She’s sitting on the edge of one of the sinks, her legs propped up on the next one over. There’s a run in her black tights, and she’s dabbing nail polish on the end, trying to stop it from growing.
I’m even more awkward touching up makeup in front of her, and her friends. I can feel them watching me even though they’re pretending I’m invisible. It’s like being in a room with ghosts.
“You going to the dance?” one of her friends asks her.
“Fuck no! Sasha’s having a party; I’ll be there,” she says, her eyes flitting to my reflection in the mirror quickly before moving back to the run on her leg. I watch as her friend moves closer to her and whispers something in her ear, something that leaves them both laughing and covering their mouths.
Her friend comes toward me after a few minutes, and I work to pack up my things calmly, pretending I’ve finished whatever I was doing. I’m mentally forcing myself to slow down, not to look nervous. The girl smiles at me in the mirror—then pulls her purse straps from her shoulder, dropping her heavy bag on the edge of the sink. She pulls out a bottle of pills and pours two small white ones in her hand, reaching her other hand down to cup water from the sink and swallowing the water and pills down quickly.
She leaves her gaze on me, her smile never changing, never growing or shrinking. It’s just there—like a dare. Her eyes are just the same—taunting, bait. She’s waiting for me to flinch, to be offended or question what she’s doing. But I don’t. A lot of the girls at Bryce did drugs in the bathroom, usually expensive designer ones. What she’s just done isn’t shocking to me. What’s making me uncomfortable is the amount of lips in this room that have kissed my boyfriend.
I smile back at her reflection, amused internally over how hard she’s working to intimidate me, her gaze staying on me, her brow lowering. I pull my things together slowly, and then I take the extra step of pulling a towel from the holder and wiping the few drops I’ve left behind on the sink. Nobody breathes a word when I leave. But the second the door closes, the room behind me erupts with laughter.
I shake my head and roll my eyes. But I also stand still, letting my back slump against the wall around the corner, letting my breath leave my chest in one long exhale, some of my confidence slipping away with it. Their laughter…it still feels bad. I can convince myself of a lot of things, but I think we all want people to like us—like us, or let us be invisible. Right now, I think I’d be happy to have left that room unnoticed.
The bell rings seconds later. I pull my backpack over my body and make my way to class, blending quickly with the backpacks, hats and chatter, shedding everything that made me feel as if I stood out—not in a good way—seconds ago. I step into our English class where Owen’s feet are on my chair—waiting for me. My mouth can’t help but smile seeing them there. As quiet as he’s been, these small gestures are still there. I’m grateful for them.
They let me breathe again.
“Missed you this morning,” I say as I slide into my seat, my hip cozying up next to his ankles, my body wanting any kind of touch. Owen’s eyes stay on me as he leans forward, sliding the hood from his head. His feet finally fall to the floor.
He tilts his desk as he leans far enough forward for his lips to reach me, but he passes my mouth, moving right for my neck. “I like your hair,” he says, his eyes a little hazy. His hot breath on my neck sends shivers down my arms and back.
“Thanks,” I say. “Willow did it. It’s for the dance.”
He pulls away, but keeps his eyes fixed on me, on my bare neck.
“I’m visiting my grandpa after school,” he says. “Wanna come? I’ll bring you back before the game.”
“I’d love to,” I say, my heart thumping so heavy with hope. This is the first time Owen’s done something different from the routine of his house, from checking on James, from being short with me. It’s the first time in a week he’s initiated the conversation, and it’s made me feel happy enough to cry. I’m not sure why, but the sensation almost chokes me, suffocating my lungs quickly. I think it’s because I’ve been afraid of losing him.
I’m saved by Mr. Chessman’s entrance, and I turn to face the front, keeping my head down until the swell of emotion leaves my chest and I’m able not to act so desperate for his attention.
Owen’s quiet for the rest of the day, holding my hand briefly in the hallway—sitting at our table for only part of the lunch period, kissing my cheek and telling me he’ll see me after school before joining House outside. For a minute, I think I see him taking a drag from House’s cigarette, but I can’t tell for sure.