I’ve even made an effort to stop goofing off in class – as much as I can anyway, I can’t help my true nature. I was born to be hilarious. Truly, they should study me in a lab.
“You’re not a comedian. You’re annoying.”At least that’s what Jack says, but what does he know? It’s not my fault he was born without a funny bone.
Anyway, the point is that none of it has made a lick of difference. It’s almost like the harder I try to befriend her, the more she seems to hate me. In the evenings, in the time between David and Jack leaving my house and going to bed, my thoughts drift to Eleanor more often than not.
I replay our interactions over and over in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly when she went from being the shy but sweet girl I met the first week of school to being a girl who probably wouldn’t save me if I started walking out in front of a bus.
Honestly, if she saw me stepping into traffic, I think she’d give me a little shove to speed things along.
As the weeks wear on, David gets increasingly smug about taking my money, and I get more and more dejected. Spring break is next week, and I’ve made zero headway. Atthis point, I’d happily paytwohundred dollars to whoever’s able to get her to stop looking at me like I’m a bug that needs to be squished.
Am I really that awful to be around? Has everyone been lying to me my whole life about how lovable I am? She doesn’t seem to have a problem with my friends. What is it about me that drives her so crazy?
There’s gotta besomethingI can do to change her mind.
But like my granddad used to say–I’m going to do this come hell or high water.
Chapter 5
Ellie
March, Age 15
Griffin Hart seems to have turned over a new leaf. Oddly enough, it’s worse than him being obnoxious. I know how to handleannoying.I don’t know how to handle…whatever this is.I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but it’s like sometime after winter break he gained consciousness and decided to stop being a court jester.
He actually kind of seems hell-bent on paying penance for being the bane of my existence these past few months. And that’s something I have not made easy on him. It almost feels like he’sovercompensatingto make up for some dastardly deed, but he hasn’t really done anything bad enough to warrant that, so I’ll just chalk it up to an enormous ego being humbled by someone who doesn’t immediately fawn over him.
For some reason, every time he says something kind, it makes me want to scream. I bet if anyone looked closely enough they would see the irritated, involuntary twitch in my left eye. Part of me wonders if the change of heartis genuine. Or even possible. That pessimistic train of thought catches me off guard, and stops me dead in my tracks right as I’m approaching the door to our classroom.That isn’t fair, Ellie,I scold myself.You haven’t really given him a chance. And you haven’t exactly been warm and inviting.
I generally pride myself on being a gracious and patient person, but apparently my subconscious decided to skip right over Griffin Hart when it comes to exercising those traits.
It doesn’t help that I’d rather re-create my fourth-grade bowl cut than admit I’m wrong about anything. I can practically hear my grandmother’s voice in my head:“Well, Ellie Bellie, would you rather be right or be kind?”I really hate when my conscience makes valid points.
Metaphorically squaring my shoulders, I walk into Spanish determined to extend an olive branch. I just hope it doesn’t come back to haunt me. Today when I hear a friendly “howdy Eleanor,” instead of rolling my eyes and taking my seat as quickly as possible, I look intentionally into Griffin’s eyes, which are somehow dark and mysterious without being moody, and give him a genuine smile. “Hi Griffin,” I say in a warm tone that feelsveryuncharacteristic before sliding into the desk behind him.
He turns slowly in his seat to face me, and I avoid his gaze as long as possible as I retrieve the maroon journal labeled ‘Spanish’from my bag. I can still feel him looking at me, and when I realize I can’t avoid it any longer, I look up at him. It takes everything in me not to burst out laughing at the look of shock on his face.
“Do I have something on my face?” I ask casually, playing dumb while knowing exactly why he looks so flabbergasted. Pretending to be clueless, I reach up to swipe at absolutely nothing on my cheeks and mouth.
His eyes flicker down to my mouth for a split second, then back up to mine, and all of sudden the monarch butterflies have migrated back from Mexico directly into my stomach. He meets my gaze with a completely new, very unreadable look–like he’s looking at me for the first time again. I’ve seen the way his eyes look when he’s being playful, and annoying, and genuine, and irritating–but I don’t have a descriptor forthis.
I’m caught off guard, and feel my carefree façade waver a bit while my brain tries to compute whatever it is that’s showing on his face.
“Helloooooo?” I drawl, trying to mimic his own accent and waving my hand in his face in an attempt to snap him out of whatever brain malfunction he’s got going on over there.
He shakes his head a little, the way my cat does when I blow on his ears to get his attention.
I wonder if Griffin likes cats or dogs more.
The thought comes out of no where, like someone else planted it in my head.
Since when do I care what Griffin Hart likes?
He assumes a more neutral expression (or at least it would be if he wasn’t squinting at me suspiciously). “You’re being nice to me.”
It’s more of an accusation than a question.Have I really been that awful?I wonder to myself before responding, “Well yes Griffin, believe or not, I am a nice person.”
“Not to me, you’re not,” he fires back quickly. Not accusatory though, more…bewildered. “Why are you being nice to me?”
