“That’s not the point. I can get an A on my own. I don’t need to hand in your work,” I say, and cross my arms. “And anyway, it’s against the honor code.”
He looks at me again, and I see the faintest hint of a smirk. Better than a dismissal, I guess, but still obnoxious.
“The honor code?”
Screw him. He’s probably the son of some famous actor or director, and he doesn’t have to worry about his place here. Or getting into college. He’s probably never even heard the word “scholarship” before. Would have to look it up.
“Listen, I’m new here, okay? And I don’t want to get kicked out or in trouble or whatever. And it’s junior year, so it all counts. So I don’t really care if you think that’s dorky or stupid or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” the Batman says. Another inscrutable smirk. I hate him. I really do. At least when Gem and Crystal make fun of me, it’s for things that I can tell myself don’t matter. My clothes, not my words. I hear my mom in my head, for just a second, since her voice has mostly evaporated—water to air, or maybe disintegrated, dirt to dust—but for one easy second, she’s right here with me: Other people can’t make you feel stupid. Only you can.
“Or whatever,” I say again, like I’m in on the joke. Like he can’t hurt me. I bite back the sudden tears. Where did they come from? No, not now. No way. I take a breath, and it passes. “Seriously, I’ll just find another partner. Not a big deal.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. Shrug like I don’t give a shit. Make it sound like I too have people lining up to talk to me, like the lionesses do for him. The Batman looks right back at me, shakes his head a little, as if trying to wake up. And then he smiles. Not a smirk. Nothing mean or cruel about it. Just a good old-fashioned smile.
He doesn’t have porcelain veneers. He does have a cleft. His two front teeth are slightly crooked, veer just a tiny bit to the right, as if they’ve decided perfection is overrated. I don’t think he wears eyeliner. I think he was just born like that: his features enunciating.
“Okay, let’s do it,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I am distracted because his smile transforms his face. He turns from beautiful, moody teenager to a goofy, slightly awkward one in an instant. I can almost see him at thirteen, vulnerable, shy, not the same person who holds court at the Koffee Kart. I bet I would have liked him better then, when he read Marvel comics instead of Sartre, when he didn’t wrangle with all the hard questions and come out the other end sad or angry or tired or whatever it is he is.
I definitely like him better smiling.
“Let’s tackle ‘The Waste Land’ together. April is the cruellest month and all that jazz. Not my favorite poem, but it’s seminal,” he says, and puts his bookmark in Dracula and closes it, like that’s that. Decision made. Here are your Chicken McNuggets with extra honey mustard. Pleasethankyouyou’rewelcome.
“Okay,” I say, because reading him makes me slow. I’m the tired one now. His smile is like unlocking a riddle. How does an imperfection make him seem even more perfect? And did he just use the word “seminal”? Is he sad or angry or just sixteen?
“Do we really have an honor code here?” he asks.
“We do. It’s ten pages long.”
“Learn something new every day. We haven’t officially met yet, have we? I’m Ethan, Ethan Marks.”
“Jessie,” I say, and we shake hands like real adults: no fist bumps or faux cheek kisses or guy nods. His fingers are long and slender and solid. I like them as much as his smile. Like touching them even more. “Holmes.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Jessie.” He pauses. “Holmes.”
Day 15. Definitely better.
—
Later, in gym, I walk the track with Dri—she says that’s what her friends call her, because Adrianna has “too many reality-show connotations”—and we laugh as we count the number of times Mr. Shackleman tries to surreptitiously adjust his balls. It’s Dri’s game. SN is right: she’s funny.
“I can’t decide if he’s itchy or trying to hide his boner from watching the Axis of Evil run,” she says. Gem and Crystal have lapped us three times now, not breaking a sweat, not even breathing hard. They look so good, I can’t