I went to a fancy private school, did you know that? Westfield. Only about two hundred kids between the middle and high school, so pretty close-knit group. Except for me, that is. At the beginning at least.
Up until sixth grade I went to a public school by my house and loved it. I had a ton of friends, played basketball, and made good grades. But the summer before junior high my dad got a job as the nighttime janitor at Westfield, and as an employee, he was able to send his only son to the prestigious school tuition free even though we lived miles from the district border. My parents were so excited about the opportunity that I went into it with a pretty open mind.
Yeah, that lasted about twenty minutes. Those rich-ass kids picked up my low-income scent in no time and I went through that entire first year a complete outcast. I was made fun of, picked on, and beat up on occasion. I was pretty small back then but wouldn’t have had the guts to fight back even if I could have. I had one friend—the English teacher, Mr. Sikes. And my dad, who spent his nights mopping the floors and cleaning up after those punks.
In eighth grade we had a partner science project and I was paired up with Angela DiMarco. She’d always been decent to me, and by that I mean she didn’t knock books off my desk or call me names. But during the project she actually talked to me, and naturally, as a thirteen-year-old boy I developed a huge crush on her. By the end of it I thought we were friends. She even talked to me in the hall where other people could see.
So I got up the nerve to ask her to the fall fling dance, which was so fucking stupid, but I was so gone for the first girl that had been nice to me that I wanted to go SO. BAD. I’d go to sleep thinking about walking in holding her hand, dancing with her, and maybe even kissing her in a corner somewhere.
Mr. Sikes had gotten me onto yearbook committee, and several days per week I hung out in the media room, where we put together photos and stories for that year’s book. It was also where they kept recording equipment for announcements and this cheesy radio show the school played for people in the carpool lane.
So the day we turned in our science project I asked Angela to meet me in the media room after school. When she came, I let it all out and told her how much I liked her, waxing poetic about her kindness and how she was the prettiest girl in school. I don’t know what happened, it was total word vomit once I started. At the end, I asked her if she’d go to the dance with me.
As I’m sure you can guess, since we hate Angela now, she said no in pretty spectacular fashion. Said she couldn’t be seen going to the dance with the janitor’s kid. Not only that, but having anticipated a potential opportunity when I asked her to meet me there, she secretly turned on the recording equipment and replayed my entire speech, including her rejection, the next day at school. This was junior high, mind you, so I’m sure you can imagine what my life was like after that.
I’ll give you a hint: relentless torment.
Anyway. I’m not sure why I just told you all that, but it was my first experience telling a girl how I felt about her, and my heart was ripped to shreds and the pieces hung around the entire school for everyone to see. Embarrassing yourself in front of friends is one thing. Doing it in front of people who already hate you is another thing entirely.
So thanks, I guess, for not treating me that way. I’ve never felt judged by you.
Even when you say I’m an asshole. For some reason I find it endearing.
Graham
Graham slammed the laptop shut and glanced at the clock as the front door crashed open.
Either someone was breaking in, which he couldn’t do a damn thing about, or Claire’s date hadn’t gone well. She’d only been gone an hour.
Gertrude barked her tiny head off and darted off the bed and into the hallway.
“Claire?” he called out, placing the laptop on the bedside table. He grabbed one of his crutches to use as a weapon if necessary.
Claire appeared in the doorway with Gertrude under one arm and her purse dangling from the other, loose at her side.
One look at her face and Graham’s hackles rose. He released the crutch and pressed his hands into the mattress, sitting up straighter. “What happened? Are you okay?”
She dropped her purse and pulled Gertrude to the front of her body, burying her face in his dog’s fur. “His girlfriend showed up.”
“His what?”
“Yeah.” Claire was beside the bed now, and deposited Gertie near his legs. She swiped angrily at her eyes, color high on her cheeks. She still looked achingly beautiful, but he hated seeing her upset. “The bastard apparently has a girlfriend, and she happened to stop by the coffee shop with a friend. She saw us together and asked him who I was.”