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“Blythe, you can be such a little shit sometimes, you know that? Give the poor girl her picture back.”
She yanks it out of Blythe’s hand then looks down at it. Her mouth forms a perfect, surprised O. I wish so desperately I hadn’t scrawled a heart at the very top of the picture a few weeks ago, the night before my thirteenth birthday. My red pen marks a foolproof confession.
“Is this yours?” she asks, looking up at me with brown eyes overfilled with pity.
I’m still formulating an answer, trying to decide how I could possibly answer that question with the truth, when her gaze rises over my head to someone standing behind me.
A loyal hero through and through, Collette tries to turn the photo to hide it, but the person behind me has already seen it. I know it’s him without turning around. I know by the hush that’s fallen over the small crowd that the worst has happened. The object of my fantasies, the subject of my secret photo is here, witnessing the most embarrassing moment of my life.
“You’re all pathetic,” I wish he’d say. “Lainey, come on.”
In this fantasy, he’d take my arm and whisk me away from the mean girls, putting them in their place.
Real life is so painful in comparison. His silence is an acid bath on my already exposed wounds.
Shaking, I turn to peer over my shoulder to confirm. I have to know.
Emmett stands in front of a group of his friends with his sharp gaze on me. I’m surprised by the anger in his expression; his dark eyes have never seemed so intense. I feel his frustration aimed at me like it’s a physical force. It’s the final crushing blow in Blythe’s torture. She found herself an unexpected ally, and I’m sure she can hardly believe her luck.
Whirling around, I rip the picture out of Collette’s hand, tearing the corner in my haste to leave. I don’t care that I’m running. Like always, I’m giving them what they want.
I put as much distance between them and me as I can. I go to the pine trees by the lake, the tall ones on the far side, and slowly slink down to rest against a trunk. With my knees bent up against my chest, I look down at his image, ruined now, torn and wrinkled and soiled by Blythe’s grubby mitts. My hands shake with rage. In a fit of defiance and anger, I start to tear it up. Then I use my fingers like trowels, digging down into the soil beneath me, over and over. I plant little pieces of him, knowing nothing will grow.
Of course it won’t. I’m not planting seeds; I’m burying them.
Even before I’m done, I regret it.
I mourn the loss of that picture as soon as it’s gone.
Chapter Seven
Emmett
I have a checklist of tasks I need to complete before I can walk away from St. John’s. I already finished final exams, but I need to return my library books, pack up my dorm, and have an exit session with Ms. Duval, the school’s guidance counselor. Every student sees her for four sessions a year. She’s well into her seventies, heavyset, and has no time for anyone’s shit.
“You’re late,” she tells me when I walk into her office.
“Apologies.”
I take the designated seat on the couch across from her chair. She never sits at a desk. She wants students to feel relaxed, which is why her office is decorated like a living room with worn furniture, lamps, and knickknacks.
“It’s fine. I have my lunch break after this, we’ll recover the ten minutes at the end.”
I don’t argue with her, don’t have the heart to make her job any harder than it already is. Ms. Duval always seemed to be able to level with students. Even when I was young, she treated me with more respect than I probably deserved.
“What’s with the books?”
She’s referring to the stack I set on the couch beside me.
“I need to go to the library after this. I’ve hoarded these in my room over the last year. I’m sure the librarian wants them back.”
She studies them, seeming impressed with the selection. “I didn’t realize you were such a voracious reader.”
I shrug. “It helps pass the time.”
She laughs. “You sound like a prisoner.”
I raise a brow as if to say, Aren’t I?
She smiles and slips her reading glasses off her nose, folds them in her hand. “So how have you been?”
“Great.”
“How about stress levels? It’s not uncommon for graduating seniors to experience a great deal of worry about the transition to college.”
“When did you suddenly become a shrink? I thought this exit interview was meant to be about you telling me what courses to take in college, ensuring I’m on the right track with school. My stress levels are fine. Worry?” I shrug. “Nowhere in sight.”
