6 | Georgia
MY CLASSES TODAY felt never ending. I successfully managed to get Mr. Football to back off, though that did little to mend my hurt feelings. Hours after I’ve left campus, I still feel upset and embarrassed by what Henry said.
Why would Danny say something like that about me?I thought we were friends.
I shake my head, as if the physical motion could somehow knock the memory of Henry’s words from my brain.
Snitch.
I scoff quietly to myself, as if to demonstrate to nobody in particular how ridiculous the idea was.
He has no idea what he’s talking about.
“Georgia, are you paying any attention?” Eleanor speaks in a hushed voice, careful not to disrupt the other students in the university’s library.
“No,” I mutter monotonously, resting my face heavily onto my palms.
Eleanor has been my best friend since high school – she knew me even before Patrick did. We both took the same Women’s Studies elective in 9th grade and bonded over being, ironically, the only two women in the class. Since then, we’ve grown inseparable – especially through our work as the two main columnists for the TU Tribune.
“What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting out of sorts for months. Is it Patrick?”
I haven’t told Eleanor anything about Patrick and I – not about the yelling, or the pushing, or the insults. I don’t know how to start to be honest, and I know that the second Eleanor knew what was really going on, she’d never let me continue to stay in my relationship. But I’m not good with change… and I’m not ready to leave.
“It’s nothing,” I insist, realizing how unconvincing it sounds as the words leave my mouth.
She shuts her textbook instantly and, in one swift motion, pulls her long, straight hair from her face before settling her attention directly onto me.
“Spill,” she demands, her expression calm and serious.
“I’m serious, Eleanor. Nothing is going on.” I shift my glance, unable to fully lie to her.
She stares at me skeptically.
“Fine,” she replies curtly. “If it isn’t Patrick… did something happen at the Tribune that I don’t know about? Or in class?”
She attempts to appear uninterested, fiddling with her pen and drawing swirls on the edge of her notepad.
“N-No. Not really. Well, kind of–”
“I knew it!” she exclaims, forgetting our quiet setting. Her outburst is met with glares from the engineering students sitting at a nearby table, their expressions twisted into scowls.
In typical Eleanor fashion, she makes a face and sticks her tongue out in their direction before looking back at me.
“I knew it,” she repeats, this time in an appropriate whisper. “What happened?”
“I got a new neighbor and he turned out to be an asshole.” I look around the room hoping, by some miracle, she doesn’t want any more information and changes the subject.
“A new neighbor and a complete ass in one? Lucky you. Is he cute?” She raises an eyebrow at me and laughs mischievously. “You know I’ve gotta ask.”
I did, but I hoped she wouldn’t.
“A little,” I admit, rolling my eyes. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s a total dick.”
Obviously, it doesn’t matter, Georgia – you’re dating Patrick. You live with Patrick. And you hate Henry. Yep, you’ve just decided you hate him.
“What’s his name?”
Jesus, is this 20 questions?
“Henry.”
“Henry what?”
“Henry Anderson!” I say, much louder and slightly angrier than I anticipated. I instantly sink into my chair to hide from the irritated stares of the engineering table, who by now are loudly shushing us.
“God,” I whisper, still crouching down in my chair and wincing. “Sorry.”
She doesn’t seem to notice the annoyance of the engineers, nor my humiliation at having loudly blurted out the name of a man that, undoubtedly, everyone in this library knows.
“Henry Anderson?” she says, a coy smile forming on her face. “Like, captain of the TU football team, Henry Anderson?”
“Unfortunately.”
“GOD, he is fine,” she says, her mouth agape and eyes rolling dramatically to the back of her head. “You actually talked to him?”
I nod.
“Lucky bitch.”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I mutter, turning the page of my History of American Literature textbook that I still haven’t finished reading.
There’s a beat of silence.
“I’d hit that,” Eleanor whispers.
I should’ve studied at home.