a lot,” she mutters in my direction. Robert places his paper down on Mr. Roma’s desk with a flourish.
“I am officially finished, ladies and gentlemen. You are free to talk.”
“Sit, Robert. And be quiet. In fact, everyone stay quiet until the bell rings. I’ve decided that I like this class best when it’s silent.”
Three minutes until the bell. I have no idea what’s going to be waiting for me out there. I feel sick to my stomach, which gives me a great idea. I slide out of my seat and head toward—Mr. Roma’s desk. Robert tries to grab my hand as I walk by. He smells like cigarettes. I ignore him. I’ve been ignoring him since sixth grade.
“Mr. Roma, I know the bell’s about to ring, but I need a lav pass.”
Mr. Roma hands me the pink pass after writing the time on it without so much as a raised eyebrow.
I guess there are some benefits to freak status after all.
* * *
I’m in the bathroom by the gym—the bathroom farthest from the school’s main front doors—when the final bell rings. Two girls are smoking in a stall at the end. It’s hard to breathe. I wait until they leave, and then I wait a few more minutes. It’s still hard to breathe. I wonder if I’m having one of those panic attacks my mom is convinced I get now. To distract myself I read the graffiti on the wall, which says Suck it, among other things, in hot-pink nail polish.
Such originality here at Union High. Such excellent use of vocabulary.
When I can breathe again, I leave.
The halls are basically empty. I go to my locker. I get my books. I grab my French horn out of the orchestra room so I can practice later, and I leave by the front doors because there’s no other way to leave at the end of the day; they funnel us out through the front to keep an eye on us. I’m waiting at the crosswalk when I see him on the other side of the street. He isn’t holding any books. The crosswalk light goes from the red hand to the silver guy, and I’m afraid to move, but I do anyway. I get closer and closer and closer, but he doesn’t say a word. In fact, I just walk past him as if I don’t see him, and a few seconds pass. My legs are still moving when he says, “Rose.”
I’ve never, ever heard anyone say my name like that in my entire life. I didn’t even know that was my name until he said it like that.
“Yeah?”
He holds out his pencil. “What did you do?”
“I…just…it was…” I falter.
“What’s this stuff on it?”
“Oh, um, sorry—it’s eyeliner.”
He takes a few steps closer and looks carefully at my eyes. “You don’t wear that stuff.”
The flush starts. It’s slow-moving, but it’s going to be a huge burn—it stretches from shoulder to shoulder and it’s going to spread above my collar in about three seconds. I notice that his eyes are hazel with gold specks and then I can’t look anymore.
“Sometimes I do.”
“Like when?”
“If I’m going out with my boyfriend or something.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’s that?” I have nothing to say. “You’re a freshman, right?” he asks.
“I’m fourteen,” comes out of my mouth. And then, like we’re playing in the sandbox, I ask, “How old are you?”
That glint of a smile shows up briefly again but disappears before I’m sure it was real.
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says. I stare at him dumbly. “How’s your brother?” he asks.
The question surprises me. Even though Peter and Jamie played hockey together, I assumed they never talked off the ice. “Okay, I guess. He’s at Tufts. Are you guys friends?”
“I drove him home when Bobby Passeo skated over his fingers,” he says, not answering my question.
“I saw you, you know. Play hockey. When you were still on the team.” I become very interested in my shoes, realizing that I sound like exactly what I am—a babbling fourteen-year-old. He looks at me, waiting. When I don’t say anything else, he says, “So do you want a ride?”
“I can’t get in the car with you,” is my response. I’m no longer a babbling fourteen-year-old. I’m now ten. Or maybe eight.
He can’t help himself this time. He breaks into a huge smile. My heart skitters for a second.
“What do you think is gonna happen?” he asks, taking my French horn from me. I feel like an idiot. “Come on, freshman. I’ll drive you home.”
* * *
His car is old, and rusty and a strange, flat green. But the inside is clean, and black and smells like cold rain. I’m sitting far away from him, embarrassed that I was embarrassed when he opened my door for me in the school parking lot. The radio is playing Kanye, but Jamie changes it to a classic rock station. Pearl Jam. When I was in kindergarten Peter used to play Pearl Jam for me and make me recite the band members and the instruments they played. Eddie Vedder, singer. Mike McCready, guitarist. I can’t remember the bass player’s name. Jeff Something. Peter got me addicted to good music and real musicians at a very young age, which, to be honest, hasn’t done me any favors socially.
I can’t believe I’m in a car with Jamie Forta.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“You look cold.”
“Not really.” He’s right. I am cold. But not because of the weather—September in Connecticut still feels like summer. I always spend the first three weeks of school sweating through my new fall clothes because I couldn’t stand to wear my summer clothes for another minute. I’m probably the only person in my entire school of 2,500 who wore a sweater today, willing the weather to be cooler.
Well, I sort of got my wish. I’m cold now. Fear does that to me.
I look at him and he’s looking at the road. He stops at a yellow light. I’m surprised. I guess I expected someone like Jamie Forta to just blow through a yellow light without even thinking about it. He’s still looking at the road. Nobody seems to have anything to say. I’m embarrassed again. I’ve been embarrassed a lot today. Mostly because of him.
“Where’s your notebook?” I ask.
“Locker.”
“Don’t you have any homework?”
He looks at me like I’ve said something funny. The light turns green, and he turns left. I realize that he actually does know where I live.
Silence. Silence, silence, silence.
