I wrote that they forbade her to see him and that she snuck out to meet up with him anyway.
And then came the day her father walked in on Todd in Sloane’s bedroom. In her bed.
I explained how her dad went completely apeshit and told Todd that if he ever came near his daughter again he’d press statutory rape charges against him, because of course, by then Todd was eighteen. And that was enough to keep him away.
Todd already had a scholarship to his first-choice school to play Division 1 basketball. He couldn’t risk that, not even for the girl he loved.
Somehow, everyone at her old school found out about her father’s threat. And they made Sloane’s life a living hell. How dare she, a freshman, threaten the future of such a talented young man—a beloved star athlete, the boy next door, the all-American Todd Wellington? He was from a good family, and who was she? Just some slutty fifteen-year-old. A fucking nobody. And in an instant, all those “friends” she’d made when she started dating Todd were gone, if not complicit.
The patriarchy, I typed. Am I right?
She became severely depressed, because of all the bullying. Had to leave school in the spring and be hospitalized. Then she moved in with her aunt and uncle and cousin Valeria; transferred to Shirley Chisholm Charter for a fresh start.
But I didn’t stop with the hard-and-fast facts, because Sloane never had. I made the story better, or maybe a tiny bit worse. I added details that I didn’t know were true but could have been. I kept my lies small so they’d be more believable.
I stared at what I’d written. I read it over and over again—secrets laid out for anyone to see, anyone to repeat. The thing was, there wasn’t anything inherently bad in any of it—a girl falling in love with a boy; a girl being victimized until she broke; a girl who was sick and who needed to start over. But Sloane would never want to be seen as weak, and I knew she thought these experiences made her look like she was.
She’d ruined my whole world, even after she knew what it was like to be hurt in this exact way, so I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t care.
Feeling diabolical and pissed as hell, I enabled a tool that scheduled the email to send over the weekend. I didn’t want anyone to be able to use the time stamp to figure out who was in the library when it went out.
I hit send.
I didn’t know how many kids even checked their Chisholm email inboxes, but I was betting that my plan would work. At least a few people would read it and tell everyone, and in addition to ruining Sloane, it would ruin Layla too. Because, according to Layla, Sloane had told no one this information except her and Valeria. Then Sloane would know what I was just learning—Layla wasn’t loyal to anyone.
I stood up. I looked around, and it was strange that the world around me had remained unchanged. My backpack was still heavy, and my weathered copy of Othello was still beside the keyboard. I shoved it hard and low into my bag before I walked away, thinking about jealousy and lies and betrayal—all things that had felt so far away from my life the last time I read the play. All things that were consuming me now, from the inside out.
now
THE BEST FRIEND I CAN BE
I don’t want to drag Willa along on a new-memory-making errand just yet. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her about my plan, about my past, about how I’ve been systematically undoing the last few years of a now-dead friendship. When I whisper this to Sydney, the fact that I’m not ready, she understands. But I want them to know I’m making a real effort. I want Sydney especially to feel like I’m not running away from her again.
So I invite them to come with me to Dolly’s after school.
This isn’t a completely altruistic move. I’m thinking that if Dom is there, he’ll have a harder time being pissy to me if Sydney and Willa are around. I might even be able to squeeze a word or two out of him. But I want them there, too. I want them to experience the beauty that is Miss Dolly’s pies and Pop’s fried chicken. And if Dom is there, maybe even a small plate or two.
When we walk in, I seat them at my favorite table, the one in the corner near a window. Then I head to the break room to drop off my stuff. There’s no sign of Dom’s backpack or coat, and I feel a little bad about that. I hope I’m not encroaching on a safe space that was his first. I know how much I hate it when that’s done to me.
“Hey, Mr. Henry. Where’s Dom?” I ask Pop when I step back into the dining room. He’s behind the counter, refilling a customer’s mug with fresh coffee.
“Oh, he said he had a bunch of homework,” Pop says. “But I’m glad you’re here.” He squeezes my shoulder and hands me two glasses of water.
I carry the water over to Willa and Sydney’s table and they’re arguing about something, which is nothing new.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you call me Cox the Fox,” Sydney is saying.
“Come on, Syd. It’s the perfect nickname for you.” Willa looks up at me. “It’s perfect, right?”
I laugh and set the glasses on the table. Sydney grabs one and takes a big gulp. “Why does she need a new nickname, exactly?” I ask. “You already call her Syd.”
“Yeah, see? I’m fine with Syd. Can’t I just stay Syd?”
“No,” Willa says. She looks away from Sydney and over to me. “This is her jazz nickname. You know, like if the three of us were in a jazz band, what would our nicknames be?”
I grin. “Oh, you mean like how people called Billie Holiday Lady Day and Sarah Vaughan Sassy?”
Willa points at me. “See! Cleo just gets it.” She grabs my wrist and pulls me down into the chair beside her. She throws her arm over my shoulder. “I think your name would be Cleo the Kiddo. We’d call you Kid for short. You’d be on the keys, and Sydney would be the singer. I’d be drums.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say. I like this game. “Willa, your nickname could be The Big Bang, if you’re the drummer. Willa ‘The Big Bang’ Bae. Goes with your epically long bangs too,” I say. Willa shakes them out of her eyes with a flourish and Sydney tosses her curls too.
“It’s perfect. And fine, Sydney, you can just be Syd, but only because it would make our intro sick as hell.” Willa stands up, like she’s introducing us at a gig. Her bangles ring like bells. “We’re Big Bang, Syd, and The Kid, and we’re excited to play for you tonight.”
Sydney and I look at each other and crack up laughing.
For the rest of the evening I bounce between Sydney and Willa’s table and the front of the restaurant, where I greet customers as they come and go. It’s nice to be here—to be distracted from what might be happening with Sloane and Layla, to not have to think about Dom being mad. All the little hurts building up inside like block towers get pushed into a little corner of my mind as I show Sydney how to roll silverware, and talk to Willa about music, and tuck a few customers into the diner’s coziest corners.