“Stop telling me what you've been doing. I know. Just fix it.” I open my mouth to say something, but close it. There's nothing I can say without telling her about all the Things. “Jamie really needs us and you're not there.” I would love it if Ivan came right now and strangled the life out of me. It might make me feel better.
“I don't want to make you upset, but I can't take it, Ava. You're distracted and you don't call. I don't want to be a bitch, but you need to grow some balls and tell me. I'm really worried.” She lowers her voice so the rest of the hallway can't hear.
“Tex.” I'm going to cry.
“It also hurts me. It hurts me that there is a part of your life that you're not sharing. We've been through everything together and I feel like you're pushing me away, and I don't want that.” Now she's going to cry. Her chin shakes just a little.
“I don't want that either.” I try to blink the tears away, but they just keep coming. God damn them.
“Then talk to me.” She's chewing on her nails, little flecks of yellow polish dot her lips.
“I can't.” I stare at a dent in my locker so hard I worry it's going to burst into flames.
“I'm sorry, Ava. I've gotta go.” She stares at the floor as she turns around.
“Tex.” She's already gone. I lean against my locker, wiping tears from my eyes. I've screwed things up so much.
***
Jamie looks beaten when I see him at lunch. He's hunched over his pizza, guzzling some Mountain Dew. His eyes tell me he hasn't slept in a while. Tex is MIA, which isn't a surprise after our confrontation.
“Hey, James.” It takes him a second to look up. When I meet his eyes, I want to stab myself with my fork for neglecting him.
“How you doin'?” He just shrugs. “Jamie. Come on.” I reach out and grab his arm. He winces. “Jamie.” I shake him a little, but he's still as stone.
“I'm fine, Ava. Leave me alone.” I slide my chair so close I'm practically in his lap. He's not getting off that easy. This, I can try to fix.
“No, I won't. How's Cassie?”
“Fine. She's keeping the baby.” He takes another swig and glances around the room. No one wants to look me in the eye today. At least he's talking to me at all, instead of avoiding me.
“That's good.” It sounds like a question, because I haven't gotten a read on him yet.
“Dad says she's not having a bastard child under his roof.” He taps the drink cap on the table, and I can feel his leg jumping up and down under the table.
“Oh, Jamie.” I try to touch him again.
“Stop it.” He stands. “I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me. Least of all you.” He takes his tray and throws the whole thing in the trash, even the silverware that we're supposed to put on a conveyor belt to be washed and re-used, hunches his shoulders and walks outside. I sit for a second, wondering what my chances are at catching him with my stubby legs. Not very good. It's also starting to rain.
I decide to go for it anyway.
“Jamie! Jamie!” I don't care that I'm an idiot yelling down the hallway outside the lunch room. One of the teachers pokes her head out of her classroom, fork in hand.
“You need to go back to lunch,” she says, giving me a stern look, or it's supposed to be stern. She kind of fails at it.
“I just need to get something from my locker,” I say, hoping she'll buy it. Her eyes narrow and I can tell she wants to go back to whatever it is she's eating.
“Turn around and go back to lunch. We can't have students wandering the hallway willy-nilly.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cremmer.” I turn around as if I'm going back, but I bolt out the side door instead. It's full-on raining now. It's like a movie, with me running toward the parking lot yelling Jamie's name. There should be some sad instrumental music playing or something, and I should be moving in slow-motion.
I'm soaked by the time I make it across to the parking lot. I quickly scan for his Saab, but it's gone. I can tell it apart from the other thousands of Saab's because it has a streak of red paint on the bumper where someone hit it at a party. I stomp my foot and scream at the rain. Everything I do ends up being wrong.
I spend the rest of the day damp and pissed off. I barely notice that I can smell everything, including my geometry teacher's b.o., the pot-covered-up-with-cologne scent from Jeff Swiggett, who sits in front of me. How did Peter stand it? I mean, maybe after so many years he was immune to it, but still. I barely notice it in the morning, but by the end of the day, it's almost unbearable.
Every now and then I'd feel angry or weird or confused or stressed or something that had nothing to do with where I was and what I was doing. It gets worse as the day wears on, as if I have a split personality that someone else is using.
At one point it's an effort not to throw my math book out the window and rip my desk apart. I'm a simmering volcano, ready to blow. Strange visions accompany my bursts of anger. Disturbing visions. Ripping people's heads off, or stabbing them or watching them die in horrible ways. It freaks me out, but more than that it excites me. I am bleeped up.
“Hey baby, how was school?” Having recovered from the night before, my mother's in the kitchen making some crazy elaborate cake when I stomp in. She's been baking a lot lately. Trying to teach me as well, but I don't really have the gift for it. Not for lack of trying.
I have to pause so I don't bite her head off.
“It sucked.” Two words.
“Why?”
“Tex and Jamie are mad at me.” I throw my bag down in the hall and collapse on the counter, my head smacking the granite countertop. I kind of want to smash my brains out.
“Why?”
“Because I've been 'distracted' lately.” I put finger quotes around the word distracted.
“I see.” She puts on her oven mitts that look like lady bugs. I got them for her last Christmas. “Is it just things with me, or is it something else?”
“It's everything.” I turn my face so I can watch her. I swallow hard as I watch her frail arms struggle to lift the Bundt pan out of the oven. I want to help her, but I don't want to make her feel bad. I forget about my own issues for a minute.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good.” She's wearing her sassy blonde wig and she kind of looks like Marilyn Monroe crossed with Martha Stewart or something.
“Never let the sun go down on your wrath.” I'm not in the mood for one of her pieces of wisdom, but I smile at her anyway.
“What are you making?”
“Blackberry Jam cake.” I almost faint at the name of it. It's the most amazing cake in the history of the world. I've eaten a lot of cake, so I should know.