FIVE
C lay is nowhere to be seen by the time I amble out of the cafeteria, baby toes pinched in my prom heels.
Nori thought it would be a good idea to “break them in.” But I’m about ready to toss them in the trash. So much for “orthopedist approved.” I’m convinced high heels are the devil’s footwear.
The rainbow smattering of freshly painted bricks catches my eye as I limp to my locker to get my books for next period, defeated. It’s tradition that each graduating student paints one brick with their name, immortalizing themself on the MHS walls. I’ve already reserved mine next to Kassie’s and Ollie’s joint brick, though I haven’t started painting yet—mostly because putting brush to wall feels so final.
I still remember walking these halls for the first time. Kassie and I busted through the doors giggling, arms linked, ready to take on the world. We were buzzing with anticipation, swapping gossip about all the kids from other feeder middle schools.
Of course, my confidence was a facade, unlike Kassie’s. Truthfully, my gut was more twisted than a plate of lo mein noodles when we entered the noisy gymnasium for the freshman welcome assembly. Kassie gripped my wrist and whispered, “Straighten your posture and smile.” I followed close behind as she led us up the bleachers, past a sea of anxious faces. I’d pulled us left when I spotted an empty row, but she yanked me to the right, conveniently smack-dab in front of Ollie and Renner.
I was envious of Kassie’s ability to waltz up to the dude she’d made out with days before like it was no big deal. Turns out, the smile wasn’t for Renner. She’d zeroed right in on Ollie.
Renner flashed me a megawatt smile that nearly sent me sideways off the bleachers and said, “I’m J. T.” Just as I went to shake his hand, Kassie flashed me a warning look, reminding me not be one of those “basic girls” who falls for his cult-leader charisma.
In return, I smiled shyly and turned away, just in case Kassie still liked him. She had him first, after all.
I veer left into a relatively empty hallway, and a pair of heavy, Paul Bunyan–style footsteps gain on me. Renner. He narrows his gaze as he passes like one of those professional speed walkers. He has one goal, as do I: to get to our locker first.
Unlike the beautiful, shiny, full-length lockers in the movies, Maplewood High lockers are those obnoxious half-size stacked ones, one on top, one on the bottom. And because life has it out for me, mine is directly below Renner’s. We can’t comfortably be at our lockers at the same time without my head winding up somewhere near his crotch.
Every day it’s a mad dash to see who will claim the territory first. I’ve beaten him about 70 percent of the time, not that I’m counting or anything.
I channel Emily in Paris charging through cobblestone streets in her four-inch stilettos, even though I look more like a severely injured crab missing a leg.
Triumphantly, Renner arrives first. At nearly a foot taller, he has an unfair advantage.
“By the way,” he starts, stance wide as he takes his sweet time with his combination. “I’m planning on going to the party rental store after school to grab the prom decor. Wanna come with?” It’s tradition that student council decorates in the mornings so we get to participate in Senior Week fun.
I slow blink. “Why are you inviting me ? Shouldn’t the president have it under control?”
“I do. I was supposed to go with Ollie but he bailed like usual. Like Kassie does with you,” he says knowingly.
I’m shocked that he’s even picked up on my issues with Kassie. I never complain to anyone about her, not even Nori.
“Ollie ditches you all the time too?” I ask.
He arrows a hard stare at his lock. “Sure does. It’s really freakin’ annoying, actually. Sometimes it feels like they just don’t care about anyone but themselves.” He pauses for a moment as he finally opens the lock and resets, like he regrets talking badly about them. “Anyway, wanna come? The last thing I need is you on my ass about something dumb like the napkin color.”
I try to hide my smile. This is his backward way of asking for help because, in the depths of his pea brain, he knows he’s clueless. “Napkin color is important. The last thing we need is that tacky blue color messing up the look.”
“May I ask what tacky blue is?”
I snap my fingers, fumbling for the words. “That ugly bright blue. Like the Facebook logo.”
He takes a sharp breath, looking offended. “What do you have against Facebook blue?”
“It’s the color of depression.”
“Good to know. I’ll put in a rush order for a bulk pack of Depression Blue napkins.”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “Actually, don’t worry about it. I’ll just go alone,” I say, waving him off.
He gives me a lingering stare. “As president, I should be there to supervise.”
“That would be a first,” I sneer. “Trust, I’ve planned many a school dance without you. I’m fine to take over.”
“How are you going to transport all the decor on your own? Your bike basket ain’t gonna cut it.”
I glare at him. He has a point. And my bike is out of commission.
He sees the gears turning in my head and pounces. “Meet me on the steps after fourth period.”
“I have the Katrina Zellars Foundation scholarship interview. Tomorrow after school?”
“Nope. I have plans,” he brags.
“Shotgunning beers behind the Sundown Diner with Pete? Please. You can reschedule.” Something about his statement digs at me. I’m suspicious that the group is hanging out without me, again. Just last week, I found out they’d all had a barbecue at Andie’s. Kassie ignored my text earlier that day asking what she was up to.
Sometimes it feels like our group is like a jawbreaker. There’s the core—Kassie, Ollie, and Renner. Then there are the outer layers. The people who are progressively less and less integral to the greater group, like Andie and Pete, then Nori and me.
I wonder if I’d be friends with them at all if it weren’t for Kassie (not that I’m “friends” with Renner). Probably not. They’re all jocks, and I can’t even dribble a basketball without it nearly breaking my nose. (Don’t ask.) The only reason I ever got a decent grade in PE was because of the health portion.
His jaw tightens. “No, actually. Real plans. I can’t cancel them.”
I don’t have the energy to guess, so I just shrug. “How about Friday morning?”
“Not gonna work. That’s Beach Day.”
I sigh. He has a point. It’s tradition to complete prom setup in advance of the sleepover and the beach. No one wants to be stuck on decor duty while everyone else is soaking up the sun.
“Fine. I can ask the rental person if we can come early tomorrow morning before class?” he offers. “We both have spare first period anyway. We can start decorating early.”
The mere thought of spending all morning with Renner makes me want to stress clean. But I also don’t trust him anywhere near the napkin colors. “Fine.”
I lean against the next locker, heels in hand, watching as students hustle in from lunch break. “Accidentally in Love” by Counting Crows blasts over the PA. It’s one of twelve ancient tunes the teachers play between periods to signal that it’s time for class.
Meanwhile, Renner just stands there, idly texting in front of his open locker. I take great pains to regulate my breathing. I will not choose violence today. I will not choose violence today.
“Ticktock, Renner,” I warn, voice trailing as I spot Clay’s mop of hair coming around the corner. He’s striding toward me, looking far too fine for my mere mortal eyes. Our gazes lock from a distance and I remember what Kassie said in the cafeteria. Put on your big-girl panties.
What’s the worst that can happen if I ask him to prom? Even if he says no, I won’t see him after graduation anyways. He’s moving across the country for Stanford, after all. I’d be in no worse position than I am right now (aside from the cold wrath of humiliation, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).
It isn’t my imagination that he holds eye contact as he passes by. And I’m certainly not imagining his cheeky over-the-shoulder look my way before he stops to chat with Joey Mathison.
This is it. This is my moment. It’s now or never.
I start to devise a plan: I’ll grab my books and backpack, then approach cool and casual, like I’m just heading to class, even though calculus is in the opposite direction.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I elbow Renner’s legs out of the way to grab my bag.
He gapes down at me. “Jeez. Your elbows are bony. I bruise easily, you know.”
“Didn’t realize you’re such a delicate little peach,” I say, pulling the door as far as it’ll open against Renner’s shin. The thunk gives me a momentary high. I don’t make a habit of reveling in the pain of my adversaries, but he makes it so darn easy. Like the dirtbag he is, he widens his stance farther, leaving the narrowest space to pull out my backpack and toss my heels in.
“Renner, seriously. Stop being a dingus for two seconds and move,” I demand.
“ Dingus. That’s a new one. More original than donkey , at least.”
“There’s a lot more where that came from.” I run through the catalog of vicious insults I’ve banked for moments such as this. But as usual, I fail to come up with anything else under pressure. I settle for a growl. “Move. Now.”
His face twists with confusion. “Chill. I’m not even blocking you.”
And that’s when I see it. The thin fabric of the front pocket of my bag has snagged on a jagged piece of metal in the door.
Evidently annoyed that I’m breathing down his neck, Renner yanks my bag free. With one swift movement, the threadbare fabric rips like tissue paper. My spare tampons, all ten (yes, ten, I like to be prepared), stream out like an avalanche, sprinkling onto the hallway floor. I’m frozen in blatant horror as they roll in all directions at people’s feet like a spilled container of marbles.
At that exact moment, the rowdy group of freshman boys stampeding by quite literally screech at the sight. They dramatically jump out of the way, body-slamming into lockers, dodging them like an active land mine site.
Even Renner is speechless for once, probably committing my humiliation to memory for future use.
I have half a mind to pull a Forrest Gump and run, barefoot. Out of the school, out of Maplewood entirely. I could adopt a whole new identity, even get a wig. I’ve always wanted blonde hair. But because I’m me, I’m compelled to clean my mess. At least, I try to.
I drop to my hands and knees, scrambling between people’s legs in a sad attempt to retrieve the tampons before anyone else sees. It’s like a sick version of Frogger (which, by the way, is an awful game for children), trying to cross the road without being flattened by traffic. No wonder I don’t drive. I yelp when Sylvester Brock’s chunky running shoe crushes my hand in the process. And again, when I almost get kicked in the forehead by a freshman running at full tilt. I start to wonder what I did to deserve such a harsh fate. I must have done something really egregious in a past life. At least, that’s what Nori would say.
By the time I pop back to my feet, crimson faced, I’ve collected exactly eight tampons. Everyone—even Judy Holloway, the girl who wears cat ears and hisses at her enemies—is judging me. Clay and Joey are gawking, mouths hanging open. And worse, one rogue tampon is rolling directly toward Clay’s shoes.
“Um. Hi. Hello. Sorry about that,” I word vomit, busting out a graceless wave. Unlike the cute, shy-girl wave I’d imagined, I’m wielding eight tampons between my fingers like Edward Scissorhands.
Clay is stone-faced, evidently appalled. I didn’t think there could be anything more ego-crushing than the prospect of him turning me down for prom. I was dead wrong.
He kicks the rogue tampon toward me like it’s a live grenade. Then he turns away and heads in the opposite direction with Joey. I bend down to collect it—and will myself to disintegrate into the floor. Goodbye, cruel world. At least I had a semidecent run.
Renner is leaning against the lockers when I return, the tenth tampon pinched between his fingers.
I take a sharp breath, bracing for his taunting. But when he hands it over, I catch a brief flash of what looks like pity in his expression. Even worse.
By the time I zip my torn bag and close my locker, Clay is long gone, as is the prospect of asking him to prom.