I didn’t want her to have this because of what it would mean for me.
I would love to say that I only realized how terrible my question sounded after I said it. But that wasn’t true. I knew the question would wound her ego. I knew it would add to the tally of all the tiny ways we’d been hurting each other for months: She didn’t answer when I called, so I ignored her texts. She sat somewhere else during lunch, so I didn’t wait for her after school. She ignored the things I said, choosing to trust Sloane instead of me, so I spoke up less and less. She’d broken dozens of promises to me, so now here I was, breaking her heart.
Layla’s smile fell and I could see the shock—the hurt—in her wide brown eyes. But I didn’t have a chance to fix it, though I almost instantly wanted to. She didn’t have a chance to say anything to me either, because a moment later, Sloane was beside us, screaming.
“Holy shit, girl! I knew you could do it! This is so freaking amazing.” Sloane gripped Layla’s shoulders and shook them. “Aren’t you excited?”
Sloane had the reaction I should have had. She was saying all the things I should have said. But fear for Layla’s almost certain humiliation was a wretched virus in my stomach, making me feel sick. And all the little betrayals were there too, ruining me from the inside out.
The smile slowly returned to Layla’s face, the light to her eyes. She turned away from me so quickly that her bag banged into my shoulder. I stumbled a little, knocked off balance, and she didn’t even notice.
It felt like the perfect metaphor for the last few months: me pushed aside again and again, and Layla enveloped in the comfort of new friends.
But that day—that moment—was the first time I felt like I might deserve it.
THE STACKS, PART II
For the rest of the afternoon, it was me who avoided Layla. I knew I needed to apologize for the way I’d reacted to her getting that part in the play. But I wasn’t sure what to say to make things right.
She still hadn’t texted me, even after seeing her in the hall in front of the auditorium. But I swallowed my pride and texted her first.
Can you meet me in the library after school? We can do our homework in the stacks.
I stared at my phone waiting for her reply, and to my surprise it came only a few minutes later.
Sure.
I crossed my fingers that she wasn’t as mad as I thought she was going to be. Her answer was short, but she could have easily ignored me, said no, or made up some kind of excuse and she didn’t. It was a good sign, I told myself.
After last bell I speed walked to the library, and it was crowded with kids. I hadn’t thought about it, but it was finals season. I edged around a few people near the entrance and headed into the stacks near the back of the library, to the corner where Layla and I always studied.
The aisles were a little busier than usual too, with kids checking out books like they’d forgotten the library was there until that day. But to get to Layla I hopped over the dropped backpacks and squeezed by people still wearing theirs despite the narrow aisles.
She broke into a smile the second she saw me, which I wasn’t expecting.
“Hey,” I said, slipping my backpack off and smiling back. “Crazy how many people are in here, right?”
She was still wearing her bag, like she wasn’t planning to stay, and as I slid my notebook out of my backpack, I paused, noticing. I looked up at her.
“So. Chorus g-g-g-got invited to this big C-C-Christmas recital that’s going to be at Lincoln Center!” Layla squealed quietly. “A bunch of high schools—” she started, but her excitement seemed to steal her voice for a second. She shook her head like she could shake off the block that was causing an extra-long pause in her speech. She started again. “A bunch of schools are ssssinging and it’s going to b-b-be awesome, but Mrs. Steele is adding another d-d-d-day of chorus rehearsals to our schedule to prepare.”
Which meant Layla would have chorus practice three days a week, and once rehearsals started for the musical, that would leave no after-school time for us to hang out at all. I felt the disappointment tugging at different parts of my face.
“So I’m basically never going to see you, once the musical stuff starts,” I said. And I thought my voice would sound sad. But it sounded like I was pissed instead. I shoved my notebook back into my backpack and didn’t look at her.
“Why d-d-didn’t you congratulate me? Or, I don’t know, say anything nice? It’s a really b-big deal that I got that p-p-part. I thought you would understand that mmmmore than everyone—how important it was to me.”
That was my opportunity to say sorry. To say that I was proud of her and that I couldn’t wait to see her up there, doing her thing. But I was suddenly filled with a hot kind of anger about losing even more time with her—time that she didn’t seem to mind not being able to spend with me. She clearly wasn’t thinking about that. She only cared that I wasn’t immediately over the moon for her regardless of the complications—regardless of what it meant for us.
I couldn’t bring myself to say any of the things I knew I was supposed to say. And as pissed as I was about everything, I’d rather she hear the awful truth from me than embarrass herself in front of the entire school.
“You can’t blame me for being surprised,” I said. And it was like I’d flipped a light switch, the way Layla’s face changed. It turned into the hard, mean one she’s always used for protection. I knew I would cause her pain, but I kept talking, because for the first time in weeks she was acting like she could hear me.
“I just mean that I wouldn’t expect someone with a speech impediment to get a lead role in a stage show. And I know you’ve been working with this new speech therapist, but that smooth-talking voice you use? How sustainable is it? Can you speak like that for two full hours? Have you thought about that?”
Her face got even tighter, even meaner. I reached out to put my hand on her shoulder. I said, “Layla, I’m asking you this stuff as your friend.” I frowned and waited until her eyes locked with mine. “I’m trying to look out for you,” I said, lying and telling the truth at the same time. I didn’t know you could want to hurt and protect someone simultaneously until that moment.
She moved away from my hand. “Wh-wh-what about all the times when I t-told you I wanted to be on B-B-Broadway and you said I totally could? What about all the times you told me I had a great voice? Was that all a lie? D-did you never believe in me at all?”
“Layla,” I started. But she stopped me again with a hand held dangerously close to my face.
“So. What you’re t-t-telling me is that you’ve never t-taken me seriously?”