The note was still in my pocket, as heavy as a rock.
When we got inside the closest girls’ bathroom, I shooed out Bridget Murphy—a leading member of PJ Greenberg’s group—who was using a pocket sewing kit to fix a button that had ripped from her shirt.
I grabbed the hall pass Bridget had set on the sink and pushed it into her chest. It was a piece of wood shaped like an atom, which meant she had science.
“Go,” I said, not calling her by name, even though we’d all been in school together since kindergarten.
Bridget looked at me, fear in her eyes.
“I need to fix this,” she said, holding the fabric of her shirt between two fingers. “You can see my bra.”
“We need to be alone,” I said, pushing the hall pass deeper into her chest. “There are thirty million other bathrooms.”
Bridget stared at us.
“Go,” said Heather. “This is secret.”
Bridget grabbed the hall pass, holding it over her exposed chest, and fled.
“Okay,” I said, backing against the door, holding it shut. “Listen.”
“What is it?” Susan asked. I could tell she was getting worried.
“It’s Corvis,” I said.
“What about her?” Heather leaned against the wall, one hand on her hip.
“She’s a lesbo,” I said, trying to sound scandalized.
“What?” Susan’s eyes widened.
“Yep,” I said. “A real live dyke.”
Heather raised her eyebrows. Getting—and keeping—Heather’s interest was a delicious feeling.
I pulled the note out, and read it to them in a dramatic voice.
“See?” I said.
“Well,” said Heather, “we have to destroy her.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.
“How do you know she’s serious?” Susan asked.
“Have you seen her sneakers?” Heather countered. “Lesbo sneakers. One hundred percent.”
Heather’s reaction was proof of how easy it was to fall off the edge of the popularity cliff. You could lose everything in a second.
“Sleepover tomorrow night,” I said. “My house.”
Heather nodded, sealing it.
“We have to do this quick and dirty,” she said. “Expose her.”
I looked at Susan.
“You in?” I asked.
Susan shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “Okay.”
“Give me that note,” Heather said to me. “I’ll keep it safe.”
I held it to my chest. I wanted to keep it. I wanted to read it over and over again before the sleepover, to hold on to the feeling of being understood, until we ruined it.
“No way,” I said.
“Don’t lose it,” Heather warned.
“Can I go eat my lunch now?” Susan asked.
Heather and I both shot her the same look of disapproval. Caring about eating was not cool.
“Just be there tomorrow night,” I said to Susan. “Seven o’clock. Bring your camera.”
Walking back to the cafeteria, I felt both alive and incredibly guilty. And I wondered how many people had caught a glimpse of Bridget Murphy’s bra.
The Two Worlds
Do you really think I look like Johnny Moon?” I asked Brad the day after we saw Mad Monk.
We sat on his living room sofa, wrapped in a Pendleton blanket. His kindness annoyed me, but I tried to push that away. I looked for things to like about him instead.
For one thing, he loved his dog so much that it was heartbreaking. This dog, a wire-haired thing he found in a dumpster in Cohasset, was named Stinky Lewis. Brad taught him how to roll over, and they were both proud.
I would have pinned Brad as the golden retriever type, but I was wrong.
Another thing was, Brad kind of understood me. At least, he knew what it was like to be expected to feel lucky that you’re pretty. Also, the way he touched my hand so carefully gave me the impression that he knew I didn’t really want him, and maybe even why.
Stinky Lewis jumped into my lap, and I curled my fingers in his wiry fur.
As it turned out, Brad and I didn’t have sex right away. There was some groping and kissing, sometimes he touched my boobs, but then I would laugh, and instead of going further we would take a walk or watch a movie, or play with Stinky Lewis.
The dog spent a lot of his time running around inside Brad’s house, wagging his tail hopefully. The O’Hallorans had a fenced-in backyard, where Stinky Lewis also liked to go, running around in circles and eating his own poop.
He jumped from the couch now and did a few laps.
It was raining. We watched Stinky Lewis run back and forth between the front door and the back door, and I said, “I wonder if he thinks the doors lead to two different worlds.”
Brad rubbed his feet together. He wore striped wool socks and suede house shoes.
“Yeah,” said Brad. “He’s like, hey—it’s raining in Walking World, but let’s check Poop-Eating World!”
Stinky Lewis did another lap from the living room to the kitchen. He barked and raised his ears, eager.
“He wants out,” said Brad. He stood to open the back door, and Stinky Lewis wiggled everywhere, spinning in circles, until he saw the rain. Then he whined and sat down on the kitchen floor.
“Sorry, buddy,” said Brad, sitting beside me again. “It’s raining in both worlds today.”
Honestly, what hurt the most was that he was nice. And Susan was nice. And they probably belonged together. Being Brad’s girlfriend built a wall between them and gave me power that I knew was probably temporary, but imagining them together still hurt.
Thinking of Susan and her niceness, and how it matched with Brad and his niceness, made me say, “Want to go up to your room and fuck?”
Brad looked surprised.
I tugged at the blanket, and he stood. I wanted so badly to be normal, and I thought maybe this would help. I led him up the staircase, the walls lined with photographs of Brad’s smiling family over the years, wearing matching navy-and-white sweaters and khakis, mostly taken at the Sears photo center. Their faces were genuine, hopeful. I felt like they were asking me to join them.
We reached his bedroom, and the air was charged.
This was it.