Layla shook her head, and something about her face turned hard and apathetic. “You’re right,” she said softly. “And you were right about me. You said this w-would happen and you were right. I knew it could happen t-t-t-too, you know. I’m not an idiot. But I was trying to b-be b-b-brave.”
She shrugged. And I could tell that she’d given up on this conversation, on me, from the way her arms flopped at her sides.
“Maybe we c-c-could have forgiven each other if you’d apologized b-before it all c-c-came true and if I’d stopped Sloane when she t-told me they were going to g-give you a taste of your own medicine. But I wanted them to hurt you, b-because you hurt me. And now that this has happened, I d-d-don’t know how to t-talk to you, C-C-Cleo. Do you get that? I don’t even w-want to.”
The worst part was that she didn’t even sound mad. She sounded like she was explaining something simple to someone who didn’t understand. Like she was tutoring me on the basics of intricate and unforgivable things.
“If you never wanted to speak to me again, why’d you come to the one place you knew I’d be able to find you?” My voice was thick with the beginning of tears, and I sounded weak and desperate. It was embarrassing, but I didn’t stop talking. “Of all the places you could have gone, you came here to our spot.”
Layla picked up her coat. She slipped her arms into the sleeves without looking at me. “I came b-b-b-because I knew no one else w-w-would know to look here. Not b-because you would.”
I realized then that the faint buzzing I’d been hearing was her phone. People were looking for her, to congratulate or comfort her, and she was here hiding from them. She wasn’t in this half-hidden corner of the library because she needed or wanted me, but precisely because she didn’t.
She walked past me then, brushing my shoulder the way she had in the hallway. Like I was anyone. Like I was no one at all.
My eyes filled, but I didn’t turn around to watch Layla leave. I took out my phone and I texted her instead. Because texting had always been the way we could communicate best. Even if we were mad. Even when we were in the same room.
Lay, I typed out. But I didn’t know what else to say.
Just like the time in the cafeteria, when I first realized something had gone wrong between us, I watched as she looked at her phone, then at me, and shoved it back into her pocket without writing me back.
I watched Layla’s back, her black hair straight and falling against her jacket like strips of ribbon. I didn’t want her to go and I didn’t want to go home. But a second later, she was gone and I knew I’d have to face everything I’d been avoiding.
* * *
—
That night, Layla finally wrote me back. I was sitting on the couch and I’d actually been laughing at a funny commercial on TV when my phone buzzed. I looked down at it and the smile fell from my face.
You don’t get to call me that anymore.
now
SHE TELLS ME EVERYTHING
I go back to class.
Now that I know exactly who my anger should be directed toward, it’s easier to handle the looks and whispers. I’m calm and collected as I take my seat in first period, and I actually listen and pay attention to most of the physics lecture. I raise my hand to answer a question Mr. Frick asks about friction.
“Pressure is the force exerted divided by the area of contact,” I say. “The amount of friction can increase or decrease depending on how small or large the area is between the two objects that are in contact.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel like a sign.
“That’s exactly right, Cleo,” Mr. Frick says, and I don’t look at anyone else as I copy down the equation from the whiteboard, because I’m laser-focused on getting through this class and getting to Sloane.
The second we’re dismissed I’m up and out of my seat, thinking about friction. I pack my bag quickly and swing it over my shoulder, and I walk down the hall to where I know Sloane will be. There has been a palpable tension between Sloane and me since the day we met, and this rumor might be the last straw.
When I turn the corner, I hear her voice, high and clear over the other voices in the hall. She’s calling out to Layla, who’s approaching from the opposite end of the corridor as me. Layla sees me but doesn’t let her eyes linger on my form. She probably thinks I’m just passing through, the way I normally would be.
“L!” Sloane calls, and I want to shout back, That’s not her damn name. “Oh my God. You’re not going to believe what happened to Cady in first period.”
I’m getting closer. In a few steps I’ll be right beside them, the Chorus Girls, with their perfect hair and fake smiles. I’ll be right next to Layla, whose hair is always straightened now; whose eyes are always made up and whose tongue is quick and cruel. New Layla, the one who doesn’t look like she ever would have hung out with someone like me—someone unrefined and geeky and weird. But I can’t think about Layla right now.
“Sloane,” I say when I’m close enough. The other girls, including Layla, look at me like I’m not worthy of speaking to her. They collectively shift their weight—taking a step back or pushing out a hip to get a little farther away from me—like the unworthiness is catching.
Sloane turns around, and her smile falls from her face the second she sees it’s me calling her name. Her features rearrange themselves into what I can tell is her own version of a poker face, but hers isn’t as good as mine. I can see the anger brewing just beneath the surface. I can tell she’s seconds from losing her cool.
Good, I think. So am I.
“It was you?” I ask, the irony not being lost on me that this is exactly what she said to me when she found out I was the one responsible for letting Todd into her party.
But unlike me, hers wasn’t an honest mistake, so she knows exactly what I’m talking about right away and she doesn’t deny it. She slips a notebook into her backpack and closes her locker.
“I only told Melody,” she says guiltlessly. But that just makes me angrier. Everyone knows you don’t tell Melody anything you want to stay secret.
“Well, it isn’t true,” I say. “And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t go around talking shit about my family.”
Layla’s looking at me. I can feel her eyes, and the weight of them makes my blood feel like it’s on fire. This is as much her fault as it is Sloane’s.
“How do you know?” she asks next, and I’m caught completely off-guard.
“What?” I say.
“How do you know it isn’t true?”