Joss is waiting for me at my locker on Monday. She looks… stricken.
“Hi,” I say. I realize that Joss was as much a victim of Swanee’s actions as Liana and I. Even if Liana’s right about our choices being our own, Joss suffered the consequences of going along with Swanee’s dares and crazy schemes. “I’m sorry about the car,” I say. “And the lock on Swan’s door. I hope you got everything out you wanted.”
“Who gives a shit about the fucking car? When I get my license I’m buying a Ferrari.”
Right. With what money? I should tell her about the cash hidden under Swan’s mattress. I assume she doesn’t know about it or she would’ve retrieved it. A few hundred dollars isn’t even enough to buy tires for a Ferrari, though.
“The anniversary was last Saturday,” Joss says.
All the anniversaries I can think of scroll through my head. No hits. “Of what?”
Joss just looks at me. “She died that day. We missed it.”
Oh my God. She did? Time seems to have become a sort of nuisance I have to contend with every day. It’s been easier lately, and I should feel guilty about that. But for some reason, I don’t.
I spin my combination lock to open the door.
“We should do something,” Joss says.
I almost say, Like what? Bake a cake?
Loading up the books for my morning classes, I avoid Joss’s eyes. I try to block out the despair she’s emanating. It’s impossible. “What did you have in mind?”
She doesn’t answer. I think Joss needs to talk to somebody to help her with the grief of losing a sister. I say, “You know, we have free grief counseling—”
“Shut up!” she snarls. “No one understands or cares how I feel. Obviously you don’t.” She knocks the books out of my arms and takes off.
I call, “Joss. Come on. I care.”
She flips me off.
I guess I deserve that for wanting to forget rather than celebrate. I do care about Joss. I just don’t know what to do to help her. I’m not a counselor. Like Mom said, I think her pain is all bottled up, and one of these days it’s going to blow up inside her.
Since I can feel my lungs blackening from the secondhand smoke outside, I return to eating in the cafeteria. My choices are alone at a table, reading a book, letting everyone see what a total loser I am, or asking if the GSA will take me back.
I don’t even have to ask. A chair magically appears and I sit. The girl to my right says, “Do you want some of my fried chicken?” and the guy across the table goes, “It’s finger-lickin’ good.” Everyone howls. Even I have to laugh. I forgot how great it is to be with this group. “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’m not really hungry.” At which point everyone at the table begins shoving their leftovers at me. Maybe I am a little hungry. And a little lonely, because I can’t remember the last time I heard my own voice joining in the chatter.
I’m doing what I usually do on Friday nights—nothing—when I get a text message from Liana. My heart leaps. It reads:
Fossil Ridge. Saturday at 9
I know I shouldn’t jump at her every beck and call the way I did with Swanee. Who is Liana to me? An acquaintance? A friend? Someone who was hidden from me, which adds to the mystery of her.
I’m late for the game because I can’t find Fossil Ridge High School. Google Maps sucks. When I finally arrive, the game’s already in progress and the bleachers are full. I head for the blue and gold of Greeley West.
The cheerleaders aren’t wearing the same uniforms I saw on Liana’s Facebook. The skirts are short and pleated, but instead of sweaters the girls are wearing vests. Their spring uniforms? Liana is immediately noticeable, not only because she’s in front, but also because she’s fantastic. As the squad begins a dance routine that’s part hip-hop and part jazz, her movements are sharp and crisp. So cool. She’s athletic. Her legs are muscular and taut, like she works out a lot. She’s graceful, too. I bet she’s taken a lot of dance lessons.
Greeley West scores a run and the cheerleaders all yell and do split jumps in the air. The audience chants the cheers.
I’m not really paying attention to the game, so I’m surprised when people stand and start to leave. Who won? I don’t think it was Greeley West, because the players’ shoulders are slumped as they head back to the bus, and the Fossil Ridge players are giving one another high fives.
I hang back, watching as the cheerleaders dig out bottles of Gatorade from a cooler. Liana twists open her top and chugs until half the blue liquid is gone. As she lifts the bottle to her mouth again, our eyes meet. I give her a little wave.
As she walks toward me, one of her squad members calls out and Liana says over her shoulder, “I drove in. See you guys tomorrow.”
Two cheers lift the cooler and veer toward the school buses, and the parking lot begins to clear.
“You came,” she says.
“I didn’t think it was a request.”
She whaps me on the arm and it sends a tingle up through my neck and head.
Liana doesn’t speak until she’s dug her keys out of her bag. She turns to me. “Our usual spot?”
“The Chipotle?”
“No, silly. The McDonald’s in Broomfield. Is that okay?”
I find my keys. It’s more than okay. We have a regular spot.
We order burgers and fries and Cokes, and Liana doesn’t even ask me to pay for her combo meal. As we head for the same booth we sat in before, I’m not sure what to say to her. I can think of only one reason she asked me to come today.
“So I guess you want to say a prayer or something for the anniversary. I should tell you that I’m not all that religious.”
She gives me a blank look. “What anniversary?”
Is she joking? “You know. Swan’s death?”
“What about it?”
“It was a month—well, five weeks ago today.”
She unwraps her burger and says, “Not for me. I still have a week to go before the anniversary of the day my life was destroyed.”
I cringe. Unwrapping my cheeseburger, I reply, “Is it really that important what day you heard about it?”
“Yes!” she snaps. “Because it changed everything I ever knew about her. Or thought I did. Not to mention that I learned about you.”
Well, ditto. My eyes fall and I lose my appetite.
She rakes her hands through her hair and expels a heavy breath. “I’m sorry. There’s no reason to take it out on you. You’re the only person I can talk to who even halfway understands what I’m going through.”
I lift my head and our eyes meet and hold. Not for long, though, because I can’t look at her without feeling guilty about the impact of the texts.
“Let’s just eat and talk about something, and someone, else,” she says. She lifts her burger to her mouth and chomps into it.
She motions to me to eat.
After swallowing, she says, “Our baseball team is the worst in the league, in case you didn’t notice. I was almost embarrassed to have you see that.”
“I wasn’t really watching the game.” Shit. I should superglue my mouth shut.
She smiles and takes a sip of Coke.
I say, “Tell me about your family.”
She swirls a few fries in catsup. “I have two sisters and three brothers. A mom, a dad, two dogs, three cats, mi abuelas y abuelos, but they live in Mexico. My mom and dad are first-generation Americans.”
“Is that why you’re not out to them?”
She frowns slightly. “Who said I’m not out?”
I think back. “I thought you did.”
“No. I finally came out last year. It wasn’t easy. El que diran, you know.” She clues in to my oblivious expression and continues, “An unstated law in Latino culture that says you will be judged by your friends and your family for what you do.”
I stick my straw in my Diet Coke. “That must be hard.” I think, Being Catholic can’t help.
She shrugs and bites into her burger again. “It is what it is.”
“Does your family accept you?”
“It took a while. My mom still prays for me. I do think she acknowledges she can’t change me, but she’s afraid of what my life will be like. And, of course, she wants a hundred grandchildren from each of us.”
“You can have children,” I say.
Liana goes, “Try telling my mom that. Just don’t mention turkey basters.”
I laugh.
“That baby in your album on Facebook…”
“Caleb? Talk about el que diran. My sister had him when she was fifteen.”
My eyes grow wide.
“I know. But we’re family, and we love him.”
We finish our lunches and talk and laugh about all kinds of things. The only subjects that don’t come up again are Swanee and the anniversary. Thank God.
I add Liana to my contacts list on my cell. Not that I expect her to call or anything. But if she invites me to another game, I think I could develop an interest in baseball.
Mrs. Burke hands back our “Ignorance Is Bliss” papers, and I got a D-. At the top she wrote a note: Alix, of all my students, I thought you’d be the one to figure out that the opposite of “Ignorance Is Bliss” is “Knowledge Is Bliss.”
Shit. I’m so stupid.
Even though I’m intent on listening and taking notes while Mrs. Burke explains our next assignment—writing a critical analysis paper—I can’t ignore the buzzing cell in my bag. I take a quick peek at the ID.
It’s her.
I know I’m going to need to bring up my grade with this next paper, but I can’t stand it. I pull my bag into my lap and read Liana’s text:
What are you doing at this very moment?
I glance up to see Mrs. Burke writing on the whiteboard.
I text:
Texting you
LOL. Seriously. Where are you?
English. Meh
She texts:
I love English
You don’t have Burke. She should be teaching Middle English.
She’s that old
Liana texts:
ROFL. Do you get to write poetry?
I text:
God, I hope not
You don’t like poetry?
I do. I just can’t write it
Have you ever tried?
“I’ll take that.” Mrs. Burke is hovering over me with her hand out.
Busted. I give her my cell. Not missing a beat, Mrs. Burke continues her lecture, returning to the front of the room, where she drops my cell into her briefcase. It vibrates and a bunch of people snigger and swivel around to tsk at me. My face flares.
I try to take notes, but now I’m distracted. Worried Liana will keep calling or think I cut her off. The minutes tick by and I find myself doodling her name: Liana. Liana. Pretty name. It fits her. Liana Torres. It sounds poetic.
The period ends with the blaring of the bell.
“I want to approve your topic and thesis before you begin your critical analysis paper, so write up a paragraph and bring it in on Thursday,” Mrs. Burke says as we’re gathering our stuff to leave. “You can choose a book, a movie, or anything you feel is worthy of analysis. The subject is wide open. What I’m looking for are your logical analysis skills and writing abilities.”
I quickly take down the notes from the board: Purpose (thesis statement); Short Summary; Arguments; Conclusion. I’ll have to Google them to find out what each means.
Mrs. Burke is shoving her notes into her briefcase when I stop by her desk. She doesn’t glance up.
“Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes, Alix.” Still no eye contact.
“May I have my phone back?”
“At the end of the day. I’ll be in the English Department office.” She heads out the door.
It’s my phone. She has no right.
As I’m entering the cafeteria, I pass Joss speeding toward the exit. Probably to smoke a joint or six.
I hurry to catch her. “Joss, hey.” I put a hand on her shoulder and she wrenches away. “I’m sorry about the anniversary.” She doesn’t turn around to face me. I’m back at that moment when the RIPs on Swanee’s Facebook wall dwindled to zero and I felt livid about what short memories people had of her. “We should’ve taken a moment of silence or something,” I say softly to Joss. “Even if it was just the two of us.”
Joss inhales a stuttered breath and her shoulders begin to shake.
“Maybe we can get together and talk—”
“Alix, there you are.” Mrs. Burke bustles toward me. “My husband’s sick and I have to leave, but I wanted you to have your phone back.”
That was nice. I feel bad about assuming she was out to get me personally.
Mrs. Burke says to Joss, “You’re going to be late for class.”
Joss whirls and I see that black mascara is streaming down her face. “Fuck off,” she says to Mrs. Burke.
I cringe.
Mrs. Burke snarls, “That’s two hours in detention, young lady.”
Fortunately Mrs. Burke pivots and hurries off before she hears the string of curses under Joss’s breath. Joss goes out the back while I check my phone.
There are ten texts and a voice mail. I key in my password to listen to the message.
Liana says, “Hi. It’s me. Are you okay?”
Immediately, I call her back.
She answers on the first ring.
“My cell got confiscated in class,” I tell her.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I know the rules.”
“So do I. I shouldn’t be texting you during the day.”
“No. It’s fine.”
“It’s weird, but I feel better talking to you. More hopeful that life goes on. I hope you don’t mind,” she says.
“I don’t mind. I feel the same way.” Which is true.
“Where are you now?” she asks. The halls are filling and ears are everywhere, so I slip into the restroom and lock myself in a stall.
“In the bathroom.”
“Before class or after?”
Liana says, “English. Lunch,” like she’s writing it down. “I sent a request to friend me again on Facebook. But if you want me to go away and leave you alone, just deny it. I’ll understand.”
Someone comes in and takes the stall next to me. I have to face the wall and muffle our conversation, which creates a time lapse.
“Okay,” Liana says. “Sorry for bothering you.”
“No.” I lower my voice. “I don’t want you to leave me alone. It’s just…” I whisper, “Somebody’s in here.”
“With you? Are you wearing the merry widow?”
I smile to myself. “I wear it every day. Hoping to get lucky, you know?”
She laughs. “Anyway, if you want to talk, I’ll need your schedule so I’ll know when it’s safe to call. And vice versa.”
Two things strike me instantly: 1. She plans to call again. 2. Swanee never could remember my schedule, no matter how many times I told her or wrote it down. I knew where she was every second of every day. Or at least I thought I did.
I ask Liana, “Where are you?”
“In the locker room, getting ready for a pep rally.”
“Why the locker room?”
“So I can pick up my poms and run a brush through my hair. Gotta be glam, you know.”
I love her hair. It’s thick and curly. I’d give anything to have hair like hers instead of my flyaway mop, which won’t even hold a braid.
“Where’s your game?” I ask.
Before I can verbalize my thought, she preempts it by saying, “Don’t come. You’ve seen us play.”
She knows I wouldn’t be going to watch their team.
“I’m on in two minutes,” she says. “By the way, I took my ring back for a refund? Since I had it sized, they wouldn’t give me the total amount, which bites, but I did find out something interesting.”
“What?”
“Liana, the band started,” I hear in the background.
“I’ll tell you later,” she says. “You’ll die. Sort of the way I did.”