from my Red Cross babysitter training…,” offered Alexis.
“Someone who actually needs the Heimlich isn’t gonna be like, ‘Yes, thanks, that would be great,’?” said Jamie.
“I’m fine,” I rasped.
“You sure?” asked Jamie.
It was clear from the way she asked that Jamie wasn’t just wondering whether or not I was done choking in front of her. Maybe she was trying to be nice, but as far as I was concerned, she could pluck those pity eyes right out of her head. I couldn’t make her un-break up with me, but I could certainly deny her the pleasure of knowing how much it still hurt. I could be friendly, but she couldn’t rush me right into unloaded friendship, either. I nodded quickly and changed the subject.
“Alexis,” I said, “give us the goods. What have you heard so far?”
Alexis was our school’s own Us Weekly. If anyone in our class hooked up with anyone, or got in a fight with anyone, or got detention, or got wasted over the weekend, Alexis knew about it, and she would relay the episode to us in more detail than anyone needed, and often more than anyone wanted. She had sources in every social group. People told her things because she had a small mouth and huge, understanding blue eyes, but also because she told them things in return. People only pretended to care when their secrets got out. We all knew that to get the best gossip you also had to give it. And there was no day better for the very best gossip than the first day back after summer break.
“Well,” said Alexis, eyes gleaming. She leaned over the table conspiratorially, and I breathed in relief. For as long as Alexis talked, I would be safe: I wouldn’t have to look at Jamie, or think of what to say to her, or notice Ronni and Alexis watching us interact, trying to judge whether or not we were “okay” yet. What would that look like, anyway? We weren’t together anymore, but we were both here. I wasn’t yelling and I wasn’t crying. If they expected more from me than that, I’d go sit somewhere else. No—they could sit somewhere else. No, wait—that would leave just me and Jamie. Ugh.
“—and, Ruby and Mikey broke up,” Alexis was saying. “A few weeks ago, apparently.”
“Wait,” I said. “What?” Jamie and I made eye contact for only an instant, but it was long enough to know we’d both had the same exact thought: Ruby Ocampo, number one on the list of Straight Girls We Wish Weren’t. I hadn’t thought about that list in a year.
Alexis misinterpreted my confusion as shock and clapped her hands in delight. “I know!”
“What about Sweets?” Jamie asked.
“Who broke up with who?” I asked.
Sweets was the name of a band composed of four Westville seniors: Mikey Vingiano on bass, Ben Cooper on drums, David Tovar on guitar, and Ruby Ocampo on vocals. Like many of our classmates, Jamie was obsessed with them. She’d sent me links to their SoundCloud page about a dozen times before I actually clicked on one, and even then I only lasted about twenty seconds. Ruby had a nice voice, but calling the noise underneath it a “song” felt generous. Jamie had told me I had to see them live to get it, but I often had soccer games when they had shows, and the rest of the time I invented menstrual cramps. They played most of their shows at the Six-Pack, which was the idiotic name given to the dilapidated old house in which Mikey’s older brother lived with three other college sophomores. Jamie said it wasn’t so bad, but when I pictured it I saw a dark and sweaty basement overflowing with smelly boys nodding to the music and drinking flat beer. I’d asked her if that sounded right and she agreed: it was more or less just like that. So, no thank you.
“Ruby broke up with Mikey,” said Alexis. “And Sweets is fine, for now…but apparently Mikey revoked use of his brother’s house as, like, punishment for the breakup, I guess. So they need a new venue.”