Val: 5

I woke up early the next day, feet tangled in the sheets. Minutes later, I was alone in the kitchen, bent over a bowl of Honey Oats. Mom was in the shower. Bage was asleep. Eating breakfast alone had become ritual over the past few weeks; it felt like my family and I were always forced to maintain separate schedules.

It was seven o'clock in the morning, and your girlfriend knocked on the door.

I tugged on the doorknob, and door swung inwards. Alena was standing on the porch. Like always, she looked unfathomably pretty; her white-blond hair was pin-straight, and fell just below her shoulders. Her skin was unblemished, and her scarlet nails tapped against her lower cheek. Magenta lipstick complimented her brown eyes. Her dark eyebrows were waxed and arched. My first instinct was to smile at her. She smiled back. She was wearing a floral jumper with shorts that rode up so far, I almost mistook her outfit for a bathing suit.

She was perfect for you.

"Alena," I greeted, feigning surprise. Her morningly visit was not abnormal. She’d been making more trips to my doorstep of late, whether with the newest gossip or a cup of coffee. She would often offer to drive me to school. She craved all aspects of friendship, and she needed to have me at her disposal for all hours of the day.

For some reason, the very sight of her dragged my heart down in my chest. "Hey."

"Hey!" She rushed forward and threw her bangled wrists around my neck. I hugged her back.

"What's up?" I asked, folding my arms and allowing her to follow me into the kitchen. I resumed where I had left off on my Honey Oats. I was still wearing pajamas. Alena seemed undeterred by all of those facts.

She smiled widely, beginning to run a hand through her hair, and then stopped mid-rake as if she was wary of ruining her hairdo. "I told Jet on the phone—I don't know if he told you—but I got a job." Her voice rose in pitch over the course of the sentence. It was a squeak by the time she finished. She bit her lip, anticipating my reaction.

Shock had jumpstarted the time of my reaction. With a moment’s delay, my face lit up. I jumped from my seat. "Alena!" I swept her into another hug, and then pulled back immediately to grab her hands in mine. "That's great!"

Part of me was just relieved that Jet and Alena would no longer be arguing about money. I hated seeing him mad, and lately—despite my love for her—Alena had only been a nuisance to his budget. She was Jet's little sister, but she wasn’t little any longer. I was glad she'd finally gotten around to growing up.

"It's in modeling," Alena told me, her voice jittery with elation, "Abercrombie & Fitch." Her expression faltered. "Well, if I get the job. It’s a big if. There's a party Saturday night, where I'll be introduced to the guy that'll be working with me, or whatever, and then we'll do a few practice shots. Filming me and everything." She was suddenly overwhelmed and ruminative. She was pacing the tile floor. "It's so prestigious,” she fretted. “And I'm gonna need a dress. And—“

"Alena," I interrupted. She looked at me, flustered.

I placed my hands on her shoulders. I could feel her relax with my touch. "You’re beautiful,” I insisted. “You're gonna be amazing."

Relief graced her face, smoothing the worry-vein above her brows. "And we can get you a dress, no problem." The corner of my mouth curved in a smile. "As a matter of fact, I think we oughta arrange a shopping trip."

A glimpse of excitement passed behind her eyes, and the light winked out almost as abruptly as it came. "But the party's Saturday,” she said. “It's already Tuesday."

"I can take time off work," I reasoned. Taking time off of work wouldn't be ideal, but I was willing to sacrifice a fraction of my income if it meant Alena would stop haggling Jet for money.

"That's really sweet of you, but I'll have to order a dress online. Chris and I are going out." The excitement was back. "He has something for work tonight, a football game tomorrow, and then he told me he'd take me out for the rest of the week." Alena suppressed a grin, and now ran her hands through her hair, forgetting the possibility of ruination.

It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about you.

"God, he's something else," she told me, not bothering to stifle her urge to digress. Her mind was elsewhere. "He's sweet, and charming, and boy, is he hot. Every time I think about his eyes, I melt." She leaned her elbows on the tabletop. She closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, as if in a dream. Then her eyes opened again. "I think he's the one.”

I was at a loss for words. Again, your keen methods of deception impressed me. Your casual mention of the ‘work’ you were going to be preoccupied with tonight, your slip of a lie, your tenacity to appear as something you weren’t. Whenever possible, you ensured that everything you said contained at least a vague semblance of the truth. That, I think, is was what irked me the most. It was often hard for me to find the proof that you'd lied at all.

Shortly thereafter, Alena left. She offered to give me a ride to school, and I reminded her that I could drive just fine, to which she grinned and claimed that I couldn’t say she never did anything for me.

She told me she'd let me know when she found a dress, and then she sauntered out the door.

School was hell that day. I daydreamed of 100 meter–dashes in Physics, my ear pressed to the desktop; I tapped my finger on the underneath of the desk and imagined the rumble of the bleachers as I sped around the rust-red track, as if airborne, kicking up rubber, kicking up rubber, kicking up rubber.

Economics. Mr. Norton was a quiet rambler. Kelsey McGuire tapped my hand with her pencil, a gesture she often used to get my attention. Her petite figure hunched in her seat. She whispered softly. "So.”

"What?"

Norton droned on, his lecture becoming the background to our conversation. My notes dwelled on my desk, unwritten, and I could hear you and David Miller suppressing laughter at the back of the room.

Kelsey blinked at me. "You keep looking at Chris Mahoney," she told me. "You think I haven't noticed?"

My cheeks heated, and I felt a blush creep onto my face. Had I been looking at you?

"You on a revenge kick, or something?” Kelsey asked. She gazed at me through the lenses of her black-rimmed glasses.

I cleared my throat. "I'm still pissed, if that's what you mean."

"I'm sure Jet and Chris can handle their own problems. They're big boys.”

Nausea festered in the pit of my stomach. I felt septic. Exhaling, I leaned in closer. I told her to remind me to tell her something after class. Unlike you, I did not like keeping secrets.

Her eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. She crossed her legs, clad in acid-wash skinny jeans. She nibbled on the end of her pencil; it was a habit she acquired shortly after her sister left for law school. Anxiety was her Achilles heel.

"Okay," she said, drawing out the ‘y’.

"Girls and boys," Mr. Norton chastised. His blue marker froze mid-stroke on the whiteboard. "Quiet down, please."

His eyes flitted to Kelsey and me, and then at the group behind us. I used the opportunity to glance behind me. Your chair was flipped backwards, forearm resting on the seat-back. David was making Chinese footballs with his notepaper. Robert Hayworth stretched over the desk in front of him, handing something to David. You were hiding something in your desk; your phone, I surmised. Alena sat on your other side, palm cradling your elbow. She craned her neck over your shoulder. Your eyes rose to meet Norton's gaze, mouth mid-smile.

You saw me. We made eye contact for the briefest of moments. I hastily looked away, turning back around in my seat.

"Yeah, girls," you teased to our backs, grin in your voice.

"Yeah, girls," David echoed.

"That's enough," Mr. Norton said coolly, returning to the notes he’d been scrawling on the board.

With much chagrin, Kelsey cast a wayward glance in my direction. Later, it said.

After class, I left hurriedly. Kelsey scampered after me, toting her books in one arm. Jet, who had English across the hall, emerged and walked over to meet me. I kissed him on the cheek. "Hey, you," I said, smiling.

He smiled back, entwining his fingers through mine. "Hey. How was—what is it, History?"

"Economics," I corrected. "It was okay. Same old. Mr. Norton tries to keep order in class, but fails miserably."

“I blame it on the herd of cows at the back of the room,” Kelsey said from behind us. She sidled up next to me. “They talk faster than they chew.”

"Hey there, Kelsey," Jet said, nodding.

"Hi," Kelsey replied. Then, looking at me, “Kos, what was it you had to tell me?" She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. My heart skipped a beat.

Jet watched me nonchalantly, awaiting my answer to her question.

"Um," I stammered. My mind fumbled for a quick lie; enviously, I marveled at your ability to do such flawless improv.

"I was just gonna tell you that I joined Yearbook,” I answered finally.

Kelsey did a double-take, and then laced her elbow with mine. Her voice rose with excitement. "You did? Really? When?"

I cleared my throat. I was nervous, and could nearly feel perspiration seeping through the fabric of my shirt. "Yesterday,” I replied. “Ms.—uh, what's her name again?"

"Zennia. Ms. Zennia."

"Yeah," I covered, "yeah, well, she told me to type up senior profiles during lunch. I'm officially a member, I guess." I managed a smile, glancing at Kelsey. She didn’t seem to be buying it.

"But, you weren't at the meeting after school," she countered, brow knitting suspiciously. "And Ms. Zennia didn't say anything about a new member." She fingered her chin as if in thought. "To think of it, I don't remember any of the papers for the profiles even coming in."

Jet observed the conversation. Kelsey was staring at me. Anxiety rebelled like tin soldiers in my stomach: shooting, crying, blood, war. "Well," I said, a bit too quickly, "a few of them must've come in, because she gave me nearly ten to type up. And I had work. I couldn't make it to the meeting."

I smiled furtively, shrugging. Shooting, crying, blood, war. I prayed for her to believe me.

After what felt like a lifetime, Kelsey shot me a good-natured grin. "We can be co-editors, if you keep with it till next semester,” she offered. She bumped my shoulder. The soldiers in my stomach retreated, as if allowing me a brief breather.

I smiled in return. The three of us entered the cafeteria. Jet was the first of us in line, was the first to leave for the lunchroom. Once I had finished spooning ketchup on my chicken patty, I pulled Kelsey aside.

I glanced around. "Why are you acting so weird?" Kelsey persisted.

"I didn't join Yearbook," I muttered, lowering my eyes.

Her eyebrows rose slowly. "What d'you mean?" Her expression contorted suddenly, as if coming to a revelation. “And why the hell did you lie to me?”

"Do you promise not to tell anyone anything?" I asked, raising my eyebrow. Her eyes searched mine. “There’s a good reason I lied to you. I’ll explain, if you promise you won’t tell.”

"Sure," she relented, her tone leveling. "I promise."

We moved to the corner by the salad bar. An aroma of olives, tomatoes, and onions wafted beneath our noses. As we huddled together, some douchebag with a plate of salad jostled Kelsey’s shoulder, sending her extra quarters flying towards the slick tile. “Watch it,” she told the douchebag, who bit back a laugh.

“Asshole,” I called after him, and retrieved her quarters from the floor.

“Thanks,” Kelsey said. “I’ll get you next time?”

She and I had made a deal last year. It held that if somebody wronged one of us, the other had to step up and defend them. Normally, we took turns. She technically owed me one.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, knowing that anything I said would fail to deter her. There was nothing that could separate either one of us from the other.

Without further ado, I explained everything. From the first text you sent me to the plans we had to meet at your house later that night. It felt good to tell her the works of what had been going on. To lift a bit of the weight. You were too big of a secret to keep.

Kelsey's eyes widened at every word. At the conclusion of my speech, her hand rose to her mouth. She began to nibble on the white of her nail where the teal polish had chipped away.

"You know why a guy asks a girl to his house, right?" she asked skeptically.

"I thought of that,” I told her, snorting. I picked a fry from my plate and ate it. “But I dunno. This feels different. It seems like he has good intentions."

Kelsey barked out a shrewd laugh. "Chris, ‘good intentions’? Did you honestly just say that?" She shook her head, like she'd had a sip of whiskey that was stronger than expected. It took me back to the party; your drunken stupor, Alena kissing just beneath your navel. Over and over, like that was the best spot for kissing. I snapped out of the memory.

"I thought you were more perceptive than that,” Kelsey said.

I blushed, fearing that I was being ignorant. Were you about to have me fooled?

Kelsey stirred the ladle in the ketchup absently, making a whirlpool. Other students approached and cast resentful glances in Kelsey's direction, likely with the hope that she'd step away from the condiments. Kelsey did, walking back over to where I was standing. Suddenly, I remembered the time. Jumping a bit, I retrieved my phone from my pocket and clicked it to life. 11:51. Nearly ten minutes into the lunch period.

"I have to go," I told my friend.

I jogged away. I was late to meet you.

"You're at Yearbook if he asks, right?” Kelsey called after me. I shushed her and nodded. I poked my head back into the cafeteria to thank her, but her attention was already recaptured by Robert and David, who had just reached the end of the lunch line. Your cronies. Kelsey was friends with the two of them.

I made a dash to the old preschool classroom, skirting past the janitor with the Braves cap. When I arrived, I barreled through the door, plate bobbling dangerously in my hands. You were standing right inside the door, awaiting my arrival. You bounced on your toes. My momentum carried me forward, and the chicken patty soared from my plate and towards your white T-shirt.

I inhaled sharply. With the reflexes of a cat, your hand shot out in front of you and snatched the sandwich from the air.

"Whoa!" you exclaimed. "Christ, first you show up late. Then you try to ambush me."

I was too shocked to speak. You took my plate from me gently. My forefinger brushed your pinkie. You didn't notice. The smushed patty dropped from your fist and onto the plate. You surveyed the ketchup spread across your palm. I was blushing.

"Sorry," I choked out. You looked at me from the tops of your eyes. Cocked your head and smiled a little, like a puppy.

"You're lucky I'm quick on my feet,” you told me. You handed my plate back. "Not sure if you wanna eat that after my hands’ve been all over it."

I dumped the plate’s contents in the trash can. "It's bad for business, anyway," I claimed. "Besides. They're nasty even without your germs."

"My germs make it better," you said.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

We sat down at our regular table. You whipped out a copy of the Game Plan, which looked more like a playbook than anything by now. X's and O's were like a second language to you, and it reflected in your simple handwriting. You felt the need to circle things and underline them multiple times, and were constantly making maps of sorts. X's littered the paper. In your book, erasers didn’t exist.

"Is that where the treasure is?" I asked you once, placing my finger in the center of an X you'd drawn in the corner of the paper.

"No," you said, laugh a quick rumble in your throat before you went on to explain. "It's where Subway is." Your hand moved to adjust the paper. I saw where our fingers might have touched, and hastily pulled my hand away.

"I know where Subway is," I told you, frowning.

"Yeah, well I forget things sometimes. I have STML."

"You're just saying that," I insisted.

"Nah, I'm serious." Serious. Another word I didn’t think you knew how to epitomize.

You gnawed on the lip of your Pepsi can, brows furrowing. You stared at the Game Plan in contemplation. It was strange to watch you think; you were somehow more vulnerable when you struggled with your thoughts. It was strange to see you when you weren't in control. Your legs drifted slightly apart, kneecaps poking from underneath the hem of your shorts. You were wearing low-backed Adidas shoes. Your left heel tapped ever-slightly on the carpet. The back of your T-shirt was caught in the waistband of your shorts.

I averted my eyes as you shrugged on your jacket. The bell rang. "Oh!" you exclaimed suddenly, snap-clapping. "Guess what?"

"What?" I asked, feigning disinterest.

"Guess what I got?" you asked. When I looked, you were wearing a goofy grin.

"What?" I repeated.

"Oh, it's so good," you raved, "so good." You were rifling through your backpack.

"What is it?" I demanded.

"New cleats," you told me, unsheathing a pair of neon-yellow Nike shoes with spikes. "Nobody's gonna sack this quarterback with these babies runnin' the turf." You shoved them into my hands. "Look. Smell 'em. Don't they smell good? Hot, aren’t they?"

I blinked, holding them away from me before handing them back to you. "They're bright enough to blind the Queen of England," I stated.

"Well, Westmore is a bunch of princesses. They'll probably run off the field crying.." The corner of your mouth curled in a smirk. You drew your arm back, and pretended to throw your shoe like a football. It slipped from your hand, and you hastily caught it.

"Princesses, huh?" I asked, watching as you messed with your cleats.

"Yup," you reiterated, "We're gonna beat their asses tomorrow night." I glanced at you, smiling a little.

"C'mere," I ordered, lifting the edge of the table we'd been sitting at. "Help me with this." You came over beside me, picked up the entire table, and stowed it beside the bookcase. Again, I watched as you did it, searching your eyes. I still hate you, goddammit, don't you remember? I feared that if you didn't, the feeling of hatred would fade from existence and I'd find it as easy to forget as you did.