Bright Before Sunrise(2)

Since then, I’d done a fairly decent imitation of fine during my morning classes, but skipping lunch had been necessary.

“Sorry.” I pluck off my headband, smooth my dark brown hair, then put the band back, using the motions as an excuse to extract my arm from her grip. “What did I miss? Do you need something?”

“Not really.” Jordan shrugs, leans toward me with a conspiratorial smile. “But since you weren’t there, you didn’t hear how Natalie wants to have her graduation party the same day as mine! And we both want the yacht club; so one of us will have to use the clubroom instead of the ballroom. I’m sure Natalie is going to have a fit if it’s her—which isn’t fair, why should I have to be the one to settle? Regardless, you’ll come to my party, right?”

I stare at her for a moment; she’s serious. “Why don’t you two just throw your parties together? You’ll be inviting all the same people, and that way no one has to choose.”

She squeezes my arm again. “B, you’re brilliant! This is why you need to be at lunch! I’ll go find Natalie and tell her it was your idea.”

She dashes down the hall, and I fight the urge to lean against the lockers and shut my eyes. Not just because I hadn’t slept well last night. Or any of the nights this week. Or because seniors do not need party planning advice from juniors—especially not advice that’s so obvious they should’ve thought of it themselves instead of creating drama or asking people to pick sides.

Except now I’m just being rude. I’m sure they’re already combining their guest lists and moving on to debating invitations, colors, and food—

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—” Jordan is back, standing in front of me and trying so hard to fight a grin. I force myself to look engaged and interested in whatever the new gossip is. “Since you weren’t at lunch today, you also missed my big announcement: I got off the Brown waiting list! I’m in!”

“That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you. Congrats!” My last word gets buried in her shoulder as I pull her into a hug. For a few moments I can shake off my exhaustion and be happy for her. “Oh my gosh! How could you possibly not tell me that first thing? You’ve got to be so excited.”

“Next time come to lunch and you’ll be in the know!” She fake-pouts at me. “Seriously, I only have two weeks of school left—get underlings to do your yearbook tasks; I don’t want you missing any more lunches.”

“I promise.” And I can do that. It’s only today. Today and tomorrow. If I can just survive the next thirty-six hours, I’ll be able to breathe again. But just thinking about them deflates me, drains all the enthusiasm from my voice. “Brown! Wow. I hope Rhode Island is ready for you.”

She doesn’t even notice, just laughs and says, “Of course they’re not! Okay, gotta get to class, but I’m sure I’ll see you tonight. Later, gator.”

I call another weak “Congrats” after her and head toward my own class.

“Hey, Brighton!”

“Hi, B.”

“What’s up, Brighton?”

The hall seems so crowded. All the people passing by, throwing smiles and greetings at me—each one feels like a minor assault of friendliness. Each one makes me more aware of how many sets of eyes are watching—and how big an audience I’ll have if I let myself fall to pieces.

I twist the ring on my finger. I expected it to provide some comfort today, but mostly it just feels heavy, foreign—a constant reminder of what’s happening tomorrow.

I need to shake this off.

Dad had two favorite sayings: Everything looks better when you’re wearing a smile and Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.

So I’ll pull on a smile and be okay. If I can’t quite achieve okay, at least I’m 80 percent closer to it.

I can fake the rest.





3

Jonah

1:18 P.M.


THAT TIME OF DAY WHEN MY LOCKER FIGHTS BACK


I want to kick it open. Leave a big, ugly dent in the front of the metal door. Ruin the perfection of the bank of shiny green lockers. It would earn me a trip to the principal, who would be shocked and horrified at vandalism in her precious school. But maybe then I could get my books without wrestling the lock every damn time.

“Need some help?”

I shouldn’t be surprised she came over. I ignore her. Hope she’ll go away. Not likely, but a guy can dream. She was just talking to Jordan/Juliana from English—who probably told her that I’m the father of an illegitimate child. Or, if Jordan/Juliana had believed me, they were gossiping about how weird it is I’m seventeen years older than Sophia.

Up until the sock thing, the only people who’d acknowledged me today were teachers and the freshman who said “excuse me” when he bumped into me during lunch. Which is fine. More than fine, it’s my preferred way to pass a day in Cross Pointe. And with fifty-seven minutes standing between me and dismissal, all I want is for my crappy locker to open so I can get my Spanish book.

“Sometimes they stick.” It’s the same voice, and it’s closer this time.

“Did I ask your opinion, Waterford?”

Most students in this school couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, but Brighton Waterford can. Which is why she’s standing in front of me with an expectant smile. And why I have a sudden urge to skip Spanish class, just so I can avoid having to get my book or interact with Cross Pointe Barbie.