The smart thing to do would be to stop wearing the ring, probably. Stop aggravating whoever it is behind the Instagram account—but people will notice if the ring suddenly disappears from my hand. Besides, I don’t want this person to think they’ve intimidated me. I’m terrified, but they don’t have to know that. So I keep it on and try to keep going about my life.
When I arrive at the hospital on Monday to see Jason, Nurse Harlow, the one who told me Jason can hear us, waves at me. “You’re back!”
Do the people of this town have some sort of chart, tracking my attendance? It’s ridiculous. But it does remind me that I have to do better. I can’t miss more days of seeing Jason, so I force myself through twenty minutes of inane rambling at his bedside. I tell him about our friends and how senior year is going and my running times. I read him more soccer scores. I tell him what he’s missed in Spanish class, but I am suddenly exhausted.
“I’m mad at you,” I tell Jason, letting all my pretenses fall. “I keep finding out new things about you, and I thought they’d help me make sense of everything, but all I feel is doubt.”
I touch the ring. “Why did you have this? Who did you mean to give it to?
“And your dad,” I say, “I can’t believe you told him we weren’t serious. Have you been lying to me all this time?”
My eyes suddenly get very blurry. “If we’re not us, I don’t know what we are. Who else am I supposed to love?”
I hold his pointer finger. “Tell me if you can hear me.”
I wait for a squeeze or a tap, but nothing happens. Not even a twitch.
Defeated, I go into his bathroom, pull what I need from the travel bag I take everywhere with me, and redo my makeup. Today’s open secret is my nude lip, because I wish I was invisible. In addition, I’ve been wearing a series of graphic tees all week because I think I’ll always feel a little angsty until Jason wakes up.
Then I leave for school.
All day, I keep obsessively checking Instagram, waiting for another message or odd comment, something that confirms to me that someone is out for my blood. In many ways, the possibility that I might be in trouble is worse than if I knew for sure that I was in trouble.
“Diabolical,” I say, quietly cursing whoever this person is, as I gather up last period’s things. The fact is, it’s only been two days, but I am already tired of being messed with. The ring picture has now scoreddoublethe number of comments I got for the kissing photo that made me and Jay Instagram official last year, post–KissCam. I know none of this is important in the grand scheme of things, but I find I can’t even enjoy the positive attention because this nameless, faceless bully has decided to torment me. And I can’t get the support of my friends on all this either.
“Why would they say that’s their ring?” I imagine Amber asking, confused, as I blather something about how, funny story, the person is right, and I actually have no idea whose ring I’m wearing. Could be that it’s a ring Jason bought, or it’s equally likely some random person dropped it in Jay’s car when he gave people a ride home after games.
I decide that, regardless of who this is, I’m making the next move. I’m going to figure out who they are before they strike again. I just might need a little help, and I have an inkling of where to get it.
My plan requires me to duck out as soon as school is done, but Amber and Mo are hovering by my locker. “How about ‘Love is an open door’ for my senior quote?” Amber asks immediately when she sees me, then offers me one of her homemade brownies. “Don’t you think it’s very me?”
“Itisvery you, but also veryFrozen,” I say, taking a brownie and looking longingly toward the back doors of the school.
Amber sighs as I open my locker and take out my bag. “How about ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”
“So cliché,” Mo says. “And a disturbing sentiment either way.”
“You don’t think anything goes if there’s love involved?”
Mo and I react automatically. “No.”
“Youjust haven’t been in love yet,” Amber says, pointing at Mo. “When you find the right guy, you’ll get it.”
“Bet you I won’t,” Mo mutters.
To me, Amber says, “But you. What’s your excuse?”
I shrug as I close my locker door. “Love doesn’t make everything okay. Like, you couldn’t murder people for love,” I say.
“But people do,” Ambs protests. “Not saying theyshould, but love is that powerful.”
I laugh. “I think you might be overidentifying with murderers. Or watching too muchDateline.Hey, I have to go. I’m taking pictures of soccer practice for the yearbook.”
They accept this excuse, but as I make my way outside, I wonder what Dad the “expert” would say about our conversation on love. Probably something as irrational as Amber, about how love is everything. Love is the only thing worth writing about, worth living for, worth spending money on. All my life, wherever Dad took me—a bookstore or candy store or any type of store—he’d hold out his arms majestically as if he owned the place. “What do you love, Zadiebug?” As long as he could afford it, he would buy anything I picked. The question thrilled me when I was a kid, but it became unbearably stressful the older I got. I so badly wanted to choose right. Choose thebestthing, so I didn’t have any regrets.
Today I sit in the bleachers, finishing my brownie and doing homework until it’s getting close to the end of practice. Then it’s “go time” for my plan, so I head out to the side of the field with my camera. At this point, most of the team is on the sidelines, cooling off or stretching. Marcus is still on the field, Coach Kyle next to him.
“Plan B stepping in as captain is one thing I never thought I’d see,” Holden snorts, coming up beside me.
