Chapter 2. Tessa
Tessa
I always wondered how I’d behave if oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling of an airplane as we plummeted in altitude, careening toward the earth below.
Would I put mine on then calmly help my neighbor?
Would I prepare to grab my seat cushion in case of a water landing?
Or would I unbuckle my seat belt and race through the aisles screaming, “There’s no hope left! We’re all gonna die!”
I think I might be the kind who panics.
My stress and anxiety become my own personal jet fuel.
Which is a useful trait, since I’ll need all that jet propulsion to give the teachers’ lounge a makeover.
I scan the site of today’s new luncheon location.
Armed with fabric from the drama department and a bag of past spring fling dance decor, I’ve had to make quick work of the space.
I run over my to-do list. Rearrange the chairs around the perimeter.
Check. Hide any random boxes of copy paper in Principal Evans’s office.
Check. Call Ms. DelVino, PTA president, and inform her that we’ll now be stationed far away from the English hallway disaster.
Check. If I throw a few more decorations up and arrange the flowers, my work will be done.
I set out some donated bouquets, hoping a particularly tall vase of sunflowers can somehow disguise the vending machines.
“How do you do it, you radiant goddess you?” Tilly, my best friend since kindergarten, dashes in during passing period.
“Tills, thank God you’re here. Principal Evans has been sending me volunteers all morning, but it’s like herding cats.
We only have an hour left. Tell me it looks okay.
” I gesture to the buffet tables draped in purple fabric, each covered with colorful confetti that I’ve spent my morning hole punching.
She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Only you could convert the teachers’ lounge into a thing of beauty.”
“Thanks—wait. Hang on, Tills.” Across the room, Brandon’s precariously balancing on a chair as he hangs crepe paper from the ceiling. “Brandon,” I shout.
“Yeah?”
“You have to twist the colors together to create each bow. You can’t just tape it up and call it a day. Grab Jenny Chu, she did the other side.” Jenny shoots me a side-eye, annoyed I’m doling out commands. Tough luck, J Chu, I have no time for your feelings.
I bet she’s only here because she thinks she can sway the scholarship results at the last second.
But last month, Principal Evans pulled me aside to tell me I’d won the Marjory Fieldman Scholarship for Outstanding Moral Fiber and made me swear to keep it on the down-low.
Not only am I in charge of the event, but I desperately need the money.
And Jenny’s family doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.
Tilly spins me around. “You did the braids! And check out your gorgeous threads!” She knows how much this day means to me.
“Yep, it’s a braid day.” I turn to show them off. I always wear my long black hair in two messy buns at the nape of my neck, but when I’m really trying to make an impression—and today I am really trying to make an impression—I braid my hair into the buns.
“And I’m loving this sea-foam color and fifties A-line cut. Is your suit from Second Place?”
Second Place: my apparent lot in life and my favorite vintage store.
“I made a quick trip to Albany last weekend. The cherry blouse was hard to pass up, too.” I smooth the blouse out and rebutton my jacket.
I buy and alter almost all my clothes from secondhand shops.
Part of it is style, part is funds, and part is a commitment to upcycling.
I have a good eye. I can find a diamond in the rough.
“Besides, who are you calling gorgeous, goddess divine!” I say as Tilly struts across the room in her lemon jumpsuit, a splash of sunshine against the dark tones of her skin.
She always dresses like candy. “You, my love, are as effervescent as a sunrise after a storm at sea.”
“Well, you’re the mist rising off the ocean on a cool spring morning.”
“Oh stop!”
“No, you stop!”
“Could you both stop? I’m going to be sick.” Jenny sneers, teetering on a chair as she tries to help Brandon finish up the bow he was having so much trouble with before.
My phone vibrates in my pocket with a text.
MOM: Sweets, I got the graduation tickets you sent but didn’t realize it’s the same day as Michael’s piano recital. He’s been working so hard this year. I don’t think we can miss it. Let’s celebrate together when you visit Phoenix this summer instead.
I stare at the message, a lump forming in the back of my throat.
“Oh no, what is it?” Tilly’s brow crinkles in worry.
I pivot the screen around for her to read.
When our eyes meet, her look says it all.
Tilly knows. We’ve helped each other through a lot—my parents’ divorce and our financial hardship, her mom’s breast cancer, which is thankfully in remission now.
Tilly is that kind of friend. We can laugh together, but she’s not afraid to face the hard stuff.
I shake my head. “She does this every time.” My mother hasn’t set foot in town since she ran off with Kino, her physical therapist, five years ago.
Of course, she doesn’t mind if my sister Jillian and I visit her.
When my breathing picks up speed, Tilly rubs my back in slow, gentle circles; she knows how quickly my anxiety can avalanche.
“God forbid she return for my graduation. I’m only salutatorian.
I’m giving a speech and everything. Michael’s twelve.
He’ll have plenty of other recitals.” It figures she’d make time for my stepbrother.
We’re her discard family. They’re the ones she’s trying to get it right with.
“You know my parents will be cheering you on. And my aunts and uncles, and the entire cousin army.” She squeezes me in a side hug.
“Thanks, Tills.” I lean into her for a moment, before I feel like I’m neglecting my duties and peek at the progress across the room. Brandon flashes me a thumbs-up, then drops his crepe paper roll and has to scramble down from his chair while it unspools across the floor.
“That boy.” Tilly tsks. “Have you talked to him yet?”
“What? I can’t hear you. I need to get back to my checklist.” I turn to grab my clipboard from the chair by the door.
“Stop, Tess.” She steps in front of me, dropping her voice low. “You have to tell him. If your heart’s not in it, then it’s not fair to string him along.”
I sigh. It’s pretty rich of Tilly to give advice—her relationships always end in disaster—but I know she means well. “I will. I know. It’s just … he is a good guy, and honestly, better the bland sandwich you know than—”
“Did you just compare your boyfriend to a sandwich?”
“Um …”
“To a sad, tasteless sandwich?”
“I mean, okay, I did, but … after my mom left—” The bell rings, saving me from having to explain how even a little kindness is better than nothing.
Tilly swings her backpack onto her shoulder. “Look, you and I are the type of people who are meant to thrive in college. I’ll find the sexy-studious, dark-academia boy of my dreams and you will, too.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “I’m also finding the dark-academia boy of your dreams?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. Smart-ass. Of your dreams. Because you and I both know he’s not over there.
” She nods toward Brandon, who’s still chasing his crepe paper across the floor.
“And when we trek through Nepal after we graduate, you can bring him.” Ever since freshman year Tilly and I have been planning the perfect post-college adventure, which involves lots of hostels, cute boys, cozy sweaters, gorgeous vistas, and each other.
Tilly squeezes my hand. “Tell him, Tess. He deserves someone who loves Miles Davis and Earl Grey as much as he does.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I know.”
As she heads out the door to class, I glance over at Brandon with his shaggy hair and freckles, with his Jazz at Birdland T-shirt and his near-constant need to please me.
As he’s determinedly trying to respool the crepe paper back together, making a disastrous, crinkly mess, it hits me.
Just because someone’s a good person doesn’t mean they’re the right person for you.
Brandon is sweet and safe … and kind of boring.
But maybe he’s actually someone else’s perfect cup of tea.
And who am I to hold him back from love?
Though I’m not sure where that leaves me.
Because if Brandon’s not my cup of tea, then who is?
“Reed.”
“What?” I stare blankly into the face of Mr. McKeen, my economics teacher. It’s possible he’s been talking for a while, but my mind’s still distracted over the luncheon setup.
“I said, why don’t you work on your graduation speech with Reed since you’ve already completed all your other assignments. You can give each other feedback.” He gestures toward the small vestibule off the back of his classroom, where he keeps a few computers for the yearbook students.
My stomach drops. I should have found more puttering chores to do before the luncheon started, rather than catch the last fifteen minutes of fourth period.
Resolved, I shuffle past my classmates hunched over their notes—half of them discreetly texting under their desks—to the yearbook office, where Reed is reclining in his chair, legs kicked out in front of him.
For a moment. A. Very. Brief. Moment. I’m distracted by the light streaming in from the windows casting a warm summer glow over his olive complexion and bouncing off his sleek black hair.
He wears it chin-length and tucked behind his ears; today, there’s a pencil stashed back there, too.
But when I catch his smug expression the spell fades, and I’m reminded why I avoid him. He’s far too pleased with himself.
And why am I even staring at him like that? Bleh.
I clear my throat, but Mr. Have-I-Mentioned-I-Got-Into-Harvard-Yet-Today ignores me.
He doesn’t move his outstretched legs, either, forcing me to step over them if I want to enter the room, because what would the last days of high school be if we didn’t find something to compete about? In this case, square footage.
“Excuse me.” I wave at his feet, but he won’t budge. When he finally glances my way there’s a sparkle in his eye. Like he thinks it’s funny.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Tessa Sinclair.” Reed leans farther back, his self-satisfied dimple mocking me.
Oh, so now he can see me?
“Whatever.” I don’t have time for his BS today. I sling my loaded backpack down to heave over him first, making sure it knocks into his knees.
Except the weight of it sort of … takes me with it.
Suddenly I’m sprawled across the lap of my nemesis, the contents of my bag spilled everywhere: pens, folders, tampons.
Could this day get any worse?