Mayhem Page 7

  “It’s true!”

  “Uh-­huh.” He grins at me. “Suuure it is.”

  “I’m not even kidding you right now!”

  He laughs harder. “You are so full of it.”

  I shrug. “Fine, don’t believe me.”

  Still laughing, he says, “Okay, Roly Poly, I’ll bite. When did it happen?”

  “Do you remember Dee told you that I saw Brady cheating on me while I was busy talking to another guy at Mayhem?” Leti nods. “That’s not really true . . . I saw Brady at the bar with that girl. I ran out of the back of the building and started crying on a stoop. Adam came out to smoke a cigarette and saw me. We started talking, he invited me onto his tour bus, we started drinking, and . . . I don’t know, one thing just kind of led to another . . .”

  Leti is staring at me like I just sprouted an extra head. “You’re not kidding . . .”

  I stare nervously at him, still unable to believe that I actually just spilled my secret to someone.

  “Oh . . . my . . . GOD.” He flattens both hands against the dashboard, his fingers splayed like he needs to hold on to something to keep himself grounded. He stares out of the windshield until his head snaps in my direction. “You . . . made out . . . with Adam EVEREST.”

  I nod.

  “I can’t believe it!” he says. “That’s why you always look at those skanks like you want to snap their twiggy little necks in half!”

  “Do I seriously do that?” I worry my bottom lip again.

  “Yes!” He laughs. “I mean, so does every other girl in the room, but . . . wow.”

  “You can NOT tell Dee about this!”

  “I won’t! I swear.” He sucks in a deep breath. “That girl would straight-­up kill you for not telling her. She’d go all Rambo in that hot black outfit of hers and flog you with her key chains until you confessed every juicy detail.”

  I might have laughed at that if it wasn’t way too easy for me to picture. “I know!” I say.

  I feel bad for not telling Dee about Adam but . . . I just can’t. Maybe ten years from now, I’ll tell her and we’ll laugh. But right now, I just don’t need the drama that would ensue. I’ve got enough as it is already.

  I turn into the Walmart parking lot and give Leti a “you had better keep this secret or I’m a dead woman walking” look. He twists an imaginary key between his lips and tosses it over his shoulder.

  Chapter Eight

  TELLING LETI ABOUT Adam has been blissfully freeing. I spend all Sunday feeling like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. But then Monday arrives and he sits down next to me in class with a ridiculously goofy grin on his stupid face. “What are you smiling about?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Nothing,” he chirps.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say, and he just laughs, his eyes glued to the door. “Seriously,” I warn. “Don’t get weird about this, okay?”

  With humor in his tone, he says “okay,” but his eyes don’t budge from the door, and I can already tell this class is going to suck.

  When Adam walks in, Leti’s eyes dart from him to me and back again, his smile growing wider and wider. His lips stretch over his pearly whites, making me roll my eyes. I smack him in the arm, and he laughs.

  “I said to stop being weird!” I scold.

  “I can’t help it! This is too good!”

  I groan. And I know I shouldn’t gawk at Adam as his long legs carry him to his seat, but I really can’t help it. He doesn’t wear a backpack or even carry a notebook or a pen. The only thing he brings to class is a pack of cigarettes held loosely in his palm. How does he expect to take notes?

  “Why don’t you go talk to him?” Leti asks.

  The corner of Adam’s mouth quirks up in a devastatingly sexy smile when one of the girls up front bounces out of her seat, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and hands him a coffee. In well-­worn jeans and a bright red T-­shirt, he takes a sip and then smoothly slides into the seat next to her.

  “What’d be the point?” I ask.

  “Uh, do I have to spell it out for you?!” When I don’t respond, Leti adds, “Because I could spell it out if you need me to. It wouldn’t be that hard. Three little letters. S, E—­”

  Eyes wide, I yank on his shirtsleeve with one hand and shush him with the other. “Be quiet!” I look around to make sure no one else is eavesdropping on our hushed conversation, but all the students within earshot are busy either talking amongst themselves or texting on their phones during the final precious seconds before class starts.

  Leti laughs. “I’m just saying!”

  “I hear you!” I drop my voice even lower. “But there’s no way in hell that would happen even if I did talk to him.”

  “Why not? He obviously thinks you’re hot or he wouldn’t have made out with you.”

  “Because I’ve never—­” I stop myself. I can’t believe I almost just confessed that I’m still a virgin.

  “You’ve never . . .” When realization dawns in Leti’s eyes, I can tell it’s too late. “You’ve never—­” He gives me a look, and I nod.

  He shakes his head in astonishment, that amused smile still plastered on his lips. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

  Things just kept getting worse.

  Later that week, Dr. Pullman gave a pop quiz to make sure everyone had been reviewing the basics like he had instructed us to do as homework, and I got a C. A freaking C! And of course, instead of blaming myself for being so easily distracted, I blamed a certain boy with disheveled brown hair, piercing gray eyes, and a very talented tongue.

  The night before the quiz, I had dreamt about him. I’d woken up practically groping Dee. Talk about awkward . . . She hadn’t woken up, but I felt embarrassed as hell. I’d never had a dream that explicitly vivid in my entire life. I woke up out of breath, all my muscles aching. For a few minutes, I lied there hating myself for turning Adam down. I wondered if the real thing would have been as amazing as that dream . . .

  So when Dr. Pullman handed out the quiz the next day, my attempts to concentrate on the questions instead of the sex-­god-­of-­my-­dreams sitting up front was pretty much impossible. I’d been reviewing the basics all week, but my brain was filled with too much Adam to remember them.

  I blamed that dream on pent-­up sexual frustration caused by the good side of my two-­faced pastor’s son ex-­boyfriend.

  He texted me the day after we commandeered my car, left me messages begging me to just talk to him.

  I caved and texted him back. I told him I would talk to him when I was ready.

  Really, it was more courtesy than he deserved, but I felt a nagging need to end some of the pain he was feeling. Even after what he’d done to me, a part of me still loved him and hated seeing him so torn up. His constant texts and voicemails were numbing my anger to nonexistence, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. If I let go of the anger, what did I have—­besides a huge gaping hole?

  By the second week of classes, Adam had started arriving at French class late. By the fourth week, I never knew if he was actually going to show or not. He usually arrived with a girl or two or three, and most of the time, they were girls I’d never seen before. He brought new faces with him to almost every class he showed up to, and I started realizing that the pretty girls who tagged along with him weren’t even in our class at all—­they just showed up with him, waited on him, and left with him. It was highly irritating.

  A social life of my own probably would’ve helped, but every week, Dee got invited to parties and extended second-­hand invitations to me, and every week, I found creative ways to turn her down.

  Really, I don’t know why she ever wanted to be seen in public with me. After the novelty of having Adam in my class wore off and it became clear he was never going to notice me, I switched to full-­on college-­bum mode. I walked to campus
in two-­day-­old yoga pants and baggy T-­shirts, with flip-­flops on my socked feet and my unkempt hair twisted up into a messy bun. Half the time, I didn’t even bother putting my contacts in and would show up wearing my rectangular black glasses instead. Dee would furrow her brow at me when I walked into history class, but I’d just grin at her. Once, I blew her a kiss, and she fiercely batted it away, which earned us strange looks from everyone who noticed.

  I filled my nights with studying and my weekends with extra credit. After getting that first C in French, I really stepped it up. When Dr. Pullman offered extra credit to any students who were willing to help him set up the new language lab on a Saturday, I volunteered and dragged Leti along with me. We helped arrange the headphones and hardware and then installed software on the computers and tested it all out. Dr. Pullman bought us pizza and actually cracked a few jokes as we all worked together, and I realized he was actually pretty awesome. Tough as nails, but awesome.

  The next weekend, he offered more extra credit to anyone willing to translate a short book from English to French. Apparently, I was the only person who took him up on the opportunity. I translated a children’s book I wrote in eighth grade, and he gave me an exorbitant number of extra points, telling me that my story about the little unicorn without a horn was extremely touching in both languages. I nearly squealed with delight when I read the green-­ink comments, rushing to shove the paper in Leti’s face so he could see them too.

  “You’re such a nerd girl,” he said with a laugh.

  When fall break rolled around, I was almost sad to leave Leti’s familiar face. He’d become a regular in our dorm room, and even Macy seemed to light up more when he was around. But I also missed my mom and dad, so I gave Leti a peck on the cheek and he saw Dee and me off from the Walmart parking lot. We drove home separately.

  THAT SUNDAY, AFTER spending the week with my parents, I leave my car at their house and ride home with Dee. We stop at a gas station on the long trip back to school. As she fills up her tank, I go inside to use the restroom and stock up on gum. I’m walking back to the car when I notice Dee sitting inside it, talking on my phone. The windows are rolled down, so her voice swims out to me when she coldly finishes a sentence with, “because she obviously doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  My feet fly across the last few steps of pavement in an instant, and I dive into the car like a bullet, snatching the phone roughly from Dee’s hand. I pull it to my own ear to hear the tail end of Brady’s reply.

  “—­don’t like me, but this is between me and Rowan.” A long moment of silence passes where I have no idea what to say. Should I just hang up? “Hello?” Brady says.

  “It’s me . . .” I shoot a glare at Dee and then step away from her car, swallowing my nerves. “Sorry about that,” I say as I walk back to her trunk, leaning against it because I need the support.

  “Rowan . . .” Brady says. He sounds hollow, like he never expected to hear my voice again. An awkward silence passes where we both have no idea what to say. Finally, he simply asks, “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better . . .”

  He could apologize, which would irritate me. He could say “me too,” which would irritate me. He could plead his case, which would irritate me. Instead, he asks, “How is school?”

  “It’s alright, I guess.” When another awkward silence begins, I offer, “I really like my English professor. And my French professor isn’t too bad either.” This is weird . . . This is so normal, it’s weird.

  “That’s good . . . You’ve been staying with Dee?”

  I spare a glance back to the car, where Dee is turned in her seat, listening to my every word with an agitated look on her face. If anyone should be irritated here, it’s me. I push off the car and walk back to the gas station, circling around the side of the building for some privacy. “Yeah.”

  I hear Brady sigh, almost inaudibly, on the other line. “Rowan . . .” His voice sounds pained. “You can always come home. I—­”

  “I know, Brady.” I take a deep breath. “I know.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.” I say it before thinking and immediately regret it. I do miss him, but I never intended for him to know that. I don’t know why I told him . . . Why did I just tell him?! Before he can respond, I say, “Look, Brady, I have to go. Dee is waiting on me in the car.”

  He takes a minute, and then he says, “Can we talk again? Tonight?” When I don’t answer, losing myself in the imperfections of the white paint on the side of the gas station wall, he adds, “Please?”

  “Not tonight . . .” I sigh and rub my fingers over the center of my forehead. “But . . . soon, okay?”

  He replies with “okay”—­because we both know there’s really nothing else he can say. The ball is in my court, and he knows it. And while that thought should probably make me feel empowered, it makes me feel weak. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to forgive him. I want to forget what I saw that night and everything that has happened since.

  “I love you, Rowan,” he says.

  “I’ll see you later, Brady.”

  I end the call and rest my forehead against the cold brick of the building. Tears cloud my vision until I blink them away, letting them fall to the overgrown grass stretching around my bare ankles. I didn’t think talking to him would affect me this much . . .

  Wiping my tears away and sucking in a deep breath, I somehow manage to pull myself together. I walk back to Dee’s car and climb inside, not looking her in the eye.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her hand resting at the ignition but not turning the key. “I shouldn’t have—­”

  “No,” I interrupt, “you shouldn’t have.”

  We drive most of the way back to school in silence, but after an hour or so, she pulls an open bag of Cheetos from the center console and holds it out to me. I stare at it for a moment, recognizing it for the olive branch that it is, and then I reach my hand inside and take one.

  “I told him I miss him,” I finally say.

  Dee says nothing, and I know it’s taking all of her willpower to keep her mouth shut. I don’t even know why I told her . . . Do I want her to say something? Do I want her to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am?

  Because I’m pretty sure I already know.

  Chapter Nine

  THAT NIGHT, I lie in bed thinking about Brady, trying to figure out why I’m so dead-­set on avoiding seeing him. It’s not because I’m still angry—­I am, of course, but that’s not the real reason.

  The reason is that I don’t know how strong I’ll be if I have to look into his bright blue eyes again. I feel strong enough on the phone to hold my ground, to say goodbye. But if I need to say goodbye for good . . . can I do that with him standing in front of me, telling me he’s sorry, telling me he loves me?

  I miss being loved. Because I’m weak, and pathetic, and . . . God, I wish I didn’t still miss him. I wish I was still as angry as the night I found him cheating on me. That night, he took my heart and tore it in two. Now, half of it still loves him, but the other half would rather struggle to beat on its own than mend together for the sake of a trust-­abusing cheater.

  If I talked to him now, I know I’d cave and tell him I forgive him, even if in my heart I never do. I’d hug him and kiss him and lose myself in him. And if I let myself do that once, I know I’ll let myself do it again and again. And I don’t want to be that person.

  I’ll talk to him. I will. Just . . . not yet.

  The next day in French, Adam is a no-­show. No surprise there. Some of the girls up front stand up and leave as soon as Dr. Pullman arrives, realizing that Adam won’t be in class today. Leti laughs as I try to make them self-­combust with my nonexistent superpowers. Dr. Pullman doesn’t look happy either, his jaw working as he steps to the podium.

  I don’t see Adam until Wednesday, when he shows up twen
ty minutes late, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Our night together is almost like a memory of a memory now. I still remember every detail, but it’s like it was a movie I watched and rewatched a hundred times, not like it was something that actually happened to me. I admire Adam from afar just like all the girls who have never actually talked to him. And today, he is looking pretty damn admirable. He’s dressed in midnight-­black jeans—­which, uncharacteristically, aren’t torn up at the knees—­and a long pale yellow band T-­shirt with black lettering and designs. His hands always draw my attention, decorated with bulky rings and black nail polish, and framed by layers and layers of stringy leather bracelets. A long wallet chain hangs from his jeans, swinging as he walks to his seat at the front.

  When class ends, Adam is the first one on his feet, but Dr. Pullman immediately stops him from leaving. “Adam, hang around. I’d like to speak with you.”

  I watch Adam’s back as he lets out a visible sigh and turns around. He leans against the wall by the door, watching everyone else leave, and I suddenly feel panicked. I’m actually going to cross paths with him now. There’s no way I can avoid it!

  I pack my things as slowly as humanly possible while Leti stands over me, grinning from ear to ear. I swear, it’s like that boy can read my mind. “What’s taking you so long?” he teases.

  I shoot a glare at him from where I’m crouched on the floor, picking up a stack of papers I intentionally dropped to buy myself some time. I’m hoping Dr. Pullman will talk to Adam and get it over with before I make my way down the stairs.

  By the time I stand up, I realize what a horrible plan that was—­because Adam, Leti, and I are the last three students in the room.

  Oh, God.

  But maybe he won’t even recognize me. I’m sure he’s been with dozens of other girls since Mayhem. It’s been over a month since then, and I look nothing like I did that night. My hair is pulled up in a lazy mess, I’m wearing my glasses, and I’m dressed in baggy winter-­green yoga pants and an oversized royal blue college T-­shirt. My nails are bright pink, my flip-­flops are orange, and my face is pale, pale, pale.