Fern:Okay. And I guess it’s fine if they know I was the one who took the pictures. I’m not the one with anything to hide here
Jenna:Yes, there you go, Fern! Now you’re making sense! You have nothing to be afraid of! You’re not the one who did terrible shit, she is! Okay, I’m gonna go tell people
Lisa:Me too. Big hugs, Fern! This is so shitty and none of it is your fault, okay??
As I watch my two friends go into battle for me, I feel a sense of security that I never felt before. They really do have my back, and what an incredible feeling that is. I sigh, dropping my phone onto my vanity, and finally root around in my closet for a pair of pajamas to wear. Once dressed, I wrap my arms around myself, feeling cocooned and safe. It’s going to be okay. I have just made damn sure of it.
Chapter 21
Age Eighteen
You know what’s funny? Public speaking. Even just the thought alone is enough to make my heart skip a couple of beats (and not in a good way). But I also, in a very weird way, am anticipating it. This morning, as I get dressed for school, I keep envisioning myself standing in front of my entire class, giving my presentation, and I am torn between horror and excitement. Which is really freaking weird, right? But the thing is, this presentation is special. About a month back, we were asked to prepare a presentation on any topic we were interested in. And I really mean any topic. Like, one boy decided to do a presentation onWorld of Warcraft. Actually, more than one boy did, I think. Anyway, doesn’t matter. I decided to do a presentation on baking. I can’t even count the number of hours I spent on my slideshow. I put in tons of photos of the things I’ve baked in the past, and I talked about food science and nutrition and how important they are. And as I polished my slideshow, I realized that I was actually proud of my work, and I couldn’t wait to share this part of me with everyone else. To show them that there’s more to me than just loser Fern.
Everyone else has put in a lot of effort too; I can tell because like me, they’re all dressed extra nicely today. When the class begins, Ms. Lund brings her hands together and says, with a bright smile, “All right! I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks now. Who’d like to go first?”
To nobody’s surprise, Haven raises her hand. I look down at my lap to avoid the temptation of rolling my eyes as she struts to the front of the classroom. When she announces that her topic of choice is Facebook, though, I can’t hold back the eye roll. Luckily, my face is still lowered, so no one catches it. I think.
But as Haven goes into her presentation, I have to admit that I’m impressed. It’s obvious that she’s done a ton of research on the company and its history and all the twists and turns that it had to go through to become what it is today. She even goes into some shady things that the company has done to stay ahead of their competition. It’s a much more complex talk than I expected, and when she finishes, everyone applauds and cheers like she’s just scored a touchdown.
No way in hell I’m going to follow that, so I sink into my seat as Ms. Lund asks who’d like to go next. Aaron Lambert is next to volunteer, then Meera Patel, then another student, and another. I keep working myself up to raise my hand next, but each time Ms. Lund asks who’d like to go, my anxiety overcomes me, and my hand refuses to move. And now there’s no one left to go next but me.
Everyone’s eyes land on me. I can practically feel their gazes crawling across my skin like little insects.
“And last but not least,” Ms. Lund says, gesturing at me to come up to the front.
As I make my way out of my seat and to the front of the classroom, my chest throbs with actual pain, that’s how hard my heart is thumping. You’ve got this, I tell myself. You’ve worked so hard on it, and it’s genuinely good.
With a trembling hand, I find my file on the class laptop and open it. I hit play and stand to face the sea of eyes. “Um, my topic is, uh, baking.”
Take a deep breath, I tell myself. Then I launch into the introduction. My voice is wobbly to begin with, peppered withums andahs, but as I tell everyone how much I love baking and how my love for it has fueled my research into food science, I gain more confidence. Daniis giving me a small smile, and Ms. Lund is nodding at me, her eyes bright with encouragement, and most of the class seems to be genuinely interested in what I have to say. Warmth fills my chest. I’m doing it. I’m sharing part of me with them, and they’re seeing me for the first time as something more than just a loser for them to make fun of.
As I click to slide number three, I say, “And here I am, making my very first cake.”
There’s a pause, then the entire room erupts into shrieking laughter. I stand there, gaping at them, my brain struggling to understand what’s happening. Ms. Lund’s expression has gone from kind encouragement to anger. I turn around and there, cast on the screen, instead of a photo of twelve-year-old me holding up a vanilla cupcake, is a photo of an elephant shitting.
All the blood drains from my head.
“Is this a joke?” Ms. Lund snaps, glaring at me.
“No!” I cry. “I didn’t—it’s not supposed to be—” My fingers scramble across the keyboard, hitting next, but it just gets worse. Instead of a photo of the basic ingredients needed to bake a muffin, the next slide shows a photo of a horse shitting. The class laughs harder. I click next frantically, and more photos of various animals shitting show up on the screen.
“You need to come to my office after school,” Ms. Lund says to me.
By now, I’m openly sobbing, my nose running. I must look disgusting. I don’t have any tissues, so I swipe at my nose with the back of my hand, and I can’t help but notice how demurely Haven is giggling, covering her mouth with a manicured hand. It’s too much. No heart is strong enough to withstand such humiliation. I don’t even ask for permission before darting out of the classroom.
Thankfully, since we’re in the middle of class, the bathroom is empty. I lean over the sink, still crying, and splash some cold water onto my face. I don’t know how I can possibly survive this. Fantasies about moving away to some foreign country flit through my mind.
The door opens and I freeze, mid-sob. Why didn’t I think to hide in one of the cubicles? I glance up in the mirror, and through the reflection, I see that it’s Dani. She approaches me slowly, gnawing on her bottom lip as she does so.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You okay?”
I can’t help it. A bitter snort comes out of me. “No,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Dani says. She looks down at her hands. “I didn’t think ...”
There’s a strange note in her voice that catches my attention. It takes me a moment to recognize it. Guilt. Dani is guilty.
“Did you know she was going to do this?” I say, my voice hushed with disbelief.
