Autoboyography
Page 52

And then we hit some other level, because she’s coaxing me down. Her hands are on my face—I’m crying; I didn’t know—and she’s kissing away tears, and I’m babbling. I’m admitting that Sebastian and I were together. I’m telling her about what happened, how he ended it, how small I feel.
Her mouth is near mine, on mine, opening in surprise and then something more.
I fuck it up right here.
This is where I ruin everything.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I don’t know what I’m doing. I definitely shouldn’t be here. My eyes are red, and my hair is a mess. I’d still be in the clothes I slept in except (a) I showered the second I got home and (b) I didn’t sleep anyway. I’m a mess.
My eyes scan the hall on my way to her locker. She’s usually easy to pick out of a crowd; her hair is a spark of fire in a sea of navy and denim, and her voice can carry from one end of school to the other like nobody I’ve ever known.
Nothing.
I spin the dial on her locker, turning it right and left and then right again, only to see her coat and backpack aren’t here either.
Fuck.
The bell rings, students siphon into classrooms, and the halls slowly drain to empty. Adrenaline mixes with dread as I stand alone in the hall, anticipating the gentle click of our principal’s shoes on the linoleum. I should be in Modern Lit—with Auddy, who never actually transferred to Shakespeare. I walk to the class, peek inside just enough to see her chair is empty, and turn around. I’ll take the truancy and whatever comes along with it, because I am too restless and frantic to sit and discuss James Frey and his fake drama.
But I don’t want to go home. My dad is off this morning, and even though I’ll have to talk to my parents eventually, I’m not ready to see that look—disappointment softened with pity—that tells me they knew this was going to happen, that it was just a matter of time before this all blew up in my face. I deserve every I told you so because they were right, about everything.
There’s a bench at the top of the stairs, out of the line of sight of teachers and administrators trolling the halls for the dumb truants like me who aren’t smart enough to leave school grounds. I grip my phone in my hand, praying for a few breaths that there’ll be something there when I turn it on. But nope. There aren’t any new notifications.
Auddy hasn’t answered her cell since last night. Feeling desperate, I open her contact info and press the number listed next to the word “home.” It rings twice before a voice fills the line.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Green.” I sit up straighter, clear my throat. I used to speak to Autumn’s mom nearly as much as my own, but I’m suddenly nervous. Has Autumn told her what’s happened? Does she know what I did?
“Tanner, hi.”
“Is Autumn there by chance?” I wipe my free palm across the denim over my thigh.
There’s a blink of silence, and I realize that I don’t know what I’ll say even if she does come to the phone. That I love her—even if it’s not in the way she needs? That we made a mistake—I made a mistake—but I need her in my life anyway? Will any of that be enough?
“She is. Poor thing woke up with some kind of stomach bug and needed to stay home. Didn’t she text you?”
An exit sign glows green at the top of the stairs, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I climbed out of Autumn’s bed last night and left without a backward glance. When I finally got my head together, she wouldn’t answer. I’ve texted and called and e-mailed.
I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I must have missed it.”
“I’m sorry, Tann. I hope you weren’t waiting outside for her this morning.”
“I wasn’t. Is she awake? Would it be possible to speak to her?” My voice is pure brittle desperation. “There’s a test in calc, and I was hoping she had the notes in her locker.”
“She was asleep last time I checked. I can wake her if you need me to.”
I hesitate. “No. No, that’s okay.”
“I’m just leaving for work, but I’ll put a note on her door. She’ll see it when she wakes up.”
I keep my voice even long enough to finish the call and tuck my phone back in my pocket.
The bell rings and the halls fill and empty again, but I don’t move. I don’t even know what time it is.
I imagine I look like a statue, sitting on the bench, framed by the big window behind me. I’m bent at the waist, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor, and I start to force myself into complete stillness. My brain is chaos, but as I sit here, unmoving, things start to settle there, too.
It’s easy to acknowledge that I’m an asshole, that I acted impulsively—like I always do—and that I potentially broke another heart to distract myself from the tattered state of my own. I sit here and start to pretend I was carved out of something cold and unfeeling. I’m not sure if people don’t notice me or if they can just tell I should be left alone, but I see feet pass in front of me and no one speaks.
Until someone does.
“Tanner.”
I look up, startled, to see Sebastian standing halfway up the stairs. He takes one tentative step up and then another as students jog past him, hoping to make it into third period before the late bell.
He looks like crap too, for the first time ever. It strikes me that in the middle of this, I’ve barely thought of him at all. Do I tell him about Autumn? Despite what he said yesterday, he’s here—are we still together?
“What are you doing here?”
He makes his way toward me, hands pushed into the pockets of his hoodie, and stops when he reaches the top stair. “I went by your house.”
“I’m not there,” I deadpan. I don’t mean it to sound the way it comes out. The statue seems to be cracking more slowly than expected. Maybe I am this cold and unfeeling.
“Yeah, I figured that out when your dad answered.” Sebastian hasn’t seen my dad since the afternoon he walked in on us, and he must be thinking about that too, because a blush spreads high in his cheeks.
“You talked to my dad?”
“For a minute. He was nice. Told me you were at school.” He looks down at his feet. “Not sure why I didn’t put that together myself.”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“You’d think so.”
“Cutting school.” I try to smile, but it feels like a grimace. “So perfect Sebastian isn’t that perfect.”
“I think we both know I’m not that perfect.”
I don’t even know how to navigate this conversation. What are we talking about? “Why did you come here?”
“I didn’t want to leave things the way they were yesterday.”
Just the mention of it makes my stomach drop. “Breaking up, you mean?”
Autumn’s face floats in my thoughts, the feel of what we did, and nausea rises in my throat. I genuinely worry I’m going to be sick, and tilt my head up to the ceiling, sucking at the air.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m sure it felt terrible to say what you said and have me respond that way.”
I blink back down to him, aware of the weight of tears on my lower lids. What I said? I want him to acknowledge the words. “Yeah. It felt pretty terrible to tell you I love you and have you break up with me.”
There’s that blush again, and I can almost see the elation he feels when he hears those three words. It’s childish, but it’s so unfair that he should get joy out of something that feels like a rope tied around my chest that tightens every time I say it.