Chapter 13 #2
On Thursday, I’m at my locker between second and third period when someone pokes my arm.
I turn and Forrest is standing there, hoodie cinched tight around his face for some reason.
We’ve been texting back and forth all week, sending memes, songs, pictures of our pets, and the odd snarky comment about school.
His messages are little anchors in my day, something I’ve started to anticipate every time I pick up my phone.
“What’s up?” he says.
“Not a lot,” I say. My voice sounds flat, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“I just realized we didn’t meet this week,” he says, doing a little dance move in place. It’s so random, and so silly, and it makes me smile. He’s right, and not only that, but the idea of meeting didn’t even cross my mind.
“Do you think we still need to?” I ask. “I feel like things with Queer Alliance are going really well. And you don’t annoy the shit out of me anymore.” I smile again, to show I’m joking.
“What a compliment,” he says, placing a hand over his heart. “Yeah, maybe we don’t need to?”
“OK,” I say, and we both stand there. I should feel glad, I think, but I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything at all. The little energy left inside me deflates. He’s glad to be rid of you NO STOP.
STOP.
STOP.
I look at my locker, then at him, and he scratches the back of his head.
“How’s your essay going?” he says.
“Ugh.” I close my eyes and bang my forehead lightly against my locker door. “Don’t ask.”
“That bad, huh?”
I side-eye him. “Sounds like yours is going fine.”
“I mean . . .” He grins. “It’s coming along.”
“Can you . . .” I can’t believe I’m about to ask this, but the words come out of my mouth before I can think twice. “Help me?”
His eyes widen. “Wait. What? You want my help? You. Want my. Help.”
“I don’t know! Never mind.”
“No, it’s all good,” he says, laughing. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I don’t think I’ve ever heard you ask for help before. Let alone from me.”
“I ask for help sometimes!” I say. “Like, um . . .” I search my memory.
“See?” he says, then puts his hands up when I glare at him. “OK, OK. Meet at lunch today?”
“I guess,” I say. “If you really want to.”
“Hey, you asked me,” he says, backing away as the bell rings. “Remember that! You asked me!”
I wave my hand at him like I’m swatting a mosquito, and he turns, booking it down the hall to wherever his next class is.
“Jerk,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
When I walk into the library at lunch, Forrest waves from our usual table. I sit across from him and pull out my laptop, trying to ignore the anxious fluttering in my chest that’s been there since yesterday.
“So, are you really doing all right with this essay?” I ask.
My laptop comes out of sleep mode, the document still open on the screen.
Seeing it there makes my stomach swoop. I’m so behind.
If Mom finds out—she’s working so hard right now and this will just add to her burden, I’ll add to her burden, I’m such a burden, the laptop goes fuzzy and she’s there, in my head, or I’m there, in the living room, and she’s glaring at me.
“I never should have let you do Queer Alliance this year,” she says, voice raised.
“It’s just a distraction, a waste of time.
You’ll need to drop it and let Forrest take over. God, I’m so tired of your bullshit, I—”
“Hey,” a voice says. “You OK?”
I look up, blinking. Forrest is watching me. I nod. “Sorry. Spaced out.”
“Yeah, seemed like it.”
“Oh god.” I cover my face.
“Hey, it’s all good,” he says. “What do you have so far?”
“Exactly one page,” I say, clutching my face tighter.
“Wow,” he says. “You really are behind. You know it’s due at the end of next week, right?”
“Hey!” I drop my hands, glaring at him. I know he’s joking, but it stings. I never should have let you do Queer Alliance this y—NO. “Are you offering me help or brutal honesty?”
“Both?” He grins.
I snort. “Fine.” I show him the lists Anna and I brainstormed, and we start picking out elements that support what my thesis is trying to argue.
As we do that, the thesis sharpens in my mind, and I revise it, deleting one phrase and typing another, finessing the words until we both exclaim and high-five.
Once I have the thesis and the supporting arguments, we match each one to the right section of the essay format Lundahl wants us to use. Forrest is patient, asking me questions about where things fit without rushing me for the answer, and when I get frustrated, he’s ready with a joke.
“You are weirdly good at this,” I say, sitting back in my chair.
He shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of tutoring. I’m just doing what they did with me.”
“Did it work for you?”
“Kind of? Sometimes? Not always. Once I got diagnosed with ADHD, my mom found a tutor who specializes in it, and that’s been great. She’s super cool, never judges me or anything, and she has it too.”
“When did you get diagnosed?” I ask without thinking, and grimace. “Sorry, that’s rude.”
“You’re good. I don’t mind talking about it.
” He waves a hand. “Freshman year. I wanted to go on meds, but my parents weren’t into the idea at first. They thought I’d have to go on a stimulant and they were concerned about it affecting my brain.
But there are more options now and my tutor talked to them about it.
She takes a non-stimulant, so I think that helped them get over it. ”
“Nice.”
“What about you?” he asks.
“Oh, um, I’m not diagnosed with anything.”
“But you’ve got something, right?”
I flush. “What makes you say that?”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Come on. You brought a posterboard of reasons why you should be Queer Alliance president to the election meeting. And you made a speech.”
“That’s called being prepared.”
“Like how you’re so prepared for this essay?”
I gasp. “You are so shady!”
“The real Slim Shady, that’s me.” He pats his chest, smirking.
“An Eminem reference? Really?”
He turns up his palms. “Hey, you understood it.”
“Only because my dad’s a superfan.”
He laughs. “Oh my god, so’s mine. He still has a concert T-shirt he wears around the house.”
“Wooooowwwwwww.”
“I know.”
The bell buzzes and we both startle, then snicker. I gather my notebooks, and he dumps his lunch wrappers in the trash can nearby.
“What’s your next class?” he asks as we walk out.
“Math,” I say.
“Oh, sweet. I’m heading that way too.” He smiles at me, and I smile back.
“Are you doing anything after school?” I ask. If he’s got rich parents, he’s probably in a million extracurriculars.
“Nothing today,” he answers. “Usually it’s either tutoring or golf.”
“You play golf?”
“That’s right.” He makes a motion like he’s swinging a club. “I suck at it, but my parents made me pick a sport and that one has the least amount of running. You will not catch me chasing a ball up and down a field.”
I laugh. “Relatable.”
“What about you?”
I shrug. “This essay, I guess.”
“If you need more help, I could come over,” he says.
I look down at my feet, threading through the crowd ahead of him.
Forrest, in my house. The thought freaks me out a little bit, but it also feels .
. . well, fine. I’d rather be with him than alone with my thoughts, trying to focus instead of spiraling for three hours until Shar and Mom get home.
If Mom is even home at the usual time; she’s been staying at work later and later.
Talking to Forrest today made me feel better, made the thoughts fade to a faint fog hanging in the back of my mind. So maybe, if I keep spending time with him, they’ll stay that way. That itching buzz, that sick black-hole pull that puppets me into someone I don’t want to be, will leave me alone.
“Are you sure?” I ask as we come to a stop in front of my classroom.
He grins. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, because hanging out with me is such a chore?”
He sighs dramatically. “It is, but someone has to do it, I guess.” I shove his shoulder and he darts away, cackling. “Have fun in class!”