Page 22 of The Way I Used to Be
“Yeah, I guess.”
Just as he’s about to say something else, a car pulls in at the far end of the lot—a navy blue hearse-looking vehicle, most definitely a parent’s car.
“Shit, that’s my ride. Here.” He takes my hand.
“Wait.” I pull away. “What are you doing?”
“Hold on,” he says with a laugh. “It’s okay, it won’t kill you. Just relax,” he says in this soothing, dreamy way that probably makes other girls melt. He unclenches my fingers and puts something there in my palm.
I look down. It’s the dandelion, the in-between one.
He stands and shoulders his bag. “So, let’s just meet here after school tomorrow?”
I nod.
“Cool.” He smiles. “Okay.”
He gets into the hearse car with a woman who I assume must be his mother in the driver’s seat. She waves her hand in my direction. I turn around to look behind me. But she’s waving at me, I realize, as he sits in the passenger seat looking embarrassed. I raise my arm and wave back. “Does she need a ride?” I hear her ask through the unrolled window. He says either “No” or “Go.” I can’t tell which.
After the car drives off, I pull out my planner and open it to this week. Then I carefully set the soft white weed in the binding and close it gently between the pages.
I hear shuffling on the tennis courts. I glance behind me and do a double take. It’s Amanda. Standing there with her fingers wrapped through the chain-link fence, staring at me.
“Hey!” I call over to her. But she turns and starts walking. “Hey!” I stand up and run over to the gate that leads inside the court. “What are you doing just standing there?” I yell, catching up with her quickly. “Spying on me?”
“No. And I can stand wherever I want.” She crosses her arms and looks me up and down, her face changing slowly, her upper lip curling into this snarl of disgust.
“Why don’t you just mind your own business, Mandy!” I start to shove past her, but I swing back around, my heart tugging on my courage. “Wait, what is your problem exactly?”
“I don’thavea problem,” she answers.
“Seems like it to me.” I cross my arms as well, trying to calm down, trying to look as formidable as she somehow does. She steps in close to me, like that day on the front steps. And if I didn’t know her better, I would think she was actually about to hit me.
“My name is not Mandy,” she growls.
She stalks off the tennis courts without another word.
I BARELY SLEEP ATall that night. So I wake up early and get ready. Before Mom and Dad even. Nobody’s at school yet by the time I get there. The burnt stench of cheap coffee wafts out from the teacher’s lounge, but there’s not a person in sight. I go into the girls’ bathroom on the first floor and open the window to sneak a cigarette while no one’s around.
I try to get my head together in here. I’m so terrified about seeing him later today, I can hardly think straight. I consider going home sick. That would be a good excuse. If only I didn’t actuallywantto see him later.
I hear someone coming. I toss my cigarette and slam the window shut. This time of the morning, it has to be a teacher. I race into one of the stalls and lock it behind me. Stepping up onto the toilet seat, I hold my breath and wait.
The door screeches open and two voices whisper frantically to each other.
“Hurry up, hurry up. Lock it, lock it now.”
“Okay, I got it. Here, here.”
“Hurry! Hurry,” they whisper breathlessly.
Their sheer excitement makes me need to know more. I cautiously position myself to look through the crack between the door and the wall of the stall, careful not to make a sound. That’s when I see her: Amanda. I can’t seem to get away from her lately.
“Okay, here,” she says to this other girl—another freshman I’ve seen around, always with this snarky look on her face—handing her a marker.
“All right, and what are we writing again?” Snarky Girl asks, staring at the wall.
“You know—slut, whore, skank, bitch, whatever. All true, so just take your pick,” Amanda tells her.
