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I was pretty sure she might be interested too, but what if she wasn’t? My closest friend had vanished. Naomi was the first good thing to happen to me in ages. I was scared of upsetting our balance, losing this feeling of wonder that kept me from crumbling and thinking about E.
So I didn’t make a move. Just stewed in my wanting of her.
Then we both ran for school president.
Being too chickenshit to ask Naomi out, I threw myself into my campaign. I spent more time with Ricky, who was also upset about E’s disappearance. We weren’t “sharing” close back then, but I’d watch Ricky’s band rehearse the way E used to, occasionally smoking weed with them, even though I hated it. I’d heckle them at shows, slotting into my former friend’s life, while trying my best to forget he existed. When Ricky’s band, the Tweeds, became my unofficial campaign managers and told me Naomi was working harder on her campaign and would for sure win, something dark took root inside of me.
E was gone. Naomi felt out of reach, and the thought of losing something else had me on the edge of breaking. So I made an idiotic plan to sabotage her campaign.
I’ve analyzed my actions often since that time, wondering how I could hurt the one girl who showed me unselfish kindness and infiltrated my waking dreams. My hypothesis is simple—teenage boys are idiots. Even worse, teenage boys who are sad and mad at the world are complete morons. At the heart of it, I think I was just plain scared. I wanted to hurt her before she had the chance to hurt me, like my former best friend.Complete morondoesn’t quite cover my idiocy.
Thus began my Destroy Naomi’s Campaign mission.
On the afternoon of my mission, I hid in a supply closet before they locked school for the night. When the coast was clear and the lights were out, I whipped around the halls, tearing her posters off the wall and ripping them up, all the while muttering things likeSome fucking friend you are. Fucking asshole. Wish I never fucking met you.
My anger was directed at E, not Naomi, but I was too incensed to notice or care.
The morning after my crazed poster hunt, once the doors were unlocked and students flooded in, that’s when the guilt came. A wave of sickness sloshed in my stomach.
I’d done my best to hide the evidence, dumpster diving in the large bins outside, shoving Naomi’s mutilated posters under bags of trash. Still, my stomach churned. My hands shook. Adrenaline leached out, leaving nothing but nausea as the school’s fluorescent lights beamed down on me, like I was in an interrogation room, deprived of sleep and comfort, on the edge of confession.
Ricky and the Tweeds surrounded me. They talked about stupid shit—something about a new Cameron Diaz movie. Their drummer, Shawn, droned on about how hot she was. I hardly joined the conversation. My heart was beating in my throat, clammy sweat slicking the back of my neck.
“Dude,” Ricky said, pointing at my jacket, cackling. “The evidence is still on you.”
I glanced down, and panic frothed hotter in my gut. A corner of Naomi’s poster was stuck to my jacket with ketchup or blood or something nasty from the trash bin, and I froze, terror stricken.
“Anyway,” Shawn said, oblivious to my freaking out, “Cameron Diaz is, like, the pinnacle of hot. Totally bang worthy.” He nudged my shoulder. “You need to watch the flick.”
He was still speaking, but his voice became white noise—vague whirling sounds muted by my self-loathing. I didn’t give a shit about Cameron Diaz or any other random celebrity crush. I was filled with guilt and frustration and barked back some rudeness about Cameron Diaz, angry at myself for ruining Naomi’s campaign, at E for deserting me, at my life for sucking so bad.
I flung the lingering poster piece off my jacket and got two furious steps away, when I almost rammed into Naomi.
The devastation on her face in that moment has stayed with me over the years. The wide shock of her dark eyes, the quivering of her chin, the sharp flare of her nostrils—equal parts sadness and fury as her gaze darted from my face to the crumpled poster piece on the floor.
There was no hiding what I’d done to her campaign. I was caught red-handed with that ketchup-blood smudge calling out my evil deed. Even worse, she didn’t yell at me. Not one vicious word. A lone tear slipped from her eye, tearing me apart with its slow slide.
She lost the campaign and proceeded to ignore me with the type of quiet venom that turned my self-loathing into despair.
Now I’m bewildered.
I was sure that stunt was responsible for Naomi’s disdain, but Ricky’s “That’s not even why she torments you” has looped through my brain all day, festering.
Her motivations shouldn’t matter. I should ignore Ricky’s revelation. Naomi and I are oil and water. Every Monday morning feels like the start of a hostage situation—Naomi rigging me with dynamite, while I frantically decide which wire to cut so I don't explode. But my need to understandwhyshe truly hates me bores under my skin like the tick I’m removing from my latest patient, Willow.
“That should do it.” I crouch and give Willow’s chest a rub, then smile at Mrs. Miller.
Instead of smiling back, Mrs. Miller frowns. “There’s another one on her back. I told you there were two when I came in.”
“Right. Of course. My mind’s been...” I wave vaguely, because I have no excuse. Naomi James is a parasite of her own, infecting me at work. “Number two will be out in a jiff.”
With the second tick removed, I send Willow and Mrs. Miller on their way, but my distraction lingers, which is unacceptable.
Being a good veterinarian means being caring and attentive to my patients and their owners. I always speak kindly to timid dogs and cats, offer treats, get down on their level to play. Developing a solid reputation is how I’ll own my own clinic in five years. Today I’ve been nothing but absentminded and distant.
The second my last patient leaves, I call Ricky to get the lowdown on his comment, but his cell clicks over to voice mail. I rub my eyes.
Honestly, this is ridiculous. The fact that I can’t let some high school nonsense go is maddening. I hate how on edge I feel. Out of sorts. A normal person would brush off Ricky’s comment and put Naomi and our annoying past out of his mind. But I can’t.
