“You just heard about that now?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been working in the council office most of the last few weeks. Crunch time is coming for the budgets, and I’m training Miranda to succeed my position when I leave next year, and the food bank was broken into last night, and they can’t afford a new lock, so I called in some favors with Arnold’s locksmith father –”
Wren sees my eyes glazing and sighs.
“Sorry. I’m rambling about completely uninteresting things.”
“Duh. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. It sounds rough.”
“It’s just presidential duties,” He smiles wanly. His eyes flick over to where Kayla is laughing at something Jack said. His stare dulls, eyes almost ashamedly looking away.
“You like her,” I say. It isn’t a question. I expect Wren to get flustered, or change the subject, but he just stares at Kayla again, and nods.
“Yes.”
“And Avery was pushing her towards you for a while.”
“To get funds for her club. I know how she works. But I –” Wren looks wistfully at Kayla over my shoulder. “Kayla was paying attention to me on her orders. But I tried to push that out, and just focus on her attention. Kayla, talking to me and listening to me and laughing with me, when she’d never even given me the time of day before. I tried to…selfishly pretend she was doing it because she wanted to, not under Avery’s orders.”
Wren falls quiet. I touch his hand.
“Shit, dude. I’m sorry.”
Wren smiles. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine. But as long as she’s happy –” He looks to her again. “ – Then I’ll be alright.”
“You’re a good guy.”
“No,” Wren laughs. “I’m a stupid guy. And Jack’s a frightening guy. So I’ll watch from afar, and make sure he won’t hurt her. Even if that’s creepy, and pathetic.”
“It’s not. It’s sensible!”
“Avery’s pissed too,” Wren says, jerking his head to Avery and her tableful of likewise fashionably dressed girls. Avery glowers at Kayla, stabbing her salad with unnecessary enthusiasm.
“Why?”
“Kayla stopped talking to me. Fake-flirting. Avery came to me this morning and tried to flirt instead, but I wouldn’t have it. I guess Kayla refused to take Avery’s orders.”
I smile, pride welling in my chest. “She’s getting stronger.”
“Yeah,” Wren murmurs. “But at what cost? What if Jack – what if he –”
Wren takes a bite of burrito and swallows nervously.
“What did he do, Wren, back in middle school? Give me a hint. Just one tiny dust bunny-sized hint.”
Wren’s silent, glowering.
“Avery told me she hired guys from her parent’s docks. She said she hated Sophia. What did she hire them to do? I know you know. I know you were there when it happened.”
He flinches.
“Avery told me to film it. That’s the only reason I was there. I was head of the film club in middle school. I had access to all the cameras, so she bribed me into coming to the park and hiding in the bushes with her and filming it.”
“Filming what?” I hiss.
The lunch bell rings before he can answer, and he gets up and leaves quickly, shame crippling his face.
I walk alongside Jack and Kayla as they go to their next class. I zap a revenge-suspect with a glare, and she veers off course with her handful of shaving cream. That’s right, keep walking. There’ll be no shaving-cream-on-Kayla-lovely-face today, thank you very much. Or, if there is, I will shave you. Down to the bone.
“You’re making threats aloud,” Jack deadpans.
“It’s good for business,” I chime. Kayla smiles, and links her other arm with mine.
“I’ve got two of my favorite people right here. It’s amazing. You’re amazing!”
I shoot her a sheepish smile and she ruffles my hair. How could I have ever been jealous of such an innocent, lovely girl? I’m ashamed of myself, a hot knot working its way into my throat, chock full of guilt. She deserves a better friend than me. She deserves castles and kingdoms and all the fairytale endings that still exist in this meager world. All of them should be hers.
She kisses Jack on the cheek and goes into the Chem lab. Jack and I stand outside the door, each with different classes, but a tense thread rooting us to our place in front of the mottled glass.
Jack speaks without looking at me.
“You’re happy.”
“Generally, yeah.”
“No. Not generally. Generally you’re miserably sad and dour, hiding it behind the jokes and passionate outbursts. You’re like fire. But it’s a sickly fire. Everyone can see that.”
I open my mouth to argue, when he interrupts.
“But when you’re with Kayla, when she’s happy and smiling at you, that fire turns. It goes from sick to full, healthy, lively. She makes you happy.”
“She’s the first friend I’ve ever really had.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Why are you cheating on Sophia with her?”
He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes splinter with a fraction of pain.
“I’m not cheating. I visit Sophia every week – ”
“But why go out with Kayla all of a sudden? I thought…I thought you didn’t really like her? You kept saying she’s annoying. So why go out with her?”
Jack fixes his icy eyes on me, hair falling into them a little. He doesn’t answer, and pivots and strides away, the crowd parting around him. For him.
***
Isis looked up at me with those warm, burning, flame-mahogany eyes and asked me.
“So why go out with her?”
She’s oblivious. I still don’t believe it myself. But I know it’s the right thing to do.
She has no idea how much Kayla’s smile makes her smile. Unconscious, soft grins form on her face when she looks at a happy Kayla, and full-blown joy crackles across her features when she laughs with Kayla. Kayla reminds her of who she used to be, maybe – naïve and innocent.
But as Isis cocks her head and waits for my answer, she doesn’t realize in that moment she’s just as innocent as Kayla. She’s never been loved. She’s only given love. She has no idea why someone like me would go out with her friend, if only to make her friend happy, and her happy in turn. As long as Kayla can kiss my cheek and talk about Vogue and Nicki Minaj with me, Isis smiles. Real, true smiles. Smiles free of pain or jaded bitterness. Isis truly doesn’t believe anyone would like her enough to kiss her, let alone do something to make her smile. There’s no coyness in her question. She simply has no idea what it’s like to be loved.
Love? I frown and scratch the notion out with an imaginary mental pen. But as I walk away from her, the answer too hard to say, the urge to turn around and look at her just one more time before I go is overpowering.
It’s evidence.
It’s cold hard fact that mental pens don’t need to scratch anything out.
When had it happened? How stupid and predictable was it? The new girl - the manic, rambunctious, permanently-sugar high girl – barreling into town like a whirlwind and demanding I pay attention. Demanding I fight. Demanding everything but the one thing that’s begun to grow inside me.