Cal has the grace to blush. “Okay. Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just really complicated. Nobody knows about me and her, because…”
I can’t help myself. “Because there shouldn’t be a you and her,” I blurt out. “She’s your teacher and she’s way too old.”
Cal’s face shutters in an instant. “We haven’t even done anything.”
“She has,” I say. Even without knowing specifics, I know she’s crossed a line.
His jaw tightens. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
My patience, already stretched thin, snaps. “Do you think her fiancé would?” I ask.
I try not to focus too much on my brother’s extracurricular activities, as a general technique for preserving my self-esteem, but I’ve gotten to know Coach Kendall over the years. He’s one of my parents’ favorite people at Carlton High, and he’s been coming to our Christmas open house since Daniel and I were freshmen. He brings the same thing every year—clumsily decorated cookies—and always asks me for an update on student council activities. Unlike most adults, his eyes don’t glaze over when I answer.
He doesn’t deserve this, is my point.
“You might think you’re in some kind of real relationship, but you’re not,” I continue when Cal doesn’t reply. “Not even close.”
“Oh, really? Is it not even close?” Cal asks with a bitter laugh. “Well, I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?” His mouth tightens, and my stomach starts to sink. I know that look; I’ve pushed him too far. Cal almost never gets truly mean, but when he does—watch out.
He unfolds his arms and starts clapping softly. “Ivy Sterling-Shepard, ladies and gentlemen. Queen of relationship advice. Remind me, when was your last boyfriend?” Dread inches up my spine as his eyes flick toward Mateo and he adds, “Was it in eighth grade, when you planted one on Mateo and he never mentioned it again? Can’t blame him. He probably didn’t want to hear about it in excruciating detail like I did for two months straight.”
Oh my God. I can’t believe he went there.
My face flames with years of pent-up humiliation. Mateo goes rigid beside me as Cal stands abruptly and glares down at us. “Go to hell, both of you. I’m finding a new seat, and then I’m getting off at Government Center and going home. You can take the T back to Carlton for all I care. And if you tell anybody about Lara…” His lips thin and he lifts his chin toward me. “I’ll tell them I have no idea what you did to Boney before we got there, Ivy.”
My jaw drops as Cal turns away and heads for the back of the train. His burn of an exit is spoiled when the train lurches again and almost sends him flying, but he manages to right himself and sink into a seat as far away from us as possible. Mateo and I remain seated in total silence, which is exactly as awkward as it sounds.
Well. I started this mess by going off on Cal, so it looks like I have to speak first. “Um, so obviously that little blast from the past isn’t relevant to the matter at hand—” I start.
Mateo breaks in. “What did he mean, never mentioned it?”
No, no, no. We do not have to relive this, or attempt to rewrite history. “Mateo, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It was so long ago. I don’t even think about that anymore.”
Lies, all lies. I thought about it as recently as the ride over, when the train was crowded and we had to stand holding the bars above us. I kept swaying into Mateo’s arm, which has gotten a lot more defined than it was before high school, and felt echoes of the buzzing nerves that were my constant companion that summer. There’s no question that Mateo is even better-looking now than he was back then, and he’s been the strong, steady rock keeping me from melting down all morning. It would be easy to rekindle that crush under different circumstances.
I sneak a glance at Mateo, who’s frowning. “Yeah, me neither,” he says. Which: ouch. “But it’s not like I never mentioned it. I left you that note.”
My breath catches. “What note?”
“At your house. With a pack of Sugar Babies.” My eyes widen, and he huffs out a short laugh. “You never got those?”
“No,” I say. Sugar Babies, my God.
Memories start flooding back, and suddenly it’s like I’m thirteen years old again, walking with Mateo to my house from the corner store downtown. Cal wasn’t around that day; I can’t remember if he was busy, or if I hadn’t invited him. Mateo had bought a bunch of candy and was already digging into it. “Skittle?” he asked, waving the open bag.