“Are you mad?”
“No, I’m not mad.” She glances back at the classroom. “Although Lord knows you’re not good for my attendance record.”
“I’m not good for anybody’s attendance record.”
“What’s your name today?”
“A,” I tell her. “For you, it’s always A.”
She has a test next period that she can’t skip, so we stay on the school grounds. When we start to encounter other kids—kids without classes this period, kids also cutting—she grows a little more cautious.
“Is Justin in class?” I ask, to give her fear a name.
“Yeah. If he decided to go.”
We find an empty classroom and go inside. From all the Shakespearean paraphernalia hanging on the walls, I’m guessing we’re in an English classroom. Or drama.
We sit in the back row, out of sight of the window in the door.
“How did you know it was me?” I have to ask.
“The way you looked at me,” she says. “It couldn’t have been anyone else.”
This is what love does: It makes you want to rewrite the world. It makes you want to choose the characters, build the scenery, guide the plot. The person you love sits across from you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. And when it’s just the two of you, alone in a room, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be.
I take her hand and she doesn’t pull away. Is this because something between us has changed, or is it only because my body has changed? Is it easier for her to hold Adam Cassidy’s hand?
The electricity in the air is muted. This is not going to lead to anything more than an honest conversation.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” I say again.
“I deserve part of the blame. I never should have called him.”
“What did he say? Afterward?”
“He kept calling you ‘that black bitch.’ ”
“Charming.”
“I think he sensed it was a trap. I don’t know. He just knew something was off.”
“Which is probably why he passed the test.”
Rhiannon pulls away. “That’s not fair.”
“I’m sorry.”
I wonder why it is that she’s strong enough to say no to me, but not strong enough to say no to him.
“What do you want to do?” I ask her.
She matches my glance perfectly. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to do whatever you feel is best for you.”
“That’s the wrong answer,” she tells me.
“Why is it the wrong answer?”