“I don’t.” I stop fake–scoping out the contents of my bag and look up. “Nev was so excited to wear something other than your hand-me-downs, and you ruined that for her. You made her cry.”
Ten stiffens. I shake my head and turn, but stop in the doorway and wheel around. Ten halts inches from me. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his body.
I step back and crane my neck to better glare at him. “Do you even know how miserable she is in school? Apparently people make fun of her.”
His brow juts forward, casting shadows over his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“If she hasn’t told you, I’m certainly not going to, but understand that what she needs right now is to feel good in her skin, and you telling her she looks like a skank—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“—youimplyingshe looks like a skank is exactly what shedoesn’tneed. She adulates you, hangs on to your every word, so be supportive, remind her that she rocks.” I flick my gaze to his bracelet.
He looks at it too, then crosses his arms. “Iamsupportive. But like you said, I’m also protective. I don’t want her wearing shorts that display her underwear.”
“Oh. My. God. They don’t! They’re notthatshort.”
“She’s twelve.”
“I know!”
No one’s in the classroom anymore, but our heated conversation has attracted the attention of students lingering in the hallway.
“Iknowshe’s twelve,” I continue, my voice a dozen decibels lower, “but I don’t thinkyourealize that. If you did, you wouldn’t still be buying her Disney princess Band-Aids.”
He jerks back as though I’ve slapped him.
I might’ve gone a tad too far, but there’s no way I’m taking it back, because it’s true. At twelve, I would rather have bled out than plastered my skin with the Little Mermaid.
Suddenly, I want to tell him that she slept in my bed all weekend, that she’s miserable that he’s leaving, but I don’t say anything. Maybe because I sense I’ve inflicted enough pain on Tennessee.
32
A Knight in Moisture-Wicking Armor
I spend the rest of the morning thinking about my dad, Nev, and Ten. But mostly about Nev. At lunchtime, instead of eating with Rae, I decide to head over to the middle school to check up on her.
The campus isn’t huge, but walking would take me at least ten minutes, so I cycle over. Granted, I could run, but then I’d be sweaty, and I don’t feel like having my shirt plastered to my skin. It’s humid enough out—a remnant of yesterday’s never-ending storm. The grass is slick, and the ground sticky with mud. Although the grayness has dispersed, the sky is scratched up like the DVDs Mom refuses to part with even though we no longer own the equipment to play them.
Unlike our yellow lockers, the ones in the middle school are powder blue and coated in stickers—skulls and bones, hearts, unicorns, monsters. I run my fingertips over the crisp edges of a glittery rainbow. My last year of junior high, I had a matching one on my locker. I also had a bunch of musical notes arranged to match the lyrics of Mona Stone’s “Rainbow Road.”
I lower my hand and wade down the vibrant ocean of lockers. I wonder which one is Nev’s. What sort of stickers would she paste? One locker is bare, and I think it might be hers, but I could be wrong. Hers could be the one next to it that’s covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.
Fording the school hallway is like a trip down memory lane. I see thetiny dent in the white-plastered wall where Brad shoved a boy who called Brad’s mom a MILF. I see the water fountain we used as a sprinkler when the weather hit the nineties. I see the girls’ bathroom sign, which Rae and I switched with the boys’ to confuse the new sixth graders. Somehow Jasper got in trouble for it and never told on us. I was never sure why he took the blame, but I suspected it was either because he was a stand-up guy or because his popularity skyrocketed after the incident.
The cafeteria hasn’t changed an iota. The white rectangular tables are arranged in neat rows that reach the cement wall inlaid with three horizontal windows that look out onto a huge sports field hedged by a tight fence of flamboyant myrtles and tall poplars. And no, I’m not some tree-hugging devotee. Tennessean flora and fauna made up a huge chunk of our seventh-grade syllabus.
I scan the loud space for a skinny girl sitting next to an antisocial boy. I locate them during my first sweep—their table is the only one occupied by just two people. As I make my way toward it, I pass a gaggle of eighth-grade girls sporting pink lip gloss, elaborate hairdos, neon nail polish, and uniforms altered to display more skin than allowed.
The popular table.
The one Rae spent all junior high ogling while I worked extra hard to keep her entertained. I’d been so afraid she’d grow out of our friendship, but more loyal than Rae doesn’t exist.
When I reach Nev’s table, I slide onto the bench across from her. “Hey.”
Her face tilts from her tray of food, and her lips part a little, then a lot.
The chubby boy a couple of spaces down from her looks up from a thick textbook that seems way above his grade level. His face swivels between Nev and me, but he loses interest fast and returns to his studying, popping a paprika chip into his mouth. He scrubs his fingers against his white button-down, leaving orange smears.
