Weird Girl and What's His Name by Meagan Brothers

. baggage and drama. It’s not where I am in my life right now. And now, with the police and everything, it’s just too much for me. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, and I hope your friend comes home, but right now I really need you to go.”
    â€œYou need me to go,” I echoed. I nodded slowly. “My best friend just disappeared, and you need me to go.”
    â€œRory—”
    â€œHuh. All this time, I thought you were the grown-up in this relationship.” I felt a tight, rough-edged knot at the back of my throat, like a little rock made out of anger and sadness and fatigue. I swallowed, but it stayed stuck there. “Andy. You never did love me, did you?”
    â€œI didn’t say that. It’s just bad timing. I’m not good for you right now, and you’re not good for me. And I’m sorry, sweetie. I really am sorry about your friend—” Andy put his arm on my shoulder. I shrugged him away.
    â€œI’m not your sweetie,” I said. “I’m your employee. That’s all. And I quit. Effective immediately.” I grabbed my book bag and walked out, the bell clanking dully behind me. Exit What’s His Name, stage left.
    I LOOKED UP C OACH M ORRIS ’ S NUMBER in the phone book, and dialed him at home. A little kid answered. I asked her to put her dad on the phone.
    â€œCoach Morris?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œThis is Ro—. This is Theodore Callahan.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you, son?” His voice was clipped. “It’s late.”
    â€œI know. I just wanted to say that if you still want me on the team, I want to play. I’ll do the summer practices and everything.”
    â€œAll right. Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll get you started.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œSon, I’m sorry about your girlfriend.”
    I wanted to say: She’s not my girlfriend. I’m an unrepentant queer and a former nice guy who really wants to shove some guys’ faces into the mud all of a sudden. But thanks for the sentiment. Instead I just said, “So am I.” And then I hung up. Wishing all these assholes would stop calling me son .

ten
    M RS. L IDELL ASKED ME TO SEE her in her office the next afternoon. She came in from outside smelling like tobacco. I knew what this was about.
    â€œRory, you’re an excellent writer.” She sat down at her desk and started in right away. “But I don’t know what to make of this.” She held up the two blue books I’d ended up using to write my midterm essay. I nodded.
    â€œI know.” I was kind of expecting this.
    â€œI’m sure there are some places where an in-depth analysis of the platonic bond between Mulder and Scully will go a long way. But this class is not an AOL message board from 1997. And your midterm exam isn’t the place to wax rhapsodic about old episodes of The X-Files.”
    â€œI fulfilled the assignment, didn’t I?”
    â€œRory.” I thought she was going to give me one of those looks and keep lecturing me about how I was supposed to be writing about literature. But instead, she looked away, blinking. Was Mrs. Lidell starting to cry?
    â€œI know you’re upset about Lula. I’m upset, too. But I don’t know how to grade this. I’m going to give you another chance. If you can stay late tomorrow and rewrite this essay, I’m willing to throw this out. But if I start letting students get away with writing midterm essays on television shows . . . you see where I’m coming from, right?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œYou can retake this tomorrow?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œHere.” She handed me the blue books.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œSave those for when Lula comes home. I’m sure she’d like to read them.”
    I STAYED LATE THE NEXT DAY and wrote what I knew was a passing essay for Mrs. Lidell. Afterward, as I was walking across