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It was strange, really, seeing Jonah Brinley eat lunch with Michelle Stevens. They had always been quite a close duo, but I had never pictured them within such a romantic atmosphere, so the whole promposal thing still appeared to be rather fishy, honestly. Seeing them all lovey-dovey like this... I thought it looked forced.
Cady was right, Michelle was not for him. (But neither was Cady! Even after his glo-up, to me, he was still an icky one. She was too good for that then-loser.)
The whole glo-up scheme also looked fishy, really. It was somewhat unsettling to see how abnormally good-looking the guy had grown to be over the past couple of months—or was it actually a gradual transformation throughout the years, and that I was just inattentive?
Maybe the key hid in the hair; he bleached his hair a few weeks ago, making him the immediate limelight favorite the moment he stepped into school with his new locks. And I was sure, a hundred percent—no, make that a thousand—that he had never been one to have such a nicely built figure. And I could've sworn his jawline did not look that sharp during our freshman years...
I did not mean to stare, but it just so happened that they decided to take the seat just across ours—it was only a matter of minutes before Jonah's eyes would probably meet mine... which would be fine, of course, he would not hold any strange suspicions towards me. But Cady might. Oh, she and her unlimited speculation techniques!
Good thing she had not realized that her most-dreaded couple was seated just behind her back, and I wasn't planning to let her know. All hell would break loose, and my thumping headache would not allow that.
She was never going to know anyway, unless big-mouthed Vivian beside me finally noticed what I had been spying on the entire time...
"Oh my God, Cady, what the hell. Is that Jonah? With Michelle Stevens?"
Ha. About time.
I saw Cady stiffen. She put her spoon down. "Where?"
"Is he going out with Michelle now?" Vivian retorted.
"Tone it down a bit," I hissed at her.
I knew she meant it as a whisper, but, in all honesty, she was probably the biggest big-mouth known to mankind, both literally and metaphorically. Her voice was just naturally loud, she always said.
Cady and I had grown to accept her apparent 'genetic' inability to share secrets through an understandably low volume, but times like this were critical.
"He's taking her to prom," Cady mumbled halfheartedly.
I almost rolled my eyes. This was social suicide, and Cady was undoubtedly aware too. I knew she knew Vivian was going to explode, and not even our pretty faces could make up for the embarrassment to arrive in three, two...
"What the hell?!"
And of course, being the genius girl squad we were, we kept our eyes focused on Jonah and Michelle, especially Cady, despite the fact that she had to turn her head, making the entire picture even more obvious. Geniuses, really.
Frankly speaking, we had zero acting skills.
I had always thought that we were the coolest, most popular girl group at school, and for multiple reasons I thought right, but, honestly, movie stereotype comparisons disappointed me a little. Weren't we supposed to be like the Plastics? We even had our own Cady. But where did our supposedly awesome people-manipulating skill go? All this time I thought I were Regina George, perhaps reality decided I should just play Gretchen. After all, our trio did lack one other member—she would've been our long-lost Regina.
Then again, let's look at the bright side. I supposed I was a Gretchen with excellent ears of a bat, as I could hear Michelle's comment despite the buzzing cafeteria:
"They're staring at us, aren't they?"
And her smile after that, too—I could sense it.
"Yeah," Jonah chuckled, "they must've been talking about my promposal. I've been receiving all kinds of looks since early this morning. Sorry."
Eavesdropping on their conversation only further nourished my love for Mason and the grateful feeling of relief that he was my boyfriend and prom date. Jonah was a handsome one, but listening to his douchebag voice made me sick to the stomach. He reminded me of this nightmare of a guy—whose name I could not recall anymore; all I remembered about him were his weird bony fingers and his unruly mop of a hair that seemed to hide a million dandruffs—who asked me out on a movie date back in eighth grade and told everyone that I was his girlfriend the following day. He didn't even pay for my meal, although all I had was a kiddy-sized popcorn bag.
Mason was a total upgrade; he had the best quiff—no dandruff, wonderful—and the most genuine smile and the most beautiful laugh... I couldn't wait to see him in gym after this.
The school was stupid (ironically) to put gym right after lunch, but I was in no position to complain, especially after I threw up last month and Mason nursed me back to health in the clinic, taking up the entire session. It was a smelly, disgusting scene—I remembered how murky green my vomit was—but to say it would be one of my most treasured high school memory would be an understatement.
Today I made sure I did not overeat. As tempting the thought of skipping gym with my boyfriend sounded, I wouldn't want to replay the puking event, and, plus, I had a gorgeous skin-tight dress in the making for prom—a bloated stomach would not look too good in glitter, definitely.
"Hey, Lilly!" a girly voice called.
I didn't have Cady and Vivian with me for gym this year, which I was grateful for during my first couple of weeks in. I would not have their often obnoxious remarks to interrupt my quality time with Mason, I thought. But lately I had been genuinely wishing they were here, to have my back and make me look good in front of Dear Boyfie. Weird as they were, they surprisingly had their own ways of supporting me. Like that one time Vivian lent me her padded (!) sport bra because I'd somehow dropped mine into the toilet earlier, while she stayed in her normal bra, saying her tiny boobs didn't really need a sport bra anyway. I should've said "me too", but I wouldn't want to waste the opportunity to look awesome in front of Mason just like that, right?
Snapping back to reality, I was stuck with Hannah here.
"Hi, Hannah."
She was a petite one, weighing no more than Lilly Davis from her preteen days, and stood at an apparently cute height of roughly five-one.
I didn't think she was the least bit cute. She irritated the hell out of me. And it just so happened that she was one of the few who stuck to me like glue in gym.
"Did you do something different to your hair?" she said, grinning.
I narrowed my eyes at her ponytail swaying from her head, which was angled at an approximate of forty degrees.
She was famous for her head-tilting habit. People thought it was adorable, while I could not help but wonder whether it was really a habit or a made-up USP to attract all the guys' attention. If it were the latter, she truly was one marketing genius, I'd admit. Even Cady was obsessed with her; she said Hannah was the type Jonah would most probably fall for. Ugh—double the cringe, double the fun, I guessed.
"No," I said. "But your hair looks brighter."
"Oh, you noticed," she replied, giggling like crazy, "I got some highlight touchups."
Well, they looked nice.
For a moment I was contemplating whether or not I should say it out loud, until I finally decided to swallow my pride.
"It's so pretty. Where'd you get it done?"
She was still a girlfriend, after all. Girls compliment each other all the time—it's the law of nature.
"Oh, just this place around my neighborhood," she said with a shrug. Which more or less translated to "Like I'd tell you, skank". Which was fine, really. It's just another law of nature: girls do not voluntarily expose their beauty secrets.
For instance, all flawless-skinned actresses in beauty product advertisements would go on and on about lengthy never-heard-before skincare routines or some vitamin C bull, but they'd never share the real key behind their pore-free complexion—which was most probably just ten layers of a hundred-dollar concealer.
"Hey, I need to go to the toilet. Wanna come too?" she said suddenly.
Actually, yes.
"Nah. I just did."
"Okay." And she went.
I didn't want to pee with her. I wanted her out of the picture, and Mason in. Where the hell was he, anyway?
The guys had already entered the place a long time ago, including the ones I often saw Mason hang out with.
One of them nodded at me. I knew him; his name was Brad. He was probably Mason's best buddy. He was there when Mason broke his rib the first time he played an official game with a neighboring school; he was there during Mason's most sensitive phase in the first few weeks of his father's reengagement; he was also there when Mason and I shared our first kiss—he claimed that he happened to be out on a shopping chore at a nearby minimart, but a nudge in my gut told me he was stalking out of pure curiosity.
"Where's Mason?" I asked him.
"No clue," he said. "Maybe at the toilet."
Right. The toilet.
No biggie.
Maybe he was just constipated. Diarrhea? Bad salad? Yeah, maybe it was bad salad; I knew the cafeteria salad smelled fishy.
Huh. Or what if he was vomiting? Oh my God.
I was not trying to be a possessive, psycho girlfriend, nor was I actually one—I supposed—and I definitely was trying my best to fully trust Brad's unreassuring response, but...!
I decided it was time to pee. Here's my theory: Peeing usually solves all worry. It relieves the bladder, and in one way or another the bladder is connected to the brain, hence it has the potential to relieve the mind too.
As I walked, a million negative assumptions popped here and there all over my head, most of which would not be worthy of mentioning due to its shamefully bizarre nature. Maybe, just maybe, I was, and had always been, the possessive, psycho girlfriend I never imagined to become.
What a freak!
I walked and walked, rolling my eyes at the strangest thoughts that played my mind. I was sure I had almost lost it, until I came across the boys' changing room, which stood only a couple of strides from the toilets, and was reminded of the first time I saw Mason shirtless. All negative thoughts aside, with open arms I welcomed my daydream:
I remember I was going for the toilet with Cady, and we were joking about something, and, of course, we girls liked to playfully shove each other's shoulders to emphasize the whole laughing thing, but Cady had the strength of Hulk—thanks to the killer muscle exercise from gym earlier, probably—she shoved me straight through the door to the boys' changing room, and voilá.
I could not help but blush just thinking about it.
Mason and I were only fifteen. We had been official for no more than a week or two, and life just so happened to make me encounter him in such a way after my lengthy discussion on 'how far to go with a boyfriend' with Cady and Vivian the night before.
I remember Mason's flushed cheeks, and even more his friends' howls and hollering. They were just like animals!
But if it weren't for Cady's extreme monster-like strength, I definitely would not have made such a sweet memory—putting aside the fact that it was a totally awkward and embarrassing scene.
Being the perverted seventeen-year-old I was—though I would never admit it—I popped my head into the room. Just a peek, I said to myself. I wanted to reimagine my sophomore memory in a clearer setting. Ha-ha.
The door made a small creak as I squeezed my torso through the opening. I flinched at the sound. Even the gentlest push could not win against the old age of the school's pivots.
Tiptoeing into the place, my eyes darted around in a messy rhythm. I was both nervous and excited; it was kind of like the feeling of getting my ears pierced for the first time, except I was putting more than just a bit of flesh at risk this time—it was my reputation on the line.
Everywhere around me lay towels of various sizes and colors, all kinds of jeans—skinny, dark, washed, ripped, you name it—and a dizzying air heavy with an abundant mix of boy smells.
For a moment I forgot why I had even entered the room in the first place. What the hell was Lilly Davis doing, lurking around the boys' changing room like an underwear thief? Had I been a creepier kid—like Louie, that long-haired weirdo with pitch-black eye bags who was assigned to be my lab partner last school year, who touched a dissected frog's insides without gloves and did not flinch the slightest bit—perhaps this scene would look slightly more normal. Nevertheless, my original intention of leaving class was to pee!
If anyone saw me in here, I definitely—
Thump!
Wait, no, I swear that wasn't me!
I had made literally zero noise, the creaking door being the only audible sound that came with my arrival. It was clear that there was somebody else in the room. And the sound was coming from my left...
Holding my breath, I creeped my way towards the far edge of the row of lockers in front of me. In my ear I could hear my heartbeat, drumming endlessly against my taut chest.
With beads of sweat hanging coldly onto my forehead, I continued my way, my feet trembling in each step forward. There was the persistent urge to run—"Go, now," it yelled from the back of my head—but I could not leave, or rather I did not want to leave, before I saw for myself who that person was—the coward hiding behind a pathetic thump. I did not want to risk my reputation on this bastard's one-sided speculation; I had to talk it out with him and set things straight.
I was growing closer. The edge was right there, just a straight-arm away. In my mind I could hear Vivian's high-pitched shriek: "Straight-arm this! Straight-arm that!" And it definitely didn't do my growing anxiety the littlest favor.
I pursed my lips and balled my fists, matte nails digging into clammy palms, readying myself for anything. In flashes I imagined as many possible unexpected outcomes as my panicked brain allowed: Creepy Louie chewing on boys' t-shirts, Jonah Brinley skipping class to fix his hair, Brad Michaels spying on me like he did two years ago, Coach Kent snorting stolen coke...
Then it happened: I saw.
And like a mad dog I screamed. "What are you doing, Mason?!"
"No, no, baby, I can explain—"
"Great! Just great!"
There he was, sprawled on the floor like a spineless cat, his hair a mess and his face pale as the tiles grinding against his elbows as he attempted to fix himself. And should I maintain a positive-thinking mindset, I would say that he was, at the very least, only half as naked as the woman slumped on top of him.
My breath hitched in my throat. My mind was everywhere; my focus a mess.
What was I even supposed to say at times like this?
I had prepared myself for some juicy Creepy Louie gossip, not a sudden loss of my boyfriend of two years to Hannah Foster! Of all people, of course it had to be Hannah, whom I had always thought to be no more than a tiny, attention-thirsty giggling machine. I had never seen her as a possible rival in love—why and how would Lilly Davis compete against such an irrelevant piece of crap whose only cookie point was her middle-schooler build?
Perhaps it is, after all, another, another law of nature—never fully trust a girlfriend, no matter the circumstance. I was foolish to stand unguarded for a split moment.
And then! I heard her starting to sob. I knew this atmosphere; these were her 'cute' sniffles. Did they appear adorable to Mason, too? Ha.
She disgusted me beyond words could say. Wasn't I the one who was supposed to cry? I could wail and wheeze and scream and let them watch ugly tears and snot sprint down my face for all I cared. I had the rights!
And despite Mason's awkward posture, he managed to give her arm a squeeze. Even after glancing at me beforehand!
He had no shame whatsoever! Not the slightest hint of guilt!
Unbelievable!
Wasn't he supposed to run to me, apologize like crazy, and squeeze my arm? Wasn't that part of the whole Boyfriend package that was supposed to be programmed into his reflex arc already?
"I can't believe this," I hissed, shaking my head at the sickening scene ahead of me. "I can't believe you!"
I couldn't help but wonder if it was wrong of me to eat so little earlier; I should have gulped down double the amount of my regular lunch in an instant and done a hundred jumping jacks before coming here—and upon seeing Hannah's totally un-drool-worthy figure, it wouldn't take too long for the vomit to work its way out my throat, undoubtedly.
Mason sighed, almost as if he was annoyed at me. Can you imagine, he felt pissed. Somebody had to remind me, when exactly was I zapped into an alternate universe where I was suddenly the bad guy?
Unbelievable!
"Look," he said, "I'll make it up to you..."
I almost laughed. It was the classic line, calling right at my favorite law of nature of them all: a cheating man deserves no mercy.
"Save it, Dwarf Dick."