But relationships? I suck at getting them started and then have no clue what to do once I’m in one. I’ve never been with a girl longer than a month.
Even after all that, I’ve never felt this before, this tight twisting in my stomach at the thought of her. This feeling like I’m counting the minutes until our next shift together. This feeling like I can’t breathe.
I sit there in the parking lot, with my heater running high, until the song ends and the next begins. It’s Rufus Wainwright’s version of “Hallelujah.” I scowl and then change to the next song.
It’s Bon Jovi’s rendition of “Hallelujah.”
And then Neil Diamond’s.
And Brandi Carlile’s.
The CD consists of thirteen different versions of “Hallelujah.”
FEBRUARY
AMY
IT’S THE FIRST of February, which at East High School means it’s time to start selling Valentine-grams, which are really just ugly carnations with a heart-shaped note attached. They sell for a dollar, and on the first of the month, Petra and I are the first ones to run the table during lunch, since we’re president and vice president of the student council.
I’ve spent half the lunch period selling grams to freshman girls who giggle as they address their sappy “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue” love poems to the seniors on the football team and the cross-country team.
“Heard you had a shitty weekend,” Petra says, no malice in her voice. She smiles at the girl bent over the table, scribbling away at her heart-shaped paper. I think she might be transcribing one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
“You weren’t there?”
She shrugs. “I have better things to do on a Friday night than go to Jackson’s juvenile birthday party.”
I don’t know if she means this as a jab at me, but I don’t take it as one. She’s right. We both have better things to do, and Friday night was a complete waste of time. I’m so pissed at Jackson.
It’s partially his fault that Oliver felt like he had to go into that party and save my ass. All Jackson had to do was stand up to Bryce, and the whole thing would have blown over. Instead, I walked three miles in the freezing cold, in barely there clothing, and was probably only saved from turning into a human Popsicle by Oliver.
I hadn’t stopped thinking about it all weekend.
About Jackson, about the party, about Bryce … about Oliver. Oliver, who doesn’t even know me, but who stopped to pick me up on the side of the road and who stood up for me when he had no clue what he was walking into. Jackson and Bryce and his guys could have been violent, for all Oliver knew.
And just like that, he appears.
Jackson, not Oliver.
He’s right across the table from me, standing so close, my skin crawls. “Hey, Ames.”
Goose bumps break out along my arms. I’m still Ames to him. I’m still the nickname he’s been calling me for the last eleven months. I don’t look up at him. I know I’ll give in to him if I look up into those eyes that I love so much. And I don’t want to give in to Jackson. He’s the one who said it was over between us at the party, so what is he even doing here?
I don’t look at him, even though I can feel his and Petra’s eyes on me. I focus on rearranging the bills in my lap, turning all the dollar bills the same direction, George Washington staring up at me.
“Amy, come on. Please talk to me.”
I don’t. I’m not going to.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him hand Petra a dollar bill, which she slides over to me. I see him reach for one of the heart-shaped pieces of paper and pick up one of the pens sitting on the bright pink tablecloth. I force myself not to look as he writes something on the paper. Jackson has the worst chicken-scratch handwriting I’ve ever seen. He hands his gram to Petra. She’s in charge of the grams; I’m in charge of the money.
“You didn’t put a name or homeroom on this,” Petra says, holding the gram out to Jackson, but he doesn’t take it. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me, and Petra takes the gram back. She picks up one of the pens from the table and when I look over, I’m not surprised that she’s writing my name on it: Amaría Richardson, Pearson. I’m not even surprised that Petra knows I have Pearson for homeroom.
I try to grab the gram back from Petra because I know Jackson is only sending me one because he feels bad for what happened at the party, or maybe he just feels bad for breaking up with me, and I don’t want his gram. But Petra shoves it right into the middle of the stack so that I don’t know which one it is, and I sigh, sending her a death glare.
Rules, she mouths at me. The gram is paid for and written on. It can’t be taken back.
“Okay, fine,” Jackson says, but then he presses his hand into the table and leans over it, until I can feel his breath on my face. A line is forming behind him, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about it. “You can ignore me, but I’m just going to talk anyway.”
I look up at him, and just like I thought it would, my heart starts to thump, losing its determination. His skin is so smooth, so flawless, and I want to cry remembering how it feels under my fingertips.
“I really fucked up on Friday. I know that. Bryce acted like a dick, and he knows it, too. I know you’re having a hard time, and I’m sorry I made it harder on you. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend, okay?”
“Jackson,” I whisper. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Maybe that I love him, maybe that I don’t think I can forgive him for leaving me alone at that party, maybe that I’m so confused about what I want, so completely overwhelmed by the plan I set for myself, that just looking at him is enough to make me feel lost.
His eyes fall down to my mouth, and for just a second, I think maybe he’s going to kiss me. Which is completely ridiculous because we’re sitting in the middle of the cafeteria, and if he kisses me right here, in front of everyone, not only will we get detention, but then we’ll both be even more confused.
Jackson’s lips, those full lips I always loved to feel against mine, part slightly, and I hear him sigh, an odd sound in that moment that I can’t quite decipher.
He blinks and leans away from me, situating his body fully and entirely on his side of the table.
It’s like we stepped into a time machine for a second, traveling back to those fleeting moments when we couldn’t take our eyes off each other. But now Jackson is back in the present, where we aren’t together, where I’m alone.
“You shouldn’t have kissed me,” he says, looking down at the paper and pens in front of him, like he’s just realized where he is. “At the party.”
I look away, and I finally feel like I can speak. “I know. It won’t happen again.” I’m surprised to find that I mean this. Jackson wants to be done, and I’m not interested in chasing around someone who doesn’t want me.
So we’re done.
Jackson holds my eyes for another second, and then he’s gone, and I’m staring at Taylor Morris, who’s excitedly holding out a dollar bill toward me.
I stuff it in the money bag and try to ignore Petra’s eyes, but I can see her in my periphery anyway.