Lie: To make someone go away, ignore them.
Truth: The more you ignore me, the closer I’ll get.
I walked into school late. I’d texted Asma and Usman updates, but it was second period already, and if a teacher even glimpsed a student’s phone during class, they’d confiscate it and hand it over to Hardy. My head was still spinning, my heart still broken at the sight of my parents outside in the cold with buckets and rags cleaning up those racist words on the window. A few neighbors had offered to help. I wanted to stay and help, too, but my dad had nudged me to go to school, as if I could concentrate on anything. It’s okay, go be with your friends, he’d said.
Everyone at school was going to know—the news cameras had shown up. Not sure who’d tipped them off. I’d already gotten a flurry of texts from friends. Richard had checked in, too. I was going to be the center of attention again. This year felt like it was already six months long, when we were only two and a half weeks into January. There were a million things I didn’t want to face or deal with, but I had to. Jackson Park was looming above them all.
My phone buzzed and I reached into my back pocket to grab it—a photo of my parents and some friends smiling in front of the squeaky-clean store window. Tears stung at the corners of my eyes as I turned to head to my locker.
“Uh, hello? Maybe pay attention to where you’re walking.” I looked up to see Dakota, tall, thin, two tight blond French braids draped over her shoulders, staring at me, a hand on the hip of her short gray skirt. She wore navy thigh-high stockings trimmed with gray velvet bows, and a blue scarf was tied around her neck.
“Excuse me? The entire hallway’s clear. What’s your problem, umm, uh…”
“Dakota. Don’t act like you don’t know who I am.”
“And why would I?” Of course I knew her. Maybe I was being petty, but Dakota had been giving me side-eye ever since she saw Richard talking to me when they were selling tickets for Winter Ball.
Her face scrunched up like she’d shoved a lemon into her mouth. “I went to homecoming with Richard. And Sadie Hawkins.”
“Well, aren’t you special?” I saw where this was going, but it was literally the last thing I wanted to deal with. “I gotta get to class.” I stepped around her.
“Are you going to Winter Ball with him?”
I sighed and glanced at her over my shoulder. We both knew she knew the answer. “Yeah. So?”
“So, I guess he’s slumming it. Can you even afford a dress? Aren’t you one of the scholarship kids?”
I dropped my backpack and turned to face her. She took a tiny step back, like she was worried I was going to hit her. “As opposed to having my daddy get me in with a big, um… what’s that fancy word for bribery? Oh, right, a donation to the school.”
“Shut up. I don’t get what Richard sees in you. It won’t last long.” She flipped the end of her scarf over her shoulder, and my eyes trailed the movement. “Do you like my scarf?” she asked. “It was a gift. From Richard. He brought it back from London.”
“L-l-ondon?” I stammered.
“Yeah, he went there over winter break. Oh, did you not know? I wonder what else he’s not telling you,” she scoffed, and turned on her heel and walked away.
Richard had been in London over winter break. What?
I scratched my head, confused. Nothing made sense. How come Richard hadn’t told me he’d been in London? We’d talked about winter break—I was sure of it. He’d said the most exciting thing he did was watch the movies I’d rec’d. Was he so blasé that London didn’t qualify as interesting? Had he known that Nate was there, too?
I clutched my stomach. Richard and Nate weren’t friends. I’d never seen them speak to each other, not even when they passed in the hall. Except for last night, when Nate was in my face. And the way Richard had shoved him away from me… I could tell how furious he was at Nate. No. No way. This had to be a coincidence. It wasn’t like London was a remote part of the world. Half our class was always off to Paris or London or Madrid every school break.
It wasn’t even lunchtime, but this whole day had already been too much. I couldn’t deal with school or the idea of seeing Hardy or Nate.
I walked to the nurse’s and told her I felt sick. She stepped into her office to call my mom, and I heard her suggesting that I talk to the counselor, saying that it was natural that I could have a delayed stress reaction to seeing the violent words on our window. That was the word she used: “violent.” Words could be weapons—any writer, any journalist, knew that. But I hadn’t fully considered that word, “violent,” before. But of course she was right. The whole point of a weapon is to cut you and make you bleed. Words are the weapons we carry with us all the time.