You Bet Your Heart, page 11
“Y’all want to get burgers or something?” Tall Kevin glances back and forth at us.
Ezra’s eyes widen.
Something in me softens and I want to say yes, I really do, but I can’t.
Instead, I blurt, “I better head out.” But my legs are heavy. Ezra’s face falls, but he doesn’t speak.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to spend some quality time with you,” Ezra says, a rawness in his voice that almost makes me sad. Tall Kevin expresses his excitement with his eyebrows, which curve up, practically to the top of his afro. Ezra walks to his backpack and digs in. “Before you go, take these.” He hands me papers. “A copy of the civics stuff, from the reader. Kerry’s idea, not mine. I swear.” I grab them and hold them against my chest. “Thanks for coming, SJ.”
At Ezra’s words, something inside me shifts, like a car changing gears. It’s automatic and I can’t stop it.
I pull at my backpack, the right words ready for once. “Me too, Ezra,” I say, meaning it. Being stuck with him in a cramped photo room was…nice.
I savor one last look and then I head out to find the light.
There’s just something about Friday afternoons, the closeness to the weekend, and torturing students. It’s the last period of the day, and I’m doing everything in my power to stay focused, even though the hands on the clock seem to be moving backward, seconds stretching like hours.
I’m at my desk, my setup (pencils, pens, highlighters, and small Post-it notes) welcoming whatever is in store for today’s AP English lesson.
Mrs. Gregg strolls around the room, her hands in the front pockets of her yellow gingham dress. I’d say she’s one of the more stylish teachers at school, like straight out of an Anthropologie catalogue: dresses with pockets, cardigans, Chuck Taylors. She heads to the front of the room and passes my desk.
“Okay, how about a little Friday fun?” She tilts her head.
Note: Whenever a teacher says something is about to be fun, brace yourself. Because more likely than not, it will not be.
At her desk, she hops up and sits down as she crosses her legs. “I was thinking we’d have a little impromptu conversation. You’ve finished Hamlet. You’ve completed your essays. Let me hear your uninhibited thoughts about it. Go for it. Be free.” Her eyebrows bounce up and down.
Right, the essay and the bet. I frown, remembering my defeat.
Like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life, Carlos’s hand shoots up. Mrs. Gregg nods, and Carlos coughs as if to clear his throat.
“On everything, I hated it: the play, the story, all of it. Detest. Do not recommend. Do not pass go.”
Mrs. Gregg widens her green eyes. “Really? Carlos, elaborate, please.”
By the glimmer in his eyes, he’s been thinking about this for some time. “Come on. I know y’all agree. Hamlet needs therapy. Big time. The whole play is just a testament to grief—the power of grief and the side effects of grief. Hamlet lost everything, no cap, in his life because he couldn’t get over his dad’s death. What a bizarre legacy to leave behind.”
Around me, students mumble under their breath. They agree. My stomach tightens.
Carlos continues, “Like, okay, it was shady that Claudius killed his brother, but Claudius is right when he says that we’re all gonna die someday. Hamlet just can’t come to terms with that reality, and in that grief, his pain just destroys him. He loses his mom, his girl, his friends, everything! Because he’s chasing around a ghost. It’s textbook psychology. He could have been prince in peace, but nooo. Had to act out. It’s a clear case of when being too emo goes wrong.”
Stacey Clemens stands and gives a slow, golf clap. All I can do is clutch my hands together. My skin is heating up, my throat is hoarse, and my heartbeat is strong, so strong and loud. I know he wasn’t speaking about me, but his words feel personal. The word legacy strikes me in my stomach. Graduation, the tie, valedictorian, all the hard work I’m doing for myself and my family feel on the line, and the weight is massive. What if I have no legacy to leave?
Carlos stands up. “Let me back up. I guess there were parts of the play that were interesting. The play could have been one act if Hamlet had the courage to work through his shit—I mean, issues.”
Some snicker. Carlos drapes his arm across his chest and says, “Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.” He then gives a small bow and sits back down just as everyone else stands up. The room explodes into a balanced roar of claps and laughter from half of the room. Clearly, those who’ve never lost someone.
I can’t be in here.
Without thinking, I’m out of my seat and through the door, walking down the empty hallway. I’ve endured way worse in class, but I’ve never gotten up and actually left because of something someone’s said. But this, this hit different. I need some air.
As soon as I step outside, my eyes begin to swell, and a pressure I didn’t know I was holding tightens my body. Oh no, not now. Please not now. But it’s too late.
I tilt my head, chin pointed toward the sky. Maybe if I stay still, the tears won’t come. Maybe gravity will hold them back. But they form. Small, warm pools at the edge of my eyes. I close my eyes tighter. Don’t cry. Do not cry.
Carlos wasn’t talking about you. Nothing he said was about you or your grief. It was about Hamlet. I shake my head, his words echoing in my brain. I’m just tired. It’s been a long, stressful week. Especially with that damn essay score laughing at me.
I keep my eyes shut. Maybe if they were open, if I weren’t holding a dam of tears, I would have seen him approach, and I could have made an escape.
“Hey, you good?” a smooth voice says from behind.
Ezra.
Nope. Not now. I squeeze my eyes tighter; maybe he’ll just go away.
“I was taking some photos, and I saw you run out of the hallway. You good?”
If I don’t speak, maybe he’ll take the hint.
“It’s okay if you’re not okay.” Seconds pass, he doesn’t budge. “Listen, I’m going to do something I learned as a kid, a tried-and-true remedy for this type of feeling.” He steps closer. “I’m going to give you a hug. I know I should ask for your consent, but since you’re not speaking, and I don’t trust you’d answer honestly if you were, I’m going to just go for it.”
Is he for real right now?
I hear his footsteps, but I don’t move. I can feel his body, and goose bumps ripple across my skin.
His arms wrap around me in the exact moment the air is sucked out of the atmosphere. I can’t move. So I just stand, eyes locked shut, my arms by my side, like some sort of alien who has never received a hug.
Ezra squeezes me, and the pressure of his touch brings an unknown comfort through my body.
“So, small update. You’re doing great. I’m going to keep holding you, okay?” His voice is soft and tickles my ear. “Science says that if you want your hug to be effective, to release oxytocin and whatnot, you need to do it for at least twenty seconds. So just stay with me a bit, I want to make sure you get everything I’m giving.”
In the name of science, I let him hold me. Each moment is long and confusing; scary and heavy and floaty and expansive. My heartbeat follows his and begins to beat slower. My breath, too, seems more stable.
Ezra speaks first. “You know you can open your eyes now, don’t you? It’s over. Good job, you survived a Davis-Goldberg hug,” he says, arms loose but still around me.
I squint and see the stubble on his chin.
“You’re human. These are human responses, and it’s okay to have them. You cry, I cry. It’s cathartic and natural and important in our healing process. I get it.”
Get it together, Sasha. I take my time to fully open my eyes, small blinks to reacquaint myself with the world, and there he is. A little blurry, but he’s there. The afternoon sun is behind him and gives him perfect lighting.
He doesn’t release me, so I don’t move.
Ezra leans in and the world around me dims, but the closer his face gets to mine, I realize there’s a part of me that wants to see what will happen next.
“You know, you think you’re pretty clever, but I’m onto you.” He pauses, his voice soft and rich like velvet on my skin. He waits for our eyes to lock, and when they do, his words tickle my ear: “You ever gonna answer my question from yesterday?”
“Wh-what question? From what I recall, there were many.”
He smirks. “When’s the last time you’ve been kissed?” It’s not so much a question, but an invitation. There’s magnetic pressure from his hand on my back that pulls me to him. His arms tighten around my body again. My heart stops beating and my lips part just as the fingers on my back melt into my skin.
Okay…I can handle this…
“Hello! Mrs. Gregg sent me out here to make sure you’re okay,” a familiar voice calls out. Ezra pulls back first, albeit reluctantly.
Oh my god. Again? What was just about to happen?
Stacey Clemens takes a long pause before busting into a grin that cannot be contained. “Take your time, Sasha. I’ll tell Mrs. Gregg you’re just fine.” She gives me a wink, like a proud mother or a knowing best friend, before returning to the classroom.
I take a step backward, and then two more, just to be safe.
The blood in my body floods my cheeks as my face heats up from embarrassment. Ezra runs a hand across the back of his neck, and a sheepish smile forms on his face.
When Stacey is gone, I get the nerve to speak. “I. Um. I’m class. I mean, I’m fine. We should get back to class,” I say. He locks eyes with me and gives me that pensive look of discernment, eyes serious but also steamy. I don’t like it. It’s too strong, like he has X-ray vision and can see what’s inside of me. Or, like he’s Professor Xavier and he can read my thoughts. It’s brooding and powerful and dangerous.
Ezra shrugs. “Or not. Class isn’t that important. We can stay out here, you know. We can leave, do what you need to do to take care of yourself. I can come with you.”
My lips feel like they are on fire and we didn’t even kiss. This is not okay. I feel naked, exposed.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks again, motioning toward the front gates.
Ditch class? With Ezra?
“I’m fine,” I say, doing my best to mask in my voice the emotions building in my body. He holds my gaze, so I say it again. “School’s almost over. Let’s just go inside and pretend this never happened.”
But I don’t move and neither does he. Ezra stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and just studies me, his eyes full. He’s waiting for me to make a move, I realize. The ideas and implications run through my mind again. He’s waiting for you to make a move! I cast my eyes to my shoes and move in the only direction I know how.
Back to class.
* * *
Pretending an almost kiss didn’t happen isn’t easy. At all. Believe me, I’ve been trying. And to my detriment, it’s now all I can think about. The almost, the what-if, the endless possibilities. Outside of today, and fine, maybe yesterday too, I’ve never thought about kissing Ezra, other than that one time in seventh grade when Ezra’s cousin asked if I liked liked Ezra, but I pushed that thought to the side. We were friends, just friends, and—
“Hello? Earth to Sasha. Your good thing—you’re up!” Chance cries. After school, we’re at RJ Burgers, the place that started it all, this lovely tradition. Big booths and delicious, piping-hot steak fries.
I struggle to snap back into the moment. “My good thing?” I parrot. I left class and Ezra found me and we almost kissed. Is an almost kiss a good thing? Is an almost kiss a thing at all? I fiddle with my napkin. “I, um, my good thing…” This shouldn’t be this hard to answer.
“Womp. I guess we’re all in a slump this week,” Priscilla says.
Oh shit, what did they say? I try to recall the last fifteen minutes, but nothing comes to mind. Guilt builds in my chest. An almost kiss has made me woozy, weak. Imagine if I actually kissed him?
I stuff another fry in my mouth, absolutely certain that almost had the possibility of making me trip up, and I refuse to let anyone get in my way of winning.
The next morning, I wake up with nervous energy. I’m groggy and antsy at the same time. I get out of bed to start my Saturday study routine, but when my mom begins to move around the house, I quickly slip back into bed and pretend I don’t hear her. It’s not until she knocks on my door that the pressure from the week returns in full force.
“Aigee-ya. You almost ready to go?” She hangs on my doorframe, her long black hair pulled up save for a few runaway tendrils.
I sit up and bite my bottom lip, but I’m too afraid to respond.
“What is it?” She walks toward me, her eyes scanning my face like a mom detective.
Instantly, nausea lurches up inside me, because for the first Saturday in four years I’m about to do something I never, ever, do. “I just…I have so much of my own work to do today,” I say.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. But I think…is it okay if I don’t go?” I ask. The words fill me with a heavy guilt. My shoulders sink, like the Pattersons’ large house is sitting on my back. I’m basically asking my mom to clean that all alone. The scrubbing, the dusting, the cleaning, all by herself.
I’m on a seesaw: the weight of one obligation bounces me up and then the other pulls me down. I just have to go into beast mode for the civics presentation, also known as Bet #2, so that Ezra and I will be tied. That way, I’m still in the game. Then once I win, I’ll be back to my normal, regular self.
“It’s fine, sweetie,” my mom says, but it’s hard to believe her; the hints of disappointment linger in her voice. Here I am, breaking a four-year standing date.
My mom leaves my room. I twist and turn, the blankets feeling heavier each second I stay wrapped in them.
I should change my mind and go with her, but I don’t.
Instead, I hop out of bed, reach for my backpack, and begin taking out my planner and books. My mom fidgets at the front door; she doesn’t say goodbye on her way out.
My body loosens up a bit and a wave of excitement picks me up because today is the day I unleash my secret weapon: the Walker Ross Lecture Series.
Next to the library there’s a small, rustic building that used to be the first capitol building of California, before the capital moved to Sacramento. Now it’s a museum and art space. And for the last month, it’s been the home to select works of Walker Ross, the county’s super-famous politician and philosopher. Okay, maybe super famous is a stretch. But he’s popular around town. He’s written dozens of books and can be seen on the evening news, depending on the topic.
Once, I saw him at the local grocery store. I wasn’t sure if it was him, but another older woman stopped and stared like he was Brad Pitt, with no care in the world how hard she was ogling, so I knew it had to be. He’s older, probably pushing seventy-five, with a head full of flowy white hair and an endless collection of chunky brown sweaters.
As of the last month, Mr. Ross’s works have been on display at the museum as an ode to an anthology he’s releasing. To promote the book, he’s been having small lectures with question-and-answer sessions after. I saw flyers weeks ago and knew it would give me a leg up for Mr. Mendoza’s presentation, though I pushed it out of my mind when I saw it was on a Saturday, because Saturdays are usually reserved for working with my mom. But that was before Ezra and the bets.
I settle in for a morning of the most extensive research I have ever done in my life. My desk is covered in Post-its of all sizes and colors. I take out a black pen and a yellow highlighter, then turn to a clean sheet of paper. The blank page is a canvas, and I am the painter. By the time I’m done, it will be an erudite masterpiece. I start by reading an article, annotating and asking questions on large Post-its, which I stick in the book. To reinforce the ideas, I say them to myself aloud three times.
After an hour my hand starts to tire, the muscles aching. I bring my hands together and clap. I’ve done some good work.
Around lunch time my brain begins to shut down and heads into rest mode. I peep at the clock, almost noon, then slide, stretching, to my feet. It’s time to go anyway.
As I’m heading out the door, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Priscilla 10:15 a.m.: I’m single, and I’m sad. Before I call Gina and beg her to take me back, are you around? Let’s go thrifting? Or get ice cream? Dye your hair? Cut my bangs? We can turn this tragedy into triumph! Let’s make a memory.
My shoulders slump. The pain in her words hits me. I technically am available, but…I can’t. She’d want me to do whatever I can to win the valedictorian title along with the hefty scholarship that comes with it, right? Nerves flood my body and I attempt to untighten my jaw, wiggling it side to side. I try not to deflate in self-pity as I respond.
Sasha 10:16 a.m.: Sorry girl, I wish I could, but I’m working.
Priscilla 10:16 a.m.: With your mom?
I don’t think, because if I had, maybe I wouldn’t have lied.
Sasha 10:17 a.m.: Yeah, with my mom. Our usual Saturday routine.
Priscilla 10:18 a.m.: Oh duh, that’s right. Maybe Chance wants to give me bangs. If not, I’ll continue listening to “thank u, next” on repeat. Text me later. Tell ohmma hello. XO
I read the words quickly as I turn my phone over, as if maybe she can see me or sense my lie.
When I step outside, I am surprised at how vibrant these Saturday streets are. The sun shines, instantly warming my skin. The weather is a perfect, comfortable seventy-four degrees, and everyone in the city is out to enjoy it. I see a couple roller-skating while holding hands, and another in matching Adidas jumpsuits on a tandem bike. Every car that drives by is filled with laughter, its windows rolled down, letting the ocean water scents flow in and out of its passengers hair. Spring is the perfect time for a walk, and even though I’m not participating in this Saturday fun, it’s good to see it happening in the moment.
Ezra’s eyes widen.
Something in me softens and I want to say yes, I really do, but I can’t.
Instead, I blurt, “I better head out.” But my legs are heavy. Ezra’s face falls, but he doesn’t speak.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to spend some quality time with you,” Ezra says, a rawness in his voice that almost makes me sad. Tall Kevin expresses his excitement with his eyebrows, which curve up, practically to the top of his afro. Ezra walks to his backpack and digs in. “Before you go, take these.” He hands me papers. “A copy of the civics stuff, from the reader. Kerry’s idea, not mine. I swear.” I grab them and hold them against my chest. “Thanks for coming, SJ.”
At Ezra’s words, something inside me shifts, like a car changing gears. It’s automatic and I can’t stop it.
I pull at my backpack, the right words ready for once. “Me too, Ezra,” I say, meaning it. Being stuck with him in a cramped photo room was…nice.
I savor one last look and then I head out to find the light.
There’s just something about Friday afternoons, the closeness to the weekend, and torturing students. It’s the last period of the day, and I’m doing everything in my power to stay focused, even though the hands on the clock seem to be moving backward, seconds stretching like hours.
I’m at my desk, my setup (pencils, pens, highlighters, and small Post-it notes) welcoming whatever is in store for today’s AP English lesson.
Mrs. Gregg strolls around the room, her hands in the front pockets of her yellow gingham dress. I’d say she’s one of the more stylish teachers at school, like straight out of an Anthropologie catalogue: dresses with pockets, cardigans, Chuck Taylors. She heads to the front of the room and passes my desk.
“Okay, how about a little Friday fun?” She tilts her head.
Note: Whenever a teacher says something is about to be fun, brace yourself. Because more likely than not, it will not be.
At her desk, she hops up and sits down as she crosses her legs. “I was thinking we’d have a little impromptu conversation. You’ve finished Hamlet. You’ve completed your essays. Let me hear your uninhibited thoughts about it. Go for it. Be free.” Her eyebrows bounce up and down.
Right, the essay and the bet. I frown, remembering my defeat.
Like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life, Carlos’s hand shoots up. Mrs. Gregg nods, and Carlos coughs as if to clear his throat.
“On everything, I hated it: the play, the story, all of it. Detest. Do not recommend. Do not pass go.”
Mrs. Gregg widens her green eyes. “Really? Carlos, elaborate, please.”
By the glimmer in his eyes, he’s been thinking about this for some time. “Come on. I know y’all agree. Hamlet needs therapy. Big time. The whole play is just a testament to grief—the power of grief and the side effects of grief. Hamlet lost everything, no cap, in his life because he couldn’t get over his dad’s death. What a bizarre legacy to leave behind.”
Around me, students mumble under their breath. They agree. My stomach tightens.
Carlos continues, “Like, okay, it was shady that Claudius killed his brother, but Claudius is right when he says that we’re all gonna die someday. Hamlet just can’t come to terms with that reality, and in that grief, his pain just destroys him. He loses his mom, his girl, his friends, everything! Because he’s chasing around a ghost. It’s textbook psychology. He could have been prince in peace, but nooo. Had to act out. It’s a clear case of when being too emo goes wrong.”
Stacey Clemens stands and gives a slow, golf clap. All I can do is clutch my hands together. My skin is heating up, my throat is hoarse, and my heartbeat is strong, so strong and loud. I know he wasn’t speaking about me, but his words feel personal. The word legacy strikes me in my stomach. Graduation, the tie, valedictorian, all the hard work I’m doing for myself and my family feel on the line, and the weight is massive. What if I have no legacy to leave?
Carlos stands up. “Let me back up. I guess there were parts of the play that were interesting. The play could have been one act if Hamlet had the courage to work through his shit—I mean, issues.”
Some snicker. Carlos drapes his arm across his chest and says, “Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.” He then gives a small bow and sits back down just as everyone else stands up. The room explodes into a balanced roar of claps and laughter from half of the room. Clearly, those who’ve never lost someone.
I can’t be in here.
Without thinking, I’m out of my seat and through the door, walking down the empty hallway. I’ve endured way worse in class, but I’ve never gotten up and actually left because of something someone’s said. But this, this hit different. I need some air.
As soon as I step outside, my eyes begin to swell, and a pressure I didn’t know I was holding tightens my body. Oh no, not now. Please not now. But it’s too late.
I tilt my head, chin pointed toward the sky. Maybe if I stay still, the tears won’t come. Maybe gravity will hold them back. But they form. Small, warm pools at the edge of my eyes. I close my eyes tighter. Don’t cry. Do not cry.
Carlos wasn’t talking about you. Nothing he said was about you or your grief. It was about Hamlet. I shake my head, his words echoing in my brain. I’m just tired. It’s been a long, stressful week. Especially with that damn essay score laughing at me.
I keep my eyes shut. Maybe if they were open, if I weren’t holding a dam of tears, I would have seen him approach, and I could have made an escape.
“Hey, you good?” a smooth voice says from behind.
Ezra.
Nope. Not now. I squeeze my eyes tighter; maybe he’ll just go away.
“I was taking some photos, and I saw you run out of the hallway. You good?”
If I don’t speak, maybe he’ll take the hint.
“It’s okay if you’re not okay.” Seconds pass, he doesn’t budge. “Listen, I’m going to do something I learned as a kid, a tried-and-true remedy for this type of feeling.” He steps closer. “I’m going to give you a hug. I know I should ask for your consent, but since you’re not speaking, and I don’t trust you’d answer honestly if you were, I’m going to just go for it.”
Is he for real right now?
I hear his footsteps, but I don’t move. I can feel his body, and goose bumps ripple across my skin.
His arms wrap around me in the exact moment the air is sucked out of the atmosphere. I can’t move. So I just stand, eyes locked shut, my arms by my side, like some sort of alien who has never received a hug.
Ezra squeezes me, and the pressure of his touch brings an unknown comfort through my body.
“So, small update. You’re doing great. I’m going to keep holding you, okay?” His voice is soft and tickles my ear. “Science says that if you want your hug to be effective, to release oxytocin and whatnot, you need to do it for at least twenty seconds. So just stay with me a bit, I want to make sure you get everything I’m giving.”
In the name of science, I let him hold me. Each moment is long and confusing; scary and heavy and floaty and expansive. My heartbeat follows his and begins to beat slower. My breath, too, seems more stable.
Ezra speaks first. “You know you can open your eyes now, don’t you? It’s over. Good job, you survived a Davis-Goldberg hug,” he says, arms loose but still around me.
I squint and see the stubble on his chin.
“You’re human. These are human responses, and it’s okay to have them. You cry, I cry. It’s cathartic and natural and important in our healing process. I get it.”
Get it together, Sasha. I take my time to fully open my eyes, small blinks to reacquaint myself with the world, and there he is. A little blurry, but he’s there. The afternoon sun is behind him and gives him perfect lighting.
He doesn’t release me, so I don’t move.
Ezra leans in and the world around me dims, but the closer his face gets to mine, I realize there’s a part of me that wants to see what will happen next.
“You know, you think you’re pretty clever, but I’m onto you.” He pauses, his voice soft and rich like velvet on my skin. He waits for our eyes to lock, and when they do, his words tickle my ear: “You ever gonna answer my question from yesterday?”
“Wh-what question? From what I recall, there were many.”
He smirks. “When’s the last time you’ve been kissed?” It’s not so much a question, but an invitation. There’s magnetic pressure from his hand on my back that pulls me to him. His arms tighten around my body again. My heart stops beating and my lips part just as the fingers on my back melt into my skin.
Okay…I can handle this…
“Hello! Mrs. Gregg sent me out here to make sure you’re okay,” a familiar voice calls out. Ezra pulls back first, albeit reluctantly.
Oh my god. Again? What was just about to happen?
Stacey Clemens takes a long pause before busting into a grin that cannot be contained. “Take your time, Sasha. I’ll tell Mrs. Gregg you’re just fine.” She gives me a wink, like a proud mother or a knowing best friend, before returning to the classroom.
I take a step backward, and then two more, just to be safe.
The blood in my body floods my cheeks as my face heats up from embarrassment. Ezra runs a hand across the back of his neck, and a sheepish smile forms on his face.
When Stacey is gone, I get the nerve to speak. “I. Um. I’m class. I mean, I’m fine. We should get back to class,” I say. He locks eyes with me and gives me that pensive look of discernment, eyes serious but also steamy. I don’t like it. It’s too strong, like he has X-ray vision and can see what’s inside of me. Or, like he’s Professor Xavier and he can read my thoughts. It’s brooding and powerful and dangerous.
Ezra shrugs. “Or not. Class isn’t that important. We can stay out here, you know. We can leave, do what you need to do to take care of yourself. I can come with you.”
My lips feel like they are on fire and we didn’t even kiss. This is not okay. I feel naked, exposed.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks again, motioning toward the front gates.
Ditch class? With Ezra?
“I’m fine,” I say, doing my best to mask in my voice the emotions building in my body. He holds my gaze, so I say it again. “School’s almost over. Let’s just go inside and pretend this never happened.”
But I don’t move and neither does he. Ezra stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and just studies me, his eyes full. He’s waiting for me to make a move, I realize. The ideas and implications run through my mind again. He’s waiting for you to make a move! I cast my eyes to my shoes and move in the only direction I know how.
Back to class.
* * *
Pretending an almost kiss didn’t happen isn’t easy. At all. Believe me, I’ve been trying. And to my detriment, it’s now all I can think about. The almost, the what-if, the endless possibilities. Outside of today, and fine, maybe yesterday too, I’ve never thought about kissing Ezra, other than that one time in seventh grade when Ezra’s cousin asked if I liked liked Ezra, but I pushed that thought to the side. We were friends, just friends, and—
“Hello? Earth to Sasha. Your good thing—you’re up!” Chance cries. After school, we’re at RJ Burgers, the place that started it all, this lovely tradition. Big booths and delicious, piping-hot steak fries.
I struggle to snap back into the moment. “My good thing?” I parrot. I left class and Ezra found me and we almost kissed. Is an almost kiss a good thing? Is an almost kiss a thing at all? I fiddle with my napkin. “I, um, my good thing…” This shouldn’t be this hard to answer.
“Womp. I guess we’re all in a slump this week,” Priscilla says.
Oh shit, what did they say? I try to recall the last fifteen minutes, but nothing comes to mind. Guilt builds in my chest. An almost kiss has made me woozy, weak. Imagine if I actually kissed him?
I stuff another fry in my mouth, absolutely certain that almost had the possibility of making me trip up, and I refuse to let anyone get in my way of winning.
The next morning, I wake up with nervous energy. I’m groggy and antsy at the same time. I get out of bed to start my Saturday study routine, but when my mom begins to move around the house, I quickly slip back into bed and pretend I don’t hear her. It’s not until she knocks on my door that the pressure from the week returns in full force.
“Aigee-ya. You almost ready to go?” She hangs on my doorframe, her long black hair pulled up save for a few runaway tendrils.
I sit up and bite my bottom lip, but I’m too afraid to respond.
“What is it?” She walks toward me, her eyes scanning my face like a mom detective.
Instantly, nausea lurches up inside me, because for the first Saturday in four years I’m about to do something I never, ever, do. “I just…I have so much of my own work to do today,” I say.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. But I think…is it okay if I don’t go?” I ask. The words fill me with a heavy guilt. My shoulders sink, like the Pattersons’ large house is sitting on my back. I’m basically asking my mom to clean that all alone. The scrubbing, the dusting, the cleaning, all by herself.
I’m on a seesaw: the weight of one obligation bounces me up and then the other pulls me down. I just have to go into beast mode for the civics presentation, also known as Bet #2, so that Ezra and I will be tied. That way, I’m still in the game. Then once I win, I’ll be back to my normal, regular self.
“It’s fine, sweetie,” my mom says, but it’s hard to believe her; the hints of disappointment linger in her voice. Here I am, breaking a four-year standing date.
My mom leaves my room. I twist and turn, the blankets feeling heavier each second I stay wrapped in them.
I should change my mind and go with her, but I don’t.
Instead, I hop out of bed, reach for my backpack, and begin taking out my planner and books. My mom fidgets at the front door; she doesn’t say goodbye on her way out.
My body loosens up a bit and a wave of excitement picks me up because today is the day I unleash my secret weapon: the Walker Ross Lecture Series.
Next to the library there’s a small, rustic building that used to be the first capitol building of California, before the capital moved to Sacramento. Now it’s a museum and art space. And for the last month, it’s been the home to select works of Walker Ross, the county’s super-famous politician and philosopher. Okay, maybe super famous is a stretch. But he’s popular around town. He’s written dozens of books and can be seen on the evening news, depending on the topic.
Once, I saw him at the local grocery store. I wasn’t sure if it was him, but another older woman stopped and stared like he was Brad Pitt, with no care in the world how hard she was ogling, so I knew it had to be. He’s older, probably pushing seventy-five, with a head full of flowy white hair and an endless collection of chunky brown sweaters.
As of the last month, Mr. Ross’s works have been on display at the museum as an ode to an anthology he’s releasing. To promote the book, he’s been having small lectures with question-and-answer sessions after. I saw flyers weeks ago and knew it would give me a leg up for Mr. Mendoza’s presentation, though I pushed it out of my mind when I saw it was on a Saturday, because Saturdays are usually reserved for working with my mom. But that was before Ezra and the bets.
I settle in for a morning of the most extensive research I have ever done in my life. My desk is covered in Post-its of all sizes and colors. I take out a black pen and a yellow highlighter, then turn to a clean sheet of paper. The blank page is a canvas, and I am the painter. By the time I’m done, it will be an erudite masterpiece. I start by reading an article, annotating and asking questions on large Post-its, which I stick in the book. To reinforce the ideas, I say them to myself aloud three times.
After an hour my hand starts to tire, the muscles aching. I bring my hands together and clap. I’ve done some good work.
Around lunch time my brain begins to shut down and heads into rest mode. I peep at the clock, almost noon, then slide, stretching, to my feet. It’s time to go anyway.
As I’m heading out the door, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Priscilla 10:15 a.m.: I’m single, and I’m sad. Before I call Gina and beg her to take me back, are you around? Let’s go thrifting? Or get ice cream? Dye your hair? Cut my bangs? We can turn this tragedy into triumph! Let’s make a memory.
My shoulders slump. The pain in her words hits me. I technically am available, but…I can’t. She’d want me to do whatever I can to win the valedictorian title along with the hefty scholarship that comes with it, right? Nerves flood my body and I attempt to untighten my jaw, wiggling it side to side. I try not to deflate in self-pity as I respond.
Sasha 10:16 a.m.: Sorry girl, I wish I could, but I’m working.
Priscilla 10:16 a.m.: With your mom?
I don’t think, because if I had, maybe I wouldn’t have lied.
Sasha 10:17 a.m.: Yeah, with my mom. Our usual Saturday routine.
Priscilla 10:18 a.m.: Oh duh, that’s right. Maybe Chance wants to give me bangs. If not, I’ll continue listening to “thank u, next” on repeat. Text me later. Tell ohmma hello. XO
I read the words quickly as I turn my phone over, as if maybe she can see me or sense my lie.
When I step outside, I am surprised at how vibrant these Saturday streets are. The sun shines, instantly warming my skin. The weather is a perfect, comfortable seventy-four degrees, and everyone in the city is out to enjoy it. I see a couple roller-skating while holding hands, and another in matching Adidas jumpsuits on a tandem bike. Every car that drives by is filled with laughter, its windows rolled down, letting the ocean water scents flow in and out of its passengers hair. Spring is the perfect time for a walk, and even though I’m not participating in this Saturday fun, it’s good to see it happening in the moment.
