers me for a bit longer and then she makes a move to stand but the legs of her chair catch the carpet and she has to lift the chair up to get out of it. Before she goes, she picks up my pen and writes her number on the inside cover of my spiral Spanish notebook. “My number’s changed. Call me if you need me—you know?”

  Yes, I know what she means.

  The bell is less than two minutes away and most of the students who have hidden out in the library during lunch are packing up their things. I watch Laney pause to check a text on her phone. A feeling inside of me rises up and finds a voice.

  “Laney, I’m sorry that I was such a bad friend.” I blurt it out so fast that when she turns around I have to repeat myself.

  She blinks solemnly and releases a breath. “Nah, Willow, it’s all right.”

  “No.” I don’t know why I am forcing the issue. Shouldn’t I just nod my head and be grateful that someone at this school isn’t treating me like a leper?

  “It’s not all right. I was a bad friend and I know it.”

  She grimaces. “Yeah, maybe you were a bad friend but I’m a good friend so I understand and I’ll take you back. Let’s just begin ag
ain.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. It feels like my heart has exploded in my chest and the blast has turned my insides to mush.

  Laney doesn’t wait for me to say anything. She’s back in motion—putting her cell phone in the zipper of her bag and walking to the library exit like nothing has changed even though I’m pretty sure it has.

  “Have lunch with me tomorrow?” She asks over her shoulder.

  “Sure.” My voice wobbles but I smile and it’s a smile that feels real and true on my face.

  If I could do just one near perfect thing I’d be happy. They’d write it on my grave or when they scattered my ashes. On second thoughts, I’d rather hang around and be there with my best friend if she wants me.

  ~Belle and Sebastian

  “If She Wants Me”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Things happen for a reason.

  That’s something that my Uncle Danny likes to say. He claims to have loads of proof on the topic in the form of anecdotes about how his life was transformed by fate. One of his favorites is about the time when he was flying from Birmingham to Seattle and his plane was rerouted to Topeka, Kansas due to mechanical troubles.

  Uncle Danny was supposedly really irritated about this because he was on his way to be best man in his college roommate’s wedding and the detour meant that he was going to miss the bachelor party. When you’re twenty-three years old and the best man in a wedding, a bachelor party is a can’t-miss event.

  Anyway, he was huffing and puffing and stuck in Topeka for the night and starving to top it off. The story goes that he ended up at a rinky-dink diner a few miles from the airport where the only items on the menu were either drenched in gravy or deep fried.

  Uncle Danny ordered brisket and a basket of onion rings on the side. While he was waiting for the line cook to fry up his order and cursing under his breath at his misfortune, the door of the diner opened and a plucky blonde breezed into his life with a gust of cold night air. He took one look at her and decided that Topeka, Kansas was the greatest place in the world.