I guess Katie and I have formed our own rainbow alliance. It feels like she’s something I’ve always wanted but didn’t know I wanted until I got it: a partner in crime.
In all the craziness of Saturday night, I didn’t think to get her number and put it in my phone. I don’t even know where her locker is. But when Sara Smith comes up to me and says, “You two. Wow, you two,” I know she isn’t talking about me and Ryan. I ask her if she’s seen Katie, and she points vaguely over her left shoulder, which is enough to guide me.
Katie looks to be at the same level of surprise I am—something short of shocked but far past surreal.
“This is insane,” I tell her. “I mean, the plan was to get to Ryan and Violet. But now everyone else is a part of it. Sort of.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Sort of. Have you heard from her?”
“No. Just Lehna. Who’s livid. She actually called me ungrateful.”
“Did she ask you what really happened?”
Katie shakes her head. We swore that we would only tell them what really happened if they thought to ask.
We’re betting on the fact that they won’t. And living on the hope that they will.
“May I make a confession?” I ask, even though I would never say such a thing if I didn’t already know the answer was yes.
“Please,” Katie says.
“I would just like to state for the record that I wish you could stay at my side all day, so we could go through this together. Whatever this ends up being.”
Katie looks at me with what I think is amusement.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just that you’re such a softie. I never would have called that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re on the baseball team? Because we’ve never said three words to each other until this past weekend? Because, in general, I’ve gotten a bro vibe from you whenever I’ve seen you in the halls.”
“You’ve seen me in the halls?”
“You see, that was more the kind of comment I would have expected you to make. A small masterpiece of handcrafted obliviousness, delivered with sincerity.”
She’s saying this, but she’s not saying it critically. I think.
She looks at my expression and chuckles. Then she pats me on the arm.
“Don’t worry. I’d love for you to ride shotgun with me, too. But I’d also like to graduate, and that makes class attendance mandatory. I’ll see you in Calc, though. Think you can fend off the paparazzi ’til then?”
“I guess I’ll have to get used to having my picture taken.”
She gives me another brief pat on the arm, then heads off to first period. I feel a little more alone without her, which is strange.
I catch some people looking at me during Spanish, but mostly it feels like things are returning to normal. But then second period is study hall, and that’s where I know I’m going to see Ryan. It’s one of the parts of the day that I’ve always designated as our time—all we have to do is tell Mr. Peterson that we’re going to the library and he’ll let us leave; the fewer kids he has to watch over, the happier he is. Sometimes Ryan and I ask for permission at the same time, but mostly we space it out. He doesn’t want it to seem like we’re running off together. And as long as the end result is us running off together, I never mind.
It isn’t completely out of the question for us to head to the library. We’d sit across from each other, and the tension there made everything—even a pencil sliding from my side of the table to his—seem powerful and ours. Other times, we’d break free from the building and walk through the woods or the playing fields. If it was absolutely quiet—if there was absolutely no one around—I could usually get him to make out with me a little. And when it was done, he’d smile and start talking again as if nothing had happened, as if other people were around, even when they weren’t. Everyone knew we were friends, so we acted like friends. But that’s never what it felt like, not if I was being honest with myself. I wanted him more than that. I needed him more than that.
By the time I get to the room, he’s already got the pass in his hand. He winks at me and steps into the hall. I go to Mr. Peterson and ask for a pass of my own. He actually questions me about why I need to go to the library. Of all days, why do you have to start being skeptical now? I think. But I also answer quickly, invent a report on Sylvia Plath that I’m researching. He grunts at the mention of Sylvia Plath, as if she’s an ex-girlfriend of his. But he lets me go.
Ryan is waiting just outside the doorway, just out of Mr. Peterson’s line of sight. He looks eager to see me. And, despite everything that happened Saturday night, this eagerness makes all my hopes feel a little more justified.
“Well well well,” he says, smiling and shaking his head. “It looks like both of us had nights to remember.”
If he were just my friend, I would smile back at this. I would be curious. I would want to know everything.
But I don’t want to know what he means. And I can’t think of any way to tell him that.
From the direction he starts walking, I know we’re headed to the cafeteria, not the library.
“Taylor told me—he said that when he saw you dancing on the bar like that, he knew you’d have no problem finding some trouble. I was a little worried, when I saw you weren’t in the club anymore, but he told me you’d be fine. And then, you know, he was kissing me, and I didn’t worry as much.”