Say a Little Prayer(68)

It’s not until hours later, when I come downstairs to find Hannah and Amanda still sitting together on the porch with soft, hesitant smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths, that I think they still could be.





XVIII


    Breadstick Slut


The summer before eighth grade, Julia and Ben went to Greece with their grandmother. It was before any of us had phones, and I’d spent the three weeks we were apart writing increasingly detailed letters about everything they’d missed. When they finally got home, I found that Julia had done the same. That’s how much we missed each other. Now, though, I don’t think this weird silent purgatory has an easy way out.

On Monday, I watch from the safety of my bedroom window as Ben and Julia leave for school twenty minutes earlier than usual. It’s hard not to think of the choice as personal, another ploy to avoid me, too. That morning, I leave my newly completed essay on Mr. Rider’s desk on the way to first period. It’s not my best work, but I’d shredded the notes in my prayer book the day I got home, just tore the pages from the binding and let them pile in the corner of my room. They didn’t matter. Those notes caused more trouble than they were worth, and I hadn’t even finished what I set out to do—two sins short of seven. Instead, I’d typed three double-spaced pages full of things I thought Mr. Rider wanted to hear, things that would make him sit back and congratulate himself for saving another Godless, delinquent student from the dark path of cynicism. It’s nothing like the passionate, vitriolic speech I’d imagined, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Bold of anyone to assume I’d be the one to change things, anyway.

When I take my seat in homeroom, I find that even though I feel irreversibly different from the girl I’d been last week, everything else remains the same. Patrick Davies still looks like he can’t quite remember where he’s supposed to know me from, Leena and I still pass notes in the back of our calculus class as Mrs. Rockwell explains derivatives, and Kev still spends our lunch period frantically finishing his homework.

“It’s the first day back,” Leena says, watching him scribble a list of French verbs on the back of his hand. “How are you already behind?”

Kev shrugs and flips to the back of his textbook. “The better question is, how do I already have three French assignments?”

But it’s nice, I think, to know that some things don’t change. It makes the rest of the week easier to bear. When I show up for tech rehearsal Monday night, I know that Rex Blythe will miss his opening cue no less than three times, someone’s going to forget the choreography we cleaned up before spring break, and Ms. Tina is going to end the night on the verge of a mental breakdown. It’s comforting. Honestly, the only difference in my day-to-day schedule is that Torres sometimes offers me a tentative wave when we pass each other in the hall.

And Julia isn’t speaking to me. There’s also that.

“Please, Ben,” I say when I finally catch him pulling into the driveway on Wednesday night. “I just want to talk to her.”

He’s still in his school uniform, dark green slacks speckled with paint, and I wonder if he’s working on a new piece for his summer program. I wonder if he’d tell me if he was or if we’re also not speaking by default. He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “What happened?” he asks. “She changes the subject whenever it comes up.”

So he doesn’t know. Julia usually tells Ben everything, and I don’t know if it makes me feel better or worse to learn she’s not talking now. I could tell him about the kiss. I could tell him about what Julia said or about how I still remember the way her jaw tensed right before she said, Then, maybe we aren’t friends. I could tell him there’s a part of me that wants to write her off completely for that, just relegate her to the back of my mind and never think about her again.

Instead, I kick the toe of my shoe into the grass. “It’s…complicated.”

“Clearly,” Ben mutters. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do, but you know how she is. She’ll talk when she’s ready.”

But as the week drags on and my phone remains stubbornly quiet, I wonder if either of us will ever feel ready for this. By the time Sunday rolls around, the despair I’ve languished in all week has slowly but surely hardened into anger.

“It’s not fair,” I say, flopping back against Hannah’s pillows. “Why do I have to be the bigger person?”

It’s just past nine, way too early to be awake on a weekend, but I can’t sleep. Opening night is four days away, I’ve barely studied for my upcoming econ test, and I can’t concentrate even if I wanted to because every spare moment is currently dedicated to being very annoyed at Julia Young. Hannah watches me in her vanity mirror as she pins her hair into a tight bun. She also has a show next week, and judging by the open dance bag on her bed, she’s planning to spend this afternoon in the studio. I wonder if Amanda will be there, too.

“It sounds like you both said things you regret,” Hannah says. “Maybe she feels guilty.”

I roll my eyes. “She should. But she could at least say it to my face.”

“Well, you’re not exactly the poster child for forgiveness, Riley. You’re still mad at Liam Robertson for stealing your lunch money in third grade.”