Me You Us (24 page)

“No. It's okay.”

My head is starting to throb.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“You can't be mad at me,” she says.

“I'm not mad at you. What makes you think I'm mad at you?”

“I know you, Shane.”

“You know how I feel.”

“You promised me it wouldn't be weird.”

I did promise that. But it's just been getting weirder and weirder each day.

“I know,” I say. “I'm trying. It's hard.”

“I don't want to fight with you anymore,” Jak says. “But don't think this has been easy for me, either. I'm the responsible one in our friendship. It's the worst.”

“Really?
You're
the responsible one, Jak?”

“Shane, you do realize that you're not supposed to put the ice pack directly on your face, right? You're supposed to put a towel under it. You're turning red.”

“
You
put a towel under it.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

There's a lull in the conversation. There never used to be
any
lulls in our conversations. We could talk for hours without anyone ever taking a breath. But now we're just staring at each other via FaceTime and neither of us knows what to say.

I feel like senioritis is pervading all aspects of my life. I can barely bring myself to go to class anymore. And me and Jak . . . now that I know that we can't be together, it seems like we're just going through the motions.

Jak sighs. “It's tough for me to see you like this,” she says.

“You can fix that, Jak. You can change it. You can tell me you feel the same way about me. Then I won't look so depressed.”

“I meant it's tough for me to see you with a swollen eye.”

“Oh.”

Another lull. We're trying too hard. We're not on the same page. Our best friend telepathy is gone. It makes me ­incredibly sad.

“I wish we could go back in time,” I say. “Before I said anything, before I was outed, before the Galgorithm, before Voldemort. Before everything changed.”

“So, like eighth grade?”

“Exactly. Eighth grade. I think that's when life peaked. Girls weren't an issue. Me and you were buddies.”

“It was simple.”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” Jak adds, “in eighth grade you were covered in acne. Like, head to toe. I didn't even want to be seen with you.”

“I'll take acne over this any day.”

I remove the ice pack from my face again.

“How does it look now?”

“You've still got a couple of pimples. One on your nose—”

“Not my acne! My eye!”

“Go easy, Chambliss. I'm just messin' with you.”

“I know.”

I'm glad Jak still cares enough to tease me.

“You want to know how it looks?” she says. “It looks like you got punched in the face by the starting pitcher of the baseball team. Or former starting pitcher, now that we lost.”

Another lull.

Jak looks at me, and all I want to know is what she's thinking. Deep down I hope and pray that she's not telling me everything. She's ten blocks away, yet her image is being bounced to space and back. There's meaning in her face that's lost in the journey, that I can't parse right now and may never be able to.

My friendship with Jak has survived tough times. But not
anything like this. We're out of sync and out of sorts. I want her to forgive me. I want her to love me back. I want her to be lying next to me.

Alas, as the girl with the bar code tattoo once told me:
Life is easier said than done.

I'M SITTING IN THE CAFETERIA
by myself with a black eye and a broken heart.

All the upperclassmen who have off this period have left campus to get lunch, and most of the underclassmen, who technically aren't allowed to leave school grounds, have joined them. It's the first of June, and with summer so perilously close all rules are going out the window.

I haven't brought food with me, nor have I bought anything. I'm not hungry. I'm just staring out at the sun-drenched lawn that borders the cafeteria. Even the squirrels scatter at the sight of me, probably noticing my eye and thinking I'm a giant raccoon.

I've been beaten up inside and out. Besides the occasional nerd who solicits me for dating advice
(which I don't give) and the handful of allies who have remained loyal, I am essentially a pariah in Kingsview. I've resolved to serve out the rest of my time in high school as a weird loner.

My parents warily accepted my explanation that my injury was the result of an errant doorknob. Harrison told his coaches he injured his hand during a bench-clearing brawl (that he himself sparked) earlier in the playoffs. I guess that was better than admitting he got into a fight off the field. I told Adam and Rebecca not to snitch on him. Things are bad enough. I don't need to get blamed for the misfortunes of our baseball team too.

This may be the lowest point of my entire life. I'm just plain wallowing in it.

But even the darkest days can be brightened. Even the gloomiest forecast can be wrong.

And today that hope, that ray of sunlight, comes in the form of two bubbly sophomores who enter the cafeteria holding hands and looking for me.

Hedgehog and Balloon.

I can't believe my eye (the other is swollen shut) when they sit down across from me. I haven't seen either of them in weeks.

“Please tell me this isn't some sort of sick joke,” I say.

Anthony shakes his head. “Nope. Hedgehog and Balloon are back!”

I still think they're playing a trick on me until Brooke
starts to nod.

“It's true,” she says.

I literally pump my fists overhead and cheer. “Yes! You don't understand how happy this makes me.”

Brooke smiles and rubs the back of Anthony's neck, below his spiky hair.

“So . . . ,” I say, “are you gonna make me beg? Tell me what happened!”

“Well, ever since the article came out, I've been thinking,” Brooke says. “What's the most important part of a relationship? Is it
how
you got there? Or is it that you got there at all?” She looks lovingly at Anthony. “And I realized that it doesn't matter how Hedghog and I got together. All that matters is that we
are
together and we belong together.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you!”

“I know, Shane. But I had to figure it out for myself. I got a little caught up in the scandal of it all. And I still think the whole Galgorithm thing is a bit creepy. But you're right, the fact that Anthony cared enough about me to
be
creepy in the first place is pretty darn romantic.”

She kisses him on the cheek.

“And you told her . . . ?” I ask Anthony.

“Everything,” he says. “I told her everything. That you helped me figure out what her interests were. That you helped me write all those text messages. Everything.”

“They were your words,” Brooke says to me, “but they were coming from Hedghog's heart. So I guess what I want
to say to you, Shane, is
thank you
. Thank you for being ­Anthony's guide and advisor and messenger. Thank you for bringing us together.”

“Yeah, man,” Anthony adds, “thank you. Me and Balloon have had our ups and downs. But we would be nothing without you.”

“It was my pleasure, guys. Really. I'm glad it all worked out.”

I can't tell if I'm tearing up or if my shoddy eyelid is just leaking. Probably a little of both.

“Is your eye okay?” Anthony asks. “We heard the rumors about Harrison. What a tool.”

“Yeah, yeah, it's nothing,” I say. “Sometimes a good punch clears your head.” (This has not been the case with me, of course. Things are hazier than ever.)

“I also wanted to let you know that I took the article off the newspaper website,” Brooke says. “I know that's probably too little too late, but I thought it was the right thing to do since I kinda didn't ask you for your side before publishing it. Also, possibly committing libel in high school probably won't help my investigative reporting career.”

I chuckle. “I appreciate that, Brooke.”

“The comments section was quite . . . colorful, to say the least,” she adds. “But with it all gone at least you'll be
that much harder to google.”

“Thank you.”

“Um, and . . . ,” Anthony starts.

“Don't,” I say. “You don't need to apologize for being one of Brooke's sources for the article. If I were in your shoes, I would have also spilled my guts. ‘Deny till you die' is just a stupid saying.”

“Oh, thank God,” Anthony says. “I have been racked with guilt for weeks. My hair has been falling out.”

I can only imagine what
that
nightmare scenario looks like.

“It's all good, buddy. I like to think you two did me a huge favor. Me? A dating guru? What a joke. I don't know anything. And I can't even get my own life in order.”

“Shane,” Brooke says, “that's crazy. Think about how many people you've helped.”

“Yeah,” Anthony says, “you can't retire. Guys like me need you!”

“Hmmm,” I say. “Well, maybe I could get an eye patch and be the dating pirate. ‘Excuse me,
arrr!
you a Gemini?'”

Brooke breaks out laughing at my imitation. And, wouldn't you know it, she sounds exactly like a squeaky balloon.

“So what's next for you, Shane?” Anthony asks.

“Well, first I'm gonna take some Advil because right now I see two Hedgehogs and three Balloons. After that, well, we'll see. You guys have given me a little bit of hope.”

Sometimes, that's all you need.

I BURST INTO THE TEACHERS'
lounge and start scanning the room. I'm on a mission. But I'm also disheveled and have a black eye, so all the teachers in the lounge are wondering why a feral student is going rogue in their private area.

Buoyed by Hedgehog and Balloon's reconciliation, I've come here to see if I've still got it. Maybe I can still make a difference.

At first I think I've come up empty. I stalk through the lounge without finding what I'm looking for. Finally I reach the kitchenette in the back. Inside are a coffee machine, a fridge, a two-person table, and Deb sitting with her back to me, reading her iPad. Her seemingly floor-length hair is unmistakable. Bingo.

“Ms. Solomon,” I say, “can I talk to you for a second?”

Deb turns around to look at me. “Oh my. What happened to your eye?”

“It's nothing.”

“Is that from the same boy who was harassing you in the Student Council office?”

“No,” I lie. “This was just an accident. Thank you, by the way, for helping me that time. Everything is fine, though.”

“Okay,” she says, remaining unconvinced. “What can I do for you?”

I enter the kitchenette area and sit across the table from her.

“It's Mr. Kimbrough,” I say.

“Shane.” She lowers her voice. “I don't think we should talk about this right now.” As in,
all my coworkers are in the other room
.

“It won't take long,” I say, trying to be as discreet as possible.

“You shouldn't be involved, Shane. You shouldn't even be in here.”

“Please let me say what I have to say. You need to hear it.”

“All right,” she says, crossing her arms.

“First you should know that this is coming from me. He doesn't even know I'm here. It's just that Mr. Kimbrough, um, Bob . . . he's great. He's a good teacher and a great guy. I know he gets a little carried away sometimes and is a little over the top, but that's just because he cares about you so much. I've never met anyone with such a heart of gold.”

“I appreciate you saying all this, Shane. Bob is lucky
to know you. He really is. It's just . . . that
formula
. That algorithm. It was too much. And too public.”

“I know,” I say. “The texting. And the ‘moves.' It's a ­little creepy. But that's
my
fault. All those things were stupid stuff
I
told him. He only posted it because he was excited. He was so happy when he was around you. I just think it was his misguided attempt to share some of that happiness with the world. His heart was in the right place. And it's a big heart.”

She looks at me like she's possibly considering my plea.

“You have to give him another chance, Ms. Solomon. I promise you he's worth it.”

Suddenly another voice is heard.

“Shane? What are you doing here?”

We look up to see Mr. Kimbrough.

“Your eye! What happened?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

He enters the kitchenette area as well.

“Hey, Deb,” he says.

“Hi, Bob. Shane here was just telling me some very nice things about you.”

Mr. Kimbrough looks at me, ashen. Then to Deb: “I swear I didn't put him up to it. I—”

“It's okay,” Deb interjects. “I know. It's all right.”

“Mr. Kimbrough,” I say, “I was just telling her that the whole Galgorithm thing was my fault and that she shouldn't
blame you for it and that you got a little carried away and that she should give you another chance.”

“Well, I think a
little
carried away might be a bit of an understatement,” he says.

Everyone chuckles, and this thankfully cuts the tension just a bit.

“I'm grateful for you coming here, Shane, and for everything you've done, but I can handle this myself.” He turns to Ms. Solomon. “Deb, I know I've said this before, but I'm sorry again for my behavior. It was inappropriate. It was immature. It was downright one three five seven nine.”

Deb and I both look at him quizzically.