Micah’s gone.
He’s not at lunch with the Artists in their usual corner of the courtyard. I watch the door, willing Micah to walk through it. I imagine how I’ll run up to him and tell him he’s right, and I’m ready to tell everyone that the poetry is mine, their judgments be damned. And he’ll be so proud of me, and maybe I’ll be a little proud of me, too, and our classmates will hoist me onto their shoulders and parade me through the halls shouting, Hooray, Lily Larkin, poet laureate of Ridgeline High!
Of course none of that happens because (a) this is high school and no one applauds hypothetical epiphanies, and (b) I’ve screwed everything up.
Lily Larkin—destroyer of happiness.
Micah doesn’t return all day. He’s not in the halls. Isn’t in the art room when I casually stroll by at the bell, although I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. That he’d be there, paintbrush in hand, thrilled to see me?
Oh, Lily, so glad you could come! I’ve totally forgotten what a monstrous B you were earlier. Let’s draw! Let’s create! Let’s wander through the glory of our imaginations in search of your muse. Huzzah!
As I run the track after school, I watch the Artists leave together. No Micah.
When he’s gone the next day, too, I check the 100-acre-wood so much during Spanish that I totally mess up an oral exam, which is awesome because I’ve already tanked a quiz in Spanish and one in math because my brain can’t seem to focus on anything.
Sam sits with me during project collaboration. Her partner has taken over their entire project.
“I don’t have time for it anyway, so if she wants to do all the work, fine by me,” she says, nodding to her partner, who is painting some sort of modernist piece with sharp angles and bright colors that makes absolutely no sense. The other artists see me looking and whisper to each other.
Did you hear what she did to Micah?
Total cock tease.
Don’t know why he’s into her anyway.
Her?
Isn’t that hilarious?
Principal Porter is here, too, talking hotly in the corner with Gifford and Friedman because people have started writing on the actual walls with permanent markers since the paper in the lobby is running out of space. Before he goes, Porter gives the class a stern warning about “taking things too far.”
“While I wouldn’t dream of interfering with the artistic process—” he says, with a look toward Gifford. Then, I swear he looks straight at me, and I scrunch down in my seat. “—acts of vandalism in any degree will not be tolerated. And our security cameras don’t lie.”
He totally knows it was you.
Even if you don’t turn in the project, everyone could still find out.
I breathe in and out like Staci taught me, trying to unravel the knot of nerves in my stomach. Freaking Damon takes it upon himself to sit on the other side of me after Porter leaves, a smirky grin on his face.
“So, where is Señor Loco? Suicide watch?”
I burn holes into my paper, staring at it so hard, wishing he’d go away. When he doesn’t, I reply without looking at him.
“Seriously, Damon, are you in some sort of competition to insult the most people with the fewest words?”
“What can I say?” He leans back, getting too comfortable in the chair next to me. “Your boyfriend just brings it out in me.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Not your anything.
“Not what I heard,” he says.
“Well, you heard wrong.”
Damon leans in closer but talks louder. “I heard you two were getting cozy in the janitor’s closet.”
Sam’s eyes shoot to me.
“It was about the project.” My words come out shaky. My face burns and my heart flip-flops in my chest. I breathe in and out slowly, trying to stall the panic.
Damon smirks again. “Riiiiiight.” Then, with fake concern, he adds, “Just be careful. The guy’s a menace.”
I slam my notebook shut. Mercifully, the bell releases me and I shove my books into my backpack and wait for Sam outside the classroom door.
“Is it true?” she says as we walk side by side down the crowded hall, me searching for Micah, hoping to see his neon in the sea of normal.
“Is what true?”
“What Damon said.”
“Damon’s an idiot. Micah is not a menace.”
Sam opens her locker and chucks her books in so forcefully, they clang against the back. “Not that.” She pulls her violin out just as violently. “About you and him. In the closet.”
“No. Well—yes.”
Sam closes her eyes in exasperation. Magnetic poetry on the locker next to hers says dance in the rain, sing in the sun.
“So which one is it?”
“Yes, we were in the closet, but it’s not like—”
She puts up her hand to stop me. “You know what, Lil? Forget it. You don’t want to share anything with me? Fine. Don’t. But you can’t have it both ways.” She slams her locker, hoists her backpack on, and looks me square in the eye. “Either we’re best friends or we’re not. Do me a favor and make up your mind.”
Ridgeline Underground
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Anyone else hear that Micah Mendez got suspended?
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Yeah. For stealing art supplies.
For banging a girl in the janitor’s closet
I think it was Lily Larkin
No. Way.
