Not with Liam.
I hide in the bathroom, wiping my tears with the scratchysandpapersingle-ply toilet paper the school district stocks.
Eventually first period ends, if the sudden influx of people into the bathroom is any indication, and my tears have mostly dried, so I hike my backpack onto my shoulders and head to AP Chem.
What else can I do?
“You okay?” Bowie asks as soon as they see me.
I shake my head. If they press me I think I might start crying again.
So I just say, “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
They squeeze my shoulder as we take our seats.
***
I didn’t know it was possible to get stage fright without actually being onstage. But walking into Theatre IV seventh period feels like that moment when you’re cresting the hill of a roller coaster and about to plummet.
I wait outside the door, pondering if I should skip again. But Dr. L knows there’s not a Theatre Emergency, and worse, she knows I’m not the one to deal with them anymore.
Maybe I should go see my guidance counselor and drop the class entirely. It’s a little late in the year, but then again, I’m just a TA. No one would miss me. I could replace it with a study hall; everyone would be happier.
I turn around and bump into Madison.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s cool.” They push their dark curls off their forehead. “You good?”
I shrug.
“I heard somethingsomething.”
“Sorry.”
“Why? You have one of those lists for me?”
I shake my head. They smirk.
“Not sure whether to be relieved or offended. You headed in, or...?”
I shrug, open the door for them, but they gesture at me to go first, so now I’m trapped.
Everyone’s eyes press on me as soon as I step in, a dozen stabs in my stomach. Rather than take my usual spot next to Dr. L’s desk, I sit at the very end of the last row of benches and try to ignore the glances people keep casting my way. It’s torture.
This has to violate the Geneva Convention.
***
After the longest forty-seven minutes of my life, the final bell rings. Normally I’d go grab a snack before getting the Little Theatre set for rehearsal, but that’s not my job anymore.
Instead, I head to my locker to get my stuff. I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to catch the bus. I can’t remember the last time I took it. I’ve always stayed late for rehearsal, or grabbed a ride with Bowie or Jasmine or Liam.
As I stuff my empty shmoodie bottle into my backpack, it catches on the corner of my binder. I pull it out and stare at it.
Jasmine’s left all the breakup lists for her boyfriends in there. She only took the ones that would embarrass me. That would get me fired. That would turn Liam against me.
I should’ve burned them all. Or at least shredded them, which is probably better for the environment. And less likely to get the fire marshal involved.
