The Predicteds (12 page)

“Hey! What's your problem, Cameron?” he says, throwing the ball back.

“What's yours?” Sam says in a tone I haven't heard since second grade. “I'm going inside,” he says, heading toward the entrance of the gym, pausing briefly to look at me. I look down at the fresh cement.

“What's his deal?” I ask.

Jesse sighs. “Long, long story.”

“He's being an ass,” I say.

“A little bit. He's not used to meeting a girl who doesn't want him.”

“I don't even know him.”

“Doesn't matter,” Jesse says. “You're the new girl. And he wants you to notice him. He wants you to fall all over him.”

“I'm not used to being such a hot commodity,” I say, wincing when I touch my knee. That's mostly true. I've never had trouble finding guys to date, but I'm also not exactly a supermodel.

“Daphne, you have no idea.” Jesse's voice turns serious. He moves toward me.

“We're like magnets,” I say cheesily, thinking of what Dizzy said that day at the mall. I'm softening, feeling the pull toward him.

“No,” Jesse says firmly. “Definitely not. The attraction is more like gravity.” He puts his hands on either side of my face.

“Gravity?”

“Yeah, inevitable.”

“Unstoppable. Invisible. And totally necessary,” I add, mildly repulsed by my own sincerity.

My knee stops stinging as soon as our lips meet.

When we pull apart, Jesse speaks first. “I had a great time Monday night.”

“Me too,” I say. “Thanks for taking me.”

Before Jesse can answer, Sam returns to us, bouncing a basketball with each step.

“I thought you were playing basketball inside,” I say.

“Nobody showed. Big date on Monday, huh?”

“Sam,” I say, “didn't your mother ever tell you that eavesdropping is rude?”

“Honestly, it's no big deal. I'm spoken for. I'm with Brooklyn. So it's not like I'm jealous of you, Kable.” So what Jesse says is true. He
is
jealous. Sam then says to me, “You must like guys who aren't available.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You ever wonder why Jesse spends so much time with January Morrison?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“He's not saying anything,” Jesse answers. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and then crosses his arms in front of his chest. “He's just being an asshole.” He shoots Sam a look that I'm not meant to see.

Sam holds the basketball at his chest and moves a few steps backward. “Yeah, I'm just being a jerk. Forget about it.” He walks toward the parking lot, bouncing the ball hard against the pavement.

“He's acting like an idiot,” Jesse says after Sam is gone.

“Yeah,” I say, but I realize as soon as the word is out of my mouth that I wouldn't know. I hardly know any of these people. Is Sam a jerk? Or is he telling the truth that I just don't want to hear? Because the truth is, I don't want to be
just
Jesse's friend. I want something more. The shock of it makes me feel almost sick to my stomach. Is this what it feels like to want to be with someone? Nauseated and riddled with jealousy?

When I finally fall asleep that night, I dream of Jesse and January walking on a wide suspension bridge spanning a sparkling river. As soon as I yell, “Hey! Look! Over here!” January turns to me with a smirk on her face.

“We're leaving,” she says as she grabs Jesse's hand, and they run across the bridge side by side, leaving me abandoned.

“Wait for me!” I call.

Even my dreams have turned melodramatic. I guess this is what happens when you fall deeply and totally in lust.

I'm officially a cliché.

People didn't really know me. They thought I was just some dumb jock. I wasn't. I'm not now either. They all way underestimated me. Especially Daphne; she thought I was just some idiot. She didn't know me at all.

—Sam Cameron, quoted in the book
The Future of the Predicted
, publication forthcoming

“Come on. It'll be fun,” Dizzy says as we walk up the front steps of the school this morning.

“I don't know. It's not really my thing. Frat parties are kind of Neanderthal, aren't they?”

“What else do you have planned?” she asks, as if she can't imagine I'd have anything else to do, ever.

I yawn. “I don't know, Dizz. It's only Wednesday morning.”

“True,” she says. “I don't even know what I'm going to do in five minutes.”

“Go to class?” I ask.

“Maybe. We'll see how I feel when the bell rings.” She stops in her tracks. “Oh. My. God. Have you seen her?” She's pointing at January, who is digging through her locker. “Nice hair,” she says sarcastically. “Looks an awful lot like yours. Only not as hot,” she quickly adds.

We watch January run her hand through the front of her hair and leave it standing on end in an appealing mess. “Actually, she does look really cool.”

Dizzy loudly says to me, “Dude, she's single-white-femaling you. Weeeird. Have you seen that movie,
Single White Female
? It's classic. We should Netflix it.”

I don't even respond. I'm distracted, because today is the day that Jesse and I
go public
. Whatever that means. After the incident with Sam last night, Jesse called me.

“So you up for lunch together tomorrow? In the cafeteria at school?” he'd asked.

“Fine dining? Of course, I'm always up for that. I'm hoping they'll be serving the lobster thermidor and braised spring vegetables.”

“Would you settle for a Sloppy Joe?”

“Sure,” I say. And with that, it was settled. Up until now, we'd been avoiding each other at school, mostly because we hadn't wanted to talk about
us
too much, ruin whatever good thing we have going. But today, we will sit next to each other in the cafeteria and try to avoid sharing smoldering looks over our milk cartons. We will not pretend we are perfect strangers, which is what we have been doing.

For the first time ever, I lament that there is no millennial equivalent to
going steady
. I have no words to describe what's happening with Jesse or the feelings that I'm having. I wish for the zillionth time that I hadn't spent the bulk of my teenage years in private schools. At Academy, relationships revolved around two things: sex or a mutual interest in SAT prep guides. Anything that wasn't a hookup was just a stepping stone for getting into a good college. I don't even know what to call Jesse.
Friend
doesn't do us justice.
Boyfriend
makes me feel like I'm thirty-five. What's left? I lament the paucity of the English language. Oh, god. I'm channeling Melissa again. I laugh out loud.

“What are you cackling about?” Dizzy asks me now. We are headed for New QH: English for Dizzy, chemistry for me.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You've got a secret,” Dizzy singsongs, her face just inches from my ear. “She's got a secret,” she chants. Today, Dizzy is wearing a micro-mini plaid skirt with suspenders, and her hair is braided with a red ribbon through it. She tugs on the ribbon.

“
Maybe
I have a secret,” I tell Dizzy, checking my watch to see how much time I have before the late bell. The hallways have already started to clear out, and we're walking at a snail's pace now, stopped back near the row that contains January's locker. Brooklyn and Lexus join us.

“Daphne and Jesse are the flavor-of-the month,” Brooklyn spits out. “Sam told me all about it.” Well, so much for secrets.

“Thanks for sharing that, Brook,” I say.

In the distance, January's neck stiffens, and her shoulders become rigid. She's listening. Brooklyn follows my gaze. “Look who's here,” she says to all of us. “Somebody forgot to take the trash out. After what her brother did…well, I can't believe they let her back in the school.” January hears it. I can tell by the way she almost shrinks, standing there in her green-striped tights with a long white T-shirt hanging sloppily past her thighs. “You must hate her more than all the rest of us do,” Brooklyn says to me in a fake confidential tone. “Not just because she's trying to steal Jesse, but because of what her brother did to you. Making you hide out in that cupboard. I'd be a basket case if I were you. I can't believe you can even face school.” Things have been weird between Brooklyn and me ever since the diner incident. She never officially apologized, but I get the sense that she's trying not be a total bitch. She gives me a pageant smile.

“I'm fine,” I reassure her.

“No!” Dizzy yells suddenly—a delayed reaction—while she playfully swats my shoulder. “You and Jesse! I knew it! And I love it! I mean, I hate your guts, but I still love it!” She gives me a wink. She's changing the subject away from the shooting—something that I still can't think about for very long or I start to feel queasy. “Why didn't you tell me this was serious, ya whore?” I still haven't gotten used to being called
slut
,
bitch
,
skank
, or
whore
as a term of endearment, especially because everyone is just as likely to use those same words to mean something bad. Melissa would go into immediate cardiac arrest if she heard the way girls talk to each other here.

“What?” Lexus screams. “Jesse? And this girl?” She points at me. “High five!” she yells.

“Oh, yeah,” Dizzy says. She grabs my arm and stops me from moving forward. “Daphne and Jesse are hot like fire.” She squeals, “This is so sexy!” She hits me on my shoulder again, harder this time. “Why didn't you tell me? I thought it was just some kind of crush. I didn't realize you two were going all Brad and Angie on me.”

“Well,” I say carefully, “we were kinda keeping it quiet. And it hasn't been that long. It's not like we're getting married or anything. We're just, you know, getting to know each other.”

January slams her locker shut, no books in her hands, and heads toward the library.

“Keeping it on the chill,” Dizzy says, nodding her head as if she were a part of the whole plan from the very beginning. She leans over and hugs me. “This is very cool.”

“Yeah,” Brooklyn says stonily. “Very cool. We're all very happy for the great Daphne Wright.” She walks—book-on-the-head-style—in the direction of the library, following January.

“What?” Dizzy says mock-innocently. “What'd I say? Well, whatever. Forget her. Listen, Daph,” she flips her braid over her shoulder, “I have to run. I can't be late today. Last week, I walked into English ten minutes late, and Mr. Boren made me spell everything I said for the rest of the class period. And I can't spell worth shit. Ugh.” She shudders. “I'm retro-cringing just thinking about it.” She grimaces and then takes off, skipping down the hallway until she trips over one of her heels.

***

Cafeteria lunch is revolting: cold pancakes with sticky cinnamon and sugar rice on the side. Who thinks up these combinations? Jesse and I sit at a table in the corner in the cafeteria. Dizzy, Lexus, Cuteny, and a few other people from the lake join us. It's my first lunch in the cafeteria—I usually run home and grab a quick sandwich or hide out at the picnic tables at the back of the school where nobody but the druggies and nicotine addicts hang.

“So you guys are, like, doing it now?” Cuteny asks me when Jesse begins talking to a guy at the table about tennis—some foreign exchange student from Germany.

“Nice,” she says. Cuteny raises a plastic forkful of pancakes to her nose and then drops the whole thing on her tray and pushes it away from herself. “Ugh,” she says. “I'm definitely going on a starvation diet. It won't even be hard now.” She gags for a while and then applies a coat of lipstick. “I'm glad you aren't like these two over here.” She nods at Dizzy on her other side. Josh is standing over her, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her neck while she eats. I make a face at my plate.

“So, Daph,” Cuteny says, “have you heard anything about when they are going to release the predicted lists?” Her eyes shine with the prospect of gossip.

I don't know. Neither does Melissa. But it's only a matter of time, she says. “No idea,” I tell Cuteny.

“Oh,” she says sadly. Then she pulls her tray back toward her and picks up the fork to nibble on the edge of the hunk of pancakes. “I thought you'd know.” She perks up then. “Hey! We're all going to a frat party on Saturday. You coming? I can promise debauchery.” She giggles. Her eyes scan the room and land on a table in the far corner. She drops her fork and grabs my arm. “Ugh,” she says, holding her stomach.

“What?” I watch her pale eyes go wide and then narrow again. Her eyeliner is kohl black and applied in little swoops at the corners of her eyes, so she looks like a fair-haired Cleopatra.

“There's January,” she says, “with that Nate Gormley kid. I can't believe they have the nerve to show up here.” She says this as though we are at a private party they've crashed. “Ever since that day, do you just find yourself feeling nervous? Like every time you walk past somebody in the hall, you're like,
Are you going to shoot me?
You know?”

The truth is that I
do
know. In geometry today, I practically jumped out of my skin when someone blew a bubble and popped it with a sonic-boom of a smack. I wasn't the only one who recoiled. Everyone looked around sheepishly afterward. We
expect
people to walk into classrooms and shoot at us. Somehow, that's almost sadder than the fact that it happened.

“You never know what she might do.” Cuteny's high-pitched squeak of a voice almost sounds menacing. “Do you want to know who else is predicted, I think?”

“No,” I say, “it's really none of my business.”

Cuteny spits the chewed pancake into a napkin. “I shouldn't be eating this,” she
tells me. “Pancakes are so fattening. Like eating lard patties.” She looks around the cafeteria. “Kelly Payne,” she says. “She's predicted. I'm sure of it.”

I glance over at Kelly Payne, who is sitting alone at a table with her earbuds in her ears and a paper lunch bag in front of her. She looks normal to me—shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a ponytail, jeans, pale gray sweatshirt, big hoop earrings dangling almost to her shoulders.

“She told you?” I ask.

Cuteny rolls her eyes. “No, but everybody knows. Kelly Payne's dad is in prison for arson. He burned down his girlfriend's trailer. Isn't that so trashy? And all three of her brothers are in prison. They got busted for having a meth lab. People like them give Okies a bad name. She lives with her grandma or something. How could she not be predicted with a family like that?”

“But you don't know for sure that she's going to follow in her family's footsteps. Genes don't quite work that way.” By now, I notice that Jesse is listening to our conversation. He leans into me and rubs his arm against mine. He puts his hand above my knee and gently squeezes. He wants me to stop talking. I ignore him.

Cuteny shrugs. “What's there to know? That's just who she is.” She says this last part with cold finality.

“Maybe she wants to sit with us. She must be lonely.” I say it because I know it will make Cuteny livid. It does.

“Are you serious?” Cuteny's eyes go wide. Her pupils dart around in her eyes like little blue pinballs. “We don't sit with her. Not now. Not ever. You can't trust people like that. Take my word for it, Daphne.”

“Come on,” Jesse says quietly, pulling on my arm to leave or to shut up.

It only takes me a second to decide. I pull my arm away, slide off the bench, take my almost-full tray to the row of garbage cans lined up in front of the stage, and dump the contents on top of a heap of other pancakes and rice globs. Clearly, nobody was a fan of this menu. Instead of returning to our table, I make a beeline for the corner, the table where Kelly Payne is still sitting by herself, bopping her head in time to music piped into her ears. “Excuse me,” I say loudly. She looks up. Her skin is mottled on one side, as if she has deep acne scars. Clumps of heavy makeup cover the tiny little pits. She pulls her headphones from her ears.

“I'm Daphne Wright,” I say, sticking my hand out to her. The room seems to grow quieter. I glance to my side again, and I see that Dizzy and Cuteny are watching me.

“What do you want?” she asks suspiciously.

“Do you want to sit with us?” I ask. I point in the direction of our table. Dizzy's mouth is wide open, her surprise unmistakable.

“What is this?” Kelly asks me. “Are you making fun of me? Why do you want me over there?” She points at Dizzy and Cuteny, who are whispering to each other now. Jesse wears an expression of utter surprise.

“No, of course not. I just thought you might want to join us.”

Kelly looks down at her lunch bag. “Oh,” she says to the bag. “That's cool. But I'm fine here. Really.” She puts her earbuds back in.

“Well, if you change your mind…” I say. Kelly nods at the paper bag.

When I get back to the table, Dizzy lets me know just how scandalized she is by my behavior. “Daphne Wright! Do you know who you were talking to?”

“I
told
her,” Cuteny insists.

“Do you want to commit social suicide?” Dizzy demands. “Pity is fine. That's one thing. But you can't just be talking to them like that, being friendly! You don't know how dangerous these people can be.”