When the World was Flat (and we were in love) (5 page)

I held my textbook to my chest like a shield as I closed my locker door.

Tom was waiting for my full attention. “I believe I was rude to you yesterday,” he said formally.

“You think?” I asked rudely. Ironic, I know.

His pinched expression made it as clear as a New York billboard that his apologies were as rare as his smile. He probably wanted to maintain his image of being a gentleman, given he was into picking up handkerchiefs for damsels in distress, or at least tampons and photos.

I sighed. “Forget it.”

“No.” He moved forward one small step, and the slight scent of his cologne made me heady. “I want to apologize,” he said in a low voice. “It was unlike me.” He held my gaze and his eyes seemed to be trying to tell me what he could not say aloud.

I looked down at my scuffed sneakers, breaking our connection. I was being ridiculous again. I felt like telling him that his rudeness had fit him like a glove from what I knew of him, but instead I changed the subject. “Do you like photography?”

“I hate photography.”

It was his third and final insult, and it made me laugh.

He stared at me for a moment and then opened his mouth as if to speak, before closing it again without a word. I watched as he shut his locker with a clang and turned down the corridor.

A few steps into his exit, Melissa sidled up to him and hooked her arm into his. I gritted my teeth as I noted he neither encouraged nor discouraged her touchy-feeliness. I also noted she was wearing a scoop-neck top that showed off her cleavage and her skirt was hitched up, revealing long, toned legs that made mine look like a popsicle stick that had been snapped in two.

Melissa could have her pick of guys in Green Grove. The entire male population was wrapped around her little finger, but she was going for the one guy who liked no one but himself. I wondered whether to tell her to strap a mirror to her forehead.

I laughed again at the thought and Tom looked over his shoulder. I ducked my head before I could read too much into his look and when I looked up it was Melissa who met my eyes, watching me like a well-fed cat watching a mouse. There was no reason for her to pounce.

 

At lunch, the girls wanted the gossip on Tom.

“Did you two get it on?” Sylv asked with a smirk.

“Shut up,” I begged. “I hate him. He hates me. End of story.”

“Sounds like a love story to me.”

“Jo,” I warned.

“Or a porno.”

“Sylv!”

But Sylv was on a roll. “Starring Lillie and Tom,” she crowed.

I heard a titter behind me and turned to see Melissa passing our table, giggling like her sides would split out of their Spanx. Next to her was Tom. His expression was as somber as a funeral director's as usual, but his complexion was flushed, the color highlighting his cheekbones.

I think I would have welcomed the man in the balaclava with open arms in that moment, but the girls were in hysterics. Sylv had tears running down her cheeks, streaking her make-up.

I forced myself to smile, stretching my lips as wide as I could, even though I wanted to follow my ball of twine back to at least five minutes ago.

 

A double period of art studies that afternoon should have cheered me up, but when I showed Mr Hastings my photos of Sylv he said, “Good, but overexposed.” Ugh. He sounded just like Tom.

“Listen up,” he announced to the class as I slumped in my seat. His voice was like a whisper above the commotion of the classroom, but he continued to talk regardless, his care-factor below zero.

If anyone hated Green Grove more than me and the girls, it was Mr Hastings. From what I understood, he had been born here, but had moved to New York in his early twenties to become a professional photographer. His star had burned bright in that decade with his work exhibited in the Guggenheim and two books under his belt, which were now fifteen years out of print. Sylv had bought me a couple of copies online.

“The theme for your major work is ‘Identity,'” Mr Hastings droned. “Make of it what you will. And you need to partner up. The school board wants you to learn about teamwork.”

There was a collective groan and murmurs of “Really?” and “Is he on meds?” The class was made up of a mixture of social outcasts, who preferred their own company.

I looked around, putting together a blacklist of potential partners. There was Kate, the emo-slash-goth, who produced nothing but black canvases with a variety of dead insects glued to them: potentially a serial killer. Next on my not-to-do list was Darnell, the comic book nerd who liked to draw Manga. Hang on. Let me translate that for you – he liked to draw half-naked women with big breasts and short skirts. And then there was Jenna, who could make your ears bleed with her non-stop talk about fairies.

I should blacklist myself too, I thought, as my tongue touched my chipped tooth. Lillie, the girl who thought her dreams were reality.

I turned down two candidates, before we realized there was an odd number in the class.

Please. Please. Please, I silently willed Mr Hastings, as he tapped his pen on his desk. He paused and his mouth opened. I thought I was off the hook. I really did. In my mind, he said, “Lillie will have to do this one on her own.” But what he actually said was, “Lillie will have to team up with Kate and Dirk.” His pen fell to his desk like a guillotine, as he stood up to go have a cigarette.

I grabbed my bag and stalked across the classroom, pulling out the seat next to Dirk. A split second decision by my teacher was going to ruin this class for the rest of the year.

“Are you into Manga?” I asked curtly.

He shook his head. “Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Of course.”

 

On the walk home, Jo seemed to know not to mention the T-word. Maybe it was because my face burned like a lighthouse beacon whenever I thought about the porno incident or maybe it was because I was kicking pebbles across the pavement with such force that they bounced at head height. I could have taken an eye out.

Of course, it could have also been because I was talking over the top of her whenever she spoke, just in case she said his name.

“Your dad has his check-up tomorrow, right?” I asked, having commented twice that it was too warm for September, asked if she was going to be working on the weekend and complained about art studies.

There was stutter in her step, before she continued on with a nod.

“And you have to go too.” It was a statement, not a question.

Her dad complained she babied him, but Jo had to go to his appointments, even if it meant missing school and her beloved Mr Bailey. For a start, her dad needed someone to drive him. Jo was the only one in our group with a license for this reason. She also needed to hear it from the doctor first-hand, because Mr Green liked to keep his daughter in the dark. It had taken him four months to tell her he had cancer after the diagnosis.

“Last night I dreamed he died,” Jo whispered.

It was like an ice cube had been dropped down the back of my shirt. I drew in a sharp breath and the words came automatically, “They say dying in a dream is good. It symbolizes a new beginning.” And then I wondered why I had repeated this less than sage advice. Good? What was good about being woken up at all hours by the sound of your last breath? And who needed a new beginning three hundred and sixty-five times a year? I was like a slate being wiped clean every night.

Jo kind of nodded and shook her head at the same time, her lank hair heavy on her shoulders. I knew she was embarrassed that she had dropped her guard like that, even to me. Jo was like a draft horse, a Clydesdale. She could have saddled the weight of a thousand nightmares before her back broke.

“Call me after the appointment,” I said when we reached my house.

“OK.”

I watched her walk down the street again, wishing that I had a ball of twine for the future like I did for the past. Then we could stick to the highways, instead of these country roads with their potholes and dead-ends.

 

I told Deb about the appointment, which was a mistake. After dinner, she knelt before a candle with her hands together in prayer and invoked the Great God himself on behalf of Mr Green.

I covered my laughter with a yawn. “Night,” I said, but she was deep in conversation with Asclepius and his daughters, the Six Sisters of Healing.

 

6

 

Sylv and I sat in the quad together at lunch the next day. Well, I sat. Sylv stretched out on a bench, using her bag as a pillow, her underwear on full display.

“How about you take a photo?” she called out to two sophomores, who were hovering like gnats around a bug zapper.

The sophomores burst into laughter and turned towards the cafeteria. I watched them shadow-box each other as they walked and suddenly it was like watching a rerun on TV, as in déjà vu. Majorly. “I think you flash your underwear too much,” I told Sylv.

“You would too if you wore red lace panties from Victoria Secret instead of boy shorts from Wal-Mart,” she said, taking a bite from her apple and turning her head to look at Mr Bailey, who was on yard duty. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think Mr Bailey will man up and make a move or what?” she asked. “I mean, have you seen how he and Jo look at each other? Talk about sexual tension.”

I rolled my eyes. “There is no sexual tension.”

“Whatever. I bet Mr Bailey is releasing the sexual tension at least five times a day.” She made a jerking movement with her hand, and the apple bobbed up and down.

“Sylv! Cut it out!” I yelped. My eyes went to Tom, who was sitting across the quad with Melissa and the Mutts. He was not looking at me though. He had barely looked at me since Sylv had told the world about the porno starring Lillie and Tom.

Melissa giggled and made a show of flicking her hair. She took the opportunity to touch him as often as she could, patting his knee, stroking his arm. My heart squeezed with each contact, even though I had called out his name again in my dreams last night and I was beginning to think he could be the man in the balaclava.

“Lillie,” Sylv said, with a warning tone.

“What?”

“I know we tease you, but jokes aside…” She sat up and looked at me with a sober expression. “Tom likes Melissa.”

I blushed. “What are you talking about?”

“Look.” She tossed her apple towards the trash. It missed. “I know what it takes to get a guy. In this porno, Melissa will get the guy.”

“Love story,” I corrected automatically.

“Whatever.”

Of course, I knew I had as much of a shot with Tom as Sylv had of meeting a model scout at Green Grove airport. There were the reasons that were on display to all and sundry, such as my lack of female endowment, lack of social standing, lack of fake tan, etc., but I also sensed a barricade between me and Tom. It was as if a battle line had been drawn and we were on opposite sides with guns raised and at the ready. The reason was hidden in my memories, I was sure of it, but as I trawled through them they tangled like cobwebs.

The silver lining was that Melissa had no chance with him either. Ha! I thought smugly when he added a few inches between them on the bench after she touched his arm again.

When the bell rang I watched Tom pick up his bag and sling it over his shoulder. My heart sank as he also picked up a yellow handbag and handed it to its owner – Melissa. Of course he liked Melissa. Take a look at her and then take a look at me.

Ha! I thought again as we walked to the main building, but this time I was laughing at myself.

 

I sat behind Tom in World History. It was by accident, I swear. Melissa sat next to him by design.

I found myself staring at the nape of his neck for the next forty minutes, noting how the muscles in his back moved whenever he lifted his head from his textbook to look at the teacher, who was giving us a lecture on Napoleon and his invasion of Russia.

As my eyes roamed over his smooth skin I noticed a small mark behind his ear – a tattoo. I squinted, straining to make out the shape. It looked like a mix of numbers and letters, like Algebra. It looked familiar, but I could have been thinking of a guy I had once seen with
E=mc2
tattooed on his arm. Jo had asked if he was being ironic, given he was walking out of the unemployment office. He wanted to know what she meant by ironic. “I guess not,” Jo had said.

Tom turned his head as Melissa leaned in to speak to him and the tattoo was concealed by his ear.

“I guess Napoleon thought he had a shot at Russia,” she said, looking at me out of the corner of her eye and making a clucking sound with her tongue. “He should have realized it was out of his league.”

 

My mood went from bad to worse during study hall. I had no text messages or missed calls from Jo, even though I had called her about five times and texted twice.

I decided to suck it up and go down to the darkroom, despite my nightmares. After all, I had processed the photos of Sylv on Monday and lived to tell the tale.

I had processed two rolls of film into negatives and hung them to dry before there was a knock at the door.

I started at the sound and then scooped up the photographic paper that was open on the bench. Maybe it was Jo.

“All clear,” I called out.

The door opened and a tsunami of sunlight flooded the room filled with specks of dust. I groaned inwardly, knowing they would cling to my damp negatives. A figure was silhouetted in the doorway. I put my hand up in front of my eyes before I was blinded.

“Who is it?” I asked, as they stepped into the room and the door closed behind them with a click.

“Me.”

“Tom?”

My eyes readjusted, like sponges sucking in their surroundings. Tom was standing there with eyes as black as midnight under the red light. I caught the scent of his cologne and a thrill went through my body. He stepped forward and said, “I have to tell you–” before he vanished, as if in a puff of smoke.