gotten up from the bench behind me. He had been there the whole time.Again.
"Ain’t you Jess Darlin’?" Marcus drawled, mocking Mrs. Newman. But it came out sounding like a Bible-belting, Ritz-cracker-casserole-making housewife’s comment about a poodle wearing a crocheted sweater:Ain’t you jus’ darlin’!
Mrs. Newman’s smile disappeared. Marcus ignored her.
"I know where your locker is, Miss Darlin’," he singsonged, which was true because his is located only about a half-dozen or so away from mine. He knew I had lied. He gave me the two-fingeredtsk-tsk. I froze.
"Leave her alone. Don’t you have enough problems of your own?"
While Mrs. Newman lectured, Marcus brushed my hair back with his hand, leaned in, and whispered, "I won’t narc on you, Cuz."
He smelled sweet and woodsy, like cedar shavings. I felt his hand on my neck and his breath on my cheek. Suddenly, I was rubbery and red.
I stumbled out of there. And when I did, I found myself face-to-face with the last person I wanted to see after something like this happens: Sara. Oh, she would just love to be the one to tell everyone about me and Marcus. Not that thereis aMe and Marcus , mind you. But whatever almost-nonexistent thing that exists between us would be too much for Pineville High to handle. That’s exactly why this next scene was so painful:
Me:[Trying to sound cool.]Oh, hey, Bruiser. What’s up?
Sara:I’mfine. But what’s up with you? Are you feeling okay? Omigod! You’re bright red. And sweating. And you’re out of breath.
[She’s viciously suspicious. She searches for clues.]
Me:Oh, no. I’m fine. I just ran down here to get … uh …something.I … uh … got a little winded.
Sara:The track star got winded running to the office?
[Sara shakes her head and purses her lips. She’s onto me.]
Me:Uh … I … uh …
[Marcus strolls out of the office and stands between Sara and me.]
Marcus:Let’s hear you sling the bullshit.
Me:Uh … I …
[Marcus crosses his arms, covering up the five smiling faces of the Backstreet Boys, whose images and silver-glitter BSB logo are emblazoned across his chest. He risks ridicule whenever he wears this teenybopper T-shirt, which is quite often. Most people don’t get the joke. I do. In a world where Marilyn Manson can’t shock anyone anymore, Marcus knows that wearing the Backstreet Boys T-shirt is one of the most subversive things that he—being "Krispy Kreme," after all—can do. He thinks it’s funny. Itis .]
Sara:[Shoots Marcus a withering glance.]Omigod! Ugh. Stop bothering us.
Marcus:[Looking at me.]I’m not bothering you, am I?
[The T-shirt cotton is thin. The ink-black Chinese character band tattooed around Marcus’s bicep shows through, needing translation, needing to be understood.]
Me:Uh …
[Marcus walks away, laughing.]
Sara:Omigod! What was that all about?
Me:That freak? I have no idea. He must be high.
Fortunately, when Sara recounts this strange story—this isolated, unprovoked incident—to everyone we know, she puts herself in a role that is equal to mine.
"Can you believe thatquote Krispy Kremeunquote came up to us all high to spout off some weird-ass shit?" she asks. "Like we care."
Us. We.Both innocent.
The thing is,I do care. I don’t know why. But with the Marcus–Heath history and all, I simply can’t tell Hope about what happened today. Not the truth anyway. And that makes me a horrible friend.
March 1st
Hope,
Sorry you always have to go through my mom or dad to get to me. I’m phone phobic since you left. I never pick it up anymore. The reason I don’t pick it up is because the very idea of having a conversation sucks all the life right out of me. It really does. Besides you, I resenteveryone who barges in on the few precious hours of downtime I have between track practice and tossing and turning all night.
Well, tonight that person
"Ain’t you Jess Darlin’?" Marcus drawled, mocking Mrs. Newman. But it came out sounding like a Bible-belting, Ritz-cracker-casserole-making housewife’s comment about a poodle wearing a crocheted sweater:Ain’t you jus’ darlin’!
Mrs. Newman’s smile disappeared. Marcus ignored her.
"I know where your locker is, Miss Darlin’," he singsonged, which was true because his is located only about a half-dozen or so away from mine. He knew I had lied. He gave me the two-fingeredtsk-tsk. I froze.
"Leave her alone. Don’t you have enough problems of your own?"
While Mrs. Newman lectured, Marcus brushed my hair back with his hand, leaned in, and whispered, "I won’t narc on you, Cuz."
He smelled sweet and woodsy, like cedar shavings. I felt his hand on my neck and his breath on my cheek. Suddenly, I was rubbery and red.
I stumbled out of there. And when I did, I found myself face-to-face with the last person I wanted to see after something like this happens: Sara. Oh, she would just love to be the one to tell everyone about me and Marcus. Not that thereis aMe and Marcus , mind you. But whatever almost-nonexistent thing that exists between us would be too much for Pineville High to handle. That’s exactly why this next scene was so painful:
Me:[Trying to sound cool.]Oh, hey, Bruiser. What’s up?
Sara:I’mfine. But what’s up with you? Are you feeling okay? Omigod! You’re bright red. And sweating. And you’re out of breath.
[She’s viciously suspicious. She searches for clues.]
Me:Oh, no. I’m fine. I just ran down here to get … uh …something.I … uh … got a little winded.
Sara:The track star got winded running to the office?
[Sara shakes her head and purses her lips. She’s onto me.]
Me:Uh … I … uh …
[Marcus strolls out of the office and stands between Sara and me.]
Marcus:Let’s hear you sling the bullshit.
Me:Uh … I …
[Marcus crosses his arms, covering up the five smiling faces of the Backstreet Boys, whose images and silver-glitter BSB logo are emblazoned across his chest. He risks ridicule whenever he wears this teenybopper T-shirt, which is quite often. Most people don’t get the joke. I do. In a world where Marilyn Manson can’t shock anyone anymore, Marcus knows that wearing the Backstreet Boys T-shirt is one of the most subversive things that he—being "Krispy Kreme," after all—can do. He thinks it’s funny. Itis .]
Sara:[Shoots Marcus a withering glance.]Omigod! Ugh. Stop bothering us.
Marcus:[Looking at me.]I’m not bothering you, am I?
[The T-shirt cotton is thin. The ink-black Chinese character band tattooed around Marcus’s bicep shows through, needing translation, needing to be understood.]
Me:Uh …
[Marcus walks away, laughing.]
Sara:Omigod! What was that all about?
Me:That freak? I have no idea. He must be high.
Fortunately, when Sara recounts this strange story—this isolated, unprovoked incident—to everyone we know, she puts herself in a role that is equal to mine.
"Can you believe thatquote Krispy Kremeunquote came up to us all high to spout off some weird-ass shit?" she asks. "Like we care."
Us. We.Both innocent.
The thing is,I do care. I don’t know why. But with the Marcus–Heath history and all, I simply can’t tell Hope about what happened today. Not the truth anyway. And that makes me a horrible friend.
March 1st
Hope,
Sorry you always have to go through my mom or dad to get to me. I’m phone phobic since you left. I never pick it up anymore. The reason I don’t pick it up is because the very idea of having a conversation sucks all the life right out of me. It really does. Besides you, I resenteveryone who barges in on the few precious hours of downtime I have between track practice and tossing and turning all night.
Well, tonight that person
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