snickering as Siobhan walks by, and Tara looks from the snickerers to Siobhan.
“I’m not going to ask,” Tara says.
I’m sitting on my desk, working out my strategy, when Justine Kalinsky approaches us. She has the most distressed look on her face.
“You’re going to be devastated,” she says.
“About?”
“I don’t know if I can tell you.”
“Then why bring it up?” Tara Finke asks.
“It’s not as if I wanted to overhear it.”
“She pashed Will Trombal. And the whole world’s talking about it, right?” Siobhan mocks.
“Not even remotely devastating,” I say.
“It’s much worse than that.”
“Can you stop being so dramatic? I don’t do devastation,” I tell her.
“Will Trombal has a girlfriend.”
Oh my God, I am so devastated.
“I think she’s devastated.”
I try to shake my head. “I’m not. . . .”
“Yes you are.”
I don’t want to look at them. I don’t want to see the I-told-you-so on Tara Finke’s face or the you-sucker on Siobhan Sullivan’s or the pity on Justine Kalinsky’s.
I feel as if my throat is made out of cardboard, and all of a sudden kissing Will Trombal is the most embarrassing thing in the world. I feel like Adam and Eve when God points out to them that they’re naked.
I feel tears well in my eyes and I can’t even stop them from happening. I can’t stop anything from happening in my life. I just want to get through the day, the week, the year, without ever having to see Will Trombal again.
During period five, I’m in class, not listening, looking out the window into the quadrangle, and I see Luca, his head down, walking toward the toilets. I ask to be excused and I wait for him outside and then we find a place, any place, for some kind of time together. Time that’s been taken away from us by everyone. We find a corner in the library and we hold on to each other tight and he begins to cry. I feel the sobs racking his body before I hear them. I can cope with my misery, but not Luca’s. His pain makes me ache, and I’m crying so much that my whole body is hurting.
“Don’t be sad, Luca. Please don’t be sad.”
And I don’t know why I’m saying something so foolishly simple. Don’t be sad.
Worse still, I realize we’re not alone. Thomas Mackee is standing there, staring as if he’s come across some alien life forms. He nods in acknowledgment and I nod back. And then he’s gone with the secrets of my family’s misery locked in his brain, and I wonder when he’ll use them as part of his arsenal, part of his repertoire of mockery.
“You know what I think?” Tara Finke says on the bus home. She’s the first to say anything to me after I’ve done a literal rendition of the sound of silence all day.
Don’t say it, I want to scream at her. Don’t say anything. Mind your own business, you loser. Don’t intellectualize my misery . Tara Finke knows nothing but words that mean nothing when your insides are in pieces.
“We have an Alanis night.”
I look at her, confused.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Siobhan Sullivan says. “As if that’s going to help. It has to be Pride and Prejudice . I’ve got the whole six episodes.”
“I disagree. Food’s always good. It always helps,” Justine says.
They talk about me as if I’m not there.
“My place,” Tara Finke says.
An Alanis night is listening to Alanis Morissette’s music, where there’s a lot of revenge and anger toward men. We move on to Tori Amos and then Jewel. So much hate and depression is making me feel sick, although that could also be attributed to the Pringles that I sandwiched between two Oreos.
We watch Pride and Prejudice . Mr. Darcy is such a hottie that it depresses me because his sideburns remind me of Will Trombal’s.
Tara Finke’s mother watches it with us. She talks through the whole thing, which gets very tense around the time Colin Firth, aka Mr. Darcy, comes out of his pond, soaking wet.
Tara Finke has had enough. “Mum?” Tara puts a
“I’m not going to ask,” Tara says.
I’m sitting on my desk, working out my strategy, when Justine Kalinsky approaches us. She has the most distressed look on her face.
“You’re going to be devastated,” she says.
“About?”
“I don’t know if I can tell you.”
“Then why bring it up?” Tara Finke asks.
“It’s not as if I wanted to overhear it.”
“She pashed Will Trombal. And the whole world’s talking about it, right?” Siobhan mocks.
“Not even remotely devastating,” I say.
“It’s much worse than that.”
“Can you stop being so dramatic? I don’t do devastation,” I tell her.
“Will Trombal has a girlfriend.”
Oh my God, I am so devastated.
“I think she’s devastated.”
I try to shake my head. “I’m not. . . .”
“Yes you are.”
I don’t want to look at them. I don’t want to see the I-told-you-so on Tara Finke’s face or the you-sucker on Siobhan Sullivan’s or the pity on Justine Kalinsky’s.
I feel as if my throat is made out of cardboard, and all of a sudden kissing Will Trombal is the most embarrassing thing in the world. I feel like Adam and Eve when God points out to them that they’re naked.
I feel tears well in my eyes and I can’t even stop them from happening. I can’t stop anything from happening in my life. I just want to get through the day, the week, the year, without ever having to see Will Trombal again.
During period five, I’m in class, not listening, looking out the window into the quadrangle, and I see Luca, his head down, walking toward the toilets. I ask to be excused and I wait for him outside and then we find a place, any place, for some kind of time together. Time that’s been taken away from us by everyone. We find a corner in the library and we hold on to each other tight and he begins to cry. I feel the sobs racking his body before I hear them. I can cope with my misery, but not Luca’s. His pain makes me ache, and I’m crying so much that my whole body is hurting.
“Don’t be sad, Luca. Please don’t be sad.”
And I don’t know why I’m saying something so foolishly simple. Don’t be sad.
Worse still, I realize we’re not alone. Thomas Mackee is standing there, staring as if he’s come across some alien life forms. He nods in acknowledgment and I nod back. And then he’s gone with the secrets of my family’s misery locked in his brain, and I wonder when he’ll use them as part of his arsenal, part of his repertoire of mockery.
“You know what I think?” Tara Finke says on the bus home. She’s the first to say anything to me after I’ve done a literal rendition of the sound of silence all day.
Don’t say it, I want to scream at her. Don’t say anything. Mind your own business, you loser. Don’t intellectualize my misery . Tara Finke knows nothing but words that mean nothing when your insides are in pieces.
“We have an Alanis night.”
I look at her, confused.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Siobhan Sullivan says. “As if that’s going to help. It has to be Pride and Prejudice . I’ve got the whole six episodes.”
“I disagree. Food’s always good. It always helps,” Justine says.
They talk about me as if I’m not there.
“My place,” Tara Finke says.
An Alanis night is listening to Alanis Morissette’s music, where there’s a lot of revenge and anger toward men. We move on to Tori Amos and then Jewel. So much hate and depression is making me feel sick, although that could also be attributed to the Pringles that I sandwiched between two Oreos.
We watch Pride and Prejudice . Mr. Darcy is such a hottie that it depresses me because his sideburns remind me of Will Trombal’s.
Tara Finke’s mother watches it with us. She talks through the whole thing, which gets very tense around the time Colin Firth, aka Mr. Darcy, comes out of his pond, soaking wet.
Tara Finke has had enough. “Mum?” Tara puts a
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