“So don’t,” Shana says. “You already knew this might be a possibility. He did too. Sure, you were weirdly cute together, but—”
Another sob bursts out of me. A couple of first-years flinch as they walk by, and one bumps into the other.
“Oh god,” Shana says. “I am so sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. Redact that shit.”
“Too soon.”
“Of course, my dear. I think you just traumatized those kids.”
“Sorry!” I shout, turning back in their direction. I blow my nose into the tissue, extra loud for dramatic/comedic effect. I can tell Shana is grossed out, but, uncharacteristically, she tries not to show it—a testament to how bad she’s feeling for me.
“What if Carter...” I say. “What if he finds out we were together?”
“Not gonna happen.” Shana puts an arm around me. “Ember and I are all over that. We’ll make sure everyone keeps their big fat mouths shut. And you can just text his brother and his friends, tell them the deal.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “That’s smart.” I pull out my phone and go to Instagram since I don’t actually have Carter’s brother’s number. I tap the wordMessageon his profile and try to compose something quickly without giving it too much thought.
Hi Lincoln. It’s Maggie Spear. So obviously you know Carter looped again. Could you not tell him about me? When you talk? This is a weird message. Sorry. Hope you’re doing ok.
And then I find the profile for Carter’s current best friend, Bodhi, and send him a similar message (except with his I putDO NOT TELL HIM ABOUT MEin all caps because Bodhi’s the kind of person who needs extra guidance).
“Okay, sent,” I say, feeling relieved but also a little shady, like I’ve just done something illegal.
“Brilliant,” Shana says as we approach Mr. Cha’s homeroom. “Hey, so I have something actually.”
“Oh?”
With Shana, a sentence like that could be referring to a billion things, from a pack of Trident she just bought to a party she’s throwing in two days while her parents are away to a girl she hooked up with in a side room during a speech-and-debate tournament.
“We have our first gig. Angry Baby.”
Angry Baby is our band (coming up with that name is one of my proudest life achievements), and I know how I’m supposed to react to this—with aSquee!and aHow did you...?and aThis is amaaaaazing—but I’m not feeling any of that. It’s more of a terror-nausea-why-are-you-telling-me-this-now-of-all-the-times-to-be-telling-me-this cocktail.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Shana says, swooping in before I can deliver a hard no. “Just listen to the details, store them in that beautiful brain of yours, and we’ll talk more about it some other time. The gig is in February, a fullmonth and a halfaway, at Bean-Age Dream—”
“Ugh, the coffeehouse?”
“Do you know another Bean-Age Dream? Yes, the coffeehouse, and my dad’s friend Misty owns it, so don’t make fun of the name like you always do. I agree it’s an incomprehensible and stupid moniker for an establishment, but the actual place is pretty great, and my dad’s friend is being kind enough to let us open for this other band without ever hearing us play—”
“Right,” I say, dread oozing from my pores in the form of mean-girl snappiness, “because we’ve never for real performed anything and we’re absolutely not ready!”
“We’llbeready,” Shana says. “This will make us be ready.”
“I think it will make us be embarrassed.”
Shana laughs, shakes her head, playfully jostles my shoulder, and walks into Mr. Cha’s class ahead of me. We’re definitely going to end up doing the gig. That’s just Shana’s way.
But maybe there’s something to it because, would you look at that: I just went a full thirty seconds without thinking about Carter.
A pathetic victory, but I’ll take it.
I sit down at my desk and, as I’m putting my phone into my backpack, I see a new IG notification.
It’s a message from Lincoln:Totally get it. Won’t mention you.??
I know it should be encouraging, but instead it just reminds me of the recently exploded hole in my chest. I wipe at my cheeks and hope Mr. Cha’s morning lecture will be engaging enough to distract me for at least another thirty seconds.
Carter
