Chapter Six
In history, Mr. Fuller lectures about the Civil War. Kristen and I sit at one of the back tables by the windows. The light is better, and the sun gives us a warm break from the school’s air-conditioning. Plus, since history is the last period of the day, it’s always nice to be able to look outside and see what we’ll be walking into when we leave. Summer isn’t over yet, and right now the sun is shining in a clear blue sky.
“Do you want to hang out after school?” I whisper. “We could get Starbucks and have a sleepover.”
We almost always go to a café, to the library, or for frozen yogurt after school. We settle in at a table and do our homework, getting it out of the way instead of procrastinating. My dad gave me a twenty this morning when he let me know that he and Mom are both working overnight at the hospital. I figure if Kris and I do our homework first, we can make the most of a classic pizza and movie night.
The bell rings. “I’m not really in the mood for Starbucks,” she admits, shoving her pencil into her ballerina bun as we make our way out of the classroom.
“Maybe we can stop by Lulu’s for frozen yogurt? Then head back to my place and order a pizza?”
“Orrrr,” she says as we weave in between students on our way to the senior hall.
We come to my locker first and Kristen leans against the one next to mine, watching the mass exodus for a moment before looking at me.
“We could go back to my house,” she says. “Meet me at the field house, okay?”
“Sure.”
She says, “Cool,” absentmindedly, her gaze fixed on something down the hall. I turn and watch her walk away until she disappears around the corner.
I shift my focus and almost immediately—reflexively—spot Hannah at her locker. She twists her lock and shoulders her field hockey gear. When she looks up, she sees me immediately. In a different universe, this would be okay. This moment would be a shared secret between us, knowing that we’d see each other later outside school. But right now, this is bad.
I quickly look down even though she’s already on her way over to me.
“Do you have a minute?” she asks, leaning against the locker next to mine. I start rushing to put my textbooks in my backpack.
“You sound like a broken record,” I say quietly. I can’t help but glance around me. We’re out in the open, Hannah standing so close, close enough for people to make assumptions about us.
Hannah is out at our school. While we don’t look like a couple to the naked eye, all it would take is one slip up: a touch on the arm, a twine of her fingers in mine, to suggest that we’re something more. And that suggestion would spreadwayfaster than any church gossip.
I zip up my bag, ready to make my escape. I already know that if wetalk, I’m more likely to give in to emotion over reason. Hanging out with Kristen, keeping my mind far away from Hannah and our memories, is the perfect precursor to a detached text explaining all the reasons whynotpursuing a secret relationship is the right, smart decision.
Hannah grabs my wrist. Her touch is warm, familiar, and startling.
“Clarity, would you just look at me?”
Her eyes find mine. I will her to read my mind, to know thatI don’t knowthe answers. In middle school, I used to dream that a guy would look at me like this, care about how I felt or what I thought. To focus on me like my attention was the only thing that really mattered. I wanted it because that’s what it looked like in movies, and the girls at my school always seemed more interesting when they had a boyfriend.
But I stopped daydreaming and mildly obsessing over romance and relationships, overyearningand desire, early in high school, when I started loading up on honors classes and didn’t have the bandwidth for much else. This summer was the first time I really slowed down and opened my eyes. I saw what I wanted for the first time. I got a taste of being happy, of lookingat the world through the shared lens of a relationship. But it’s too much, itcomeswith too much.
“Hannah, I can’t do this right now,” I say, closing my locker.
“I need an answer today.” She blocks me with her body. Towering over me, she uses her broad shoulders to create a wall between me and the rest of the world. It used to make me feel safe and protected, but now all I feel is cornered and trapped.
“I have to catch my ride.”
“Hannah!” someone calls.
She turns around, and some of her teammates are down the hall.
“Today’s our first scrimmage of the season,” she says, refocusing on me.
“Well, sounds like you have a game to get to.”
“I probably won’t get any playing time since I missed preseason.”
One of her teammates is holding her field hockey stick over her head, trying to touch the ceiling but coming nowhere near it. Another teammate is riding piggyback on a short but stocky girl with really nice locs. They look like they’re having a lot more fun than us.