Page 28 of Yours

I pull up in front of Stacy’s house, a rambler with a rusty boat parked in the weeds and a collection of miniature toy vehicles scattered in the driveway.

“Thanks for the ride,” Stacy says, and slides out. She doesn’t look at me. I wish I could do something to soften the blow I’m giving her, but know there’s nothing, and anything I might do would send the wrong signal anyway. Plus, I get the feeling she just wants a bit of excitement, that I’m just the flavor of the month to her right now. The person I was a few years ago would have fucked her on Higgs’ couch while he boned Ivy in his bedroom, but I realize that person is long gone. All I can think about is Darcy and the sweet way her body feels in my arms.

I wait for Stacy to get inside her house, then pull back onto the street.

Ten

Darcy

Tuesday, English Lit class, I get to the classroom before Ellis and have to steel myself not to look for him. Part of me wants to see the look on his face—will it be shock, realizing he forgot? Or will it be passive, or worse, will he ignore me completely? He sits behind me so I don’t get the chance to see his face until it’s my turn to recite my poem, which means I have to get up and face the class.

I keep my eyes on my paper and force my brain to make my lips move. I know he’s watching me and don’t want to make a fool of myself. I wrote this poem the previous week, and I have no idea what it’s about, really. I like the words and the way it sounds, but that’s it.

On my way to my seat I can’t help but flick my eyes up at the class and catch Ellis tapping discreetly away on his phone hidden in his lap. The next several students take their turns reading, and then the teacher gives instructions for our next assignment. Class ends, and as I swivel out of my seat and slide into my coat, I feel Ellis’s eyes on me. But when I look up, he’s turned away. In the hallway, I hurry to walk next to him.

“Hey,” I say.

He’s texting someone. “Hey,” he says, not looking at me.

“How was the game?” I ask.

His forehead wrinkles. “What game?”

“The Packers game on Sunday,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, now scrolling down his screen. “I didn’t end up watching it,” he says. “I had a fuckload of studying to do.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say as we exit the building and head down the stone stairs. A crust of frozen snow covers the grounds. I shiver, realizing that I should have worn my warmer coat.

Ahead, the pathway branches into three directions. Ellis turns left.

“Bye,” I say. Ellis says nothing.

My workload practically triples with finals coming, so I tell myself to forget about Ellis. I tell myself it was just a miscommunication. Tiffany seemed to be fine with hooking up with a guy, why should I feel any different? I wonder if I would have let things go so far if I hadn’t lost my virginity with Brian. What I can’t decide is if this type of behavior is good or bad. There’s a part of me that says it’s bad—that I brought this on. No matter how I try to spin it—telling myself that it’s natural for a girl to play the field too—my emotions don’t settle.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking about it during class, my stomach churning with what feels like bugs crawling around in there.

Distracted, I neglect a critical piece of direction for an assignment, and the grade I receive as a result is terrifying. I lose a book the night before I’m supposed to have finished reading it and write a ten-page paper. I stay up all night trying to reference it using the audio version, which is the only one available in the library system, but it takes me twice as long because it’s maddening to skim an audio file. I think about some of my peers who pay to have some of their assignments done for them. While I’ve never even considered it, if I had the funds, I might, just to get through this. I can’t let my grades dip below a 3.4 average or I’ll lose my scholarship. For the next several weeks, I’m averaging three hours of sleep a night.

The Friday before Thanksgiving, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize while on my way to my second class. At lunch I ask Willow and Tiffany if they know who it is, but after searching their contacts, they shake their heads.

“What’s it say?” Tiffany asks, leaning over my shoulder.

I open the message and flash the screen at her:Wanna hang out tonight?

“Just ask who it is,” Willow says. “Maybe it’s a wrong number.”

So I do. An answer boomerangs back. Cory Fillman.

I look at my friends, a question in my eyes. “Do you know anyone named Cory?”

Willow’s eyes widen. “Oh yeah, I do,” she says, spooning tomato soup into her mouth. “He’s president of the chess club. A senior, I think. I know because my roommate was in the club for a while, and I went once.” She rolls her eyes. “Talk about geeky.”

I shrug. A geek sounds safe. I’m through with jocks, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, chess is for smart people,” Tiffany says.

“This whole school is for smart people,” I reply. “How did he get my number?” I ask.

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