She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not
Kristen Kehoe
For those who loved first.
Chapter 1: The Assignment
Kennedy
So, this is what they mean by karma.
I must admit, I wasn’t a believer. First, because if anyone should be seeking vengeance for wrongdoings in their lifetime, it’s me. Hello? Deadbeat dad, alcoholic mom? Both gone from my life already? Yeah, I should definitely have earned some kind of vengeance points.
And second—I’m Irish-Italian. No matter what our crime, we don’t believe it’s the universe trying to mess with us, we believe it’s the big guy in the sky, reminding us to pay our penance or fear the wrath. A few Hail Marys, a little Holy Water—it’s all good. And, if it’s not, well, there’s always the green mile to really remind us we aren’t in charge. (Words of wisdom from dear old mom on a semi-sober day.)
Only, no act of contrition or reference to penance already paid is going to reverse the time-space continuum, and somehow keep this moment from happening. And it is happening.
I’m lined up in an arc around the classroom, and near the end because my last name is Russo. One by one, the people around me are being taken from our position at the end of the alphabet, and paired with a classmate whose last name puts them at the beginning of the alphabet. I don’t know if Ms. Moyer was schooled in wartime tactics, but this watching everyone pair off has given me enough time to panic. The walls feel like they are closing in, and I can barely breathe. I have counted spaces and people, and if my calculations are correct—it’s freaking counting, so of course they are—I am two seconds away from being made Gage Christensen’s life-partner for the next five weeks.
Sweet Baby Jesus, this can’t be happening. Karma laughs in my face as my name is called. Oh, it’s happening, she says. Get ready.
“Miss Russo, Mr. Christensen, please.” Ms. Moyer gestures us forward. I know other people are staring daggers into my back because they were hoping for this exact moment to happen to them—to be paired with the baseball god, with broad shoulders and a gorgeous smile.
“Get ya some, Christensen,” one of the few other boys in the class calls out when I walk by. My body tightens, and, though I don’t hang my head in shame and fear, I wish I could. This is why I wasn’t dreaming of being his partner—I hate being the center of attention.
Normally, I never would have let this happen. If Ms. Moyer was predictable like all teachers, she would have passed a hat around with everyone’s name in it. I would have drawn for form’s sake, already having a candidate in mind, said their name, crumpled the piece of paper so it was lost when asked for evidence, and ultimately been assigned the partner that was as quiet like me, and said teacher scrambled to rearrange pairs for the person whose name I drew and ignored.
Our project would be done efficiently and in record time, and no one would be shouting across the room at us.
But not this time. This time, I’m in the front of the room with the other five pairs, staring at my new partner—my new life-partner. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…Thanks for nothing.
“Hey, Kenny, how’s it going?”
I try a smile, but I’m pretty sure it shakes on my face, and makes me look like I’m suffering from a seizure. My new partner’s smile turns concerned—not a good sign.
Gage Christensen is the high school boy television makes people believe in. Translation: he’s gorgeous. And funny. And athletic. And gorgeous.
He’s tall, blonde, and has teeth so straight and white, you wonder if you could see yourself in them when he smiles, and he’s confident. Of course he is—he’s the “it kid” of the junior class because he has everything an “it kid” needs—height, looks, and a goddamned likeable personality. Let us not forget his all-state mention in baseball by his sophomore year.
How do I know? It’s all people talk about. He’s all they talk about. Which is why I cannot be paired with him. No one knows me—and that’s what I want.
“It’s Kennedy.”
His eyes widen just a fraction, but enough for me to see they really are the clearest blue ever created, and then I realize how my response sounded. I clear my throat, ready to apologize for snapping, but he raises his brow—just a tiny bit—and for some reason, I shut down my apology like a Blockbuster. We stand in silence while the rest of the people are partnered off.
Since the class is called Life Science, and its purpose is to talk about family and money and goals—don’t even get me started—the majority of the populace is female, and so are the couples. Hence, the life-partner title. Ms. Moyer, always ready to throw a wrench into everyone’s world, has decided we need to learn about more than sex and STDs, more than poverty and how bad choices can affect every aspect of our lives, more than ATM cards and credit cards, and bank balances and interest rates.
She wants us to learn what it means to be a part of something. Bleh.
Give me a good Calculus equation any day, but please don’t ask me to talk about my feelings.
I sit when Ms. Moyer tells us to, stealing a glance at Gage out of the corner of my eye. I can feel him next to me—it’s all but impossible not to, since he’s at least twice my size and makes no attempt at keeping his limbs on his side of the table. Or his scent. I take shallow breaths, trying to ignore the faint and intoxicating smell that, combined with an impressive jawline and those eyes, makes me forget why I can’t be his partner.