“But you can control what you do next.” He picks up a card from a deck on the table behind him. He holds it, waves his hand, and makes it disappear. I grin.
“Action is eloquence,” I say, quoting Coriolanus, a play I’ve only read once.
He moves his hands again, in a way that’s too quick for me to see. The card reappears. “Exactly,” he says back.
still now
THE HOT SEAT, PART II
I can’t stop thinking about Dom or what he said as we sat together on his soft bed. How we talked endlessly about fate and free will, helplessness and control. I might not be able to control what’s happened with my parents, or anything that Sloane and Layla have said or done to me, but I can control what I do next.
I want to bitch Layla out for telling Sloane about my parents. I still want to punch Sloane right in the face. But I don’t do either. I do send Ms. Novak an email, though. I’m tired of hiding—of pretending I’m okay when I’m not. And I have an idea that might be the beginning of fixing everything.
Ms. Novak,
By now you’ve probably heard the rumors that are going around about my dad. And if I’m honest, I’m worried this could have real repercussions for him if it goes any further. I want you to know that I know the truth, and I’m begging you to set the record straight.
Maybe you could write a letter or talk to Principal Davis or something? I don’t know what would be best. I just want to make sure his name is cleared. And after all that has happened, I don’t think it’s wrong for me to say you owe me (and him) this small kindness.
I know I still need to make up the assignments I missed when I skipped school, but I’m not comfortable continuing to tutor Layla. Instead, what if I performed a monologue for extra credit? I can do this just with you, after class, or in front of other students if you prefer.
Please consider coming forward for me and my family. And let me know what you think about the monologue idea.
Thanks,
Cleo I. Baker
Just as I hit send, my phone buzzes with a text from Dom.
Morning, beautiful.
I grin.
We text back and forth as I get ready for school, but I’m still nervous about what shape he and I will take in the hallways of Chisholm Charter. We haven’t had time to talk about what happened between us and what it all means. I text Sydney and tell her all about me and Dom while I’m on the train, and the second she sees me in the hall, she rushes over.
“You kissed. In the rain. And the power went out?!?” she squeals, because I pretty much told her everything on my thirty-minute commute. “How was it humanly possible for you to keep that to yourself for the last twelve hours?” She pants with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, and the tiny silver elephants dangling from her ears swing. She fans her face like she’s hot, or maybe like Dom is. I grab her hands and squeal a little. Before I can push the huge smile off my face, Willa is there too, wanting to know what we’re screeching about.
I pull Willa to me and tell Sydney to huddle closer too, deciding to trust them; deciding that life is hard enough without facing it all alone. I became friends with Layla while I wasn’t watching, and we fell apart that way too, but with Willa and Sydney, every piece of us has been a choice.
I will choose them every day that they choose me back, and I’ll be the best friend I can. So I tell them more about me and Dom in his dark, empty house, happy with who we all are to each other right now.
Just as I finish my story, I feel a hand slide around my hip. Dom is there, and while we haven’t talked any of this through, he looks like he’s pretty decided on how things will be with us from now on. He says hi to Sydney and Willa and then a flirty “Hey” to me that feels like a goodbye to everyone else. My girls get the message.
Sydney flips her hair and squeezes my shoulder, and Willa just says, “Make good choices!” before skipping away, her arm hooked through Sydney’s. I blush hard and stuff my head into my locker, but I’m secretly ecstatic to have a boy to be teased about—and to have new friends to do the teasing.
Dom pulls my hands away from my face and makes me reemerge. He says, “You told them already, didn’t you?” And when I shake my head, he touches my face and mutters, “Pretty little lies, I swear.”
“Do we need to talk,” I say, “about all of this? Us?”
Dom shrugs and leans against the locker beside mine. “Not really,” he says. “We’re a thing, right?” And it’s such a Dom answer.
“Yeah, Dom,” I agree. “We’re definitely a thing.” I hook my finger into a belt loop of his khakis, tugging him a little closer.
“Good,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple.
In homeroom, Dom sits just in front of me and turns around every time I touch his shoulder or elbow or the smooth dark skin on the nape of his neck. There’s a series of spirals cut into his hair this week, and when I trace them with my fingertip, he shivers.
“You have to stop touching me,” he whispers as Mr. Yoon takes attendance.
“Make me,” I say, and when he playfully grabs my wrist I let out a little yelp that earns us a few stares.
They’re not the kinds of stares that followed me because of Sloane’s rumor. Like most things in this school, the episode was short-lived and seems to have already dissipated in the collective consciousness. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget that Layla told Sloane desperate details about my family that I didn’t even know. That she willfully handed over something that could wound me so deeply, knowing that it would be used to do just that.
I’m still vaguely aware of the two of them, where they sit at the back of class; still vaguely angry every time I hear the thin tones of their voices. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not at all concerned about what they might be saying or thinking about me.
I spend most of the period flirting with Dom and group-texting Sydney and Willa under my desk until Layla taps me on the shoulder. When I look up and see that it’s her, part of me seethes.
“Thanks for th-th-the help with that paper,” she says. She lifts her graded essay and a red 92 is circled at the top. For a second, I’m so disoriented by her talking to me in a nonconfrontational way that I don’t know what’s happening.
“Oh, good for you.” I cross my arms. “Thanks for telling Sloane about my dad so she could start that rumor,” I say, as casually as she thanked me for my help. “That was awesome.” It may be a petty response, but I can’t believe she has the nerve to talk to me like everything is fine between us. The second I say it, though, I feel like it wasn’t worth the energy. Like she wasn’t. Layla looks stunned.