Page 75 of 72 Hours of You

“Sounds fake.”

“It’s just … family stuff.” His face looks sort of weird and pained, and I wonder if his parents are getting divorced or if my guesses about his mom’s alcohol consumption are legit. I’m about to ask him but then he says, “Anyway, sorry. Really.”

And that kind of feels like the end of the conversation so I just say, “No worries.” Even though I am having a moderate-to-significant amount of worries.

“But let’s meet up later? Okay?” Peter says.

“Sure.”

“Great.” He nods and I sort of nod back and then just turn around and walk toward the school’s big double doors.

This feels … like shit.

Forty-Two

THE NEXT FEW PERIODS DRAG so much ass that I consider slithering out of my desk and army-crawling to the door to escape.

A couple of teachers give me the classic “So glad you could make it today,” but most of them are still kind of fucked up about Ms. Jegstrup and apparently other kids have been MIA since last week too, so Peter’s and my absences weren’t exactly big on anyone’s radar.

By lunchtime I’m starting to feel boxed in by the gray cinder-block walls and the aggressively upbeat academic posters encouraging us to BE KIND and HANG IN THERE. Like why is that kitten even clinging to that rope? Fucking let go already.

It all just feels so … fake. That night with Peter—in the hotel room—that was real. That was something. And this rainbow-colored world of pencils and gold stars is a farce. Do this, this, and this, and then your life will be good! As if we have any control over how our lives turn out.

All morning my brain is like a malfunctioning algorithm that’s half bursts of kissing and hands and touching and … and half replaying our cringeworthy conversation in the parking lot. God, why did I have to unburden myself to him?

I’m sitting in fifth period after lunch when my Apple Watch vibrates. I have it on theater mode, but I can tell it’s a text. My heart starts to pick up. I blocked Charles, but I didn’t change my number or anything. Shit shit shit.

I lower my wrist below my desk and tap the watch awake.

It’s an Insta DM. From Peter. I feel calmer. And also not.

I keep my eyes on the screen at the front of the class while I slide my hand down, unzip my backpack, and pull my phone onto my lap.

PETERBECKETT1984:Hey. I’m done early.

Dots appear and disappear and then appear again.

PETERBECKETT1984:Do you want to make something with me?

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:Make something? Like what?

PETERBECKETT1984:A mistake.

Oh my god.

Dots.

PETERBECKETT1984:That was stupid. I just mean, let’s go somewhere. Now.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:Now now???

PETERBECKETT1984:I can be in the parking lot in 10.

I glance back at Mx. Klarr. They have their back turned, pointing to some Wikipedia article on the screen. Emma is two seats over watching TikToks with the captions on under her desk. Noah is sitting in front of me with his phone at his side scrolling through a bunch of sex GIFs, two seconds of titties over and over and over.

SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:Make it 5

PETER IS WAITINGin the parking lot again. And for the first time he’s not holding a book. He looks kind of … off? But maybe it’s just the lack of literature because as soon as he sees me his face breaks into his usual sunshiny smile.