Page 62 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“I’m in my room now,” she says, and I hear the soft click of the door, the shuffle of her pillows. “So if you’re going to tell me that you robbed a bank, nobody will overhear.”
“It’s not that,” I tell her, laughing weakly. I almost wish it were that. It would be a straightforward fix at least. “It’s only . . .” I pause, unsure how to articulate what I’m feeling when I can’t make sense of it myself. “How do you know if you . . . you know.”
“Uh, no?”
I wince. Squeeze my eyes shut. Pry the words from my teeth. “How do you know if you . . . like someone?”
“Oh.”Her tone changes instantly. The smile is plain in her voice. “This is one ofthoseconversations. It’s been ages since you had a crush on someone.”
“It might not be,” I rush to tell her, straightening in my chair. “I’m only. Confused. And I was standing outside in the cold for a while tonight so there’s a chance I could just be exhibiting the early signs of a fever—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself. Let me ask you this: Do you think about him a lot?”
“Not, like,a lot . . .”
“Your voice always gets squeaky when you’re lying,” she points out. “This isn’t going to work if you’re not honest.”
“Okay. Okay, so, maybe?” I hold the phone closer to my ear and consider the question like it’s one of those twenty-mark short essay prompts on a test. “Like in the mornings, when I’m about to enter the classroom, I do . . . wonder about him. My heart speeds up, and I’m irrationally angry when I do see him, but on days when he’s not there, I’m also disappointed. And every now and then—just like every few minutes or so—I might be curious about what he’s doing. And after we talk, I always go back and overanalyze everything he’s said, and what I’ve said. I want to leave a good impression. I want to be better than him, but I also want to impress him . . .”
“I hate to break it to you, but that doesn’t sound like a basic crush,” Abigail informs me. “That sounds really serious, Sadie.”
“No,” I protest, panicking. “No, it’s not— Itcan’t be. I mean, wouldn’t I feel all those things too if I hated him? How can you even tell the difference between liking and loathing someone? Physically speaking. How do you know if your blood pressure is rising because of how annoying they are, or how attractive you find them? If your hands are shaking because you’re holding back from strangling them, or kissing them?”
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“It’s Julius, isn’t it?” Abigail says. “You’re talking about Julius Gong.”
I choke and wonder if it’s possible for someone to die from sheer embarrassment. Even the sound of his name is apparently too much for me. My pulse is racing so fast I can feel the blood in my veins.Pathetic.I could kick myself. “Um . . .”
“Oh my god,” she says hoarsely. Repeats it over and over in a hundred different variations, like she’s trying to reinvent the phrase. “Oh my god, oh my god. Oh. My god. Oh mygod—”
“At this rate you’re literally going to call God down to earth,” I hiss, pressing a hand to my burning face.
“No, no, you know what, darling, I’m not judging. Not at all,” she says. “I was genuinely attracted to a cartoon lion at thirteen. Like, something about his claws really worked for me.”
“I can’t believe you’re drawing parallels between these two bizarrely different situations,” I say. “First, Julius is aperson—”
“He’s also been making you miserable for ten years,” she cuts in. “Don’t you remember when you were assigned to the same group project, and he secretly worked ahead of you so he would look more prepared in front of the teacher? Or when he beat you in the spelling competition and followed you around the school just to rub the trophy in your face? Or when he got all those roses for Valentine’s Day and put them in a vase right above your locker to taunt you for not receiving any?”
“All fond memories, yes,” I say. “I remember clearly. But . . .”
But I also remember the softness of his blazer around my shoulders. The look on his face tonight, the quick violence in his voice when his brother spoke of me. His breathing, quiet beside me, as he swept confetti from the floor after the party. His hands, firm but warm around my wrists after the race. The shine of the medal, the light in his eyes, the curve of his lips. So beautiful and infuriating and confusing. So ready to split me open with a single word, stitch me up again with a fleeting touch.
“Do you think there’s any chance . . .” It feels so foolish, even asking it out loud. “Any chance he would like me?”
“Wow, yeah, you’re in deep,” she says. “And I don’t see why hewouldn’t. You’re the whole package. You’re smart and good at everything and you’re totally hot in this kind of successful future-executive way—”
I snort out a laugh despite myself. Then I come to a sobering realization. “But you’re not factoring in the emails,” I tell her. “You should’ve seen how upset he was when he first received them. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for them yet. I don’t know if he ever will.”
“Right.” She pauses. “About those emails—”
“Like, would you ever want to be with someone who once expressed to you, clearly, in written text, that they wouldrather listen to someone perform slam poetry about corporate income taxes in an auditorium without ventilation on the hottest day of summer while a baby plays tug-of-war with their hair from behindthan have to sit through your speech for school captain again?”
There’s a long silence. Then, in a voice of forced optimism, she says, “Maybe he’ll wake up one day and lose half his memories.”
“So it’s pointless how I feel.” I slump back in my seat again. “Because he’ll never be able to move past this.”
