Page 63 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“You can’t be certain,” she insists. “You can’t be certain of anything unless you tell him, face-to-face.”
I cough. “Tell him?Tell him what?Oh, hi, I know we’ve hated each other’s guts for a decade and you find me insufferable, but I think we should make out.”
“It’s a pretty convincing pitch,” she says. “And you know what? The retreat will be the perfect time to do it. You’ll be in the same place, and you’ll have time to yourselves, and there won’t be as many teachers around. The only shame is that the retreat isn’t set at, like, a beach or something. It would beso cute—”
“It was going to be,” I say grimly. “But Julius rejected the idea on the terms that it would be too romantic—and yes, I know, the irony is occurring to me as we speak.”
“He really shot himself in the foot with that one, huh?”
“Or saved himself,” I tell her. “Maybe he was protecting himself in advance from the chances of someone cornering him with a confession. Maybe he’s, like, opposed to relationships in general, and even more opposed to a relationship with me, specifically.”
She clucks her tongue at me. “Where’s your confidence disappeared to?”
“You realize that, according to the laws of physics, something can’t disappear if it never existed in the first place, right? Matter can’t be created or destroyed—”
“Justtalk to him, Sadie. Really. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I sigh. Grip the edge of my desk to steady myself against the overwhelming tide of possibilities. “Everything,” I say. “He could laugh at me. He could weaponize my feelings against me in every test and competition to come. He could mock me for the rest of my lifetime. He could recoil with horror and disgust—”
“Or he could surprise you with his response,” she says. “Just consider it, okay?”
I chew the flesh of my cheek until it stings. Somehow, I feel even more disoriented now than I did at the beginning of the call. “Okay. I will.”
There’s a trick to writing a good history essay.
Most people assume that you start with the contention. You read the prompt and instantly form your stance on something, like whether the sansculottes in the French Revolution ought to be considered a mob, and then you search through your memory for evidence to back yourself up: quotes from famous historians, dates, statistics. But I always start with the evidence first. I go through the information I already have, the facts I find the most compelling, that will most likely stand out to an examiner. Only after that do I pick my argument. Otherwise it’s a futile practice, a waste of precious writing time; it doesn’t matter what you believe in, or want to believe in, if you’re not supported by the data.
I know this. Ishouldknow this.
Yet after I hang up, I can’t help hoping that Abigail’s right. That maybe, miraculously, Julius could feel something for me other than bitterness or annoyance. And even though it’s not the logical thing to do, I find myself abandoning all my tried-and-tested study techniques and scrabbling for evidence to prove it.
Evidence like: He ran the race for me when I felt like I was dying. Like: He stayed behind with me after the party, and he’s never shown any particular interest in sweeping floors before, so there must have been another reason. Like: Max said so when he came into the bakery after school, and didn’t his brother say that he’d been searching forourbakery? Like: There was a very brief moment four and a half weeks ago when he gazed over at me so tenderly I felt my breath catch.
It probably isn’t substantial enough to convince any examiner, but it’s enough for me to convince myself by the end of the night. I’m going to do it, I decide. I’m going to tell him, and I’m going to pray he won’t reject me on the spot.
•••
“I’m going to be sick,” I inform Abigail when I slide into the bus seat the next morning.
She’s sipping a drink that’s more whipped cream than actual liquid, her bag crammed into the space between us, her denim jacket draped over her lap like a pillow. Never one to let herself sit in discomfort, even if it’s just for a one-hour bus ride into the woods. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night,” she says, studying my face.
I grimace. “I didn’t. I was busy strategizing my next move.”
She almost spits out her drink with laughter. “My darling, you’re not planning to go to war here—you’re just telling a boy you like him—”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, scanning the bus. There are still students shuffling their way down the aisle, others standing up to search for their friends or shove their luggage under the seats. “Someone will hear you.”
“Nobody could possibly guess who we’re talking about. Like, I barely believed you when youtoldme. And he’s not even here yet,” she says lightly. “Also, if we’re really focusing on strategy, I feel like you should kind of ease into it. You know, considering your . . . history and all. You don’t want to startle him by launching into an impassioned speech straightaway.”
“Huh?” I’m still craning my neck, checking every face that passes. I feel physically nauseous, and it’s only partially because I skipped breakfast altogether this morning. I feel almost as sick as I did before my school captain speech, before our end-of-year exams, even. Isthiswhat liking someone should be? Because contrary to common description, there’s nothing warm or gentle about it at all. This is a violent intrusion, my own body revolting against me. There are no butterflies in my stomach, only scorpions.
“Maybe just act friendly first. Or at least like you don’t absolutelyloathethe guy,” Abigail advises. “Plus—”
“Oh my god, he’s coming.”
After wasting so much time thinking about him since yesterday, it’s a surreal experience to see him just standing a few feet away. There, right there. The sun streaming in through the bus windows and hitting his face.
But if I look like I didn’t sleep last night, he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Tired, blue-gray circles are smudged around his eyes, and his hair is rumpled for once, messy strands falling free over his forehead. Then he catches me staring and stares back.
