Val: 3

We decided to meet up during lunch behind the old preschool classroom. The place you’d deemed our “headquarters”. You insisted that we go separately, and I agreed. Not for the same reasons. I didn't want Jet seeing me with you. You liked it because you said it made you feel like a double agent. You were completely infatuated with the James Bond movies, which you’d told me in a giddy mini-ramble over the phone.

It was Monday morning. The sun was a bright white, pulsing over the sidewalk, and the brisk air chilled my skin. Jet gripped my hand as we walked into school. I could feel the soft contours of his palm match with mine. I was decked in my yellow romper and white sandals. Smiling, Jet told me I looked like a flower. Joking, I asked him if flowers wore sandals, and he told me I couldn’t take a compliment.

For the first time, my eyes roamed the entrance in search for you. It wasn't long until they found a landing. I had forgotten how you looked since Friday. I could see the stifled exhaustion in your doe-brown eyes, the way your hair licked up in the front like a duck’s ass. There was a dimple in your cheek, like you’d been pricked with a pin. I noted the way your mouth fell agape when you listened to your buddy talk. It was uncanny, seeing you. Watching you. You possessed this energy; one that seemed to rush from between your rib cage and unfurling to the ends of your limbs, always rearranging you, always tinkering with the way you were standing, intent on moving the world.

"What're you looking at?" Jet asked me suddenly. I was walking slowly, staring at you.

"I just can't believe he beat you up like that," I lied. I feigned anger. It was becoming harder to summon. "I want to ruin his stupid pretty face."

I glanced away before you caught my eye.

Jet draped his arm around me comfortingly. I felt the fabric of his shirt scratch against the back of my neck. It felt nice. Safe. "I tried." Jet shook his head, and then made a feeble attempt at a joke. "I was hoping he'd at least bruise." I found that I agreed with him. Humility would have been good for you; it still would be.

Jet and I kissed goodbye before we went our separate ways. Over the course of the morning, I noticed that you and I only had one class together. Unless you were skipping, that was. When sixth period rolled around, I told Jet about my exciting new epiphany; signing up for Yearbook Club. I told him that this required many lunchtimes spent typing senior profiles and photo captions. My friend Kelsey was in Yearbook. It wouldn't be hard to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

I felt sick for lying to him, even if he didn’t seem to mind overtly that I’d be gone.

It was your fault that I had to fib. It was your fault that things started going downhill from that day forward; it was your fault when the world I’d known imploded and it’s your fault now.

After some casual searching, I was able to locate the miniature staircase and long hallway that led to our headquarters. I recalled you telling me to open the second door on the left. I counted to two and placed my hand upon the handle. It was unlocked.

I went in.

I took tentative steps on the carpeted floor, feeling like an intruder. Wishing I could leave and crawl back into my old lunchroom seat. The one my best friend was now probably offering to another person.

Then I saw you.

Standing in the middle of the room like the object that didn't belong, backpack slung over one shoulder. You were drinking a Pepsi. You were tall, about six foot. I started to smile and then stopped.

"Hey," you said, straight-faced. "Thought you bailed on me for a sec."

"I'm a woman of my word," I claimed, crossing my arms. My stomach roiled with discomfort, like it was my rib cage’s special immune system, trying to shield my heart from the irony of that statement.

You strode, long-legged, to where a table was folded against the wall. You dragged it to the center of the room, and set it up, its legs clicking into place at the adept flip of your hand.

"Close the door?" you suggested, and, though I feared the prospect of being alone with you, I did so. I unfolded one of the metal chairs that had been leaning against a cabinet. When I sat down, I felt instantly cold. I could smell your cologne, potent and addictive, and the faint hint of shampoo that must’ve lingered in your hair. You took out a lined piece of paper and a blue pen. You bit the cap off with your teeth and did a quick scribble.

I leaned over to see what you had written. "Game Plan", underlined twice. "Okay, game plan," you said, reading your own writing, tongue hanging from your mouth as you began scribbling again. You were right-handed, and I eyed where your shirtsleeve yanked up your arm as you wrote, exposing faint tan-lines. "What're we gonna do to get this out there?"

My mind was stonewalling. The entire situation felt so out of place.

Luckily, it seemed like you already had your own ideas.

You named off Facebook and Twitter, and wrote them down in a hurry. I contested, reminding you that we couldn’t use our real identities. Your solution was to fake accounts and “BS the whole thing”, to which I wearily agreed. The big hole in our plan, which we’d both noticed at this point, was that our consumers would, by default, have to know our true identities. We would have to hope that they wanted our business to continue enough for us to skate by.

With sudden haste, you felt your pockets and whipped out your cellphone. Eyes falling, you swiped frivolously across the screen.

Your fingers froze. "What're we callin' this?"

"Callin' what?"

"Our business, y'know."

I shrugged. "I dunno. 'Subway Ripoff: Don’t turn us in, or we’ll find you and kill you!'?"

You humored me, feigning contemplation. Your pen was poised over the paper. "Seems harsh," you said. “Not very enticing, either.” You began to tap the pen rhythmically atop the tabletop, your teeth pressed lightly to the center of your tongue.

Then you kinda glanced at me. "You got a knack for doing Neeson’s accent, though."

Ignoring you, I asked, "How about 'Buy Sandwiches or Get Out'?"

You smiled a little. "I like your suggestions." I rolled my eyes, which reaped another smile from the corner of your lips. "Buy. Sandwiches. Or Get. Out," you mumbled slowly, pausing after each word to type the title into your phone.

"We're actually using that?" I asked. Both of my eyebrows rose with such exaggeration that my chin fell to my chest.

"Hell yeah," you said. You tilted your head back and chugged the last few sips in your Pepsi can. “We should have aliases.” I looked at you evenly. It was the first time we’d made eye contact. Your eyes were a glimmering hazel, like lasers were about to come out. "For fun, y'know," you said. "And it'll make it less conspicuous."

"Fine,” I agreed. I didn't want to argue with you. Not really.

You stood and tossed the empty Pepsi can into the trash basket ten feet away. It was a perfect shot. "Three points," you mumbled.

I thought for awhile, cradling my chin in my palm. I leafed through the names I could give you, attempting to land the appropriate fake name. I thought of one that was too funny to resist. "Kristoff," I suggested, smiling into my hand.

"Kristoff?" you asked, somewhat seriously. Then you bent on your knee near the edge of the table. "Oh Anna," you cried out, your voice assuming a dramatic effect. Comically, you clasped your hands together. "You mustn't marry Hans." Then you stood back to your feet, refusing to offer a mere smile, and I broke into laughter. The last thing I expected was for you to parody the Disney film Frozen. "I’ll die before I be Kristoff," you told me, which sent me into another fit of giggles.

Then I sighed, glancing down at the table. "Okay. Then why don’t we hear some of your ideas, genius?"

"For you?" You pondered a moment, still standing by the edge of the table. "Valerie," you said. I thought about it, and couldn't find anything wrong with the name.

"Sure, I guess." My mind wandered, and then I said, "You can be Quinn."

"Quinn." You nodded assertively. "Alright. I'll take that."

After a bit of typing and swiping, you stuffed your phone in your back pocket. You pulled a piece of bubblegum from your front pocket, undid the wrapper, and popped it in your mouth. You were meant to chew gum. Your jaw worked effortlessly, making noticeable the hollow of your cheek. You looked like a professional baseball player. The kind that scuffs in the dirt with their cleats. You would love the comparison, which is something I know now but didn't then.

"Okay," you asserted. Your body swiveled in your chair to face me. “So, I was thinking that we should make cards. Like tickets. Maybe a few hundred, to start. When people sign up for their sandwiches, we can give them a coupon. Y’know, that way we don't get anything mixed up."

I was about to protest. We were taking so many of—what seemed to be futile—measures. But then I realized that I was the one who'd said we should be careful.

You laughed. "I get shit mixed up all the time. It's mostly so I don't screw things up." You twirled the pen between your fingers like a drumstick. "Like, y'know, accidentally give some asshole a free sandwich."

As if that could be the worst thing to happen.

"What'll they say on them?" I asked. "The coupons, I mean."

"Generic numbers, probably. 1, 2, y'know. We'll only have one of each number, so nobody can replicate them."

I nodded. I had to hand it to you: you had a knack for brainstorming. "I have a few empty pizza boxes and beer boxes in my garage,” you said.

I also offered to lend my resources, knowing that last Christmas, Bage stuffed a packet of construction paper in the closet after his drawing phase had met a lull.

"You can bring the paper, and we can meet at my place, then?" You stood up, pulling your team jacket over your shoulders. It was different than Jet’s flick of the jacket collar. Your arms resembled a snake, trying to wiggle down the armholes. "How 'bout tomorrow after school?" You looked to me for confirmation with raised eyebrows.

You almost slipped the invitation past me without my noticing. My heart jumped when I realized what you were saying. You wanted me to come over to your house. Your goddamn house. Everyone knew that the only reason a girl went to a guy's house was to get picked up or laid. I searched your eyes. You were known for being a ‘bad boy’; Madison Houler had dubbed you ‘most-likely to lay every girl in the senior class’. I couldn’t believe you thought you’d get away with fooling me.

"Your house?" I coughed out.

You blinked, before clarity blessed your expression. As if you hadn’t known what I was talking about. "Yeah, my house," you reiterated. "Like, the place where I sleep and eat, and where my family lives and shit like that."

I cringed. It was like you had an obsession with the word ‘shit’. "I know what a house is,” I told you.

"Then why're you looking at me like I'm a dipshit?"

Your eyebrows jumped a little.

"Oh, right."

You smirked.

"You think I'm gonna pull some kinda stunt."

My cheeks heated with sourceless embarrassment. The "Game Plan" was rolled in your palm, and you were mindlessly slapping it against the edge of the table. "Well, don't worry about me,” you assured. “I might have a trick or two up my sleeve, but I'm not like those guys."

I snorted. "You're the epitome of one of 'those guys'."

You laughed a little, humorlessly. "You don't know me," you told me. “And I don’t know what ‘epitome’ means.” You were walking past me.

“An epitome is like an example.” I gritted my teeth. You halted in your tracks. “And you’ve given me good reason to believe you’re the guy everyone says you are.”

“Reasons like what?” you challenged, the ‘what’ dropping by an octave.

I was furious. My heart pumped. “I don’t know,” I said. “Try the time you beat Jet out of his senses just to satisfy your ego. Or the fact that you’ve had sex with the entire twelfth grade.” Your jaw dropped. “Or, I don’t know, the fact that the only reason you’re doing this is because your fucking conduct disorder’s telling you I’m gullible enough to let you trick me into helping you make and launder profit. My guess is that you’ll drop me as soon as you realize you’ve used everything of mine I’m willing to give.”

I was out of breath. Like pressure, my buildup of rage was gone upon its release. Guilt started to stem in my chest as your reaction pended.

“It’s all your guess,” you told me. “And,” you said, a look of agitation sweeping your eyes, “why does everyone think sex is some kind of crime? It’s just a fun thing to do. The day people quit ragging on guys about that will be the day my ego’s satisfied, Val. Not the day I beat some guy who thought I was his punching bag.”

The bell rang.

You shouldered your backpack, already halfway out the door. "See ya later, Valerie," you said. "Text me when you make up your mind about the playdate, alright?"

And then you were off, jogging bouncily down the hallway, joking familiarly with your jock crew. I was infuriated, and yet every time you surprised me, I felt the obligation to encourage you.

I wondered who you really were.

I texted you.

Me: Tomorrow after school.