Farshid, who missed fourth hour today but is back now for seventh. You want to ask him where he was. If he’s okay. But the two of you don’t talk about that. You don’t talk about anything except your project, and that’s fine, really.
You don’t need him to be your friend. You don’t need him to like you. You don’t even need him to not hate you. It’s not about him.
It’s about what’s right.
After conditioning, when you’re changed and you’ve reapplied your fragrance, you bump into Cooper at the door.
You’re about to move past, but he raises a hand.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” Cooper’s got his spring fragrance on, too. He always picked good ones. “Light Blue?”
“Good nose.”
You shrug and keep moving, but he follows you toward the student exit. Marshall doesn’t have practice this afternoon, so you can get a ride home from him.
You and Cooper spent all of middle school waiting together after school: for the regular bus, for the activities bus, for your parents or his or both. You thought you’d spend all of high school doing the same. At least until you could drive.
But that’s not how this year has turned out.
He’s still beside you when you stop next to the bike racks, where there’s this little brick wall that’s exactly the right height for you to rest your backpack on it without actually taking it off.
Cooper’s quiet as you both watch the tide of juniors and seniors headed to their cars.
You don’t know what’s going on. This isn’t middle school. You’re not friends anymore.
“You need something?” you ask, in what you hope is a neutral tone.
“Farshid told me what you did,” he says.
“What?”
“About Brody and Reggie.”
“Oh.” You squeeze the straps of your backpack. You don’t know what to say to that.
You know you did the right thing, but you still feel like crap anyway.
Cooper doesn’t seem to know what else to say, either.
Finally he says, “I’m glad you did it.”
You shrug. You didn’t do it for him.
And then he says: “I miss being friends.”
You look at him then, really look. His eyes are big and dark and shiny, like obsidian. He hasn’t really looked at you in a long time.
“You’re the one who dropped me,” you point out.
Cooper does his fish face, blowing up his cheeks real big and letting out a sigh. You used to make fun of him for it. Nothing too mean. It was just funny is all.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry doesn’t erase what happened. Sorry doesn’t make anything better.
“Thanks, I guess.”
