Moonglow by Michael Griffo Page A

apologize—I can’t find words that would be suitable or adequate—but Jess doesn’t break the silence by leaving to sit elsewhere, so I take that as a positive sign. Unfortunately, her good nature alone won’t bail me out this time, and I’m definitely going to have to make amends if I want to salvage our friendship. Which I absolutely want to do. Just not right now. Now I want to eat my spaghetti and meatballs, even though it tastes about as Italian as my last name sounds. So I do, and so does Jess. While we eat we both know that if we’re ever going to speak to each other again, I’m going to have to be the first one to talk.
    After school I have the urge to catch the early bus home, but I resist and slip into the crowd heading over to the football field for the first home track meet of the season. There’s no way that I can ignore Jess, because she’s sitting next to Archie and his white hair is like an oasis; no matter where your eyes look, they get drawn back to the patch of pure white in a sea of color. I’ve been repeating to myself what I want to say to Jess for the past few hours, but when Archie moves over so I can sit between the two of them, I feel like somebody shoved sandpaper down my throat, and I can hardly breathe let alone talk.
    Buying time, I fake-cough, preoccupy myself with adjusting my backpack under the metal stadium bench, and finally mutter something that resembles a greeting. By the way Archie launches into a tirade about how Coach Emerson ignored his suggestions for a new game-play strategy, it’s clear to me that for once Jess hasn’t filled him in on our fight. Not a good sign because that means she doesn’t need any support to be mad at me. I’m the one who needs support, and once again it comes from an unlikely source.
    Bounding up the bleachers to our row, Nadine sits in between me and Jess without asking either of us to make room. She’s wearing the same white sneakers she wears while volunteering at The Retreat, and when she shifts her weight to adjust her position, I notice that they squeak when she moves. I find it odd that the sound isn’t specific to The Hallway to Nowhere and odder still that my mind is filling up with such nonsense when I should be forming an opening statement to beg Jess’s forgiveness. Luckily, Nadine does it for me.
    â€œWhat’s going on with you two?” she asks.
    Okay, maybe I’ve misjudged this one; she might be super insightful. If Jess didn’t fill Archie in on what happened last night, there’s no way that she told Nadine. They’re friendly, but after me, Archie is Jess’s closest friend.
    â€œIf I had a Ginsu, I could cut the tension up into two easy-to-serve slices,” she says.
    When the three of us—me, Jess, and Archie—look at her in silence, the tips of her ears start to get red, a shade or two brighter than my hair, and she tugs at her shirt. I assume it’s another nervous tic like the pen clicking, and I figure it’s time to find my voice, if for no other reason than to help Nadine relax. After all, she isn’t the one who did anything wrong. I am.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” I start. Jess doesn’t add anything to my confession, so I know she agrees with me. “I flipped out on Jess the other night because . . .” Because why? That’s what I don’t understand. Since I don’t have a real answer, I say something that sounds logical. “I was frustrated that I couldn’t figure out the geometry.”
    Then I decide that if I’m going to apologize I should do it right and stop talking to the bleachers under my feet and look Jess in the eye. “I’m sorry.” Jess doesn’t look away. “I was a complete, total, and undeniable jerk.”
    Jess purses her lips as if to tell me that my description falls a little short.
    â€œOkay, I was a stark-raving bitch,” I amend, and