Page 22 of Lovesick
My best friend’s carnation-pink lips flatline into a frown. “But Crew isn’t like Felix.”
“You don’t know that,” I mutter under my breath, scribbling a massive blackhole of ink into my binder paper. I trace mindlessly over the circles until the pressure tears a hole through the stained fibers.
I can’t look at Irelyn. If I look at her, I’m afraid she’ll uncover the unplumbed truth—that I’m choosing to believe some potentially false narrative in order to protect my wounded heart.
But it seems that I’ve underestimated her, because all she says is, “And you do?”
Terrified doesn’t even begin to scrape the tip of the iceberg. Crew has the possibility to hurt me just like Felix did, and I’m the only one to blame for allowing it to happen with my ex in the first place. I don’t trust myself around Crew. I don’t like the side he brings out in me—a side that I’ve struggled so hard to suppress, a side that views life as more than just a straight-shot road to purgatory’s liminal waiting room. He makes me want tolive, and that’s a dangerous feeling to have.
Get yourself together, Merit. You’re thinking about Crew when he’s not even here. You’re wasting your breath coming up with far-fetched scenarios. Are you really going to let him have this much power over you?
Our teacher, Mrs. Burke, stops writing on the chalkboard, an empty bulletin list constructed underneath a large, bold heading that readsANNUAL FUNDRAISER EVENT. Sheclears her throat to get everyone’s attention, pushing her horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her birdlike nose.
“Alright, class. As you know, MU is responsible for a fundraising event every year, and this time, the school board has decided that we’ll be raising money for inner-city school kids to play sports.”
The congested mass of students breaks out into hums of approval, and Irelyn and I both share a look of excitement.
Mrs. Burke paces in front of the room as her kitten heels clack against the wooden floorboards. “A lot of these schools are disadvantaged because of poor funding, so we want to give back by providing them with the finances to afford coaches, equipment, travel fees, etcetera.”
This is just the distraction I need. If I can dedicate all my time to organizing this fundraiser, I won’t be expected to attend Crew’s stupid hockey games. Between this and dance practice, I might not even have to see his face at all. And it’s for a good cause.
I know I’m privileged because of my family’s wealth, but if I can do something to help those in need, I will in a heartbeat. I couldn’t imagine growing up with a dance-less childhood.
“Before we begin brainstorming ideas for the fundraiser, I’ll need to assign roles to each student. This counts as mandatory participation, and itwillbe seventy-five percent of your entire grade for the semester. Failure to show up to meetings outside of school hours will result in grade penalties. An absence will only be excused if there’s documentation provided to account for said absence. Class time will primarily focus on data analyzation, effective communication, branding and advertising strategies, and digital marketing, which will then be applied to your work on this fundraiser outside of the classroom. Weekly tests will be administered based on the chapter reading. And no, the amount of money raised will not be determinative of the grade you earn in my class.”
A ripple effect of relieved sighs creeps throughout the audience.
Mrs. Burke readies her chalk, hovering over the porcelain enamel board. “If there are no further questions, let’s begin allocating roles. Is there anyone who’d like to be head chair of the fundraiser this year?”
I glance around at the numerous hands that shoot up, deciding to go out on a limb and volunteer myself. I’m not sure what basis she’s making her decision on, but I was a straight-A student at my previous school. I know I have what it takes to spearhead this campaign. I’m organized, I’m hardworking, I’m reliable, I’m determined.
Mrs. Burke’s feline eyes peruse the crowd of eager, overachieving students, and she contemplates the volunteers before her gaze lasers in on mine.
“Ms. Lawson, how lovely of you to volunteer. You’d make an excellent chair this year,” she says, writing my name and my accompanying role on the board. The spots underneath the list are as follows: Fundraising Manager, Marketing Manager, and Tech Manager.
I lower my hand as a tiny bud of pride sprouts within me, further nurtured by the envious glares from some sorority girls down the row. This is perfect. I’ll throw myself into work like I’ve always done, and I won’t have to worry about my social life.
“Eek! You’re perfect for chair, Mer,” Irelyn praises, shaking me lightly by the shoulders. “I bet we’ll raise the most money in MU history with your work ethic.”
As the other positions are quickly filled—and the remaining students get assigned to the volunteer committee to carry out manual labor, registration management, and ticket sales—a gangly kid with curly hair raises his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Bradwitt?”
“What sports programs are we raising money for?” he questions.
“Ah, my apologies, class. I forgot to mention that this year, we’ll be raising money for hockey programs. Since the Mustangs are one of the biggest sports teams at MU, the projected traffic will be exponential.”
Hold on.
WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY?!
Oh, no. No, no, no. FUCK NO. We’re raising money for hockey programs? I’d rather have some back-alley murderer perform a discount lobotomy on me. This can’t be happening.
“Hopefully our class will be able to partner with the hockey team for this fundraiser,” Mrs. Burke vocalizes.
It’s too late to back out now. Hell, it’s too late to drop this class altogether. That means for a whole semester, I might be working closely withCrew. This is some sick, sick joke, World. Haven’t I been through enough?
Is that why I was chosen for chair? Because Mrs. Burke wants to pull the strings on this whole operation by leveraging my relationship with my father to get the hockey team to agree to a collaboration?
