Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
WHILE OUR ROOMMATES SPENT THE rest of the weekend sun-soaked and relaxed, Jamie and I kept to our respective sides of the apartment, hardly speaking a single unnecessary word to each other.
Even our perfunctory Cram Session emails have been few and far between, because he hasn’t sent me any new work in days.
So those emails usually go, Hey, do you have any new work for me? and hours later: No.
I don’t know if that specifically is because of our fight or if he’s worried about triggering another panic attack, but I’ve been too mortified to approach him about it, remembering every word he said as acutely as a mosquito bite I can’t stop scratching.
Even though it’s given me time to dive into my APM work and, every so often, stare woefully at my untouched soapstone, being ignored makes me agitated. So I carve out some time to work on his design, changing out the colors—desperately needed—and fixing the clunkiest parts of the UI.
But if Jamie notices, he never says anything—not even to tell me to leave it alone. Eventually I give up, returning to my APM work to prepare myself for the first day of module two, which I trudge to with a sense of dread and unease, as if a bad omen hangs over me.
I’m glad I wasn’t na?ve enough to think passing module one would make my classmates in the APM respect me more, because as I walk through the door, annoyed looks are exchanged like they can’t believe I haven’t given up yet.
When we’re forced to find a partner to work with for an assignment on binary search trees, the people near me scatter before I can even utter a word. As I turn in my seat, looking for a straggler to make my victim, I don’t miss the smirks and snickers of the people around me.
Gabi, who’s two rows back on the other side of the room, stands suddenly, but her partner grabs her wrist and shoots her a pleading look. Her moment of hesitation is just long enough for Douse to spot the last person in the room, a boy in the back whose friends all paired up without him.
“Donato,” he says, pointing to me. “Milligan.”
Donato sighs heavily as he gets up and moves to my empty row. The noise in the room picks up again as he sits beside me and opens his laptop.
“Okay, so this,” he says slowly, the way one might speak to a very small child, “is a computer.”
“Hilarious,” I deadpan.
He smirks. “I figured the basics would be helpful.”
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat, the result of being so obviously chosen by default. “How about we don’t speak unless necessary?”
“Fine by me.”
I’m so focused on trying not to cry, I don’t even realize I’ve opened the wrong assignment until my vision clears and I see his screen doesn’t match mine. I quickly move back to the main menu, hoping he didn’t notice, but when I chance a look at his face, he’s shaking his head, mid–eye roll.
My chest tightens. “I, um—I’ll be right back.”
I stand, intending to spend a minute gathering myself in the bathroom, but when I reach the door, Douse says, “I hope no one has forgotten this assignment is timed.”
Donato groans. “How much of our grade is based on our partner’s work?”
I clench my fists, not waiting to hear Douse’s response before I push out into the hall. I don’t make it very far, catching the wall as soon as I exit and leaning my forehead against it, forcing myself to breathe through my rising panic.
I refuse to break down here in front of everyone. I cannot cry where these people can see me. I don’t want them to know how thoroughly I’ve been wrecked by this class and the people in it—especially the person at the front of the room.
The door opens behind me, and I whirl with a gasp, terrified it’s Douse.
But it’s Gabi, sticking her head into the hall. She frowns when she sees me, and the door swings shut behind her as she steps out.
“You okay?” she asks.
I shrug, because I can’t bring myself to lie.
She nods, rounding the corner and walking away. I hear the vending machine down the hall churn and thunk out something heavy. She returns a moment later with a water bottle, which she passes to me.
“Don’t let them rattle you,” she says, heading back into the classroom before I have a chance to thank her.
I crack open the bottle and take a long drag of cold water, letting it slide through me. After another sip, I cap it again and head back inside.
Donato doesn’t look at me as I sit down again.
“Try not to fuck this up for both of us,” he mutters.
I exhale and lift my chin. “Maybe you should stop worrying about how well I’m going to do and start wondering how you ended up with me to begin with. Because it didn’t seem like anyone was begging to be your partner either.”
He stops typing, his cheeks going mottled scarlet, and I feel a sick kind of victory at having delivered a blow as damaging as his.
As I return to my work, I tamp down the guilt at preying on someone who might be struggling as much as I am. Just because I’m the most publicly weak link in class doesn’t mean I’m alone. But he struck first, and I refuse to feel bad for hitting back.
Over his shoulder I catch Gabi’s eye, and she gives me a small, private smile as she flashes me a thumbs-up.
When portrait day at Stone why would you agree to this? I want to say, What are you thinking right now?
But I manage to keep the words locked in tight. There’s no point in antagonizing him. Clearly he was the only one available, or he wouldn’t be here.
Still, I can’t believe he came.
I feel the air around me crackle as Jamie returns, his presence so charged, I think if I touched him, my hair would stand on end.
But I wouldn’t touch him, because that would be an absurd thing to do.
Instead, I motion for him to sit in the chair at my station.
It’s a swivel stool with a small back support, not the most comfortable seat in the world, but easy for me to move him in any direction I need.
There’s even a circular bar around the bottom below his footrest, so I can turn the stool with my foot.
My usual station has been replaced with a standing wheeled turntable, and the other tables have been pushed back to the walls to make room. Each stand has an armature constructed of metal and wire in the center, a basic egg shape for portraits.
“Let me know if you need to get up and stretch at any point,” I say to Jamie. “It’s a long time to sit.”
Jamie perches on the stool. I can’t read anything in his expression, but his posture is casual, like he’s completely at ease. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know you think that because you’re in ROTC, you’ve suffered or whatever and this isn’t a big deal, but sitting still for two hours—”