If I'm Being Honest(21)
Paige shrugs. “A little,” she says.
I wait, confused. Where I left off with BB was definitely worse than where I began. I unquestionably hurt his feelings. Which unquestionably found its way back to Paige. What am I not getting?
“You know,” she says casually, pretending to study the chipped black polish of her nails, “I didn’t think you’d go through with it. Apologizing to Brendan. Or trying.” Her eyes find mine, and the hint of mirth hasn’t disappeared. “It was very non-one-dimensional-popular-girl-stereotypical of you.”
She pulls her shoulder off the locker and walks toward Ethics. I follow behind her, hardly comprehending what I’m hearing. “Are—are we good?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes, pulling open the door for me. “Of course not. You called me pathetic and now my brother a loser. We’re far from good, Bright.” As I pass her, a corner of her purple lips slips up into the first sign of something resembling a smile she’s ever given me.
Paige is . . . weird.
Eleven
FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS MONTH, I’M bringing a handwritten note to school for a boy. I don’t remember ever using physical pieces of paper to communicate with my classmates before—I’d prefer to text, obviously. We’re not first-graders putting identical fakey Valentines in the boxes on each other’s desks. But in this circumstance, the note is the only way.
I hustled to school ten minutes early—not easy given the unpredictable traffic on Olympic Boulevard on Monday mornings. In the halls, I head in the direction of the far end of campus, clutching the note. The hall outside the robotics room is empty when I reach it.
I know BB told me to stay away from him. This is for his own good, though. When he finds out why I’ve ignored his request, I have a feeling he’ll understand.
I wrote the note on Sunday in a rush of inspiration.
Dear Brendan, please join me, Elle Li, Morgan LeClaire, and Brad Patton for lunch today. We sit on the second-story patio. I know you don’t like me, but I trust you understand that sitting with popular seniors would immediately elevate you out of obscurity. I’m confident that one lunch, possibly two, would undo the damage of the unfortunate nickname I gave you. Once again, I’m sorry about that. I promise you won’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Some of my friends are genuinely nice. You might even enjoy it.
BB’s reclusive, not dumb. He’ll know I’m right.
The robotics room is empty when I pull open the door. I find my way through the tables and piles of equipment to Brendan’s bulky gaming computer in the back. His notebooks are exactly where I saw them the last time I was in here, and I get the impression he’s the only person who uses this station. I place the note on the keyboard, and I’m out of the room before the bell rings.
The first half of the day passes without incident. We compare our course reading to episodes of The Good Place in Ethics, which actually is kind of fun. In Econ we work through the diluted-earnings-per-share problems I finished yesterday, except for the final two. I half listen in English while Kowalski lectures on Lucentio trying to win Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew. Instead, I work on a new list.
People I Need to Make Amends with, and How
Paige Rosenfeld, for calling her pathetic—fix things with Brendan
Brendan Rosenfeld, for giving him the nickname that allegedly ruined his life—
It’s a work in progress.
* * *
Elle’s typing intently on her phone when I reach our table for lunch. Next to her, Brad pores over his AP Government textbook. Morgan watches the courtyard, eating an apple.
Just them.
That’s okay, I remind myself. BB’s probably grabbing lunch. He’ll be here.
Except then the minutes pass. I finish my lunch with no sign of him. Elle notices my repeated glances in the direction of the stairway and gives me a probing look. I force myself to continue listening to Morgan’s explanation of why her entertainment lawyer wants her to find a new agent. I feel growing frustration with every minute lunch inches closer to over.
Finally the bell rings. Brendan didn’t come.
Pulling my bag over my shoulder with brusque good-byes to my friends, I work the problem over in my head on the way to Computer Science. It’s possible he didn’t get the note, I guess. It would have been easy for the paper to fall off the keyboard and wind up underfoot, or for a teacher to throw it in the trash. In class, I’ll have the chance to talk to Brendan and find out what happened.
I walk in, and BB’s behind his desk, working on the computer. His features register nothing when I pause in the doorway, reading the board for instructions on today’s new problem set.
I’ll talk to him when class is over. I walk to my computer, getting my mind in gear for today’s assignment. Dropping my things, I pick up the hefty packet of coding instructions.
On the front of mine, in handwriting unmistakably matching the hard-edged characters on the board, I find two words.
Not Interested
Well, I guess Brendan got the note. I feel fire in my cheeks. Glancing up from my packet to where he sits in the front of the room, I wait for him to meet my eyes. Instead, he remains determinedly working on the computer.