Only a best friend can see the pain behind a fake smile.
I look down at the big F on my Algebra paper and I can feel whatever that was left of my heart shatter all over again. I've failed the exam--I'll probably fail high school as well and the thought terrifies me, makes me want to break down in front of the whole class but I force my tears inside.
The class is murmuring quietly, comparing their grades. I shove my paper to my bag, reminding myself that when I get back home, I'll set it on fire.
I put my hands in front of me, willing them to stop shaking and I can't help the urge that overcomes me, the emotion that almost racks my body into sobs, the movement that will surely earn a mental smack.
I glance over at her.
She sits two chairs from my right and I catch her eye before she looks away. She holds her paper in her left hand and I can see the letter on the left hand corner. She has a B+. I almost smile--almost but it feels as if there is nothing between us now--only awkwardness and hopeless longing and that hurts because I felt as if I had everything when I was with her but now, I'm just nothing.
The bell rings and I swing my bag over my shoulder as I join the line of students towards the open doorway. She stands up as well and strays behind me. My eyes follow her but I look away. There is only silence between us now--painful and heartbroken silence.
I wish she would reach out and grab my shoulder, gripping it tight, like she used to. I wish she would make stupid remarks about how I speak and how insanely smart I am to her. I wish she would just be the same Danielle I've grown to love.
The realization slaps into me forcefully. I let my legs take me back to my locker, away from her as my mind buzzes over my thoughts. I open my locker, take out the books and push back notebooks and I pause suddenly, realizing something, realizing something about me that has something to do with her.
I love her. I love her the way a grown man loves his beer. I love her the way a soccer player loves to play soccer. I love her the way a musician loves to listen to his music. And I love, love, love her.
But it's too late. It's too late. I broke her heart already and I don't want to break it a second time. I quickly shut my locker and head out of the campus, regardless of the fact that it's still fifth period. People stare at me as I pass but they look away because I am nothing to them, I am nothing to the world.
I walk to Evan's neighborhood, to the therapist. I don't care if my appointment is still tomorrow--I just need somebody to talk to. I walk past the parking lot and into the small white building. I nearly stumble on something when I open the door and step inside.
"Ow!" somebody yells. A kid. I regain my balance and look down.
Something in my chest aches when I realize that it is Isaac Andrews, the kid who got beat up by his father. His black eye is already fading and he looks fragile but okay. Sadness clings to him like a blanket. There is no anger in his posture.
"Stop staring," Isaac snarls, "It's pretty rude."
"You look you're inlove with him or something," somebody remarks. I look up and see Chuck. He looks thinner and paler than before. His shoulder sag and there are shadows under his eyes. Whatever his problem is, it must be getting worse.
"Shouldn't you be in school or something?" I ask, taking a seat next to him.
He shivers and then takes out his handkerchief before he starts coughing horribly. I frown because he sounds like an old man but he looks up and smiles at me.
