a tiny smile at the memory, but it was gone almost instantly. “No. I swear it’s not.”
“Then what?” I pleaded.
“I don’t know, Ellie.” He held me against him and rubbed my back in smooth, solid strokes. “I just don’t think we’re a match.”
“Not a match!?” I screamed, breaking away from him. “How can we not be a match?”
He didn’t respond. He simply shook his head and stepped forward to kiss me on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I really am.”
I knew what came next. I knew he was about to walk away from me again, and I couldn’t go through that. So I turned my back on him instead. I got into the car, slammed the door, and started the engine.
I refused to glance out the window. I refused to suffer through another pitying look from him.
I reached for the gearshift, ready to squeal out of this parking lot in a cloud of dust. But I couldn’t move. Nothing worked. My hands, my feet, my lungs. They all shut down. Only my tear ducts seemed to be in operation. They were pulling overtime. Fat drops rolled down my cheeks. I rested my head on the steering wheel and sobbed.
Now, with much effort, I finally reach the second floor of my house and pause on the landing, rubbing my puffy eyes.
Not a match?
What kind of ridiculous response is that?
Does he not remember our first night together? Does he not remember the things he said to me? How different I was from every other girl he’d dated? How refreshing I was?
Refreshing!
I’m the freaking soft drink of girls!
Why can’t he still see that? Why can’t he hold on to what we had the way I am so desperately trying to do?
Even though he swore it’s not, it has to be about the fight on Sunday night. I never should have reacted that way. I never should have thrown that stupid garden gnome. Why can’t I go back and relive that day over and over? Instead of this one? Then I’d know exactly how to fix this. Then Tristan and I would still be together.
When I pass my sister’s room, I hear the familiar sound of The Breakfast Club playing. I almost walk past for a third time until I remember what happened this afternoon.
The heartbreaking look in her eyes as she walked home from school soaking wet is too much to forget. Too much to ignore. I stop and knock on the partially closed door.
“Come in!” she calls.
Hadley is under the covers, propped up on about a thousand pillows. Her knees are hugged up to her chest and her face is clean and devoid of any unsightly mascara streaks. I probably can’t say the same for mine, but I’m hoping the darkness will obscure the evidence.
I sit on the edge of the bed and turn toward the TV screen. It’s nearing the end of the movie. They’re all sitting in a circle, pouring their hearts out.
I want to ask her again about this afternoon, but I also don’t want her to get angry and kick me out. She seems so calm right now. I’ll just watch the movie. If she wants to talk to me, I guess she will.
As I listen to Emilio Estevez tell his sob story to the group, I hear a soft whisper behind me. I turn to look at my sister. She’s quietly reciting the lines, right along with him. She doesn’t miss a single word.
Just as I can sing along to every song in my countless mood-altering playlists, apparently my sister can recite every word of this movie, and who knows how many others. I glance at her tall bookshelf. The top three shelves are devoted to all her contemporary teen romances. The bottom three shelves are stocked with DVD cases, every single one of them a movie centered around high school.
“Hads,” I say, interrupting Emilio’s climactic monologue.
“Hmm?” she says.
“Why do you watch these movies?”
She shrugs. “Why does anyone watch movies?”
“I mean, this kind of movie. About high school.”
Her eyes never leave the screen. She’s so enthralled by this dialogue between the members of The Breakfast Club, you’d think it was her first time watching it. But the way her mouth syncs perfectly to every character’s line tells another story.
She picks up the remote and pauses the film. “I’m starting high school next year. Did you forget?” She says this like the answer is obvious. Like I should feel stupid for not having come up with it myself.
I