* * *
“Ms. Lane? Uh, Ms. Lane? Excuse me? London Lane, are you in there?”
I look up to find two rows of gawking students and a slightly agitated Mr. Hoffman staring at me expectantly.
I completely missed the question, but after a quick glance at the board, I know what he asked.
“F prime,” I mutter, thankful that I managed to remember the benign parts of this morning’s briefing in addition to those very, very cancerous ones that were distracting me in the first place.
“Very good, Ms. Lane. Feel free to zone out again,” Mr. Hoffman says, with a wink that tries too hard to be cool.
Poor Mr. Hoffman. He will never succeed.
A girl with poodle hair in front of me leans back so far in her creaky, overused chair that her locks rest on the pages of my open notebook. The tangled tresses obscure nothing, since I’ve taken no notes. My blank notepad and mechanical pencil are props, like the backpack in the basket below my seat and, quite frankly, the schoolbooks inside of it.
I brush her hair off my paper anyway, and she twists around with a stern look on her face. She combs her fingers through her hair as the bell rings.
I gather my things and head toward the door of the classroom, then merge into the swarm of students buzzing from this class to that one.
When I make it to my locker, I see Jamie across the hallway, standing on her own. I adjust the metal door so I can see her reflection in the mirror.
Jamie shuffles a few books around, then sets her bag on the floor and grabs a lip gloss off the top shelf. After carefully applying it, she hoists her bag on her shoulder and slams her locker shut.
She turns in my direction and hesitates. Just as I think she’s going to come talk to me, she turns on her heels and walks off down the hall. When she’s gone, I slam my own locker shut and follow her, twenty paces behind, wishing all the way we were arm in arm.
Jamie is eyeing me suspiciously across our desk island. We’re supposed to be working together to create a fictitious travel itinerary for a two-week vacation in Mexico. It’s busywork, and normally I’d be all for it.
Later in life, I’ll do a lot of traveling. But today, I’m not interested.
“What?” I hiss at her. I’m not in the mood.
“Nothing,” she says, taken aback by my atypically harsh response.
I pull the Mexico travel guide toward me and randomly open it to the section on Isla de Mujeres. I can’t help but laugh. I remember being there. With Jamie. A slightly more weathered but still gorgeous Jamie.
Flipping through the hotels section, I come across photos that give me the sense of déjà vu. A hotel on a private island, surrounded by the clearest, bluest ocean imaginable.
It reminds me of Luke’s eyes, staring into me this morning in study hall.
I can’t help but smile more broadly.
“What’s so funny?” Jamie asks bitingly.
“Nothing, this hotel just looks nice,” I say, turning the book to show her.
I wonder whether right now I’m planting our getaway idea deep in my subconscious. I wonder whether somehow a little piece of me will remember today when Jamie and I finally do plan the trip.
“I guess.” Jamie is shrugging, looking at the glorious hotel. “I’ve seen better.”
I take back the book and start working on our assignment. Jamie sits quietly for a few seconds, then surprises me with a question.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I look up at her.
“I’m fine, why?”
“You look like you’ve been crying,” she practically whispers, checking to make sure no one else is eavesdropping. I like that she’s concerned about embarrassing me.