Every Last Word (20 page)

“And maybe it’s obsession. Maybe it’s not ‘normal’ at all. But I feel good when I’m with them.”

“I can tell.”

And without revealing the secret room underneath the school theater, I spend the rest of the session telling her about AJ, Caroline, Sydney, Cameron, Abigail, Jessica, Emily, and Chelsea. My
eight new friends.

T
he parking lot is practically empty. I swipe my card key across the panel, the gate clicks open, and I step inside, looking around and
wondering why there’s no one here. Team practices ended hours ago, but even though it’s after eight o’clock, there are usually a few adults swimming laps when I arrive. Tonight,
there’s one person in the pool. I’m relieved she isn’t in lane three.

I drop my swim bag on a chair near the edge and unzip the side pocket that holds my cap and goggles. From the main compartment, I grab my towel, and when I do, I spot my blue notebook.
It’s such a nice night, so I stuffed it in here at the last minute, thinking I might sit on the lawn and write for a while after my workout.

I’ve never actually
written
at the pool before. My poems come to me as I’m swimming, and I put them on paper when I get home, but they never sound quite as good as they did in
my head. This way, I figure I won’t lose my groove.

I’m only halfway through my workout when the other swimmer leaves the pool and heads for the outdoor shower. A few laps later, I see her unlatching the gate and disappearing into the
parking lot.

I’m alone. I hop out of the pool and walk over to the chair, grab my blue notebook and a pen, and set them on the edge of the pool under the diving block.

By the end of my workout, the paper is soaked through at one corner and some of the ink is smudged, but I can still read my latest poem clearly. I add the final line and read the whole thing
through, top to bottom, crossing out a word here and another there, swapping them out for better ones as I go. When I’m done, my toes are sore from sliding them back and forth against the
wall, but I don’t care. This poem is actually pretty good.

I wrap myself up in my towel, jam my notebook back into my bag, rinse off in the shower, and head into the locker room to change into my sweats. I’m piling my hair into a ponytail when my
phone chirps. I grab it off the counter and read the text:

It’s from a number that’s local but unknown. I type:

I rest the phone on the counter next to the sink and gather the rest of my things together. I’m throwing my bag over my shoulder when the phone chirps again.

My bag slips to the floor and lands with a
thud
. I check the string. This isn’t a message to the whole group; it’s a message for me. My eyebrows pinch together as I reply.

It’s been two weeks since that day at his house, when he taught me how to play guitar, told me about his ex-girlfriend, and we became friends and nothing more. I’m not sure what to
say, so I stand there, leaning against the bathroom sink, holding the phone with both hands, and waiting for his reply. Finally one comes.

I can’t really tell him that I’m standing in a semipublic bathroom, my hair still wet from the shower, wearing sweats and no makeup, so I fall back on what I was doing fifteen
minutes earlier.

Yesterday, when I took the stage for the sixth time, I read a poem about unreliable friends, people you love and feel bonded to but can never truly trust. It was about feeling alone
and vulnerable, and never being able to fully let your guard down. When I read it, my voice was clear and loud and direct, and I’ve never felt more confident on that stage, but I’ve
never felt more exposed either. Everyone clapped and I slapped the paper on the wall, officially giving myself another contribution to Poet’s Corner. And it felt good. Really good.

I’m not sure what to say next, but I don’t want the conversation to end, so I decide to keep it going, being mysterious, or flirtatious, or maybe a little of both.

As I type the words, I’m thinking about what AJ said that day I was alone in Poet’s Corner with him. When I asked him why everyone starts by saying where they wrote their piece, he
said that the places matter, and by voicing them, they become part of the poem. I liked that idea.

I bite my lip. Is this still friendly chatter? Or are we flirting now? He might be flirting. I’m not sure.

Just in case we are flirting, I wait for a minute before I reply, letting his words hang in the air a bit longer, keeping him “intrigued.”

I stare at the screen for a long time, gathering my nerve to reply with the first thing that pops into my head, which is definitely flirtatious, no way around it. I leave the locker room, throw
my bag down on the grass, and then sit, legs folded underneath me, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He’s the one who keeps telling me to blurt. And blurting in a text is way easier than
blurting face-to-face. Feeling shaky all over, I type:

Before I can chicken out, I press
SEND
, and my heart starts beating faster and harder than it had been when I was swimming laps. I drop the phone on the grass and shake
out my arms, wishing I could un-send that text. But I can’t. It’s out there. I can’t take it back now. Crap.

I can see the screen. There’s no response. He doesn’t know what to say. I pushed it too far. I wind my wet ponytail around my finger, feeling stupid and starting to wonder if
he’s ever going to reply, when the words appear in a speech bubble on my screen:

I fall back on the grass and reach for the phone, covering my mouth with my hand to hide the stupid grin that just appeared out of nowhere. Play it cool. Play. It. Cool.

He’ll be in my car again. I start to panic about the odometer, but then I force the thought away with a nice memory of the day he sat in my passenger seat, listening to me talk about my
playlists and how I named them. Telling me how he learned to play guitar, even though it was painful to hear. My parents would kill me if they knew I was driving around with passengers. So would
Sue. But I can’t pass up this chance. I want him to sit in that seat again, to talk to me like he did that day.

I stare at the screen for what feels like a long time, wondering what this whole thing means. Wondering if it means
anything
.

It’s not a date. It’s me showing a fellow poet where I like to write. That’s it. But the thought of bringing AJ here makes me feel giddy and light-headed. I look around the
empty club, hoping it will be this quiet tomorrow night.

I press
SEND
and wait until the ellipses finally appear on the screen, telling me he’s typing his reply.

I laugh. I’m not ready for this conversation to end, so I read back through the string as if that will keep it alive, and to double-check to be sure I didn’t misread anything. I
don’t think I did. He started it. I kept it going and turned a friendly check-in into something else. “It’s not a date,” I say aloud as I run my finger along the glass.
“We’re friends.”

Even if that’s all we are, it’s okay. This is already more than I ever expected from AJ Olsen.

L
ast night, I took the sleep meds that knock me out for eight solid hours, and set my alarm to wake me up fifteen minutes earlier than
usual. This morning, I showered quickly and rushed through breakfast with Mom and Paige, all so I could get to school early and talk to Caroline before first bell. I can’t wait to tell her
about my non-date tonight with my friend-and-nothing-more AJ.

I’m ten minutes ahead of schedule, buckling my seatbelt and about to pull out of the driveway, when I get an all-caps text from Kaitlyn, telling me she hates Hailey. I let out an annoyed
sigh as I put the car back in park. I should have known the drama-free state of existence wouldn’t last long.

I’m replying when I get a text from Hailey, telling me that Kaitlyn is going to kill her. The text contains a link and I click it. It leads me to a photo of the eight of us, taken in
Sarah’s backyard the summer before third grade. We’re all in our swimsuits, but Kaitlyn is wearing her bottoms and nothing else. It already has more than thirty likes.

I separately tell them both I’m on my way.

By the time I arrive at Hailey’s locker, Kaitlyn and Alexis are already there, screaming at her about practicing proper judgment and considering the feelings of others. My palms feel
sweaty as I near the scene, and a horrible chill travels up my spine when I get close enough to hear Hailey’s voice crack as she tries to defend herself without breaking down into tears. I
get it. I’ve been in her position before, too many times to count.

Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I step in front of Hailey and push Kaitlyn away, holding her at arm’s length. “Calm down, you guys.”

“Do you even know what she did?” Kaitlyn yells at me. Then she returns her attention to Hailey. “What were you thinking?” she screams over my shoulder.

“I thought it was funny. I thought
you’d
think it was funny.” Hailey’s voice is low and unsteady. “I’m sorry. I took the picture down.”

“After it got more than fifty likes!” Alexis says, jumping in to support Kaitlyn like she always does.

“You looked pretty,” Hailey tries, but that makes Kaitlyn even more infuriated.

“No one’s looking at my face, Hailey!”

“Oh, come on. We were little kids.”

“Kaitlyn.” We make eye contact and I don’t let her go. It feels weird. I don’t think I’ve ever looked her in the eye with such conviction before. “You have
every right to be angry, but you have to calm down, okay? Let’s talk about this at lunch.”

“No, Samantha!” she yells in my face. “We’ll talk about it now.”

“No, Kaitlyn. We won’t.” I don’t even blink.

I grab Hailey’s hand and pull her away before either one of them has a chance to respond, and steer her around the corner, down the hallway, and over to the bathroom in the next building.
Hopefully they won’t think to look for us there. Once we’re inside, Hailey slams her hand against the bathroom door as tears start streaming down her face.

“You know what sucks?” Hailey yells. “She would have done that to me. Or to you. And if we got upset or embarrassed she would have called us ‘oversensitive’ and
told us ‘not take everything so personally.’” She mimics Kaitlyn’s voice on that last part and nails it.

Black streaks of mascara slide down Hailey’s bright red cheeks, and I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and run it under the cold water. I hand her the towel. “Still. You had to
know Kaitlyn would be upset. That was kind of messed up.”