He’s waiting; that’s good.
Finally, a familiar blunt blonde haircut catches my eye, and I turn to confirm that Jamie has arrived. She’s in too-tight faded jeans and a hot-pink top that seems innocent enough from the back but which I know, without having to look, is low-cut in the front.
I slam the metal door so that the lock catches securely and ease my way across two lanes of students, eyes on Jamie’s back the whole time. Once I reach her, I have to clear my throat before she notices me standing at her side.
“Hi, J,” I say brightly.
“Hi,” she mutters, turning back to her locker.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Do you care?” she says, not turning around.
“Of course I care, Jamie, you’re my best friend!” She glances at me, then back to the locker.
“Am I?” she says. “Or am I too much of a slut to be your friend anymore?”
“Jamie, that’s not fair!” I say. Jamie slams her locker door and turns to face me. Her eyes are cold, vacant.
“No, London. No, it isn’t,” she says bitterly, before walking off toward her first class.
My face flushes, and I’m so mad that I want to chase after her and shake her and tell her everything I know that she doesn’t. But just then, the bell signaling the start of the period rings, and chasing down Jamie might mean detention with her boyfriend, I mean Mr. Rice. So instead, I rush to the library.
Ms. Mason glares at me for being late, and Luke sits up expectantly when I fall into the chair opposite him, but something about my body language tells them both to back off. I work on Spanish homework the whole period and leave quickly when the bell sounds. I can feel Luke’s disappointment, and guilt creeps through me until I remember this morning’s notes. This is the guy who lied to me for four months. Four months. He deserves a little indecision. He deserves to sweat it out a bit.
Skipping the trip to my locker, I settle into my seat in Spanish and watch the door. I’m ready to confront Jamie before class, but the seconds tick by and her desk remains empty. The bell rings, and there’s no Jamie.
Ten minutes later, she’s still not here.
When I’ve decided that she’s ditched class, gone home sick, or left for a doctor’s appointment, I face the fact that there will be no confrontation today. Jamie had the last word, and it was a nasty one. My anger subsides because it has to, and it’s replaced by sadness. I can’t help but feel that my best friend has abandoned me.
And I get it, at least a little. I know she’s upset. I know she’s jealous of Luke. I know she wishes I didn’t disapprove of her boyfriend, if you want to call Mr. Rice that.
But getting it doesn’t make it stop hurting.
Forever, I will share my thoughts and feelings with Jamie. Forever, except for right now. And right now, I really need her.
She should be here to exchange notes about whether or not to forgive Luke. She should be here to whisper with me about my dad. She should calm me—just by being nearby—about things too awful to know. She should willingly partner with me for stupid pronunciation drills.
But I’m alone, not just for pronunciation drills. For everything. Every morning when I wake up and learn this anew, a fresh wound will open—until the day Jamie decides to forgive me.
And then we’ll be fine again.
Because that’s how I remember it.
30
The house line rings twice before my mom answers it. I can hear her muffled voice from the kitchen below my bedroom. A minute later, there’s a quick knock on the door.
“London, are you up?” she whispers through the door.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m awake. Come on in,” I say from my seat at the desk. I’m surprised she didn’t hear me moving around earlier. I’ve been up for hours.
“There’s a woman on the phone for you,” she says.
“Weird,” I say before pushing back in my desk chair and walking to the telephone table in the hallway. I pick up the receiver and wait until my mom makes her way down to the kitchen and hangs up the other extension.