Chapter Three #2
There’s nothing.
“Oh my God.”
I must have accidentally deleted it when I was talking to Marcus. I check that I didn’t mistakenly send it to anyone else, and it doesn’t look like I did.
The entire thing has vanished, lost in the ether, when I’d just summoned enough courage to tell Mo.
I don’t feel brave enough to record it all again right now.
Defeated, I walk back to the visitors’ room in the ICU, where Amber is still waiting.
The snacks have mostly been devoured, various wrappers and half-empty packets discarded on the table, and she’s now surrounded by a bunch of soccer bros, Jason’s friends and teammates.
It’s like they’re expecting Jay to suddenly jolt awake, expecting that they can just camp out here for a few hours and then they’ll get their captain back—ready to play, his capable, steady self. I hope they’re right.
“Make space for the missus!” Tyler Manning orders, tugging at his faux-hawk.
He likes to think he’s the de facto leader when Jason isn’t around, mainly because he’s the goalie and wears the No.
1 jersey. He also bribed his way into being the most unserious student body president of all time, but that is neither here nor there.
The guys all make a big show of hugging me again and asking how I’m doing and moving up on the couch for me.
Being Jason’s girlfriend is like an exclusive VIP pass, one I didn’t even know I wanted, one that allows me to fit in anywhere and everywhere I go.
I sit down between Amber and Holden Ash, who is asking if his yearbook quote can have profanity.
“Only if you don’t want to be included,” I tell him.
Being head of the yearbook committee is tiny in the grand scheme of things—it’s definitely not student vice president or valedictorian, which I’m also on track for—but somehow it feels like the most consequential role I’ll have all year.
I’m in charge of capturing some of the final moments of our high school careers, of preserving memories that reflect the best of us and how we want to be remembered for the rest of our lives.
People think yearbooks are supposed to mirror the people in them, but I see it differently.
When someone’s kid or grandkid pulls out the yearbook in forty years, you’ll want them to see you as you want to be seen, not as you actually are.
It matters how you present yourself—and in the yearbook you’re frozen in time. I want us to look classy and timeless.
Holden is still asking me questions when someone hollers, “Yo, Plan B!”
Everyone turns around to watch Marcus’s arrival, his grin wide.
“It’s Discount Riddick, mothereffers!” another person yells.
It’s no wonder Marcus is so insufferable.
If I got this kind of reception every time I entered a room, I too would have an unquenchable ego.
Jason is the only person I know who, despite being treated like a king, still knows to keep himself in check.
“How’s it going?” Marcus says, coming around and exchanging back pats and fist bumps with everyone.
When he reaches me, he holds out his fist to me, like he expects me to pound it.
I keep eating my Twizzler and just roll my eyes.
He seems to enjoy this, if his smile is any indication.
And he would enjoy it, because Marcus Riddick is the worst. He’s like the anti-Jason, which is probably where the irony comes in that they are cousins.
Uncensored (as in, if I didn’t have the rest of the yearbook committee to think about and Other Repercussions), I’d give him Most Likely to Be Doing Something Annoying at Any Given Time, because it fits seamlessly.
Josh Faraday says, “You didn’t make it for the group thing, Plan B! Coach is pissed.”
Marcus laughs. “Coach is always pissed. Well, off to perform my familial duties,” he says, saluting us as he heads toward Jason’s room.
“Yeah, go wake Sleeping Beauty!” Holden tells Marcus, but the joke falls flat.
With how uncertain everything is, it feels cruel rather than funny.
As Jason’s girlfriend, I should scold his best friend, but I don’t.
Amber’s sharp “Holden! ” and the resounding silence is the only backlash he gets, though, because Marcus’s smile does not falter even a little before he disappears into Jason’s room.
Josh lets out a giant yawn, and Tyler snickers. “Past your bedtime, Faraday?”
“It’s, like, tomorrow morning already,” Josh says defensively, and doesn’t bother to stifle a second, longer yawn.
Amber turns to me. “Oh, Zad, weren’t you trying to tell me something before?”
I blink at her. It’s absurd how unfazed Ambs is about the notion of creating a spectacle. Because that’s exactly what this would cause.
“I was?”
I’ve suddenly realized just how grateful I am that my message to Mo never sent. In this moment, I decide: I’m not going to tell anyone what happened between me and Jason earlier tonight.
I shouldn’t have to, when the breakup is never going to last.
“Oh, I was just going to ask if, um, you knew what happened to Jay’s car?”
Amber beams, because of course she does.
This breakup is not a big deal, I tell myself.
It’s not relevant, and it hardly counts, and I shouldn’t have to face the fallout of us not being us on my own.