Aftermath(53)

I nod as I press Send and push the phone into my pocket.

She pulls back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. By the time I realized what I was reading” – she taps her temple – “it was already there.”

“I know you warned me about him.”

“Warned you about Chris, too. Which means I should probably not warn you about the guys who are real trouble.”

I tense. “If you’re implying I ‘went after’ the very guys you warned me against, Chris and Jesse were friends of mine from before.”

“I know. Sorry. Lame joke.” She hugs her books to her chest. “I’m not very good at them. Jokes, I mean. Not lame ones. I’m really good at lame ones. You’re right. I just… I know what it can be like, trying to rekindle friendships from before the —”

“Hey, Tiff, did you get my ad in the paper this week?”

It’s one of the seniors. When Tiffany stops to talk to him, Jesse comes around the corner. He has his hood up, earbuds in, as he weaves through the busy hall. Then he sees me.

He stops short. His gaze rises to the hall clock.

I take out my phone. My text is still there. Unsent.

I look up. Jesse’s walking the other way. I quickly interject with Tiffany and the senior – forgot something, gotta run, see you later.

I jog up beside Jesse and say, “The problem with text messages? People don’t respond if you fail to send them.”

He stops. “What?”

I hold up my phone. “I’ve been waiting for you to answer this. Which isn’t going to happen if I don’t hit the Send button.”

His gaze flicks to the screen, and he grunts something unintelligible.

I continue, “I saw you walking away, and I just wanted you to know I wasn’t blowing you off earlier.”

“What?” He shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “No, I didn’t see you. I turned around because I remembered I forgot… something.”

“Oh. Well, then, I look kinda stupid, don’t I? Let’s back up.” I press Send. “Message sent.” His phone dings. “And delivered. Now I’ll withdraw from this awkward moment, and see you in math.”

I get about three steps before my phone pings with a text.

Jesse: i lied

Another ping.

Jesse: totally thought u were blowing me off. totally saw u in hall. totally ran other way.

Another ping.

Jesse: totally an idiot.

I turn, and he’s right where I left him. He mouths, “Sorry,” and I smile and start toward him. There’s a group of kids huddled against the lockers, whispering and watching. I’ve almost reached Jesse when someone says, “What the hell?” and the voice is loud enough to catch my attention. It’s just a guy reading his cell phone. I start past. Then he sees me and barrels forward, saying, “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Jesse says. “She’s just trying to get an education, like everyone else here. Now step off —”

“I’ll ‘step off’ when she explains what the hell she was doing.”

“Doing with what?” I ask, but Jesse starts going around him, his hand on my elbow.

The guy blocks. Jesse sidesteps again. Guy blocks.

“If you want to dance, you really should ask,” I say. “Consent is important.”

That gets snickers from the growing crowd.

We start walking again. Then Jesse staggers, and I wheel to see the guy pulling back after shoving him.

I say, “If you need to shove someone, shove the person you’re actually pissed off at.”

The guy crosses his arms.

“No, really,” I say as I step up to him. “You’re mad at me. Don’t push Jesse because you can’t hit a girl. That’s sexist. Come on. Take a swing.”

“Skye…” Jesse tries to stop me, but I get past him and move closer to the guy, getting in his face.

“There,” I say. “Go ahead and —”

His hand slams into my shoulder, and I fly into the lockers. Jesse grabs the guy by the back of the shirt and yanks him away. My attacker spins, both hands smacking Jesse’s chest.

“You want to get into it, Mandal? Come on, then. Let’s get into it.”

I grab the guy’s arm. As he yanks away, my nails rake down his forearm. He yowls. I retreat fast, hands raised.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say. “I was just trying to stop you.”

He advances on me. “You really do want to get into it, don’t you?”

Jesse takes him by the shirt again. The guy spins, swinging. Jesse grabs his arm and wrenches it up. Someone yells, “He’s playing with you, Caleb. Hit him.” Others join, the crowd closing in.

Caleb swings with his free hand. Jesse dances away, but another guy pushes him forward, saying, “Get back in there, Mandal. You want to defend your crazy girlfriend? Do it right.”

Before I can intercede, a girl steps into my path, a girl I vaguely remember from a year below me in middle school.

“Forget them,” she says to me. “Just answer his question. What is wrong with you?”

I turn away, trying to see what’s going on with Jesse, but the girl yanks me back.

“I’m talking to you,” she says. “Do you know who I am?”