Select (Select #1)(41)

Monday morning came around. I sat in first period, on pins and needles, pretending I wasn’t watching the door. John only suspected, I kept telling myself. He didn’t have confirmation. And that wasn’t a problem, because he would never get it.

Just when I thought he wasn’t coming, John walked in, almost late. He wore a gray T-shirt and a pair of madras shorts. It was preppy for him, but was balanced out by the almost-ratty shirt. He looked like he’d had a lot of sun over the weekend, his hair a little lighter. The funny thing was, he walked in wearing Ray-Bans. He didn’t want me to see his eyes, I guessed.

I tried to look impassive as he walked to the back of the classroom, navigating between desks to take his seat near mine in the back row. As soon as John was in close proximity, my plan to act and feel like everything was his problem was obliterated. It was going to be impossible to ignore him.

I tried to hear his thoughts and feel his emotions but couldn’t. He’d closed himself off from me. Unexpectedly my eyes began to burn, and I quickly busied myself with my phone. What the hell was my problem? I told myself I was just tearing up because I was frustrated I couldn’t read him, not because I gave a shit that he was ignoring me.

It didn’t help that all eyes in the class were on John and me. Something had changed, since it was clear our little bubble in the back of the classroom had burst. We’d never done more than exchange hellos and the tiniest bit of chitchat in class, but post-Sarah, John had always stuck a leg out awfully near my desk and leaned his body as close to me as he could get.

Last week, in the middle of class, he’d rested his cheek on his palm and slid his gaze to my face. It was the kind of look you only gave someone you were with. He had been bored and half-asleep and his guard had dropped. Of course, I had known what he was feeling, and it had been overwhelming. How could I not feel something for him when I was immersed in his intimate thoughts?

But all that lightness and excitement was gone. Now I knew school would be even worse than the first day, when at least I’d felt more Jaynes than not. Now I felt like a fuckup. I was back to being on an island all my own.



On Wednesday I arrived at English class a little later than I usually did. I hadn’t slept well—I never did anymore—and I felt like a zombie. I was surprised to see John already there. Although I’d fully expected to be ignored as usual, my heart involuntarily skipped as I thought maybe he’d come early to talk to me. If that was the case, I was too late. A girl from our class with red hair was standing next to his desk, and he was looking up at her, laughing. Was he flirting with her?

“Your name, please?” I whipped around at the nasal voice. It belonged to a middle-aged man with a potbelly, his short-sleeved shirt straining, and a pointy little brown beard and greasy ponytail. Mrs. Bartell was nowhere in sight.

“I’m Julia.”

“Julia what?”

“Jaynes.” The substitute nodded and, without introducing himself, crossed my name off a class list. I cautiously edged away and headed to my seat. The redheaded girl saw me coming and began to back away, but not before saying to John, “Are you going to Brandon’s on Friday?”

“He lives right by my house. Sure, I’ll probably see you there.” John smiled at her. That was when I got jealous for real.

John glanced at me as I sat down, acting indifferent overall. I internally rolled my eyes.

Even if he was making me miserable, the best part of my day was being next to him. I must have sighed out loud, because I felt John turn his attention to me. I looked up when I felt him continue to watch me, and, just as he seemed about to say something to me for the first time since Saturday, class started. He shifted his eyes to the front of the classroom. Dammit. I could feel the redhead watching us.

I tried to remind myself that it was good. We needed to stay separated. But then, as the substitute announced that Mrs. Bartell’s son was ill and then droned on about short stories, I felt the first trickle of John’s thoughts coming to me since the tournament. It took a second to recognize, and it was small, like a crack had opened and I could just barely squeeze through.

I expected more from her, even a half-assed explanation. Is this how it’s going to go from now on? We both pretend I don’t know?

I didn’t have time to delve further, because suddenly the class grew quiet and began to work on something.

“Thirty minutes. Go,” the sub said pompously. The dry erase board read “Mr. Cantugli.”

What? I wasn’t usually so out of it. Since that overwhelming first day of school, I had come a long way toward developing a system. It was like having multiple plates spinning and I could focus on each one just enough: listen to the teacher, monitor the goings-on in the classroom, and, since the second week of school, pay attention to John’s thoughts as well. But today I couldn’t manage anything correctly.

Looking around, I realized I had no idea what everyone was writing about. Shit. I looked over at John’s handsome profile, with his straight nose and full lips, his dark head bent as he wrote. He suddenly stopped and swiped a hand down his entire face and leaned back, looking at the ceiling before glancing over at me. I noticed his eczema was pretty bad. I was just about to whisper to him when the sub scrawled, Write a short story: 30 minutes on the overhead projector.

Okay, I could do that. I got busy, relieved to have something to focus on. I immersed myself and wrote for longer than I should have. When the sub called “time,” I hadn’t done my typical second round of work—writing something average that wouldn’t stand out.