Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,67

just left.

Then: i’m in so much trouble.

• • •

Monday morning I wake up and kiss my mother on the forehead and say goodbye. I go into the men’s room and wash at the sink. Under my armpits, my hands, my face. I have almost a beard. My hair is getting too long for me. I open the duffel bag I brought with me from the Cohens’ house and I rummage in it for something not too wrinkled and not too smelly and I come out with a polo. The only jeans I have are the ones I’ve been wearing all weekend. I pull my old sweatshirt on over the polo.

I walk outside. It’s raining, freezing. The snow has melted but ice covers parts of the parking lot. A car has parked too close to mine and I have to climb in through the passenger’s door of my car to get inside. On the drive to school it occurs to me that I have none of my books and that I have done none of my homework. But I can’t miss a practice and I can’t miss a game. They’re the only things I feel like doing, so I go to school, I walk in through the front doors and walk into my homeroom and say hi to people, I talk to them. I feel empty as a balloon. I feel like my words are echoing off of something.

When I pass Trevor in the hallway he doesn’t stop.

When I see Kurt in physics second period he says Oh my God, Kel, what’s wrong with you, which is a strong thing for him to say. You look like shit, he says.

Is Trevor really mad? I ask.

What do you think, says Kurt.

Are his parents?

He shrugs.

My mom, I say, but I stop.

Ms. Dietrich begins class by giving us an exercise to do while she walks around and checks our notebooks to make sure we’ve done our homework.

Kel? she whispers, when she gets to me. I don’t have paper and I don’t have my textbook and I don’t even have a pencil.

I forgot it, I say.

Forgot what? she whispers. Your homework? Your bookbag?

Everything, I say.

She sighs and moves on to Kurt, making a little red mark in her grade book.

While everyone else works on the problem she’s given us, I reach into my back pocket for my mother’s letter and take it out. I keep it below the desk and feel every corner and every edge of it. I stick a finger into a little pocket where the glue is coming loose a bit, but I don’t pull. I think again of Lindsay, and of how nice it would be to see her. I want to find her after class. I know where she’ll be.

When the bell rings I stand and walk out quickly, and Ms. Dietrich goes, Kel, hang on a sec. Kel!

I don’t stop. I walk faster.

I walk to A-Hall, where Lindsay Harper will just be getting out of French class. My lower lip goes numb when I see her and I pinch it.

She’s with her friend Christy. They’re walking toward me. The sight of Lindsay Harper releases something in me and I feel my muscles go loose in relief, I feel that everything will be OK if I can just tell her the things I’ve been wanting to tell her. I want to tell her. I want to tell her.

She sees me when there’s still half the hall between us and stops, and her face twists as if in pain, and she grabs Christy’s wrist.

Oh my God, I see Christy say, and she puts an arm in front of Lindsay protectively, and I don’t know what’s happening.

I don’t pause. I keep walking faster and faster toward them. People are watching me now, I can see their heads swivel from me to Lindsay to me to Lindsay.

Lindsay’s whole body is tense, her jaw is tense as if it’s braced for impact. She puts both hands halfway toward me, palms out, as if to say stop.

When I reach her I try to take them and she pulls them away. I must look insane, I think—dirty sweatshirt, dirty jeans—unshaven, unshowered, insane.

What, I say, and Lindsay says, Don’t talk to me, and Christy says, She doesn’t want to talk to you.

Why— I say, and Lindsay says, Get away from me, and Christy says, Get away from her.

I don’t understand, I say.

I’m sorry, I say.

Please, I say. Please let me just talk to you.

Christy grabs her hand