his head. “Why would she do that?”
“I have no idea. But she’s getting other people to do it too.”
“Maybe it’s her friends.…”
“Yes, them too. But also Chloe. They’ve been saying things about me. That are not true.”
He looks away.
“I know you know what people are saying, Oliver.”
“I don’t really …”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. I want to scream, What, Oliver? You don’t really
what
? Don’t know about it? Give me a break.
And then I get it. All this dirt about me has him thinking our nice little whatever was just my latest slutfest.
Planting my fists on my hips, I think, Okay, Oliver. You’re right. It was all me. Our little fling had nothing to do with the fact that you’re not so into your girlfriend but you are so into conflict avoidance you won’t actually dump her. No, it’s just that I’m a man-eating ho. So much easier for everyone if
that’s
the truth. Well, not better for me, but who cares about that?
In the coldest voice I can manage, I say, “Tell her to stop, Oliver. Tell Chloe that you love her and her alone and she can forget about me. Okay?”
He thinks about this for a long time.
“I just think that’d be really tough,” he admits. “I think it’d almost make it worse.”
“It’s not great now.”
“Yeah, but if I stick up for you with Chloe, it’s going to make her suspicious and pissed off.”
He is really not going to do anything, I think numbly.
“But what she’s doing is wrong,” I try. “Because—”
“I don’t think it’s her,” he interrupts. “People … talk. You know?”
Translation: When you slut around, people talk about you. This has nothing to do with Chloe, Toni. Nothing to do with me. It’s all
your
fault.
“Um, hm,” I say. “Okay. People talk. Guess what? I talk too. And here’s what I have to say: You, my friend, are a gutless loser.”
And I walk away.
I feel better for about five minutes.
Then the tears sting my eyes.
I hear people coming up the stairs. Loud chatter, the pounding of feet. Lunch is over. Everyone’s back.
As kids pour into the hall, I turn around, pretend to stare at the school bulletin board. Chorus tryouts. French club. Amnesty International. Bake sale. Already, a bake sale. All these people just going on as if this stuff is really what school’s all about. Happy, happy. Nothing’s wrong! Nobody’s mean! Here, have a brownie!
Who gives a shit, right?
The words are so clear, someone must have spoken. I spin around. But no one’s standing behind me. I search the churning crowd for a familiar face, don’t see one. But someone spoke to me, someone, like—read my mind.
Or something.
The crowd thins out. A few stray kids hang by the lockers, the water fountains. Only one stands by herself. Leaning against the wall in the exact spot I stood when I was waiting for Oliver.
Cassandra.
CHAPTER FIVE
“HEY,” SHE SAYS AS I approach.
“Hi.”
I can’t help it. I glance at her hands. But the wrists are turned inward. If there are scars, I can’t see them. She’s standing by the window, the afternoon sun lighting her hair.
Now she says, “He totally blew you off, didn’t he?” Her voice is brisk, matter-of-fact.
I look back, wondering if she saw my talk with Oliver. She couldn’t have, I think. Nobody was here, I made sure.…
“I saw Oliver rushing down the stairs. Came here, saw you in tears. Not that hard to figure out.”
For some reason, I laugh. No magic. Just thinking.
“You’re Ella’s friend,” she says.
“Yup.”
“Men suck. You know that, right?”
I smile. “Kinda learning.”
“Not fun.”
“No.”
“Want to go somewhere?”
“Uh … sure.”
Near the Riverside Playground on Eighty-Third Street, there’s a rock pile. I used to climb on it all the time when I was a kid. The slope is vast and smooth. You look down on the playground; the children look tiny. Look down the other side and you see little benches, a gray path, the
“I have no idea. But she’s getting other people to do it too.”
“Maybe it’s her friends.…”
“Yes, them too. But also Chloe. They’ve been saying things about me. That are not true.”
He looks away.
“I know you know what people are saying, Oliver.”
“I don’t really …”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. I want to scream, What, Oliver? You don’t really
what
? Don’t know about it? Give me a break.
And then I get it. All this dirt about me has him thinking our nice little whatever was just my latest slutfest.
Planting my fists on my hips, I think, Okay, Oliver. You’re right. It was all me. Our little fling had nothing to do with the fact that you’re not so into your girlfriend but you are so into conflict avoidance you won’t actually dump her. No, it’s just that I’m a man-eating ho. So much easier for everyone if
that’s
the truth. Well, not better for me, but who cares about that?
In the coldest voice I can manage, I say, “Tell her to stop, Oliver. Tell Chloe that you love her and her alone and she can forget about me. Okay?”
He thinks about this for a long time.
“I just think that’d be really tough,” he admits. “I think it’d almost make it worse.”
“It’s not great now.”
“Yeah, but if I stick up for you with Chloe, it’s going to make her suspicious and pissed off.”
He is really not going to do anything, I think numbly.
“But what she’s doing is wrong,” I try. “Because—”
“I don’t think it’s her,” he interrupts. “People … talk. You know?”
Translation: When you slut around, people talk about you. This has nothing to do with Chloe, Toni. Nothing to do with me. It’s all
your
fault.
“Um, hm,” I say. “Okay. People talk. Guess what? I talk too. And here’s what I have to say: You, my friend, are a gutless loser.”
And I walk away.
I feel better for about five minutes.
Then the tears sting my eyes.
I hear people coming up the stairs. Loud chatter, the pounding of feet. Lunch is over. Everyone’s back.
As kids pour into the hall, I turn around, pretend to stare at the school bulletin board. Chorus tryouts. French club. Amnesty International. Bake sale. Already, a bake sale. All these people just going on as if this stuff is really what school’s all about. Happy, happy. Nothing’s wrong! Nobody’s mean! Here, have a brownie!
Who gives a shit, right?
The words are so clear, someone must have spoken. I spin around. But no one’s standing behind me. I search the churning crowd for a familiar face, don’t see one. But someone spoke to me, someone, like—read my mind.
Or something.
The crowd thins out. A few stray kids hang by the lockers, the water fountains. Only one stands by herself. Leaning against the wall in the exact spot I stood when I was waiting for Oliver.
Cassandra.
CHAPTER FIVE
“HEY,” SHE SAYS AS I approach.
“Hi.”
I can’t help it. I glance at her hands. But the wrists are turned inward. If there are scars, I can’t see them. She’s standing by the window, the afternoon sun lighting her hair.
Now she says, “He totally blew you off, didn’t he?” Her voice is brisk, matter-of-fact.
I look back, wondering if she saw my talk with Oliver. She couldn’t have, I think. Nobody was here, I made sure.…
“I saw Oliver rushing down the stairs. Came here, saw you in tears. Not that hard to figure out.”
For some reason, I laugh. No magic. Just thinking.
“You’re Ella’s friend,” she says.
“Yup.”
“Men suck. You know that, right?”
I smile. “Kinda learning.”
“Not fun.”
“No.”
“Want to go somewhere?”
“Uh … sure.”
Near the Riverside Playground on Eighty-Third Street, there’s a rock pile. I used to climb on it all the time when I was a kid. The slope is vast and smooth. You look down on the playground; the children look tiny. Look down the other side and you see little benches, a gray path, the
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