What I’m doing now is lying low. Just staying quiet and keeping away from everybody. Here’s the thing: All of a sudden I’ve got this, like, spotlight on me. Because of Remy.
Ever since that day when she sat next to me in Con Lit. Ever since that day, it’s like there’s this laser on my back. Like everybody looking. And wondering. But not asking. Parsing. Discerning. Analyzing. But not asking.
And me? I’m just keeping quiet.
Look. Remy sits next to me in class. That’s it. We talk. We exchange notes. That’s it. One time she walked me across the green. That’s all.
But whatever she’s been up to before must have been a whole lot of nothing, because I never see her with anyone at school and all of a sudden everybody is being a lot nicer to me than before. It’s like before I was Walmart and now I am Comme Des Garçons.
And that’s not all. Last time I went to lunch, this girl next to me in line at the salad bar named Abigail—because people around here are named things like Abigail. And Martha. And Betsy. And other mothers of the American Revolution—turns to me and asks me if I want to sit with her and all her friends. I look over and they are all staring at me. Expectantly. Like they had talked about it. Like they had planned it. Like they were trying to nab me.
Now, I’ve never been nabbed before.
I’ve never even been slightly detoured.
It’s weird. But what’s weirder about it is I don’t even know anything about Remy. It’s not like I hang out with her. It’s not like she’s coming over to my room and we’re having a pillow fight. It’s just . . . nothing. It’s a smile and a shared book in Con Lit. Because she always forgets it.
I mean, I don’t get it.
And I don’t know quite what to do.
My dad always says that if you don’t know what to do, do nothing. So, my solution is . . . lie low. I’m just keeping my head down, going to class, asking insightful but not controversial questions, raising my hand with the answers but not too much, studying and handing in my tests but not too much. I’m basically still just a bookworm, but now I’m a bookworm with eyeballs on my backpack.
But even tonight, tonight when I got out of the shower and was brushing my teeth in the mirror . . . You know, in the haunted bathroom? Even tonight, this girl from down the hall starts brushing her teeth next to me. She starts brushing her teeth next to me and looking at me. Awkward. When you’re brushing your teeth: not looking time. Then, after she’s done she starts talking to me. Out of the blue.
“Hey, aren’t you in my Lit class?”
“Um. Yeah. I think so.”
“Cool class, right? I like the teacher.”
“Ms. Ingall? Yeah, she’s nice.”
Then she looks at me a little longer, and I can tell she’s about to say something else, or she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t. She just stands there. And it’s getting uncomfortable.
“Well, um, see you in class . . .”
And I turn to walk back into my haunted room from the haunted bathroom.
“Hey! We could study together. You know, since we’re hall mates.”
I turn around, “Yeah, okay. That would be nice.”
“My name’s Emma, by the way.”
“Oh, okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“Huh? Oh, um . . . Willa. My name’s Willa.”
I always do that. When I get put on the spot like that, I always forget my name for, like, three seconds. It’s embarrassing.
“Oh, cool. Well, see you in class, Willa.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I mean, this is a long conversation to be having in your towel, especially when it’s cold outside. I mean, not winter cold. But definitely fall-coming-soon-could-catch-a-cold-any-minute cold.
And I know that now that girl is gonna come up to me in class tomorrow. When I’m next to Remy. Watch. I’m telling you. It’s like the whole school has been trying to forge this connection to the elusive Remy Taft, and now that she has anointed me with her friendship I am the conduit.
But it’s just me.
Lil’ ol’ me.
And I’m not a conduit to anything . . . am I?