I FIND LUCAS by the lockers at the end of school, and this time he really cannot avoid me.
He’s with Evelyn and that guy with the quiff. They’re all pinching their noses because Solitaire stink-bombed the entire school approximately one hour ago. Classic, disgusting, and unnecessary; however, most people in school today seem to be generally supportive of this particular prank. The smell in this corridor is moldy egg. I cover my mouth and nose with my jumper.
Lucas, Evelyn, and quiff guy are in conversation—serious conversation—but because I’ve recently turned into a rude and arrogant person, I don’t give a crap that I’m going to interrupt.
“Why are you avoiding me?” I call.
Lucas nearly drops several large ring binders and stares around Evelyn’s head. He moves his hand away from his nose. “Victoria. God.”
Evelyn and the guy turn and study me suspiciously before slinking away. I step toward Lucas. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder.
“Are you sure Evelyn isn’t your girlfriend?” I ask, still holding my jumper over part of my face.
“What?” He laughs nervously. “Why do you think that?”
“I always see you with her. Are you her secret boyfriend?”
He blinks several times. “Uh, no. No.”
“Are you lying?”
“No.”
“Are you angry because I forgot we were going to meet up on Saturday?”
“No. No, I promise I’m not.”
“Then why are you avoiding me? I haven’t seen you since . . . I haven’t seen you this week.”
He shoves the ring binders into the locker and withdraws a sizable art sketchbook. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“Don’t lie.”
He flinches.
I get it. Lucas has tried so hard since term started to be friends with me again. And I’ve been such an arse about it. Just because I hate making friends, I’ve been rude to him, I’ve ignored him, I’ve avoided him, and I haven’t made a single bit of effort for him. That’s me, as usual, being an utter dick to everyone for no apparent reason. I get it. I get that I don’t exactly engage with people. But since Saturday, I’ve felt that not engaging can be just as bad as the alternative.
Now Lucas doesn’t seem to even want to know me.
“Look,” I say, dropping my jumper, feeling desperation sink into my soul. “We were best friends once, weren’t we? I don’t want you to avoid me. I’m sorry I forgot about Saturday. I forget stuff like that. But you’re one of three people who I’ve ever been friends with, and I don’t want to not talk to you anymore.”
He runs a hand through his hair. It’s halfway down his forehead.
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Just please tell me why you avoided me on Saturday.”
Something’s different. His eyes shift from side to side. “I can’t be around you.” Then quieter: “I can’t do this.”
“What?”
He slams the locker shut. It makes a noise that’s far too loud. “I’ve got to go.”
“Just—”
But he’s already walked away. I stand by his locker for a minute or so. The moldy-egg smell appears to be intensifying, as does my hatred for Solitaire. Lucas forgot to lock his locker properly, so I can’t resist opening it and having a look inside. There are three ring binders in there: English literature, psychology, and history, along with a bunch of sheets. I pick one up. It’s a psychology sheet about coping with stress. There is a picture of a girl holding her head in both hands, a bit like that famous painting The Scream. One of the suggestions is regular exercise, and another is writing down your problems. I replace the sheet and shut Lucas’s locker.
