We don’t talk the rest of study period even though every single other person around us is chatting. Ten’s silence is louder than all their voices put together. As soon as the bell shrills, he puts his stuff away and barrels out of the classroom. I’m about to leave when I notice the cell phone he’s left behind.
I’m tempted to leave it behind too, but don’t. I take it. He might not need it—functionally speaking—but it’s a gift from his mother. If my father had left me a gift, I’d keep it. In a drawer, but I’d keep it.
As though the universe has conspired to make me prove it, I return home to a tiny set of pink, noise-canceling headphones nestled on my comforter beside my refurbished cell phone.
Last night’s Angie would’ve shoved the headphones into the InSinkErator, but today’s Angie picks them up reverently, studies them for a heartbeat, and then places them in a drawer, alongside Ten’s phone.
25
Some Ashtrays Have Warts
I don’t cross paths with Ten on Tuesday. I see him from afar even though he doesn’t see me. He’s not looking for me.
On Wednesday, though, we have art together. Miss Bank has set out pottery wheels and globs of wet clay, which we’re supposed to fashion into vases. I haven’t done any pottery since middle school, and that was a major fail as my mug turned into a saucer after it accidentally slipped from my fingers and got trampled by two students who gave me grief for getting clay on their shoes.
Laney pats the empty chair next to hers.
As I sit, I ask, “Where’s Brad?”
“He’s sick. Stomach flu. Apparently it’s going around.”
I wrinkle my nose and stroke my wet clay, then start shaping it. Well, Laney starts shaping hers; I’m still trying to figure out how to use the wheel. I copy what she’s doing, adjusting my pressure and my fingertip placement. Just when I’m getting the hang of it, my concentration breaks. A couple of desks down from Laney’s, Ten is helping Samantha, one of the blonde cheerleading twins, with her vase. He has his hands over hers, guiding them.
My clay whizzes off my wheel and slaps the back of Overachieving Ron’s chair.
He spins around and shoots me a disgruntled look, then makes sure no clay sprayed his shirt and backpack. Thankfully both were spared.
“Angie.” Laney elbows me when I still haven’t moved to pick up the clay. “Your clay.”
I stare down at the wheel, trying to sort through the tsunami of emotions.
“Angie,” she says again.
This time I look up at her. And then I look beyond her. Ten’s fingers are back on his own vase, and yet I can still picture them covering the cheerleader’s hands. On wooden legs, I rise, circle my desk, and retrieve the gray lump from the floor.
I stick it on my wheel, but don’t press the pedal. I just coax the clay into something resembling a receptacle the same way I used to shape the play dough Mom would make on our stovetop out of flour, baking soda, and water. For the first time, I wonder if she made it at home because it was cheaper than buying it.
“What’s going on?” Laney whispers.
I pinch my clay and end up tearing off a piece. God, I suck at this. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Uh-huh.”
I glance at her, trying my hardest not to let my gaze drift beyond her shoulder.
She leans close to me and whispers, “What happened at homecoming?”
“Nothing.”
“I got that nothing happened. I guess I’m wonderingwhynothing happened, because it looked like a lot was happening on the dance floor.”
I stiffen. Her voice is low, but is it low enough not to carry to Ten?
“FYI, Ten keeps looking at you.”
My face goes real hot, which makes Laney smirk.
“That’s what I thought,” she says.
