Scarlett Epstein Hates It Here(59)

He holds up his hands in an exaggerated gesture, then flops them dejectedly back down on the carpet in a very teenage-boy-didn’t-get-to-have-sex way. I hope on top of hope that he has an answer both my body and my brain are down with. Not an answer like the one he gives me, which is: “What about her?”

The off-the-charts “guy”-ishness of that response nearly sends me sailing over the edge of my sanity.

“Are you guys dating?”

“We’re just hanging out.”

I groan. “Gideon, that is the dumbest euphemism in the world. It’s not ‘hanging out’ if someone gets an IUD.”

“Well, we haven’t had any sort of official conversation about it! I don’t know! Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because you were a dick to her!”

“Really? Since when do you care about Ashley’s feelings?”

“Since I realized she had them!” I roll my head away from him, fixing on a dusty quarter underneath the sofa, feeling my eyes start to burn. “I got mad at her when I should have gotten mad at you. But at least I’m trying to be better,” I say. “You’re not even admitting you were a dick.”

He sighs. “I feel bad about Ashley.”

“Good. You should. But what about the other stuff? Like laughing at Leslie in class, or making fun of Jessicarose Fallon when she ran a fourteen-minute mile in gym.”

He winces and claps his hand over his eyes. “I know. I’ve gone along with some of that stuff, even when I don’t . . .”

“Are you trying to earn my sympathy? Because you won’t. Just because you come over here and listen to comedy with me and act like your old self when we’re alone together doesn’t make everything okay.”

He sits up too, looking like a dog I just kicked, and says, “I’m just trying to explain—”

“Oh, I understand completely! Whoever you’re hanging out with determines which member of the Breakfast Club you’re gonna be.”

Getting worked up now, Gideon begins to raise his voice. “That’s because I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere!”

“You’re just saying that because you think that’s who I want you to be!” I snap back. “You think I want Judd Nelson, so you’re being Judd Nelson. But at school tomorrow, when Ashley wants you to be Emilio Estevez, you’ll be Emilio Estevez.”

“I will not be Emilio Estevez!” he shouts indignantly, which would be hilarious out of context if we weren’t both so angry.

“And you know the most messed-up thing? I don’t even think it’s an act anymore. I bet if you were alone in a room, you’d have no idea who you are. You’re just, like”—I shrug, defeated—“you’re a sheep. And I hate sheep.”

He sits there, wounded and angry. Ever since Ruth died, I’ve had a pattern where, for just a few minutes, I can care intensely about some dumb thing I used to care about, but then it flickers out.

“Can you just go away?” I whisper. “Please?”

After a few seconds of silence, the floorboard creaks as he stands, gathering his stuff. He leaves without saying goodbye.





Chapter 23


GRIEF IS A WEIRD, QUIET THING. MAYBE IT ISN’T FOR EVERYBODY. When Shana Miller had an aneurysm in the shower and died sophomore year, girls clustered together in the cafeteria, crying—but I don’t really feel the energy to express anything, even if I felt anything, if that makes sense.

I’m at whichever stage makes me do things like stand in front of my open locker staring at nothing for three minutes, forgetting where I am or what I need to be doing.

“Scarlett?”

Mrs. Johnston, the wiry, gray-haired gym teacher who occasionally tosses off creepy asides about the absurdity of not allowing school prayer, is approaching. Before I can back away, she pulls me into a hug. It is the hug of a woman who should really have an “ample bosom” but doesn’t. She almost impales me on her collarbone.

“The Lord is an everlasting rock, sweetheart.”

“Aite.”

“Mr. Barnhill mentioned you’ve just experienced a loss, and I just wanted to say that I’m here if you need anything.” She speaks with gravity, like she’s giving out a life achievement award at the Oscars or something. The most we have ever spoken before this is when she challenged me on the frequency of my period during the semester we had to take swim.

“Um, thank you,” I say, attempting to use the same tone. Sometime this week, I figured out that the secret to being nice to everybody all the time is to just assume that everybody you interact with is going to be killed in a car crash the next day, and this is one of their final interactions on Earth. That’s, like, the only way you can be nice 24/7. It somehow makes Mrs. Johnston more relatable to know she’s nice because she’s fantasizing about my broken body being pried from the wreckage with the Jaws of Life.

“I brought your mom a quiche.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You know”—she lowers her voice conspiratorially—“He has a plan.”

“Mr. Barnhill?”

“The Lord, our God. With Jesus at his right hand.”

“I’m Jewish mostly,” I mumble, then say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”