Damien sat on his seat, restless, barely listening to his classmate piecing together a puzzle of another classmate's face on the board, the latter standing next to the former in his own awkward silence. He and Lyn would be called soon, he knew. And he knew he would have to present first—Bautista comes before Taraschi. But he wasn't ready, didn't even prepare the printed output he was supposed to pass that day.
He couldn't think of anything else but Cheryl. He spent yesterday sending her messages, apologizing, explaining why he did what he did. And when that didn't work, after hours passed without a reply, he tried calling her—once, twice, twenty times.
And when he sat himself down to come up with an actual speech about Lyn, thoughts of Cheryl kept him distracted—How is she? Is she still mad at me? Does she want to break things off?—that he couldn't manage to type down anything good enough for his presentation. So he went to sleep at eight o'clock that evening, without a word on his Word document, thinking that he could wake up at three in the morning and type it all in and print it all out. But when the beeping of his phone alarm broke the nocturne silence, without a thought, he snoozed his alarm, and slept some more.
"Bautista, Damien."
Damien tore his gaze away from the front of the room, where no one now stood, and looked to the left, at Mrs. Chase.
"It's your turn now," she went on to say.
He rose from his seat, took one fleeting glance at Cheryl who refused to look at him, and walked over to the front.
Mrs. Chase looked through her papers, flipping one page, one printed output after another. "Mister Bautista, where is your printed output?"
"The printer in my dorm room didn't work yesterday and this morning," said Damien, with ease. "I tried, I really tried, Mrs. Chase, but the printer wouldn't cooperate with me. I'll give you the printed output next meeting."
"With corresponding deductions to your score," said Mrs. Chase. "A five-point deduction per day of delay."
"I'll leave it on your desk tomorrow," said Damien.
Mrs. Chase gave off a quiet sigh, nodded, then said, "Start."
"Adelina Taraschi," began Damien. "Lyn, as her family and friends call her. We all know her as one of the new kids in school, but you probably didn't know that I've known her for years. We go a long way back. We grew up together. She's a childhood friend. She's like a sister to me. We were neighbors. My family and I moved from California to Oregon when my dad and his business partners decided to put up a branch of their hotel and restaurant business in Portland. I was five when we moved next door to Lyn and her family. Then our parents became friends. We went to the same school, hung out in each other's houses on weekends and in the summer. Even back then, she was the quiet type. She likes to read, if you haven't noticed. She used to bring all these books to school—Harry Potter, Narnia, Matilda, and those other Ronald Doll books—"
"Roald Dahl," corrected Lyn, her voice barely above a whisper. She kept her eyes on her desk, her finger drawing unseen images on the wooden surface.
"—and read them over recess and lunch. She was this nerd, and I know she didn't like the label back when we were in middle school—"
I don't care anymore, remarked Lyn, without a sound.
"—and that it pissed her off because all our other classmates made fun of her for it. They also thought she was weird, too quiet, a loner. Then we went our separate ways when we went to high school. My mom, my sister, and I moved to somewhere else in the city."
Your mom left your dad after she found out he had been cheating on her for years, thought Lyn, and she brought you and your sister with her.
"Dad was called back to California to manage the other branches there."
You all were going to move there with him, Lyn added, in her thoughts, until your mom found out.
"I began freshman year here, in Ravenwood, while she went to study in—"
Another hellhole, but worse than elementary and middle school. Thank you very much.
"—Immaculate Heart, an all-girl Catholic high school. We haven't seen each other for two years. And in those two years, I guess things might have happened, and now she's, um . . . different."
Lyn glanced up at him, then.
"I didn't recognize her the first time I saw her in The Raven's Nest. She dyed her hair black. She lost some weight. She used to wear all these sweaters and long-sleeves, in different colors. But now she looks more like an alternative girl with her black jeans, her black jackets, and all those bracelets on her wrist. Actually, she wears a lot of black nowadays. I mean, she still reads a lot, and she's still quiet most of the time, but she's different. And maybe that's it, people change over time—just like Lyn."
From the back of the room, Mrs. Chase nodded, scribbled something on Damien's evaluation form. Then she said, "Thank you, Mister Bautista. Now"—she glanced at her list, read a name—"Miss Taraschi, it's your turn to present."
Lyn stood and walked over to the front. She held a piece of paper in her hand, and she kept her eyes on it, refusing to look at anything or anyone else, ignoring the eyes that wordlessly questioned the scratches on her face and hands. She began with, "This is a poem I wrote about Damien Bautista." A pause, an inhale, then,
You
The question, harmless, out of the blue:
"Who are you?" I asked. And
"You know me," you said.
But I don't think I do,
A memory of a boy long dead,
A story come to an end.
I don't know you,
Not anymore.
It took two,
Two years, without a single sight of you.
The boy I once knew
Now faded like a ghost,
A shell of who he once was,
A shadow left to mourn.
We were kids once upon a time,
Blissful in our ignorance,
The epitome of a stupid quote—
Until the perfect crime,
Kiss and never tell, a secret long buried
Alive, crept out of its tomb.
Now a picture torn in two.
You paint your mask, agony
Concealed in a hoax of a smile—
Bathing yourself in hedonistic revelry;
At night, a drink too many.
Yet beneath it all is shattered you,
Never did you shed a tear,
Quietly mending your broken heart with stale glue—
Because boys don't cry over what they fear.
But that isn't always true.
And with that, a moment's silence, until Mrs. Chase said, "Miss Taraschi, is writing poetry one of your hobbies, besides reading as Mister Bautista mentioned earlier?"
"Yes, Mrs. Chase."
"And, Mister Bautista," said Mrs. Chase, her eyes on the stocky, brown boy seated amidst his classmates. "Do you even know Miss Taraschi writes poetry?"
Without a beat passed, Damien replied, "Yes."
Lyn chuckled, then muttered, "Liar." Your tongue speaks the language of lies and broken promises, she remembered. A line written in the margin of her draft, one that never made it to the actual poem.
And just then the bell rang, the ritual call, students quickly collecting their things and rising out of their seats and heading out the door.
Damien slung his backpack over his shoulder, keeping an eye on Cheryl who hastened her movements, her sights clearly on anything else but him. He was about to take a step forward, to follow her out the room, to apologize and explain to her on their way to Chemistry class, when Mrs. Chase said:
"Mister Bautista, Miss Taraschi, a word please before you go."
Damien halted in his step, let out a quiet sigh. He turned around, and walked over to Mrs. Chase's direction, to the teacher's table, where she was gathering her things. Lyn took her steps to the front of the room, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She stopped next to Damien, standing still, without a word.
"Mister Bautista," began Mrs. Chase. "You do know you will be scored individually, don't you?"
"Yes, Mrs. Chase," was his response.
"Although you managed to come up with a speech, it was obviously impromptu, considering its lack of substance and coherence. And, of course, your lack of a printed output. Miss Taraschi," said Mrs. Chase, turning her attention to the raven-haired girl. For a moment, the teacher paused, noticing, not for the first time, the scratches on her student's skin. In spite of the curious look in her eyes, however, Mrs. Chase was aware of the time, and went on to say, "Please clarify my assumptions, and tell me honestly, did your friend do his homework? Did he ask you questions? Did you even meet up to discuss your presentations?"
Lyn said nothing for a moment, her gaze fixed on the teacher's desk. "No. No. And no, Mrs. Chase."
"And why is that, Mister Bautista?" asked the teacher, flitting her eyes back to the stocky, brown boy.
"Mrs. Chase," exclaimed Damien. "Lyn's my partner. Shouldn't you question—"
Mrs. Chase quickly pulled out a piece of paper on the desk behind her, lifted it up for Damien to see, the name Taraschi, Adelina Maria Elisabetta type-written on the upper left part of the sheet. "I don't see why she deserves to share the blame," she said, wishing to hear no more excuses from him. "Make sure to leave your printed output on my desk tomorrow, Mister Bautista, or it's a direct F for you in this activity." She breathed in, clearly to calm herself down, her patience with Damien running thin, like a candle on the verge of burning out any second now. "That is all," she said, placing her papers into a folder, carrying the encased file in one arm. "You better move quickly, or you'll be late for your next class."
And with that, Damien and Lyn walked out the door, into a corridor less chaotic than they were used to. But Lyn quickened her pace, moving ahead of Damien, without a word or a glance at her childhood friend. But Damien didn't mind: the printed output could wait till he gets back to his dorm room after detention. Right now, all he wanted was to find a way to talk to Cheryl, desperately, soon before any chance he had of breaking down this cold, loud silence between them was too late.
Three hours passed, and nothing. No word, no glance, no notice from Cheryl. Maybe now's the best time, Damien thought—lunch hour. He would walk up to her, apologize and explain in person. He would burn his pride—a little bit, just enough for her to forgive him—like setting fire to his own picture, then blowing the flame out when a little corner's been reduced to ashes, yet nowhere near his face. Just like that. And maybe then things would be all right after. She still loved him, didn't she?
Didn't she?
Damien took in a breath, exhaled out, as he made his way through the crowd, his eyes glued to the back of Cheryl's pretty blonde head. He squeezed in with the throng into the cafeteria doors.
"Cheryl," he called. He saw her fidget a bit, a sudden movement that alerted her friends, who stuck closer to her, one of them grasping her hand, giving Damien a backward glance, then whispering something in her ear.
"Cheryl!" he called again.
And just then he bumped into someone, a short balding man in gray slacks and a gray coat and a white collared shirt.
"Mister Bautista," the man exclaimed.
"Sorry, Mister Grisham," said Damien, a quick response, taking a step away from the head teacher. But then—
"Mister Bautista," repeated Mr. Grisham, putting a hand on Damien's shoulder, before he could move any farther.
Damien halted in his steps, turned to Mr. Grisham. Mr. Grisham motioned that they move closer to the wall nearest them, to not block the way. Damien obeyed.
"I was going to call you to my office this afternoon," said Mr. Grisham, when they came to stand by the wall. But Damien was flitting his eyes back and forth, from Mr. Grisham to Cheryl lining up to the food counter with her friends. "But since you're here, I think I better tell you now." Damien nodded, wordlessly, glancing over at his girlfriend—if he was still her boyfriend, that is. "It came to Doctor McKenna and my attention that you were the one who reported to the police about the party in the Waltervere Town Cemetery."
Damien turned his full attention the teacher, then. And he said, "Mister Grisham, I—"
"I know it wasn't easy for you," said Mr. Grisham, "considering your friends were involved. But you made the right decision—"
"Mr. Grisham, I didn't call—"
"Look," said Mr. Grisham, patting a hand on Damien's shoulder, the serious look in his eyes enough for the boy to say nothing more. "Doing the right thing isn't always easy. Trust me, I've been there myself. I've made mistakes in my youth. But it takes one step to start off on the right path. And you did that. So—"
Damien averted his eyes off Mr. Grisham's blue-gray ones, and looked down at his black leather shoes and the white tiles beneath his feet instead. The old man wouldn't listen. He let out a quiet sigh.
"—Doctor McKenna and I agreed to lift your supposed in-school suspension scheduled next month."
Damien transferred his gaze to the teacher, eyes wide.
"And," said Mr. Grisham, "instead of a two-month detention, we decided to make it one. Therefore, you only have three weeks left of after-school and Saturday detention." The teacher patted the boy's shoulder again. "Consider this as an incentive. Enjoy your lunch, Mister Bautista," he added, with a smile. Then he made his way round the boy and off to the teachers' lunch area, holding his bag of packed lunch that swung as he moved.
Damien shifted his glance over to the ceiling and groaned to himself. It was good news, yes, but he didn't call the police, and he knew that without a doubt, and no one—save Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn who were with him that time of the night—believed him. Then there were the other consequences of what he didn't do—losing his friends, Cheryl . . .
Oh, shoot. Cheryl!
Jack sat with the basketball team, as usual, as always. And for the first time since he joined the team, he wanted out. Even just for now—or for as long as Shay sat next to Trevor, his arm draped round her shoulders.
He refused to look at her, at them, and concentrated on his food instead. Stab, bite, chew, stab, bite, chew. But for a moment, he couldn't help but take one glance, that one fleeting glance, where he caught sight of her looking at him, a mingle of guilt and regret in her almond brown eyes. But Trevor had his arm around her, and her head rested on Trevor's shoulder, and they laughed at a joke together, her eyes quickly leaving Jack and glancing over to Asian Mike, who had cracked the joke, then up at Trevor. And when her eyes and Trevor's met, there was an unmistakable smile in them, a loving spark they shared.
Jack looked away, then. Back to stab, bite, chew, stab, bite, chew, getmeoutofhere, stab, bite, chew.
Cheryl and her friends were talking around the table, and Damien was walking up to them, up to her, slowly. Breathe in, breathe out.
"Look, if he really loves you," he heard one of them say, a brunette girl with one comforting hand on Cheryl's, "he wouldn't have left you standing—"
"Hey, Cheryl," Damien said.
The girls shifted in their seats, looked up at the brown boy standing before them.
"Can I just talk to you?" A pause. "Please."
"What's there to talk about?" asked Cheryl, pursing her pink lips afterwards.
"I've been trying to get to you," said Damien, "all weekend. I tried texting you, calling you. But you didn't reply to any of my messages. You didn't pick up any of my calls. Look," he said, taking a few steps forward, tenderly taking her hand, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just please let me explain."
Cheryl glanced at her friends.
They nodded, reluctantly.
Cheryl sighed. "Fine," she said, grabbing her tray, a plate of her half-eaten lunch and a bottle of water balancing atop.
They walked over to an empty table, sat down, Cheryl setting her tray on the surface.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Damien said, "I'm sorry."
"You said that already," she said, averting his gaze.
"I didn't mean to leave you like that."
"You called the cops."
"I didn't."
"Then what was that?" she asked, her blue eyes looking straight into his. "Why did you leave me that night?"
"My friends needed me."
"So?"
"Cheryl, something was going on. You have to understand—"
"But I'm your girlfriend."
Damien said nothing.
"You should've come back for me."
"It's not that easy."
"Why?"
"Because . . . " And that's when Damien realized he hadn't thought this through. He couldn't tell her about—
"Because?" she questioned, a perfect eyebrow raised.
Damien sighed. "You wouldn't understand."
Cheryl chuckled humorlessly. "So that's how you're going to play," she said, rising from her seat.
But Damien quickly reached an arm out, quickly grabbed her hand before she could even stand. "Cheryl," he said, his brown eyes looking into hers, "I'll tell you. Just listen."
And with that, Cheryl sat back down. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Then tell me," she said.
"Man, I've got to try your apple pie soon," said Max. "You sound like you know what you're talking about."
"Someday," said Sander. "I'm telling you, my grandpa's apple pie recipe is the best. Definitely beats this," he added, in a hushed whisper, pointing down at the slice of mediocre apple pie with his fork.
Then a slap, loud and clear, in the distance. "You liar!"
The cafeteria fell quiet, then, their attention turned to a couple—a pretty blonde girl on her feet, a stocky, brown boy rubbing the cheek where she had slapped him.
Max's eyes widened. "Is that—"
"It's Damien," confirmed Sander.
"How could you?" Cheryl yelled, fighting back tears. "How could you lie to me like this?"
"Cheryl, I—"
"We're done," she said with finality, grabbing her tray. "It's over."
Damien rose to his feet. "Cheryl—" A quarter-full water bottle flew to his face, striking his forehead and nose. A chorus of "Ooh" echoed in the cafeteria. And with that, Damien said nothing more, as Cheryl stormed off in the direction of her friends, tears streaming down her face.
Lyn stared as Cheryl walked past her, unnoticed to the pretty blonde girl. She watched Cheryl slam her tray down on the table, witnessed her begin to sob in front of her friends; and she looked on as they immediately comforted her, one of them embracing her, telling her everything will be okay.
The raven-haired girl looked away, then, and shifted her sights over to Damien. He sat there, unmoving, his head in his hands. His only mistake was to go to that party in the first place. Other than that, nothing—nothing to deserve that kind of punishment. Lyn sighed, and then she began to debate with herself, wondering if—
"Hey, Damien."
Damien lifted his head up, lowered his hands down to the table. Max took his seat across from him, setting down two trays of half-eaten meals. Sander followed, placing a tray down on the table, taking a seat next to Max. He pushed the tray into Damien's table space.
"We noticed you haven't eaten anything yet," said Sander. "So we decided to buy you lunch." He gave Damien a small smile, and added, "Our treat."
Damien chuckled, returning Sander's smile. "Thanks, man."
A raven-haired girl walked over, slid into the empty seat at the head of the table, between Max and Damien. "Just thought I couldn't leave my childhood friend to sulk on his own, post-breakup." She smiled a lopsided smile. "To be honest, I didn't like Cheryl."
Damien laughed. "You didn't hide it."
"I know."
Max lifted a box of french fries in Lyn's direction. "French fry?"
Lyn considered for a moment. Then she nodded, the corners of her lips perking up into a genuine smile. "Sure," she said, picking up a piece. "Thanks."
Jack looked on, tables away. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, turned to see a lean, dark-skinned boy smiling reassuringly.
"Go," said the boy, the captain of the basketball team.
"What?"
"It's okay, bro. Bautista needs you. Besides," he added in a whisper, "been seeing that look on your face, those lovebirds are making you hella sick."
Jack nodded, clasped the captain's hand in a bro handshake. "Thanks, Cap."
"See you at practice."
And with that, Jack left the table, and walked over to his strange mix of friends—the troublemaker, the nerd, the new kid, the weird girl—and sat amongst them, next to Damien.
"So tell me," he began, "what d'you tell her to make her go all berserk on you?"
Damien shrugged. "The truth."
Lyn chuckled. "And she still called you a liar."
"You said it yourself," Max reminded them, "no one would believe us."
"Yeah. No one," Sander agreed.
Damien nodded. "No one but us."