Chapter Fifteen
169 days until graduation
Things between Jameson and me have been uneventful since our argument in the Callaghan’s sitting room on Thanksgiving. I haven’t spoken to him, and he hasn’t tried to speak to me. I’ve concluded that the dynamic we have is for the best.
Of course, that doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t been constantly replaying the scene where Jameson Beaumont grabbed my wrists and pushed my back up against a bookcase.
I catch myself touching my lips as I sit in AP Literature, imagining the moment. Even though I hate to admit it, the scene in the Callaghan sitting room has been a recurring fantasy of mine. If I had been pressed up against those shelves for a minute longer, Jameson and I would have done something we both deeply regret.
Yet, I can’t help but wonder if I really would have regretted it, considering the prospect of kissing Jameson has been the only thing flooding my mind.
I boil my brain down, attempting to understand all the content within it, until I conclude that the only probable reason for my traitorous thoughts is simply physical attraction, nothing more.
I snap my eyes back toward the whiteboard, ignoring the fact that Eloise is looking at me as if she knew exactly what I was thinking about. I copy down the notes, shaking the idea that Eloise, or anyone for that matter, is aware of what happened between Jameson and me.
Nobody was there. Nobody saw us. I have told no one about it.
It’s safe to conclude that, if no one has found out after almost two weeks, then the odds are pretty good that nobody ever will.
I look up again at the board after writing the first sentence, but my view of the board is being obstructed.
“Gen,” an unfamiliar voice says. I look up further to see a girl standing in front of my desk. A traditionally pretty girl with striking blue eyes and dark black hair.
For a moment, I think she’s Valerie Mason, one of my friends who lives in New York, but once I take a more thorough look, I realize I have no clue who this girl is.
“Yes?” I ask, trying to lean to the side to see around her.
“I wanted to let you know that Briar Hart wants to talk to you.” The girl tells me.
I feel my head involuntary lean to the side. “Why?” I ask, confused.
Why would Briar Hart want to talk to me?
She shrugs. “I don’t know, she asked me to tell you.”
I nod. “Okay, I’ll find her later,” I say. She finally moves out of my way as I attempt to remember if I have any classes with Briar.
I’m more curious than concerned that Briar is seeking me out. I barely know her, in fact, I know her thirteen-year-old sister better than I know her.
“Briar Hart is looking for you?” Eloise leans over to ask once the girl, whose name I still don’t know, walks away.
I don’t answer her question at first, because my mind is still attempting to recall that girl’s name. I know it, I know I do. “Do you know who that was?” I ask, pointing discreetly toward where the girl just sat down.
“Yeah, that’s Alexandria Zimmermann.”
I immediately recognize the last name. After being Student Body President for the last four years, I have looked at our class list at least a hundred times, and Zimmermann is the only last name starting with a Z.
Now, I have a face to put with the name. For a few moments until I forget it again, at least.
“How do you know her?”
Eloise looks at me like I’m clueless. “She’s been in this class all year, Gen.” I nod. I guess most people know their own classmates.
“Back to my question,” she says, tapping on my desk to get my attention. “Why is Briar Hart looking for you?”
“Why would I know?” I counter. “I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“You don’t have any possibilities in mind?”
“No, El, I don’t.” I start to copy notes again, glancing between the board and my paper. “I’ve only talked to her once, and you were present.”
“Well, you need to find out what she wants, Gen,” Eloise urges. I can’t quite figure out why she wants to know about Briar so badly.
“That’s the plan, El.”
When Winnie, Eloise, and I walk into sculpture, I see Briar.
She’s working on one of the pottery wheels in the back corner of the room, leaning over the mound of clay, attempting to center it as the wheel spins quickly. Her arms are anchored on both of her knees, and the wheel is spinning in the opposite direction than how Eloise uses it.
I look at Eloise, nodding toward Briar. “Did you know she was left-handed?”
“Everyone knows she’s left-handed,” Winnie answers.
“How?” I look toward Briar again, as if this time there will be a ‘LEFT-HANDED’ tattoo on her forehead.
“She’s the number one left-handed girl’s lacrosse player in the country right now!” Eloise snaps. “Gosh, Gen, how do you not know this stuff?”
Eloise has always been up to date with all the school’s sports, so I’m not shocked she knows this information, but it’s odd that she expects me to know it as well. I keep up to date with school events per my Student Body President requirements, but beyond that, I have no interest.
If I were into school sports, people would fear me because they’d realize how competitive I am—not that most of our class doesn’t already know.
Winnie gives me a wide-eyed expression but turns away from Eloise and I to keep herself from laughing. In turn, I do too.
“I’m going to go talk to her,” I tell the girls, running my hands down the sides of my skirt and preparing myself to enter the corner of the classroom where every square-inch is covered in clay.
“I’ll come with you,” Eloise says. Winnie heads over to Logan and Jameson’s table.
“Hey, Briar,” I say, as I approach the wheel she’s working on. “I heard you wanted to talk to me?”
Briar has already gotten the clay centered, and is spinning the wheel slower than before, attempting to raise the walls of the cylinder. It looks like she’s trying to build a vase. She looks up from her project, not stopping the wheel from spinning; her hands continue moving up and down the vase, smoothing out any imperfections.
“Oh, hey Gen.” She smiles. “Yeah, I was looking for you this morning but couldn’t find you.”
“I’m usually in the back of the library, on the second floor,” I tell her. Usually, I don’t tell anyone this because I like peace and quiet in the mornings.
“Ah,” Briar says, almost in realization. “I only looked on the first floor.” She picks up a tool from the crate next to her wheel, running it over the clay to make small grooves.
“So, what do you need to talk to me about?” I cut to the chase.
She lifts her head again, this time her hair falls in her face. “Shit,” she mutters, her hair almost falling in the spinning clay. I can tell that Eloise locks eyes with hers from behind me. “Could you?”
Eloise steps forward, not saying anything while she grabs a piece of Briar’s long, chestnut colored hair and gathers it together with the rest of her hair that’s splayed over her back.
“Do you have a hair tie?” Eloise asks her.
Briar looks at her wrists, both of which are covered in clay, and then shakes her head.
“Here.” I pull the hair tie that’s around my wrist off and pass it over to Eloise.
Briar gives me a grateful look before sitting up straighter when Eloise puts the hair tie between her teeth and gathers Briar’s hair into a ponytail and wraps the hair tie around a few times.
“Sorry,” Briar says to me once Eloise takes a step back, apologizing for getting distracted. “I was looking for you because I have a kind of embarrassing favor to ask of you.”
“Okay.” All I’m thinking is, why me? “What kind of favor?”
She looks at me for a second and then glances at Eloise. Her cheeks flush as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. I notice the signs of her apprehension immediately, and I also notice how her eyes train on Eloise.
I look toward my friend. “Hey El, maybe you should go see if Winnie needs help with anything.” The knowing look I give her has her nodding right away.
“Yeah.” Eloise clears her throat. “Yeah, I’ll go see.”
As soon as she’s a fair distance away, and Briar and I are the only ones left among the group of pottery wheels, she says, “I need you to tutor me.”
“What?” That’s the last thing I expected from the girl who has a half athletic, half academic scholarship to one of the best private Catholic universities in the country.
“I know, I know.” Briar quickly recognizes my confusion. “It sounds ridiculous: I’m committed to a division one school to play lacrosse, going on full scholarship, and I’m sitting here asking you to tutor me. Trust me, I know how stupid it makes me look.”
“That’s not what I was saying,” I tell her. “I was shocked. You’re not ridiculous, and needing help is nothing to be embarrassed about.” For me, it would be, but this advice is strictly for Briar.
She stands from the wheel, moving the plate that her vase sits on over to the drying shelf, and then washes her hands at the nearby sink.
“It’s embarrassing for me,” she admits quietly. “I’ve never struggled like this in a class before, and I feel so…” Her voice tapers off.
I can sense she doesn’t want anyone else in the room to hear her confession, so I walk over to the sinks to stand next to her.
“Do not say stupid,” I tell her.
“How do you do it?” She looks at me, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m so overwhelmed, and I’m ranked number six in my class. I can’t even imagine being number one.”
The mention of my class ranking makes me think about Jameson, and it sends a pang through my heart, knowing that I am technically not first because I’m sharing the position.For a second, I debate whether to share this with Briar, but I don’t see the point.
I ask, “What class?”
“What?” She looks over at me as she rips a piece of paper towel out of the dispenser.
“What class do you want me to tutor you in?” I repeat.
She lets out a large sigh, running her hands over her face, looking completely lost in her relief. “AP Calc.”
“AP Calc,” I repeat, mostly out of shock. “I’m in that class right now.”
“And I know how good you’re doing in it!” Her lips part slightly; I can see she’s become hopeful. “I didn’t mean to, but I saw your last test score. You got an A, Gen. I have gotten nothing above a C the entire year, and test corrections only help so much.” Her self-deprecating laugh makes my heart feel weighed down in my chest.
I see a piece of myself in Briar, and it makes me want to help her, and to prove to her that her worth isn’t dictated by her class rank. It’s too late for me to convince myself of that but it may not be for her.
So I say, “I’ll help you.”
“Really?” Briar asks, forming her hands into a steeple and pressing them to her lips. Her eyes are glowing with gratitude.
“Yeah, we can do our homework together. I can go through the problems you’re struggling with. It really won’t be that big of a deal.” Doing my homework with Briar will probably take me twice as long as it would take for me to do by myself, but I don’t say that.
One of Briar”s welled up tears falls down her flushed cheek. She looks around the room, making sure no one has come into the corner before she says, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, placing a comforting hand on her upper arm. I would normally never do this, but for some reason, Briar brings out a soft spot in me.
Wiping her tears, she smiles at me. “When can we get started?” We both laugh.
“You can come over to my house tonight.” I respond. That’s when Eloise and Winnie approach. “Or whatever nights you want, really.”
“You have no idea what this means to me,” Briar whispers as they near.
I smile lightly. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Then, I rejoin Winnie and Eloise, feeling more proud of myself than I have in a while.
“What was that about?” Winnie asks. “You look like she just confessed her love to you.”
“What?” Eloise’s choked shock is clear.
Winnie and I laugh. “Do you mean I look shocked beyond belief, or I look like I’m in love with her too?” I joke.
“Hm.” Winnie pretends to weigh the options for a moment before saying, “The juries are still out on that one.”
This time, all three of us laugh, and at the same time, I lock eyes with a pair of deep brown ones across the room: Jameson.
I feel a palpable connection that makes me want to look away, to break eye contact. I can’t stand the fact that I know what it feels like to be mere millimeters between each other, and to feel the rebellion of being seconds away from making a grave mistake.
Then again, part of me continues to wonder if it would have truly been a mistake, or if it would have created a reason to mend our resentment.
Although, whether it would or would not doesn’t matter, because I can’t have feelings getting involved when I have a title to win.
“I know the situation is not necessarily ideal.” Headmaster Whiting is teetering further and further onto thin ice with every word. “But the two of you are going to have to find a solution.”
I look at Genevieve, knowing his statement is directed at her. I”m not the one unwilling to compromise.
We are sitting in the same seats we sat in on the first day of school when Headmaster Whiting originally instilled Genevieve’s hatred in me.It has not been an easy couple of months trying to settle this feud between Genevieve and me.
Ever since the argument we had on Thanksgiving, everything surrounding the situation between Genevieve and I has become substantially more informal.
“What type of merits are you claiming to have been enforced?” Genevieve leans forward in her chair, her elbows resting on her thighs. “Because to me, it seems as if these so-called ‘merits’ haven’t been updated since the late eighteen hundreds.”
“The reasons for the way we run things around here are not up for student debate. You are not required to understand them, but you are required to abide by the rules that are put in place.”
That’s some teacher bullshit, if I”ve ever heard it.He basically just told her, “I know our rules are fucked up, and you”re probably right about them being outdated, but you”re just going to have to suck it up.”
“I think those rules are, by law, allowed to be questioned when the integrity of your school is at stake,” she spits back, and I can’t help but agree with her.
To some, how this school runs things may seem simply ‘old-fashioned,’ but to me, it seems wrong. This school prides itself on producing respectful and responsible students, but its entire system is built off sexism and social constructs that were meant to be laid to rest decades ago.
And although I don’t believe sexism is the entire reason, I was offered the secondary position as Valedictorian, I now think it may have played a part.
That’s when the idea hits. “Headmaster Whiting, I think it would be best if Genevieve and I could configure this speech with no supervision.”
He makes a face like he’s considering it, but then says, “Well, that’s not really proper protocol for something of this nature.” I don”t think sexism is proper protocol either.
I manage to form a respectful response instead, regardless of what I truly want to say. “Headmaster, sir, Genevieve and I have proven to be trustworthy students, and I think our speech would be more cohesive if you would give us complete creative freedom—within reason, of course.”
I look at Genevieve, giving her a face that’s practically begging her to go along with my idea. I know she doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on when it comes to trusting me, but I hope she will go along with me just this once.
She looks away from my pleading gaze and toward Headmaster Whiting. “I would agree to sharing a speech with Jameson under those conditions.”
I almost leap out of my chair in pure joy. This is a monumental moment for me—the first time Genevieve has ever agreed with me on anything.
“Okay then.” Headmaster accepts my proposal. “But before you two get started, I want you to understand the trust I am putting in you. Please, don’t do anything that will make a mockery of me or my school.” He jots something down in his notebook before shutting it.
Genevieve and I nod simultaneously. “We understand.”
“I would also suggest that you start drafting the speech now. The closer we get to the end of the year, the more the two of you will have on your plates.”
Once we agree to Headmaster Whiting’s conditions, he informs us that we will be the sole leaders of the Class Officers Committee since none of the teachers offered to run it this year.
“I’m trusting you both, please don’t let me down,” he finally says.
“We won’t”
When we walk out of his office, I don’t think I could be any happier.
I can only wonder whether Genevieve feels the same way.
I find her later that day in sculpture class. “Hey, can you talk for a minute?” I ask her.
“That depends,” she deadpans when she looks up at me. “Are you going to advise me to pick up a sport? Or maybe drop me down a flight of stairs?”
I laugh. “I can’t make any promises.”
“Fine.” She nods toward the chair across from her, not looking up from her project. Winnifred isn’t sitting with her; she retreated to Logan’s and my table when she saw me approach. “What do you want?”
“Who are you working on?” I ask, avoiding the topic I really want to discuss.
“Why do you care?” She continues to carve into the Styrofoam.
“Just curious.” I lean over, trying to see what she’s working on. I catch a glimpse of a square shaped head and a large beard. “Aristotle?”
“How do you know that?” She finally looks up at me.
I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “I’m doing Plato. He’s who taught Aristotle.”
She looks at me in disdain. “Of course, you’re the one who took Plato.”
I quickly realize she wanted to do Plato too, but Ms. Geller made it so we all were forced to make someone different.I wonder if she likes Plato for all the same reasons I do, or if there’s something else about him that piques her interest. Slowly, I’m noticing all the commonalities we may have that we’re unaware of.
“Sorry, I didn’t know,” I say.
“It’s fine.” She brushes my apology off. “Now, why are you here?”
“We need to talk about this speech,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “It is not going to take a whole school year to write a speech.”
“But it may take an entire school year for you to agree to my idea for it,” I counter quickly.
She looks up at me through her lashes. That’s when I realize I can never tell whether this girl is wearing makeup.I’m a pretty observant person, so I usually notice things like that. But with Genevieve, it’s almost impossible.
Her eyelashes are long and flawlessly fanned upwards. Her eyebrows are laid perfectly, much like her sleek brown hair, and her lips are a shade of pink that I cannot decide whether is natural.
“Then, I wouldn’t even bother trying.” Her raspy voice breaks me out of my trance. “Because if you don’t think you will convince me, then you definitely won’t.”
“I want to write a speech that stands against the school.” I expel the words like they were burning my tongue.
She thinks about it for a moment, like she’s not sure whether to shoot my idea down immediately or ask more questions. “What exactly would we be rebelling against?”
“The morals of this school.” I look around, making sure no one is listening too closely. “It came to me when you brought it up in the Headmaster’s office. I know you’re not fond of me, but I think it’s important for you to know that I understand where you’re coming from. I would be frustrated too, and if we band together, we could write an incredible speech while also addressing the issues within the school system.”
I don’t know what I’m expecting Genevieve’s reaction to be. I’m not sure whether her subconscious would ever let her agree with me, even if it was something that she finds as important as this.She has to know how much of an impact something like this could have though—how many people would come to realize the issues within the school like we did.
For once, she looks at me with eyes that do not hold any hatred and says, “Let’s do it.”
I finally take a breath, and the air that fills my lungs when she agrees has to be the best thing I’ve ever felt.
Right then, the bell rings.
“You’re agreeing?” I ask as I stand. My shock is probably evident, but I was not expecting her to agree as easily as she did.
“Yeah.” She nods slowly, looking at me as if I’ve forgotten how to speak English.
She exits the classroom first, and when I look back at the table, I notice she forgot her pencil case. I take it with me as I enter the hallway, and I find her already rushing toward the staircase, making it almost impossible to keep up.
Goddamn, she can walk in heels. I think as I jog past people to catch up to her.
When I finally reach her again, she’s at the bottom of the staircase, and I grip the back of her arm to grab her attention.
Genevieve turns, noticing me and jerking her arm out of my grasp. “What now?”
“You forgot this.” I hold her pencil case out to her.
She looks conflicted, shaking her head once as if she’s trying to understand how she could have forgotten it. She still hasn’t taken it back from me when someone bumps into her.
I quickly grab her shoulder to keep her from getting pushed down the stairs.
Genevieve’s eyes are still foggy when she finally takes the pencil case from my hand. She blinks hard, and then says, “Thanks.”
I’m unsure if she’s thanking me for her pencil case, saving her from falling, or both.I force a passing smile on my face anyway, “You’re welcome.”
Then, she heads down the stairs while I stand at the top of them, still not understanding how that just transpired.
Genevieve and I have finally made an agreement, and that feels like an accomplishment in itself.