8th Grade
8th GRADE
February 14
Taylor
A h, another Valentine’s Day. Thank God this is the last year we’ll be forced to trade cards—as middle schoolers, we’re already too old for it. Now the valentines come with subtext and unanswered questions.
“Does that mean he likes me, in that way?”
“I thought she hated me, but that’s a really cute card, so maybe I’m wrong?”
“Maybe that boy isn’t as mean as I thought?”
My friend, Caroline Loder, has in fact, turned from the desk in front of mine to ask those very questions all within the past two minutes.
We became friends in speech therapy in fifth grade. Both of us had lisps and were taken out of class to meet with a special teacher in the library every other Tuesday. Caroline was born in Sweetwater, but has been just as much of an outcast as me. Her lisp was more pronounced than mine, and she’s a few sizes bigger than most of the girls, wearing hand-me-downs from older siblings that don’t fit her body well. So never mind what being singled out for speech therapy did to our already incredibly-low social standing—we bonded. We don’t have much in common other than trying to keep a low profile and not get beat up, but that’s enough.
“Have you looked at yours yet? Why aren’t you looking at yours?” Caroline spins to ask me.
“I’m gonna wait until later, do it privately.”
Sometimes I still get anonymous mean cards—even though Mitchell Dover moved away, thank God. But the main reason I’m waiting is because the valentine box has become even more meaningful to me this past year.
Last June, my dad fell three stories from a house he was working on and severed his spinal cord. He died instantly. A doctor explained to me about damage to some nerve that controls breathing, but all I really heard was that my father was gone in a heartbeat.
Now my mom waits tables at the Sweetheart Diner, an old restaurant on Main Street that’s struggling to survive, like most of the businesses around here—and now I’m the one who see hearts everywhere I go. It’s been a tough year for us both.
After the original defacing of the valentine box, Dad and I painted it white and, to my surprise, that made it even prettier. I’ve continued to collect my cards in it every year, but after today, I’ll have to find other uses for it.
And in the spirit of doing things privately, I use this moment to reach in my backpack and sneakily pass Caroline a small stack of heart-shaped cookies in a cellophane bag. “Put these away and don’t eat them until later,” I instruct her.
Her eyes light up at the sight, but then she catches on, tucking them discreetly in her book bag. “Thanks,” she whispers. “You know I love your cookies.”
Baking cookies, cakes, and pies with my mom has become a big thing in my life—it’s something we love doing together. Or we did anyway. She works so much now that she’s exhausted by the time she gets home, so I’ve mostly been baking on my own lately. But I’ve never brought any to share with classmates other than Caroline since that scarring fourth grade incident. Fool me once and all that. I’ve learned to keep my guard up. I still don’t fit in, but I’ve slowly found ways to navigate this stupid school.
“Hey.”
I look up at the low, clipped greeting from Luke Montgomery as he slides into the desk next to mine in our alphabetically-designated homeroom.
“Hey,” I say back.
All these years later, we’ve never discussed that fight between him and Mitchell, but we’ve been quietly friendly ever since. We don’t hang out, of course—popular, athletic boys like him congregate with their own kind—but he’s always nice to me. He sits next to me in homeroom, same as in elementary school, and sometimes he asks me for a pencil or ink pen, with a yeah-forgot-again-sorry grin I’ve grown used to. I just make sure I have an extra now. Most of the other jocks and cheerleaders treat me like I don’t exist, but not Luke.
“Oh—here,” he says in that same low voice as he leans over to drop a small envelope into the slot on the valentine box.
I can’t hold in a probably-too-bashful smile. “Thanks.”
Then he hands one to Caroline and she responds, “Thank you, Luke,” in a whispery way that sounds like she’s being wooed. I love the girl, but there are reasons we’re not in the cool kids’ club.
He sounds completely embarrassed and awkward as he stands up and says, eyes averted from us, “Better hand these out before the bell.” Then he pulls up short. “Oh, almost forgot.” He reaches in his backpack and extracts a small red-wrapped shoebox that’s seen better days and plops it on his desk, muttering, “Man, I can’t wait to have this tradition over with.”
“You and me both,” I murmur, and he tosses me a quick, pleasant glance before heading to the other side of the room, a stack of mini-envelopes in his hand.
Caroline rips into the one Luke just handed her and reads it out loud. “You’re so cool, valentine.” I peek over her shoulder to see a cartoon polar bear standing on a chunk of ice. “Do you think he really thinks I’m cool?” she asks.
I just sigh. “Sorry, but…probably not, Care. No one thinks either of us is cool. My mother says that will change when we get older, though, or that it quits mattering very much, or something.”
“Hope so,” she says on a sigh of her own.
Valentines are only exchanged in homeroom, thank goodness. On the way to my first period class, I stash the box in my locker, and I pick it up again before last period, since my locker is in the opposite direction as the school buses. I’m a little surprised to see no one else toting a box of valentines—maybe they’re all crammed into book bags or they were cardboard ones ditched in the nearest trash can after the cards were removed. The box sits on the corner of my desk as we take a quiz.
Algebra I is kind of a Who’s Who of Sweetwater Middle School. On one side of the room sits Jasmine Dupree and some of the other cheerleaders, all gorgeous and confident and domineering. Toward the middle are Luke and his friends, TJ and Billy—the cool ballplayer contingent. Luke is the only friendly one, but the other two at least seem like decent guys. Mix in a couple of brainiacs, a budding track star, and some middle-of-the-roaders—not popular but not nerds—and that leaves Caroline and me, over by the windows, trying to keep our usual low profile.
Just before the final bell dismisses us for the day, Mr. Cortez steps out of the classroom, ready to play hall monitor. There was some roughhousing in the halls last week, so the teachers have been told to stay on guard.
Almost as soon as he’s out of sight, I spot Jasmine Dupree eyeing me from across the room. She’s become a problem the last few months. Until this year, the popular girls just ignored me, but Jasmine has started looking for reasons to give Caroline and me a hard time lately.
Same as the first day I arrived in Sweetwater, I have no idea why certain kids get so much pleasure from terrorizing others. Especially people like Jasmine. Her father’s a lawyer and her mother a successful realtor, she’s gorgeous and dresses like a fashion model, she’s a cheerleader, and all the cute boys like her—what more does she want from middle school? When she gets up and crosses the room toward me, I have a feeling I’m about to find out.
My desk is the first in the row and she comes to stand right in front of me. “Wow, look at red’s fancy valentine box,” she says loudly enough to get the entire class’s attention. Life was easier when she didn’t notice me or the heart-shaped box I’ve brought to school on this day every year since I moved here.
“She must be super excited about Valentine’s Day,” she goes on, switching her gaze back and forth between her friends across the room and the heart-shaped box. “Must think she’s getting lots of passionate valentines from all the boys.” She stops to let out a deep laugh, but her eyes are vicious. “I bet she goes home and reads them, thinking they’re for real. Can’t you just see her, blushing and fantasizing, thinking they really like her? I wonder who she has the biggest crush on.”
Now her eyes roam the boys in the room. “Maybe it’s Luke,” she says, her eyes landing on him. “I bet she thinks he’s soooo cute.” My chest aches as my face burns with embarrassment, surely turning bright red.
“Or maybe it’s TJ. He’s all tall, dark, and handsome. Or maybe she’s hot for Billy. Maybe she just swoons every time he shoots a three-pointer.” Another sickening laugh leaves her, and that’s when she adds, “Or maybe she sends fake valentines to herself, so she can pretend she has a love life. Let’s look and see!”
At that precise moment, the bell rings and she scoops up the wooden heart box from my desk to dart out of the room into an instantly crowded hallway. Her friends all laugh and follow—as Luke says, “Don’t worry, Taylor—I’ll go after her.”
He’s holding a notebook in his hand, using it to gesture toward the door Jasmine just exited, and on the back cover, I notice a discoloration of some kind—shaped like a heart. I really do see them everywhere now—at least once a week, often more.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m imagining them, just craving some way to believe my father’s still with me. But Geneva, my mother’s waitress friend at the diner, says that whatever my heart tells me is true. And what my heart’s telling me right now is that this is from my dad. And that he’s sending me one of the same messages, or wishes, he always had for me: he wants me to be brave. He doesn’t want me to go through life being walked on. So even as tempting as it is to let Luke Montgomery handle this, I hear myself answer, “No, I need to do this myself.”
Of course, as I step out into the hall, catching a glimpse of Jasmine and her crew in the distance heading toward the gym, I have no idea what it is I’m going to do, and I’m terrified something bad is going to happen to my precious box. I struggle through the crowd, afraid I’ll lose sight of her and my box will disappear.
As I fight my way down the hall, I realize how much more sense it would have made to let Luke do it—he offered, and wouldn’t it just gall Jasmine for him to be my knight in shining armor? But as I spot Jasmine and company pushing their way through the gym door, I remember that heart I saw, and what I felt in my gut: I’m sick and tired of this horrible girl persecuting me and my friend.
I just hope I don’t regret whatever’s about to happen.
When I burst through the gym door, I see kids spread out, making posters— Go Tigers! and Tigers Gonna Roar!— and taping twisted crepe paper to the orange-and-white painted concrete walls. There’s a pep rally tomorrow.
I’ve made quite an entrance, so every gaze turns my way.
I, on the other hand, only have eyes for my valentine box, tucked under Jasmine’s arm. She appears as surprised to see me as I am to be here—even more so as I barrel straight toward her. I try to look as mean as her, demanding, “Give me my box.”
But she still seems completely in control. “Aw, afraid I’ll read all your valentines?” she asks in her awful, ridiculing way.
“Give it back.”
She raises her eyebrows, smug as ever. “Or what?”
Okay, mean isn’t working. Mean is something she understands and excels at.
So maybe I need to take my game to a new level and go with…crazy. I need to act scary-crazy. Or…maybe it’s for real—I’ve been driven to this. I take a step closer and say in my most venomous voice, “You don’t wanna find out.”
But Jasmine only laughs. “Is that so?”
Don’t give up, though. Go at it harder. “Wanna try me?”
“Are you gonna beat me up, red?”
And that’s when I commit to full-on nut-job crazy, speaking in a low, quiet, threatening voice I didn’t even know I possessed. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to give it some thought. Figure out exactly the best way to hurt you, and when.”
I’m not a violent person—I can barely kill a housefly—but this finally produces a chink in Jasmine’s smug armor. She looks less confident, thrown off by the fact that I might just be dangerous and insane. So I keep going. “I hope having to wonder when it will happen, having to look over your shoulder every second of your stupid, pompous life will be worth it. Is it? Worth it?”
Jasmine continues to stare me down, but I think she’s afraid now and doesn’t know what to do.
Courtney Jones, one of her cheerleader buddies, says, “Jasmine, her father made that box and he’s dead. Why don’t you just give it back?”
“Fine, whatever,” Jasmine mutters. “It’s stupid anyway.” Then she tosses it in my general direction—and I barely catch it just before it crashes to the floor.
With my heart beating a mile a minute—in both relief and fear—I turn and exit the gym.
I nearly run head-on into Luke Montgomery, pulling up short just before we collide. He’s holding out my book bag. “You forgot this.”
I blink repeatedly, stunned and a little horrified as I take it from him. “Thanks.” Then I nibble my lower lip, struggling to make eye contact. “Did you…see what just happened? In the gym?” Please say no. I don’t want you to think I’m a crazy psycho killer.
“Yeah,” he says.
And I wish desperately for the tile floor beneath me to open up and swallow me whole.
Luke
“You were scary,” I tell her. “And awesome.”
I watch her green eyes go wide behind her glasses. “Awesome?”
I nod, impressed. “She’s not an easy person to scare, but I think you did it.”
“I’m not really crazy,” she tells me, shaking her head vigorously.
“I know,” I assure her on a light laugh. “But you did what you had to, and it was hella cool.”
As she gives her head a cute tilt, I get a better look at her. I’ve gone to school with her for years, and we’ve always been friendly enough, but we’re not usually standing face to face like this. People make fun of her freckles, but I kinda like ’em.
“Thanks,” she says, seeming a little bashful. Then she scrunches up her nose. “I don’t know why she’s so mean when she already has everything she could possibly want.”
I just shake my head, equally at a loss.
“How come you hang around with her?” she asks me then.
I didn’t see that coming and I’m not sure how to answer. “I don’t, exactly,” I claim. It’s true. “She’s just part of my friend group.”
“Not a very nice one.” Her mood has gone a little darker again, and I guess I can’t blame her. I’ve never been bullied, but I’m sure it sucks.
And I’ve never been a bully—but maybe I’ve never done much to stop it, either. Other than that time I beat up Mitchell Dover in the fourth grade. I got in so much trouble with my dad for that—I kinda gotta walk the straight and narrow with him. Guess maybe I feel like I’m walking a thin line most of the time, in lots of ways.
“Hey, you mad at me?” I ask her.
“No. I just don’t like your friend .” She puts the last word in air quotes.
“I hear ya. She’s a jerk. The cheerleaders and ballplayers just get shoved together a lot.” It sounds weak even as it leaves me, but that’s true, too. And Jasmine never acts like this at parties or on the away game bus. Though I’m sure Taylor doesn’t want to hear me explain that she actually has a normal side.
“I get it,” Taylor answers quietly. And if I’m honest with myself, the way she says it slugs me in the gut a little. Like what she’s really saying is: I get that even though you’re nice to me, you’re still more like her.
And I kinda want to take up for myself, explain some more, but I’m not sure she’s wrong.
“Thanks for bringing my bag,” she tells me, still looking disheartened, and I’m not sure if that’s about what happened with Jasmine or if it’s somehow about me. But my dad always tells me I’m too full of myself, so maybe this proves it.
“Sure,” I say, watching as she strides toward the row of windowed doors leading outside.
That’s when she looks out, muttering, “Well, this is just great ,” and her eyes fall dejectedly shut.
“What’s wrong?” I step over and glance out myself to see a row of yellow school buses pulling away from the curb outside in a single-file line.
“Your friend, ” she says with more air quotes, “made me miss my bus.”
“She’s still not my friend,” I insist.
At this, Taylor lets her eyes go comically wide as she replies, “Okie dokey—whatever you say. Wink, wink.” She ends with an exaggerated wink that makes me laugh.
And then she laughs, too.
But that’s when I remember she has a problem—one I can actually help with. “My brother Aaron is picking me up. He can take you home.”
Taylor
Talk about a day that turned out differently than expected. First I get into a near-scuffle with Jasmine over my heart box, and now I’m clutching the box in one arm and my book bag in the other as I climb into Luke’s brother’s car. It’s a late-model sedan, nicer than any car my family’s ever owned. He’s a senior at the high school that sits a parking lot away from the middle school.
I’m ridiculously nervous and instantly worried I’ll do something wrong, socially or otherwise.
“This is Taylor—she needs a ride home,” Luke explains. He’s in the backseat, having insisted I sit in front. I’d feel more comfortable if our positions were reversed, though.
“Cool. Where do you live?” I guess I was worried the brother would size me up, see me as so many in Sweetwater do—the weird girl with the red hair and freckles. So I’m actually grateful when he doesn’t bother to look at me even while sounding okay with the situation.
“On Riverview, just off Main.” I’ve always felt cheated that our end of Riverview has no river view—in fact, most of Riverview has no view—and it’s a far nicer name than the street delivers. Truthfully, I’m even a little embarrassed to even say it, knowing they live in a large, picturesque Victorian home on a horse farm that lines the river for a mile or more. Sporting gingerbread trim and a large, wraparound porch, it’s flanked by rows of the white split-rail fencing common to Kentucky horse country.
“Cool,” he says again, emotionless. “Just give me directions when we get into town.”
The ride is mostly silent, other than the radio, until Luke’s brother says to me, “Cool box.”
He’s a guy of few words, and most of them seem to be cool .
“Thanks. My dad made it,” I tell him. I continue to feel sheepish, suddenly immersed in the world of the Montgomery family, but I’m pleased he admired the box.
Luke’s brother flips around on the radio, and when he hits a song I recognize but have never actually heard playing randomly anywhere, I say, “Oh, I know this song. It’s a great song.”
Though I immediately regret blurting it out. I intended to stay quiet unless spoken to—the best way to navigate social situations one is thrust into because there’s less opportunity for people to think you’re weird. So it’s a relief when Luke actually sounds interested, asking, “Oh yeah?”
And I explain. “It’s called ‘Lady in Red.’ My mom and dad danced to it at their high school homecoming dance. And then again at their wedding. And they dance to it every year on their anniversary. Or, I mean, they did. Until…”
“Until what?” the brother asks casually.
See, this is why I stay quiet. Especially lately. Sometimes I say things I don’t mean to. And now I’m stuck. “He died last year.”
“Oh. Shit.” It’s the first time Luke’s brother has glanced my way and I’ve made his eyes go wide with shock.
“It’s all right,” I rush to tell him.
But now he looks even more taken aback. “It is?”
“Well, not really,” I confess. “I mean, he’s dead and it’s awful. I just didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. Sorry.” I end on a tired sigh, staring down at the knees of my blue jeans, wishing I’d found some other way home.
That’s when a hand closes over my shoulder, and I turn to find Luke’s face closer to mine than it’s ever been. “Hey, nothing to be sorry for.” But then his touch is gone, and his face, too, as he says, “Turn it up.”
Luke’s brother increases the volume and the song plays. Watching my parents dance to it year after year growing up…well, I just heard their love in it somehow. But hearing the song now, in the awkwardness of Luke’s brother’s car, I realize it’s a soulfully, desperately, almost painfully romantic song. And somehow even that embarrasses me, on the inside, as it hits me I’m not a girl any guy is ever going to feel that way about.
My internal strife eases only when the song ends and Luke’s brother amuses me by saying, “Cool tune.”
My sheepishness returns, however, as the car glides up Main, where even more of the shops are closed than when we first moved here, and I direct Luke’s brother to our bland little house a few blocks away, its faded white siding and cracked driveway suddenly looking more faded and cracked to me than ever. “This one,” I say, pointing, and he stops the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
As I get out and start up the driveway, feeling small inside to have Luke see where I live as he vacates the backseat to move up front, he calls behind me. “Hey, Taylor.”
I stop, look over my shoulder.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I hope I’m not blushing as I say, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Luke.”
As the classy car pulls away, I think about their big, beautiful home with the river in the backyard. It’s the prettiest house in town. As I dig out my key and let myself in, I miss my dad. Mom is at work and won’t be home until after nine. Life wasn’t supposed to be like this, for either of us.
I do my homework, then heat up leftover meatloaf, making some instant mac and cheese to go with it. After I clear my dishes from the table, I sit back down and take the lid off the valentine box. My heart beats a little faster with a secret wish that maybe there’ll be something noteworthy about the one from Luke.
But it’s only his name, same as every year. On the other side: You’re sweet, valentine , with a picture of a smiling cupcake.
Oh no, I’ve just become what Jasmine accused me of—a girl who fantasizes the popular boy likes her! Ugh. And worse yet, do I actually have a crush on Luke Montgomery?
I think longingly back to that first valentine I ever received from him. Woof you be my valentine?
Oh, I definitely woof, Luke. I definitely woof.
Only that can never be. I could never fit into your world, and you’ll never see me the way I wish you would.