Ella's Twisted Senior Year(34)
I shake my head. “I can handle this. Besides, it’s a better thing for people to stare about than that stupid tornado.”
When Mr. Davis is halfway through his lecture about the Civil War, I’m almost positive that something else is going on. People will not stop staring at me. From students I’ve never talked to, to the ones I’d consider friends, they’re all sneaking glimpses at me, snickering and generally making me feel like there’s not a hole big enough to hide inside.
I turn around to Humzah, a straight-A student who used to invite me to her birthday parties when we were kids. “Is everyone staring at me or am I just imagining it?” I whisper, although I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
She looks down at her notes and then nods. “They’re staring. I’m sorry.”
“Is it because of Ethan or the tornado?”
She looks a little confused by the question. “Um, both?”
Mr. Davis’ khaki pants appear next to us. I look up to find him frowning at me, a dry erase marker smelling like chemicals in his hand. “My class is not a time for socialization, ladies.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, turning back around. Mr. Davis begins writing more notes on the board and there’s a tap on my shoulder.
Humzah whispers, “Facebook.”
I spend the next half an hour trying to sneak a look at my phone without Mr. Davis seeing. Finally, another teacher comes to the door and he talks to her for a few minutes. I slip out my phone, angling it in my lap to where the desk will cover it from Mr. Davis’ point of view, and go to Facebook. It doesn’t take long before I scroll down and see something shared to the West Canyon High School’s cheer page.
My lungs suddenly forget how to breathe but that’s nothing compared to how I’m pretty sure my heart has stopped beating. I gasp for air and then my heart races, sending a surge of adrenaline through my veins.
The photo was originally posted by Kennedy Price, last night at eight-thirty in the evening. It’s been shared three hundred and sixty-two times.
“Mother f—” I mutter under my breath. Okay, maybe it was more of a pissed off growl instead of a quiet murmur.
“Ella,” Mr. Davis says. “Language.” He closes his classroom door and walks back to the white board. “And put the phone away. I won’t give you a second warning.”
Heat pumps through my cheeks until my nose goes numb. I slide the phone back into the zippered pocket of my backpack but the image I saw has already burrowed into my brain, a perfect photo recall that might never go away.
Kennedy, or probably some techy nerd she bribed, had photo shopped a very unflattering photo of my face on top of a cartoon tornado. The tornado had stick hands and legs and a Comic Sans caption at the bottom that read: Ella the boyfriend stealing slut-nado.
Stupid, yes.
There’s not even a single element of humor to it but it’s managed to capture the attention of the whole freaking school. The staring and whispering behind my back continues throughout second and third period. I’m filled with a mixture of anger and humiliation and right now they’re both competing for space in my mind. One thing is for sure: all school work has been completely ignored. My teachers could be teaching the secret to curing cancer and I wouldn’t know. My mind is elsewhere.
Ethan is waiting for me before my fourth period pre-cal class. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and his expression is so serious I barely recognize him at first.
“Stay off the internet,” he says in a low voice.
“Too late.” I walk right past him and he falls into step with me.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. The dark waves are all messed up and I get the feeling he’s been doing the hand thing a lot this morning.
A group of girls walk by, staring like it’s the source of their continued existence. “Slut-nado,” one of them hisses. I stop, fists clenched.
“Ignore it,” Ethan says, putting an arm around my back. “Don’t do anything that will get you in trouble.”
All of my muscles strain against walking. All I want to do is turn around and punch that girl in the face, but I force myself to walk, using Ethan’s hand on my back as a guide.
“I’ll talk to her and get her to take down the photo,” he says, dipping his mouth toward my ear while we walk. Any other time, on any other day, I’d have chills of pleasure from walking this close to Ethan, feeling his breath on my ear. Now it just makes me angry.
“Talking to her won’t help,” I say. “She won’t stop until she gets you back.”
He snorts. “That’ll never happen. I’m with you and I’m not changing that.”
For some reason this really sets me off. It’s like my heart and my brain have spent so long in an epic battle with one another and now, when they finally agree on something, the resulting flash bang turns me into a monster. I grab his hand and pull him into an alcove behind the back stairway. The sudden isolation from all of the gawking, staring eyes of my peers is a welcome relief.
“We can’t do this,” I say, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out quickly. “We just can’t. We’re not together and we probably won’t ever be.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he says, reaching for me. I let him take my hands but I don’t meet his gaze.