Between the Lines

- 5 -

                                                                       Kendal

For a few seconds too long, I stare at him, because I honestly have no idea what else to do. One second we were joking around and it was starting to feel like this whole thing actually might not be terrible, and then…

The fire that had been fading from my face comes roaring back with a vengeance as I scour my memory, trying to figure out what in the hell I said that set him off like that.

And then I remember and wish I hadn’t, because now my stomach feels like it’s been turned inside out, and the way he called me Princess is echoing in my head and making the heat migrate from my cheeks to that wretched space at the back of my throat and the corners of my eyes.

That was not what I meant.

Suddenly I’m grateful that my backpack is on the floor under my desk, because I feel a desperate need to search for a notebook and a pen in there, and I sincerely hope that the only pen I can find is buried somewhere very deep.

It’s not, of course. The neat row of pens tucked into the little organized pouch mocks me as soon as I open the bag, as if proving the point that I’m some kind of privileged pet that belongs on a … what did he call it? Beauty squad? instead of an actual human capable of empathy or having a real conversation.

That thought makes the burning sensation worse, so I dig anyway. Maybe there’s a hole at the bottom of this damn bag I can crawl into.

The truth is, for a whole minute there, I was enjoying his sarcastic humor – nobody ever talks that way to me. It was funny, and somehow free. But apparently a girl like me can’t get away with trying it. One attempt and I’ve managed to somehow… I don’t even know what I did. Why did I say that? I should know by now that when I open my mouth everyone takes me seriously, or thinks I’m offended…that I’m nothing more than aPrincess.

Considering what I just said, though, maybe they’re right.

I don’t know how long I dig in my bag looking for absolutely nothing, but I do know that if I hang out down here for an entire class period, I’m only going to make things worse. Besides, the paper isn’t going to write itself, and getting it done is the only way this craptastic situation is ever going to end.

Eye contact is entirely too risky if I would like my emotions to cooperate with me, so I slam my English notebook on the desk and search for a clean page without looking anywhere else.

After clearing my throat and checking the steadiness of my voice, keeping my gaze trained on my pen as I painstakingly write the date, I say, “Okay, fine. You’re right. Love is the easiest kind of conflict.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t care.