If I'm Being Honest(20)
It’s not like I didn’t have a reason, to be fair. In seventh grade, I was just minding my own business, reading in a second-floor hallway during recess. I didn’t want my friends to know, because reading was obviously uncool, but my dad had sent me one of the few birthday gifts I’ve ever received from him—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. On the one hand, it was a completely tone-deaf gift, not something in which I’d ever expressed interest. On the other, it was from my dad. The thought of him going to the store, picking something out, and wrapping it meant the world to me.
I was reading in the hallway, unfortunately near the bathrooms. Brendan rounded the corner, clutching his stomach. I had no time to react. In the next second, he’d puked voluminously on the ground, sending spatter onto my backpack, my shoes—and the book.
From his stool, BB’s staring, taking in my apology. I’m not expecting his harsh laugh. “Okay, great. Thanks.”
I study him, trying to figure him out. “I feel like that wasn’t totally genuine.”
He shakes his head. “Everyone knows I have celiac disease,” he says, weary again. I didn’t know—or did I? I could’ve forgotten if I ever heard, admittedly. “Everyone knows I barf when I have gluten,” he continues, and I don’t miss the emphasis. “When I was in sixth grade I had to do these painful and embarrassing tests because nobody knew what was wrong with me. It could’ve been fine when they found out—except, thanks to you, my entire high-school experience has been defined by your catchy nickname for me.” His voice has gathered momentum, his dark eyes unexpectedly fierce. “Do you know how hard it is for me to make friends? To know that everyone in every one of my classes immediately thinks ‘barfy’ in connection with my name?” He turns back to the computer. “Of course you don’t.”
I have no idea what to say. I have nothing to say. I sit in stunned silence, trying in vain to come up with a reply. “I—I’m sorry,” I stutter. “Tell me how to make it right. I’ll do anything.”
“There’s nothing I could ever want from you,” he replies quickly.
I stand sharply, having finally had enough. My face burns. Screw holding in my opinions. “Fine, stay hidden in here and blame your complete lack of a high-school social life on me. It’s definitely because of the nickname and not because you’re antisocial and choose to spend your time playing mindless video games with a color palette it looks like a third-grader picked instead of talking to a girl, or a guy, or whatever.”
I collect my things to storm out of the room.
Before I have the chance, I hear BB behind me.
“I’m not playing a mindless video game,” he says quietly. “I’m making one.”
I turn and glance toward the computer screen. For the first time I notice the notebook sitting next to it. The open page is filled with sketches and models of what I recognize to be the boy and the witch from the game. I remember my words from a moment ago with a twinge of guilt. A color palette it looks like a third-grader picked.
I stare at the screen with new respect. “You’re making that?” I repeat.
By way of reply, Brendan brusquely turns off the monitor. He shoves his notebook in his backpack and pauses in front of me. “You want to know how you can make amends?” he asks. “Stay out of my life.” He gathers his things and walks out of the room.
Ten
I’M DREADING FRIDAY MORNING.
I know I’m going to run into Paige. And I know she’s going to come at me hard for what happened with BB—Brendan—yesterday. I’m expecting harsh language, name-calling, a full recount of how I epically screwed up.
Which won’t be the worst of the fallout. Worse will be what she says to Andrew—how I ended up driving her brother deeper into his insecurity while trying to win her over, because I couldn’t handle the consequences of having called her horrible things.
What a bitch Cameron Bright is.
While I’m prepared for the disaster I have coming to me, I’m not exactly looking forward to the confrontation. I do everything in my power to avoid Paige in the morning. I’m hoping I can skirt into the hall as close as possible to the start of class and slip into the classroom after Paige is already inside.
Instead, of course, Paige finds me when I’m grabbing my notes from my locker. Dumb mistake.
What I’m unprepared for is how casually she comes up to me. She’s wearing a purple striped top, a floor-length skirt, and a black beanie with dragon ears. She slouches against the neighboring locker, watching me.
I don’t pretend I don’t notice her, or the hard line of her mouth, lipsticked an unspeakable purple. I wait for the outburst. I’m definitely not going to initiate this conversation.
“Well,” she finally says, “calling my brother an antisocial loser wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you said you’d apologize.”
I grimace, drawing in a deep breath. “In fairness, I never used the word ‘loser’—”
I pause. Because the look I catch on Paige’s face is not entirely furious. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it moderately furious. Mildly furious, possibly. What catches me short is what I glimpse under the questionable level of furiousness. She looks . . . amused.
“You’re not mad,” I venture.