Shit.
I drop a prayer, and it’s quickly answered by the ringing bell and rush of students filing through the office doors behind me. My class is ten paces back, his is about a hundred forward. Why isn’t he moving?
My black eye is threatening to leak so I blink moisture back into the surface and wave my hand as if it’s a powerful eraser that can take back slips of the tongue.
“I’m really tired. I meant the jacket. I love your jacket. Oh, God, umm.” I smile exaggeratingly huge, showing my teeth like a first grader waiting for the tooth fairy, and squeeze my eyes shut tight as I shout “Good-bye,” then turn and actually run to my independent study room.
That’s not how that was supposed to happen. Things like that, though, they seem to keep happening with Lucas.
Drowning in sweat from my embarrassment, I pull off Lucas’s jacket as soon as I make it to my seat. I leave it on my lap because I like the security it offers me. I actually do love this stupid jacket.
I also love the boy.
I manage to make it through the entire day without seeing Lucas. I was prepared at lunch to explain away my blurted-out confession. I don’t want to scare him. Even though I’ve known him for years, maybe it seems psycho to come right out with I love you’s this fast. Or maybe not. Abby is no help because boys tell her they love her on a monthly basis. She’s never said it once herself, though. Not once. Except to me and her mom. Lucas never showed up at lunch, though, so I was off the hook. He sent me a text when Abby and I were throwing away our trash and said he got called into the principal’s office. My guess is it was something to formalize his scholarship offer.
My mom texted before school was over and warned me she would be twenty minutes late. I, of course, offered to go home with Abby instead, but her response was a cackling emoji face.
The traffic should be cleared out by the time she arrives, so I’ve been spared from standing near the bus line where chaos breeds more chaos every afternoon at 2:20. And since I don’t have to wait in the normal pickup spot, I venture around the back side of the gym to the slope that leads down to the football practice field. The guys aren’t doing much yet, just some stretching. Lucas is easy to spot; he’s on his back at the sidelines with his right leg in the air. The trainer—the same one who assessed my lovely shiner—is leaning into his leg and holding it straight as he pushes it toward Lucas’s body. It’s amazing how inflexible these athletes are.
“That’s a nice jacket you have there.”
I swallow hard. It’s been a while since I’ve heard Mr. Fuller’s voice. He’s always had this dominant edge. I used to be afraid of it; when we were kids, he was always the parent I didn’t want catching us doing anything wrong. Now, though, I recognize those tones and inflections for what they are—crutches to make a small man feel bigger than he is.
“Thanks. I think I’ll keep it,” I say, twisting to the side and offering him a closed, smug smile.
He chuckles and pauses his steps, sinking his hands into the pockets of his blazer and glancing down to where his boots meet the dry grass of the hillside.
“You know, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” He smirks, proud of his plagiarized idiom. I let him think he’s won for a few seconds, just long enough for his ego to inflate a little bit more.
“That’s a very good point, Mr. Fuller. No, they sure shouldn’t.” As the satisfaction of saying the perfect thing at the perfect moment seeps into my veins, I breathe in deep as this big, scary man shrinks a little before my eyes.
His scowl breaks through the façade he works so hard to maintain, and his mouth chews on his words. He wants to break me, but what he doesn’t know is I’ve already been broken and rebuilt.
“Say hi to Mrs. D’Angelo for me,” I say before turning and heading up the hill with the heat of his eyes scalding the back of my head.
I pushed down the first domino, and I know how these things work. The tumbling has begun, and there really isn’t a clean way to stop it. The only thing left is to sit back and watch it burn.
I walk through the lot as it clears, and as I get closer to the entrance, I pull my phone out to check my mom’s location on our app. She’s a block away, so I go ahead and call her.
“I’m almost there,” she answers immediately.
“I know, I saw. I’m walking to meet you, so turn in at that parking lot right at the corner. I think I want some ice cream. My treat.” I can’t see her, but I can imagine the face she’s making by the tiny breath she exhales into the phone. It’s a grateful laugh, a short one that touches her eyes and makes her shoulders drop with relief.
“That sounds . . . really nice.” She’s right. It does.
We end up timing things just right, and I step up to my mom’s van just as she pulls in. I hold up my palm for her not to lock the door and open the passenger side to peel off my jacket. I’ll like this jacket more when it’s winter and I’m standing in the bleachers watching one of Lucas’s playoff games. It’s strange because I don’t only hope I’ll be there doing that. I know I will. I have this strange, quiet confidence in us.
“So, when do I get to ask about the jacket?” She lifts a brow as I scrunch mine a bit.
“Maybe when I feel less embarrassed about my knee-jerk confession when I stormed past you at six in the morning?” I smile through gritted teeth, suddenly feeling the heat of telling my mother I had sex.
“Right, well . . .” She pulls the keys from the ignition and we meet at the front of the van.
“I won’t dwell. I’m not my mother, but because I’m not, I need to be direct about a few things. You’re being safe?” she asks.
“Yes. Oh, my God,” I cover my face. There’s an older couple enjoying sundaes at a sidewalk table about four feet away. I want to die.
“And what you did, it was your choice?” she continues.
I nod, eyes still closed tight and hand shading my face.
“And you know that all it takes is once to—”
“Yes!” I cut her off before she has a chance to blurt out the word pregnant. I look down at my feet and usher us into the small mom and pop store called Jan’s that has served scoops to my mom and me since it opened when I was six. I guess Jan was one of the owners’ moms. I always forget which one, but she passed away shortly after they opened.
My cheeks cool from the freezers, and my nose perks up at the scent of pistachio and vanilla as soon as we step inside. The girl working behind the counter is new. A lot of the sophomores and juniors at Public get their first jobs here because it’s so close to school. She’s young, probably still fifteen. It’s nice when the owners are working because they always know our orders the moment we walk in.
I step up close to the glass and lean in to make sure they have my cherry jubilee flavor. The carton looks loaded enough to give me a double, so that’s what I order. My mom gets pistachio, and we both wait while the girl, who’s tag says her name is Marylee, scoops our dishes. My mom takes our bowls to a booth in the corner, and I hand the girl my card to pay. She shakes her head no.
“You can have it for free,” she says, a shy smile tugging up the corners of her mouth.