Page 18 of Please, Sir

“Of course we care if you’re okay,” my mother says, her tone a fusion of irritation and condescension, likeI’mthe one who has put them in this awful situation, and she wants to punish me for it.

All I did was fall in love with the boy I grew up with, and loved him with my whole heart. When he broke me and my heart, I went to the one place you’re supposed to go. To my parents.

That night was the first time I saw them for the flawed humans they are. I didn’t see them as my parents. They were merely two people with completely fucked up priorities. Priorities that have driven a massive wedge between us, and I’m not sure there’s any way to undo it.

“I came to Bluebell to be okay. And I want to have you guys in my life, but you can’t keep acting like nothing happened. You can’t keep expecting me to cozy up with the Rhodes. And, more than that, it’s hurtful and gross that youguys cozy up to them. That you guys still talk to Michael feels like you're stabbing me in the back.”

I move away from the mirror, nausea rearing its head as the heated, potent truths filter through the phone. I need them to respect me, and more than that, respect what I went through.

But the line is quiet a moment before my dad finally speaks. “I got you a money tree for a housewarming gift. We’d love to come see you. Have lunch up there in Bluebell, too, maybe.”

I roll my lips together. “Maybe in a few weeks.” I look around to my tidy home, decorated and spotless. I won’t lie and say the place is a mess. They aren’t worth the sin. “I need some space right now,” I tell them, realizing that it’s true. Based on this phone call, they haven’t budged, but the thing is, I also refuse to budge. Until then, we’re at an impasse.

My mom asks to be sent practice videos of my squad, and my dad asks a few questions about the hot water heater in my garage, and the timing belt in my car which was giving me trouble right before I moved. After small talk is wrapped up, we end the call.

With my legs pulled to my chest and my hair dried in frizzy waves, I turn up the volume onGilmore Girlsand let banter drown out my tears.

Today isa new kind of hell.

I’m nursing bags under my eyes after the conversation with my parents caused a total mini meltdown, I got my period this morning so it feels like my uterus has a knife out and is murdering the rest of my organs, my hair refuses to layflat but equally will not hold a curl, I feel a pimple coming in right beneath my eyebrow and it hurts like a bitch, and now? The kids decided to come to class early, meaning my time alone before first period is absolutely nonexistent.

FML, as they say.

Jo Jo, Alexa, and Jasmine take their favorite desk up front, with Alexa and Jasmine huddling together around a cell phone. Jo Jo curls into herself, resting her head against her arms, glaring at me.

Like really glaring.

So much so that I actually look down to see if I missed a button but no, because today I’m wearing Bluebell Cheer warmups–a navy blue tracksuit with butter yellow piping, the Bruiser logo embroidered on my chest. After discovering there are no possible coffee drips, chunks of donut (my breakfast) or bra showing, I look back up to her, catching the end of a pointed glare. My chest goes concave as she closes her eyes, curling into her arms as she waits for class to start.

It's not a fluke.

Jo Jo Turner is mad at me, and she’s giving me that look on purpose.

And I realize during the first period, with my eyes drifting over to her approximately once every few minutes, that I’m disturbed by Jo Jo being upset with me. It never feels good when a student doesn’t like me, or if they get upset at a grade, but it’s never felt so personal.

When the bell rings, I catch her, saying, “Hey, Jo Jo, just a second.”

She stands in her warmups, facing the blue painted metal door, her long dark hair in a curled, bouncy ponytail. “What?”

I swallow around the knot in my throat, upset that she doesn’t even want to look at me.

I press on. “What’s… going on?”

When she turns, red rims her eyes, and a watery dark streak trails down her cheek. She’s been crying. Did I make Jo Jo cry? No. I couldn’t have.

Right?

“Jo Jo,” I start, bridging the gap between us with a couple of steps. “What’s the matter, are you–”

Teenage girls are like cheetahs with how fast their emotions change. I remember those days. Jo Jo’s eyes narrow, and at her sides, her hands ball into fists. “Everything was fine until you convinced me to come up to JV! Now the freshman girls hate me, my non-cheer friends hate me and it’s all your fault!” she screams, and when I say screams, I mean it.

“Jo–” she won’t even let me get a word in edgewise, and whatever is going on with her and her friends is clearly getting blamed on me and the bump up to JV.

“You can handle JV,” I tell her, because it’s true. Not only can she handle it but she can thrive on the older squad if she puts in the time, and stops letting these girls get under her skin.

“They don’t want me there, and the freshman girls all hate me for getting asked. They hate me, Miss Riley!” she shouts again, swiping at the tears that fall.

“Jo Jo, they don’t hate you, they’re jealous. There’s an adjustment period, but it will get better,” I tell her, because it will. High schoolers get over things pretty quickly. She just has to hang in there.

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