What to Say Next(41)

What the hell is this?

My phone dings.

Violet: KIT DID YOU GET THE LINK I SENT!?!?

Annie: READ IT NOW!!! HOLY CRAP!!!

Something about their texts makes me look away from the screen for a second. I try to think of other things. David’s hand in mine. That was nice. Innocent, friendly hand-holding. I think of his tape measure. And his haircut. I think about what it might be like to kiss him. Not that I really think of him that way—like a boyfriend or even just a hookup—but still, I imagine kissing him would feel good.

A true thing. A real thing. I imagine he tastes like honesty.

And then I see it, while I’m absentmindedly flipping through the pages on my phone. A lovely sketch of the back of a girl’s neck. A drawing of a circle of freckles on a clavicle.

They look oddly familiar.

That’s my neck. That’s my clavicle.

And then it hits me—this is David’s notebook.

Oh. Shit.





3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546873115956286388235378759375195778185778053217122680661300192787661119590921642019893809525720106548586327886593615338182796823030195203530185296899577362259941389124972177528347

Again: 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546873115956286388235378759375195778185778053217122680661300192787661119590921642019893809525720106548586327886593615338182796823030195203530185296899577362259941389124972177528347

Stop. No. It’s too much. The noise and the light and the vibrations and the thoughts in my head, looping tighter and tighter, like they’re fingers choking my neck, and the sun stabbing my eyes and an unknown hand squeezing my balls, all at once.

I burrow under my heavy blankets. One last time. I need to escape this feeling one last time: 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546873115956286388235378759375195778185778053217122680661300192787661119590921642019893809525720106548586327886593615338182796823030195203530185296899577362259941389124972177528347





“Listen, I’m not saying you’re ugly or anything, you’re totally cute enough, but you’re so not the prettiest girl in school,” Willow says, by way of greeting, when I march into the Pizza Palace, and as expected they are all gathered around a laptop reading from David’s notebook. No one seems to care that this is his private journal or diary or whatever. Justin and Gabriel and Jessica-Willow-Abby are here. Annie and Violet too, though they are sitting in a separate booth.

“Shut your piehole. Kit’s beautiful,” Annie says, and I want to high-five her for defending me, for still being on my team, despite the fact that I suck lately. Not that I disagree with Willow. Despite David’s delusions, I am in no way one of the more attractive girls at school. I don’t know who David sees when he looks at me—if he has fun-house-mirror eyes—but it’s certainly not the same me everyone else sees. He’s right about the other stuff, though, and it’s sweet of him to have noticed: I do sit cross-legged on most chairs, and I have a nervous habit of covering my fingers with my sweatshirt sleeves, which annoys my mom because I always stretch them out.