Flawless (22 page)

“You want to know whose words were in those messages,” I say. It's more of a statement than a question but he nods his head in answer, opening the small plastic bag of stale croutons and popping them into his mouth like they're pieces of popcorn.

“Well, it started as Kristen's words. She'd written a letter that needed some work so I rewrote it. What you saw in that e-mail were my words, but …”

For the first time since coming outside, Rock looks at me. Really looks at me. Like he's trying to determine if I'm telling the truth, if he can trust me.

“But what?” he asks.

I sigh deeply, wishing I didn't have to say this out loud, but knowing I do. It's the only way I'll ever know for sure.

Swallowing what little pride I have left, I whisper, “It's how I felt, how I still feel.”

Rock pulls his knees up and rests his arms on top, looking out into the parking lot, eyes squinting in the sunlight.

I keep my eyes on him, waiting for some sign that will tell me what to expect next.

“What am I supposed to say to that, Sarah?” he asks quietly, eyes still straight ahead.

I shrug, even though he isn't looking at me. “I don't know, Rock. I guess that's something you'll have to decide.”

He nods, then turns his face to me. “Why'd you do it? If you felt that way about me, why would you help Kristen?”

I lean back on my hands. “Because it's what I do,” I say.

“Lie?” he asks with a streak of sarcasm so sharp I feel like he's slapped me.

But how can I be angry with him for calling me out? “Until recently, I would have done anything to make Kristen happy. Even lie.”

“Until recently,” he repeats.

“I finally figured out I have to do what's right for me first.”

Rock nods, then clears his throat. “Wish you'd figured that out sooner.”

“Me, too,” I agree. “For what it's worth, I hope you can accept my apology and we can be friends again. That's what I miss most of all.”

He twists the lid off his bottled water and takes a swig. “Me, too,” he says, then pops to his feet and leaves me sitting on the grass alone.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

—EDGAR ALLAN POE

Chapter Twenty-one

Weeks pass with nothing more than quick, meaningless glances between Rock and me. I refocus on my schoolwork, the one place I always do well, and try to forget how monumentally I failed with Rock.

Houston finally gets its first cold front of the season one week before Thanksgiving. That same cool morning, Mrs. Freel calls me to the front of the room as class begins.

I walk to the front of the room and stand next to her, hands shoved into my hoodie. I focus 100 percent of my attention on Kristen. I haven't locked eyes with Rock since the day I spilled my guts and then watched him walk away. The last thing I need is to watch him enjoy the embarrassment of whatever's about to happen next.

It's easy to ignore him when he's taken to sitting in the seat closest to the door. The way he bolts in and out of class, it's like just being near me is enough to make him sick. If I wasn't so insulted, it'd be funny.

Mrs. Freel puts her coffee cup on her desk. “Sarah, I received a phone call last night from the head of the scholarship committee. It seems they've made their decision.”

And she's telling me here? Now? In front of the entire class?

I turn my eyes to her, try to read her expression, but it's stone-cold serious. My stomach plummets and my mouth goes dry.

“They were very impressed with your writing,” she says, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Really impressed.”

Someone hollers “Hell to the yeah!” and others follow with whistles and catcalls, which is totally flattering in a really embarrassing kind of way.

“So impressed, in fact,” she says, “they decided to award you first place in the scholarship contest.”

The class erupts into clapping and whistling. Mrs. Freel wraps her arms around my neck and brings me in for a huge hug that forces all the air out of my lungs. I pull back and smile, gasping for breath.

“I thought it'd be nice if you read the essay aloud to the class,” she says when everyone finally quiets down.

Panic invades every cell of my body, ratcheting my heart rate to a dangerous level. Can a seventeen-year-old die of a stroke?

The essay is about Rock.

And Kristen.

How can I possibly read it aloud? There's no way.

I shake my head at Mrs. Freel. “That's okay. They don't want to hear it.”

“Don't be so humble, Sarah. You've earned this award.” Mrs. Freel is looking to the class for encouragement, which promptly riles up my classmates.

The class chants, “Sar-ah! Sar-ah! Sar-ah!” It's not like they really want to hear what I've written. I know these kids—they just want out of whatever assignment Mrs. Freel has planned for the day.

“Your fans are calling,” Mrs. Freel says just loud enough for me to hear. “Show them what real writing sounds like.”

She pats my back for support, then hands me the paper filled with my words, my gut-deep feelings spread across the page.

I look at Kristen, who's in full chant, standing on the seat of her chair as she pumps her fist into the air with each syllable of my name. It's hard not to laugh. She's absolutely the best friend ever. It's not her fault the reading of my paper's going to qualify as my life's most embarrassing moment.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath as Mrs. Freel shushes the class with a finger over her red lips.

“Whenever you're ready,” she says, taking a few steps back, leaving me totally on my own.

Clearing my throat, I hold up the paper and begin reading.

“
Loyalty.

“
The very word evokes strong emotion. By definition, it means a feeling of devotion, duty, or attachment to someone or something. It's considered the core foundation of all successful relationships, both personal and professional.

“
But what about loyalty to ourselves?

“
In
Hamlet,
Shakespeare penned a well-known but often forsaken phrase: To thine own self be true.

“
Is it true that we owe ourselves the same loyalty we pledge to others? How do we reconcile that belief with our loyalty to others, especially when it comes at the cost of our own happiness?

“
I've recently learned something very profound: loyalty to others can be a weakness if you don't know how to balance it with loyalty to yourself, to your own ideals and goals.

“
This wasn't a lesson I learned easily. It came after weeks of refusing to follow my own instincts in order to make another person happy.

“
But it's funny what you can convince yourself to do in the name of loyalty, in the name of friendship.
”

I stop to catch my breath, swallowing loudly. Fighting the tears is a losing battle and I don't dare look up at Kristen. One look at her and I'll be toast. Before I lose my nerve, I take a deep breath and read on.

“
When my best friend asked me to do something I knew was wrong, I did it anyway. Now I wonder why I would sacrifice my own self-interest for hers. And it all boils down to that one seven-letter word.

“
Loyalty.

“
Clearly, I was misguided in my devotion to our friendship. I can rationalize it all, of course. Maybe I didn't believe I really stood a chance to get what I wanted, so it was easy to ignore my own desires. Maybe I was just scared. Scared of rejection, embarrassment, and, worst of all, abandonment.

“
Still, what haunts me most about my failure to do what was right for me is that I denied myself the opportunity to be truly happy. Since my life-altering mistake was revealed, I haven't felt the same peace and joy in my heart that was there before.

“
Honestly, there's a part of me that believes I've earned the misery I'm living through right now.

“
As a seventeen-year-old senior at Northwest High School, I'm proud to say I'm a good friend, maybe even a great friend. But I know now exactly how far I'll go for that friendship and vow to show myself the same loyalty I've given others. I deserve a place on my list of priorities. I've learned that my own happiness is as important as anyone else's and loyalty to myself is paramount.

“
Thank you, Shakespeare, for the words that now guide my heart, my every decision.

“
To myself I will be true.
”

When I finish, you can hear a pin drop in the classroom. Even Kristen, who's still standing in her chair, is frozen in place. The look on her face says it all.

She gets it.

She knows I was attracted to Rock, but that I helped her anyway.

She knows exactly what I sacrificed. For her.

She hops off her chair and races to the front of the room, pulling me into a hug so fierce, so tight, I'm not sure I have the strength to pull away.

“I love you, Sarah,” she mumbles into my hair. “I'm so sorry I didn't know.”

I laugh, my body's automatic defense to that telltale burning in my eyes. “It's okay,” I say, patting her back.

“Okay, girls,” Mrs. Freel says, chuckling.

“Kiss and make up,” a crude boy's voice calls out from the back of the room.

“That's enough,” Mrs. Freel says in response before turning her attention back to me and Kristen. “Kristen, please sit down.”

Reluctantly, Kristen pulls away from me, then walks back to her seat.

“Congratulations, Sarah,” Mrs. Freel says, taking the paper from my shaking hands. “We're all very proud of you.”

I smile back at her. “Thanks.”

Walking back to my desk, I can feel Rock's eyes on me and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep my eyes on my desk. There was nothing in that essay I hadn't already told him, so he can't be surprised.

But right or wrong, I'm aching to know what he thinks just the same.

Sitting at our table in the cafeteria, I wait for Kristen, wondering if her emotions have shifted from regret to anger. Not that I think anger would be appropriate, but it's been my experience that's how most people react when they feel guilty. It's always easier to blame someone else than to own up to your mistakes.

When she finally sits down across from me, she smiles, and I immediately relax.

“Are we okay?” I ask timidly.

“Of course we are,” she says, sprinkling two packets of Parmesan cheese on her oversized slice of pepperoni pizza. “I just can't believe that's how you felt and you never said anything.”

“I didn't even question it until Rock found out.”

“Well, that's the first thing you've got to get settled,” she says, mouth full.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Rock.”

I shake my head quickly. “I've tried to talk to him about it, but I didn't get very far.”

“Then I'll talk to him for you,” she offers.

“Absolutely not,” I say, pointing my finger at her. “Don't even think about it. Do you understand?”

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Geez, just trying to help.”

“I know you are,” I say. “But this is between me and Rock.”

“I should have known it was you,” she says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“When we were at the Chocolate Bar at that poetry reading, he kept looking around the room. I asked him who he was looking for and he just shrugged and shook his head.”

“What does that have to do with me?” I ask, stomach churning at the thought of Rock looking for me. I don't dare let myself believe it's true.

“Well, isn't it obvious? He was looking for you. He'd spent the entire drive to Montrose talking about the poetry the two of you had discussed in class.”

“Whatever,” I say, doing my best to blow her off. The last thing I need is to get my hopes up. After all, he's made it painfully clear he's done with me now. So whatever he felt three months ago is long gone.

“Think what you want, but I'm telling you Rock feels the same way. When have I been wrong about guys?”

I stare at Kristen for a long moment. “It's too late,” I say quietly, as much to myself as to her.

“Girl,” Kristen says with her usual spunk. “It's never too late.”

After taking Kristen home, I stop at the store for groceries. Knowing Mom's doing the ten o'clock doesn't keep me from planning a full spread for the night: chicken Parmesan with ziti and a Caesar salad. I need the distraction and Mom can heat it up when she gets home.

When I finally turn onto my street, it's close to five and I'm shocked to see a familiar truck parked in the driveway.

Rock's truck.

Instinctively, I slow down and actually consider pulling a U-turn.

But it's Rock.

Isn't this what I wanted?

I force myself to keep my foot on the gas and pull into the driveway beside his truck. By the time I hop out and reach in the backseat for the groceries, he's beside me.

“Let me get it,” he says gruffly, almost like he's irritated.

“Thanks.” I move out of his way and let him grab the two bags.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he says after closing the car door.

I nod, afraid to trust my voice. Instead, I walk across the lawn to the front door.

“Where've you been?” he asks. Maybe it's a little over the top for him to ask, but a part of me is thrilled he even cares.

“School, Kristen's house, then the store. It's not like I was expecting you to be here,” I say.

“Yeah, I know,” he says from behind me. I open the door and let him follow me to the kitchen.

“You can just put those there,” I tell him, pointing to the kitchen counter.

He carefully puts the bags down, then looks around the comfortable kitchen, eyes stopping on the wall of pictures.

“Want something to drink?” I ask.