slump
against the car door, hugging my blue notebook to my chest.
T he asphalt is getting hotter as the early October afternoon wears on, and I’ve had nothing to do out here in the parking lot but
curse the California sun and count the bells.
One: lunch ended. Two: fifth period began. Three: fifth ended. Four: sixth began. That’s my cue. I brush the parking lot dust off my butt and head back toward campus, praying I don’t
see anybody.
I head through the gate and across the grass until I can pick up the cement path that leads to my locker. Maybe Caroline fed a note through one of the vents, telling me where to find my
backpack. As soon as I have it, I’ll go straight to the office, say I’m sick, and ask if I can call my mom so I can drive home.
The corridors are empty and I reach my locker without running into anyone. I dial the combination and lift the latch. No note.
To center myself, I look at the inside of my locker door, staring at the three pictures Shrink-Sue told me to tape there, and trying to reconnect with the stronger person I see in the images. I
run my finger across the photo of me on the diving block, wearing that willful, determined expression. Confidence. That was the word I said that day.
She wouldn’t have run away.
I immediately realize my mistake, and it hits me with absolute certainty: I have to go back. Even if it was all a joke, even if they meant to embarrass me, I have to go back down there and prove
I can do it, if not to them, at least to myself. If I can stand on diving blocks and win a medal, I can stand on a stage and read a poem.
I belong in that room.
“Hey.” I hear a voice behind me and I turn around. AJ is sitting at one of the round metal tables on the grass between the walking paths. There are two backpacks at his feet. As he
stands, he reaches for mine. He crosses the lawn and hands it to me. “Here, Sam.”
Sam.
“You should have left it in the office or something,” I say, taking it from him. “You’re going to get in trouble for missing class.”
“And you’re not?” he asks, raking his fingers through his hair.
“I thought I’d go home for the day.” The brief moment of confidence is gone now that he’s standing here. I think about that stage and that stool, how AJ worked the lock
to let me out of that room, and my face heats.
He’s watching me, not saying a word. My gaze settles on a crack in the cement while I muster up the courage to tell him the truth.
“I panicked,” I say. “I thought you guys would laugh at my poem.”
“We wouldn’t have.”
“And then I thought maybe it was all a joke. That you were trying to get me back for what I did to you when we were kids.” I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I’d never do that.”
I hear Shrink-Sue’s voice in my head, talking about mistakes. Reminding me that they serve a purpose.
“I blew it, didn’t I?”
“No. We did.” His expression is different now. It’s softer, almost apologetic. “Look, Sam, we went about that wrong. There’s this whole initiation process we sort
of…skipped over.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking. I hear the words “initiation process” and immediately think of blindfolds and candles and the possibility of water torture.
“Great.” I cover my head with both hands and find that crack in the cement again.
“Don’t worry,” he says. I can hear the laugh in his voice, and something about it makes me feel more at ease. If he’s laughing, maybe he’s smiling too. I’ve
seen him smile, that one time he was performing on stage, but I’ve never seen him smile at
me
. I look up. Sure enough, he is.
“Instead of skipping sixth and going home, can I convince you to skip sixth and come with me?”
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
“Why? Is everyone else there?”
“No. That’s kind of the point. You’re supposed to get the room all to yourself. I’ll show you what I mean.” He gestures toward the theater with his chin and
against the car door, hugging my blue notebook to my chest.
T he asphalt is getting hotter as the early October afternoon wears on, and I’ve had nothing to do out here in the parking lot but
curse the California sun and count the bells.
One: lunch ended. Two: fifth period began. Three: fifth ended. Four: sixth began. That’s my cue. I brush the parking lot dust off my butt and head back toward campus, praying I don’t
see anybody.
I head through the gate and across the grass until I can pick up the cement path that leads to my locker. Maybe Caroline fed a note through one of the vents, telling me where to find my
backpack. As soon as I have it, I’ll go straight to the office, say I’m sick, and ask if I can call my mom so I can drive home.
The corridors are empty and I reach my locker without running into anyone. I dial the combination and lift the latch. No note.
To center myself, I look at the inside of my locker door, staring at the three pictures Shrink-Sue told me to tape there, and trying to reconnect with the stronger person I see in the images. I
run my finger across the photo of me on the diving block, wearing that willful, determined expression. Confidence. That was the word I said that day.
She wouldn’t have run away.
I immediately realize my mistake, and it hits me with absolute certainty: I have to go back. Even if it was all a joke, even if they meant to embarrass me, I have to go back down there and prove
I can do it, if not to them, at least to myself. If I can stand on diving blocks and win a medal, I can stand on a stage and read a poem.
I belong in that room.
“Hey.” I hear a voice behind me and I turn around. AJ is sitting at one of the round metal tables on the grass between the walking paths. There are two backpacks at his feet. As he
stands, he reaches for mine. He crosses the lawn and hands it to me. “Here, Sam.”
Sam.
“You should have left it in the office or something,” I say, taking it from him. “You’re going to get in trouble for missing class.”
“And you’re not?” he asks, raking his fingers through his hair.
“I thought I’d go home for the day.” The brief moment of confidence is gone now that he’s standing here. I think about that stage and that stool, how AJ worked the lock
to let me out of that room, and my face heats.
He’s watching me, not saying a word. My gaze settles on a crack in the cement while I muster up the courage to tell him the truth.
“I panicked,” I say. “I thought you guys would laugh at my poem.”
“We wouldn’t have.”
“And then I thought maybe it was all a joke. That you were trying to get me back for what I did to you when we were kids.” I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I’d never do that.”
I hear Shrink-Sue’s voice in my head, talking about mistakes. Reminding me that they serve a purpose.
“I blew it, didn’t I?”
“No. We did.” His expression is different now. It’s softer, almost apologetic. “Look, Sam, we went about that wrong. There’s this whole initiation process we sort
of…skipped over.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking. I hear the words “initiation process” and immediately think of blindfolds and candles and the possibility of water torture.
“Great.” I cover my head with both hands and find that crack in the cement again.
“Don’t worry,” he says. I can hear the laugh in his voice, and something about it makes me feel more at ease. If he’s laughing, maybe he’s smiling too. I’ve
seen him smile, that one time he was performing on stage, but I’ve never seen him smile at
me
. I look up. Sure enough, he is.
“Instead of skipping sixth and going home, can I convince you to skip sixth and come with me?”
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
“Why? Is everyone else there?”
“No. That’s kind of the point. You’re supposed to get the room all to yourself. I’ll show you what I mean.” He gestures toward the theater with his chin and
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