“Thanks,” I mumble, exiting the office.
This is going to be impossible. It’s not like I can just erase the fact that Lake exists. I’ll more than likely see her at work on a daily basis, whether in passing . . . in the lunchroom . . . in the parking lot. I’ll definitely see her at home every day considering her house is the first thing I see when I walk out my own front door. Or look out my window. Not that I’ll be doing that.
Kel and Caulder are becoming inseparable, so I’ll eventually have to interact with her regarding them. Trying to avoid her isn’t going to work. Lake is absolutely right . . . it isn’t going to work at all. I kept trying to tell myself over and over last night that what she said wasn’t true, but it is. I wonder if the only other alternative would be to try and at least be her friend. We’re obviously going to have to work through this situation somehow.
When I round the corner to my classroom, she’s standing next to my door with the transfer form pressed against the wall, attempting to forge my name. My first instinct is to turn around and walk away, but I realize these are the exact types of situations we’re going to have to learn to confront.
“That’s not a good idea,” I say, before she forges my name. If anyone could recognize my handwriting, it would be Mrs. Alex.
Lake spins around and looks at me. Her cheeks flush and she darts her eyes down to my shirt, embarrassed. I walk past her and unlock the door, then motion for her to enter the classroom. She walks to my desk and smacks her form down.
“Well, you weren’t here yet, I thought I’d spare you the trouble,” she says.
She must not have had her coffee today. I pick up the form and look it over. “Russian Lit? That’s what you chose?”
She rolls her eyes. “It was either that or Botany.”
I pull my chair out and take a seat, preparing to sign the form. As soon as the tip of my pen meets the paper, it occurs to me that in a way, I’m being incredibly selfish. She chose poetry as an elective before she even knew I would be teaching it. She chose poetry because she loves it. The fact that the thoughts I have about her make me uncomfortable is an extremely selfish reason to force her into Russian Literature for the rest of the year. I hesitate, then lay the pen back down on the paper.
“I thought a lot last night . . . about what you said yesterday. It’s not fair of me to ask you to transfer just because it makes me uneasy. We live a hundred yards apart; our brothers are becoming best friends. If anything, this class will be good for us, help us figure out how to navigate when we’re around each other.” I reach into my satchel and pull out the test she somehow made a perfect score on. “Besides, you’ll obviously breeze through.”
She takes the test from my hands and looks down at it. “I don’t mind switching,” she says quietly. “I understand where you’re coming from.”
I put the lid back on the pen and scoot my chair back. “Thanks, but it can only get easier from here, right?”
She nods her head unconvincingly. “Right,” she says.
I know I’m completely wrong. She could move back to Texas today and I would still feel too close to her. But once again, it’s not my feelings that should matter at this point. It’s hers. I’ve screwed her life up enough in the past week; the last thing I want to do is shove Russian Lit on top of that. I crumple up her transfer form and chuck it toward the trash can. When it misses, she walks over and picks it up, then throws it in.
“I guess I’ll see you third period, Mr. Cooper,” she says as she exits the room.
The way she refers to me as “Mr. Cooper” makes me scowl. I hate the fact that I’m her teacher.
I’d so much rather be her Will.
7.
the honeymoon
LAKE HASN’T MOVED a muscle in the last fifteen minutes. She’s been soaking in every word I’ve said. Recalling the day we met and our first date was actually fun. Recalling the things that tore us apart is grueling.
“I don’t like talking about this anymore,” I say. “It looks like it’s making you sad.”
Her eyes widen and she turns her body toward me. “Will, no. I love hearing your thoughts on everything that happened. I actually feel like it helps me understand a lot of your actions better. I don’t know why I felt like you sort of blamed me.”
I kiss her softly on the lips. “How could I blame you, Lake? All I wanted was you.”
She smiles and rests her head on my forearm. “I can’t believe my mom told you to leave me that note,” she says.
“God, Lake. That was so embarrassing. You have no idea.”
She laughs. “She really liked you, you know. At first, I mean. She loved you in the end. It was the in-between where her feelings about you sort of waned.”
I think about the day Julia found out, and how worried she must have been for Lake. To have everything going on in her life like she did, then have to watch your daughter deal with heartache? Unimaginable.
“Remember when she found out you were my teacher?” Lake says. “The look on your face when she was walking up the driveway toward you, it was awful. I was so afraid you would think I told her because I was mad at you.”
“I was so scared of her that day, Lake. She could be really intimidating when she wanted to be. Of course after we talked again later that night, I saw a more vulnerable side to her, but still. I was scared to death of her.”
Lake jerks up on the bed and looks at me. “What do you mean when y’all talked again?”
“Later that night when she came back to my house. Did I never tell you that?”
“No,” she says abruptly, almost like I’ve deceived her. “Why did she come back? What did she say?”
“Wait, let me start from the beginning. I want to tell you about the night before she found out,” I say. “I slammed a poem about you.”
She perks up. “No way! How come you never told me?”
I shrug. “I was hurt. It wasn’t a positive piece.”
“I want to hear about it, anyway,” she says.
this girl
I’M HOPING THIS situation is like dieting, where they say day three is when the cravings start to subside. I really hope that’s the case. The fact that she sits two feet from me in class makes my mind feel like a damn hurricane. It takes everything in me not to look at her during third period. In fact, I spend the entire time in my class trying not to look at her. I’ve been fairly successful, which is good considering Gavin still watches me like a hawk. At least it felt like he was today, anyway. I’ve never so looked forward to a weekend off in my life.
One. More. Day.
“I might be a little late tonight, Maya. I’m performing so I may stay until it’s over.”
She plops down on the sofa with a carton of ice cream. “Whatever,” she says.
I grab my keys and head out the front door. No matter how hard I try not to, I glance across the street during my short walk to the car. I could swear I see her living room curtain snap shut. I stop and stare for a minute, but it doesn’t move again.
I’M ONE OF the first to arrive, so I take one of the seats toward the front of the room. I’m hoping the energy from the crowd will distract me long enough to get out of this funk. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but I feel more heartbroken over this entire situation with Lake than I did when Vaughn dumped me. I’m sure a lot of that heartache was lost in the heartache from losing my parents, so maybe it just seems different for that reason. How could ending things with a girl who wasn’t even my girlfriend to begin with possibly cause this much distress?
“Hey, Mr. Cooper,” Gavin says. He and Eddie pull out their chairs and sit at the table with me. Unlike last week, I actually welcome their distraction tonight.
“For the last time, Gavin, call me Will. It’s weird hearing you say that when we’re not in class.”
“Hey, Will,” Eddie says sarcastically. “You doing one tonight?”
I had planned on performing, but seeing Gavin has me second-guessing my choice. I know most of the pieces I perform are metaphorical, but he’ll see right through this one. Not that it matters; he already knows how I feel.
“Yeah,” I say to Eddie. “I’m doing a new one.”
“Cool,” she says. “Did you write it for that girl?” She turns around and scans the room. “Where is she? I thought I saw you leaving with someone last week.” She returns her focus to me. “Was she your girlfriend?”
Gavin and I immediately look at each other. He makes a face that tells me he didn’t say anything to Eddie. I try to steady my expression when I respond.
“Just a friend.”
Eddie pushes her bottom lip out and pouts. “Friend, huh? That sucks. We really need to hook you up with someone.” She leans forward onto the table and puts her chin in her hands while studying me. “Gavin, who can we hook Will up with?”
He rolls his eyes. “Why do you always think you have to hook everyone up? Not everyone feels the need to be in a relationship every second of their lives.” He’s obviously trying to squelch the subject and I appreciate him for that.
“I don’t try to hook everyone up,” she says. “Just the people who clearly need it.” She looks back at me. “No offense, Will. It’s just—you know. You never date. It might do you some good.”
“Enough, Eddie,” Gavin snaps.
“What? Two people, Gavin! I’ve mentioned finding dates for two people this week. That’s not excessive. Besides, I think I may have figured out someone for Layken.”
When Eddie says her name, I immediately shift in my chair. So does Gavin.
“I think I’m gonna try to get Nick to ask her out,” she says, thinking aloud.
Before Gavin can respond, the sac is called to the stage. I’m relieved the subject is off the table now, but I can’t deny the twinge of jealousy that just made its way into my stomach.
What did I expect would be the outcome of all this? Of course she’s going to date other people. She’s got her entire senior year of school left; it would be crazy if she didn’t date. But still, it doesn’t mean I’ll be happy when she does.
“I’ll be back,” I say, excusing myself from the table. It’s been five minutes and I already need a breather from Eddie.
When I return from the bathroom, the sac has already finished performing. As soon as I sit back down, the emcee calls me to the stage to perform first.
“Break a leg,” Gavin says when I stand back up.
“That’s theater, Gavin,” Eddie says, hitting him on the arm.
I ascend the steps and take my place in front of the microphone. I’ve noticed in the past that if I concentrate and really put my emotions into writing, performing can actually be therapeutic. I really need to find some relief after all that’s happened this week.
“My piece is called This Girl.” I do my best to avoid Gavin’s glare, but it’s obvious by his expression that he knows the poem is about Lake as soon as the title passes my lips. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, then begin.
