You Know Me Well(18)

She kept holding the laptop out, trying to show me, but there were so many boxes between us that eventually she just held up the computer and pointed. The screen was at the wrong angle. I couldn’t see anything, let alone myself.

I smiled.

“Cool,” I said.

And then I turned back to our mural, unsure of what I was hoping to find there.

And now, here is Lehna, spinning her combination next to me.

“You wanted to see me?” she asks, because just as we both know she has History next period and that tome necessitates a trip to her locker, we also know that I have Volleyball and need precisely nothing from mine.

I nod, but she isn’t looking.

“So what do you want to say?”

My mind is blank.

“Did you see me in The Daily Dish?” I ask, without meaning to.

She slams shut her locker and narrows her eyes at me.

“I mean, it doesn’t really matter. The picture wasn’t even supposed to be of me. I didn’t actually even see it; I just wondered…”

She looks past me, down the hall.

“I have to go. Class starts in, like, two seconds and I need to text Candace.”

“Candace!” I say. “So what happened? I can’t believe I forgot.”

“I can,” she says.

“Lehna,” I say. “Really. Can’t we just get over whatever this is? I want to hear about Candace.”

“I really have to go. I can tell you at lunch. Unless, of course, you’re going to be hanging out with your new best friend.”

“Mark isn’t in our lunch period,” I say, which I guess is the wrong response, because Lehna shakes her head and stomps down the hall with such finality that I don’t even consider going after her.

*

On my way to the gym I see Ryan leaving the teachers’ lounge, carrying a stack of literary magazines.

“Last issue of the year,” I say, catching a glimpse of the cover. I recognize the work of Elsa, a quiet girl in my AP Studio Art class who makes intricate collages.

“Oh wow,” Ryan says. “I’m no longer invisible.”

I laugh and continue walking, but he stops me.

“Hey, um, actually…”

And I know where he’s going to go with this, and I realize there was a scenario Mark and I didn’t plan for.

We know that we aren’t going to volunteer information about Saturday night unless Ryan and Lehna ask us directly. But we were assuming that Ryan would ask Mark, that Lehna would ask me. What do I do if the reverse happens? I am not good with quick decision making. I’m much better at obsessing for so long over a decision that the answer becomes irrelevant.

“Did Mark say anything about writing an essay on Sylvia Plath?”

“Oh,” I say, confused. “An essay? It’s a little late in the year, isn’t it?”

“Exactly,” he says. “At first I was like, Yeah, Sylvia Plath puns! But then last period I thought, Wait a second. It’s review week. No one’s writing essays.”

I shrug. “You probably just misunderstood.”

“Probably,” he says, but I can tell he’s unconvinced.

“All right,” I say. “Volleyball time.”

“Okay, but one other thing.”

Shit.

“What exactly happened Saturday night? I mean, not that it’s a huge deal, but…”

He looks self-conscious, and I understand why. Mark is his best friend; he shouldn’t need to ask me. The way he’s trying to be casual while actually looking desperate is embarrassing to both of us.

I fight the urge to run away.

I decide against lying.

But I decide, also, against telling the whole truth.

“Magic,” I say. “A cat named Renoir. A whiskey bottle. A typewriter. Ferns. High-heeled shoes.”

He arches an eyebrow.

I smile.

“Volleyball,” I say again.

I step past him, and I don’t look back.

*

I take my time changing out of my gym clothes after Volleyball is over. Some girls loiter around me, wanting to ask me questions, but maybe the worry on my face is enough of a deterrent. They give me shy waves and goodbyes as they leave, and then it’s just me in the empty locker room. Two minutes of silence.

I wish I knew why I felt so sick.

I wish my brain wasn’t constantly counting down the days until high school is over.

Or, if that’s inevitable, I wish every day that passed lessened the pressure in my chest instead of intensifying it.

I finally get myself back outside, onto the path that will take me to the senior deck where Lehna and Uma and June will be basking in the sun with their lunches. And soon there they are, at a distance. I slow down to look at them.

What will I say?

June and Uma are each nibbling sandwiches while Lehna talks, gesturing grandly about something. I wonder if Lehna and I would become friends if we met each other today. If we hadn’t had hundreds of sleepovers, if we’d never painted murals in my garage, if we didn’t stand next to each other, hands clasped and hearts swelling, at that Tegan and Sara concert in eighth grade.

If Lehna and I were to find ourselves, strangers, standing in a line in an art store or a café, would we each think enough of the other to start a conversation? And would we laugh at the things that were said?