K Y L I E
The bell rang just as Allora and I walked into the classroom. Mr. Wyatt was already inside, standing behind his desk in his pressed shirt and nice suit pants, a bunch of papers in his hand. Our essays. He had probably graded them already. I wanted to turn around and leave immediately. I could probably get away with skipping class, especially English. Mr. Wyatt didn't seem the type to underestimate period cramps if I mentioned them to him.
I didn't. I hadn't had my period in a while. I had been trying not to think about it. I wasn't pregnant. Obviously. I just wasn't eating enough, and probably exercising too much. I would do something about it after Sectionals next month. Before that, I would just enjoy not having to deal with crippling pain every month without thinking about what that actually meant for my body.
In front of me, Allora took off her jacket and put it on the back of her chair before sitting down. Unlike myself, she had probably done very well on her essay on Lord of the Flies, the latest book assigned by Mr. Wyatt, because, like the author of the book, Allora too believed there was evil at the heart of every man. So did I, but I wasn't so good with words when it came to academics, both on and off paper, and this time I hadn't had the chance to ask anyone to proofread my writing for me.
Allora had been too busy with college essays for her early admission applications, my mothers had been out of town for weeks already, and Mrs. Suzuki had been too busy doing everything around the house to waste time with a lousy English paper. I was probably going to have an F. So was life.
Not Sky, already sitting down right at the front of the class, books open in front of her, her eyes roaming through them, hair falling off a messy updo, an ugly sweater with lint all over it. I wondered whether or not Jacob had kept his word and actually done his part for the Spanish project. I had barely spoken to him over the weekend because he had been drunk for most of it and gone for the rest. I hadn't seen him at all on Sunday. According to the boys, because he had spent the whole of it in bed with a hangover.
He walked into class now, the twins following behind him, both of them in shorts even though it was raining outside, hands stuck inside a pack of chips that Mr. Wyatt immediately told them to put away. Jacob took a seat behind me. Edward was sitting next to Liam Chan. They were still mad at each other, and Allora and I still had no idea why. We had asked around, but no one had wanted to tell us, even though everyone seemed to know, at least everyone on the football team.
My phone rang in my pocket, and I sent Mr. Wyatt an apologetic look before putting it on silent. It was a message from Jacob. You look very nice today, it said. I wrote back, I know. He didn't answer.
Class started. I didn't pay attention. I was too busy trying not to feel lucky that he thought I looked nice today, trying to convince myself I really did know that already, even though I felt like I only knew it now that he had told me.
My essay fell on top of my desk, the letter B written on the very top in a green ball-point pen. Mr. Wyatt's signature under it. I looked up at him.
"You made some really compelling points, Kylie," he told me with a smile. "We do have to work on your punctuation though. There are a lot of run-on sentences there, probably because you have both a lot to say and the idea that you don't have enough time to say it. You do, but anyway, if you want, we can go over it during my office hours."
I smiled and said sure before looking down at my essay again, at the bright green B on it. I wasn't actually sure I wanted to waste my time cooked up in an office going over comma splits with Mr. Wyatt, but I couldn't exactly say no to someone who looked the way he did, more so, someone who had just said I made some really compelling points, which I had only ever heard coming from girls my age who didn't know any better, or boys who wanted something from me, and would say anything to get it.
Next to me, Allora got an A+.
"This was an absolute pleasure to read," Mr. Wyatt told her, right before, "Keep it up."
Allora showed him a bright, beautiful smile, and said, "I'll try my very best not to disappoint you, Mr. Wyatt."
To which he replied, "You could never disappoint me."
He probably meant it. He had all the empathy and understanding only young, naïve teachers had, the ones who wanted to change the world, starting with us, seventeen-year-olds, who knew nothing of anything. We were definitely going to disappoint him, and after us, the whole world, and he would slowly but surely become one of those old, cynical teachers, the ones who didn't want to change anything at all.
Mr. Wyatt went on giving out essays and spent the rest of the class discussing everyone's final thoughts on Lord of the Flies. Allora and I spent it deciding how we were going to get our nails done. When the bell rang, she disappeared in the hallway to go ask her Germain teacher for a recommendation letter. I took my time putting my things away. No one else did. In a matter of minutes, the classroom was empty except for Skylar, Mr. Wyatt, Jacob, and me. The reason being that Mr. Wyatt wanted to talk to Skylar, and Jacob wanted to talk to me. I stepped out of the classroom, my bag on my shoulder, and turned to Jacob, a smile ready on my red lips.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. Inside, Mr. Wyatt told Sky he had read her story. In front of me, Jacob smirked, and opened his mouth again. I put my hand over it to listen to Sky, but she didn't say anything. Mr. Wyatt did.
"This is a very fine piece of writing, Skylar," he said. "Subtle, and powerful, and genuinely moving. To be honest, my only criticism is that there's no more of it for me to read. You write –"
"Do you mind?" Jacob said against my hand, grabbing my wrist and pulling it away. "I'm trying to talk to you."
"Yeah, and I'm trying to listen."
"Not to me." He frowned.
I put my other hand over his mouth, and he rolled his eyes.
Inside, Sky asked Mr. Wyatt, "So you want me to write more? Maybe in William Golding's voice now that we finished Lord of the Flies?"
"Why not try your own voice?"
"I don't know that I have one."
"You do," Mr. Wyatt said. "Trust me."
Jacob pulled my hand away from his mouth once again, and asked, "She's great at everything she does. Who the fuck cares?"
"Did we have to write a story for English? What are they talking about?" I asked. I didn't remember Mr. Wyatt telling us about any assignment.
In front of me, Jacob rolled his eyes, and said, "We didn't. She just gets off on being the teacher's pet. That's all."
"Oh," I said, smiling in relief. "Well, good for her, then."
"Sure." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm throwing a party this weekend. You're coming."
"Are you asking or telling me?"
"Telling you."
"I don't think so."
"Don't think. Just show up at mine –"
"You don't think maybe you should take a break from parties?"
"No."
"Everyone thought you were gonna have to get your stomach pumped Saturday night –"
"Well, I didn't, did I?" he said with a smirk. "Also, I thought we weren't going to pretend we cared about each other."
Sky walked out of the classroom with Mr. Wyatt, head low, her books against her chest, something about college applications coming out of her mouth. I was tired of hearing about those, so I turned to Jacob again, and shrugged.
"Call it protection of investment," I said, and he threw his head back to laugh, and I smiled, and asked, "How's the Spanish project going?"
He looked at me with his trademark smirk back on, his hand moving to push a strand of my hair behind my ear, and the teasing question, "Would you believe me if I told you I got to second base with her?"
I opened my mouth to say no, but he was faster.
"You shouldn't," he told me. "Cause she's obviously gay."
I laughed, "Is that cause she's not interested in you?"
He looked at me like I was stupid, "Obviously."
"Your narcissism is showing."
"Of course I'm a narcissist. Have you met me?"
I smiled, "Not really, but I don't know if I want to, honestly."
"Why? Cause then you would have to admit we're the same?" he asked, taking a step closer when someone walked behind him to make it inside the classroom. The bell would ring soon. Jacob looked down at me, and said, "I honestly don't know why you're so against it."
I shook my head, "I'm not a narcissist."
He held my chin in his hand and pulled my head up, "But you're so fucking beautiful."
And then the bell rang, so I showed him my best smile and walked away. We had the same class next, but he didn't follow me. Instead, he kept leaning against the wall, watching me disappear in the hallways, the smirk on his face, on his eyes, and me reflected on it, a beautiful, beautiful me.
He would lose interest as soon as I gave in. I knew it, and so I wouldn't. Allora said I wasn't really interested in him, but in his interest of me. There wasn't really anything about him that attracted me, except for his attraction for me. I felt like the narcissist Jacob said I was when she told me this, but then she went on to say this wasn't really my fault, but surprise, surprise, another one of patriarchy's doings. There was an economy to girlhood. We were only ever as good as the number of boys that wanted us. Our value fluctuated under the Law of Demand and Supply, like any other commodity. We had been socialized as such.
Every step I took in my life was informed by this, no matter how hard I tried to pretend, or better yet, even when I did try to pretend. In reality, I had no real agency. My actions were nothing but reactions to what was expected of me. My identity was nothing but a performance, an attempt at applause. Allora said it wasn't so much applause we wanted but what applause meant. A performer took the stage only for so long as others wanted them to, and all anyone really wanted was a stage. She said stage, but really, she meant life. A life of our own.
After these conversations with Allora, I often spent hours doubting myself. If I looked in the mirror, my reflection would have its back at me. I couldn't look at myself in the eyes. I had no idea who I was. I couldn't recognize myself in a photo or a video. My name started to sound strange in my mouth, like a separate thing from me, something that didn't belong to me at all, but to someone else entirely. I was someone else's.