Say the Word(19)

“Really? I didn’t think I was being ridiculous. But if you’d like, I could certainly be more ridiculous,” he offered. He waited a beat, then raised his voice several octaves up into a girlish falsetto. “Lux has a cruuuuuush,” he singsonged.

“What are you, seven years old?”

“Lux and Sebastian, sitting in a tree, K-I-S—“

“That’s it!” I yelled, turning to glare at him. “Enough! I didn’t tease you when you had a crush on Amber! Amber! Of all people.”

“Actually, I think I was seven years old at that point.”

“Like that’s an excuse. That girl has been a demon-spawn since preschool. If you shaved off all her bleached blonde tresses I bet there’d be a 666 inscribed on her skull.”

“Touché,” Jamie allowed. His grin faded a little as he examined my flushed features. “And if it’s really bothering you, I’ll stop. I was only teasing.”

“I know,” I said, swallowing roughly and trying to regain my composure. “I don’t know why I got so upset.”

Except I did. I knew exactly why I was so upset by Jamie’s teasing. Because, deep down, maybe I did like the hazel-eyed boy who listened to classical music and who’d given me a sweater that cost more than I made in a shift at Minnie’s without blinking. Maybe I liked him a little too much. And that, I knew, was the stupidest thing I could ever allow myself to do.

After leaving Jamie at the hospital, I’d hopped a bus to the diner and taken impatient customers’ orders for five straight hours. By the time I got back home to our dark empty house, it was nearly eleven and my parents were nowhere to be found. Well, actually, they’d be pretty easy to track down if I really wanted to; no doubt they were cloistered away in one of the five seedy bars Jackson boasted, slurping down vodkas to cope with the shit hand life had dealt them.

I’d hopped into the shower, eager to wash off the smell of fry grease and coleslaw, only to find we had no hot water. The rusted old water heater in our basement must’ve finally bit the dust. Shampooing as quickly as possible, I shivered beneath the frigid torrents and vowed that once I had enough money for Jamie and me to cut ties and get away from Jackson, I’d never take cold showers again. I’d choose a hot shower over a hot meal every time.

Thankfully, more often than not Minnie, my boss, would force dinner on me before I left after my night shifts. She knew that things were tough at home and, despite her lack of creativity in the diner-naming process, she had a heart of gold. She eked out a measly living with her restaurant proceeds and didn’t have much to spare — but what she could afford to give, she did without hesitation. She’d even hired me when there were plenty of qualified applicants who had more than my zero waitressing experience.

I owed Minnie a lot.

After toweling off, I’d forced myself to complete the workbook sheets Ms. Ingraham had assigned earlier that afternoon along with some of the required reading for my English class. We were covering the American classics — Steinbeck, Lee, Fitzgerald, Salinger — and although that proved to be a constant source of grumbling for many of my peers, who’d rather be reading Luster or Vogue, it wasn’t a chore for a bookworm like me. When lines from Cannery Row began to blur before my eyes long past midnight, I’d finally fallen into a dead sleep, only to be jarred awake by the chirping of my cellphone alarm at 7:00 a.m.

Hence my serious case of the yawns, today — and pretty much every other day of the week.

I tried not to let my eyes drift closed as I focused on Ms. Ingraham, who was bustling around the front of the classroom, absently wiping excess chalk dust on the too-tight black pants that encased her thighs like stuffed sausages. I couldn’t help but think that there should be some kind of statute of limitations on wearing legging jeans. Camel-toe on a sixty-year-old spinster was not something I needed to see. Ever.

She launched into her lesson, pushing smudged glasses up higher on the bridge of her nose and leaving a smear of chalk on her cheekbone in the process. She’d pulled her dark curly hair back from her face with a large clip, but it did little to tame the inch of frizz that haloed her head.

“Now, let’s try not to have a repeat of yesterday. I’m assuming that you have all completed the required reading and the homework assignment, so if you could pass your worksheets to the front we can get start—”

“Sorry I’m late, Ms. Ingraham. I had an extra stop to make on my way to class today.” The voice of the arriving straggler cut through her orders, his interruption equal parts apology and authority. Polite enough to garner favor without encouraging further questioning. A smart approach, I thought, but I doubted it would be enough to stave off Ms. Ingraham’s wrath. Every head in the room whipped in the direction of the voice, mine included, eager to see how the latecomer would fare against the strict tardiness policy. My bet was, this kid had some serious detention-time coming his way.

Thankfully, I’m not much of a gambler.

It was Sebastian, of course. He leaned casually against the doorjamb with his backpack tossed over one shoulder, a styrofoam cup of coffee held in each hand. Ms. Ingraham took one look at him and blushed like a schoolgirl. To my utter amazement, I watched as my overweight, bespectacled teacher turned beet red and said in a breathy, flustered, totally disturbing voice, “Oh, Sebastian, don’t worry about it. Take a seat.” She gestured loosely toward the only two empty desks — the one directly behind my chair by the window, and another by Amber, Nicole, and the other popular kids in the opposite corner.