Then Everything Happens at Once, page 11
“Fine.”
Lara’s ride arrives, and although her uncle offers to drop me off at home, I say no.
On the bus, I lean my forehead against the cold window.
I can’t believe I thought Alex might’ve liked me.
Sixteen
The next day, my mother drives me to school again.
“I wanted to talk to you about what’s going on with the coronavirus,” Mom says.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been reading the news articles I’ve been sending you, right?”
“Of course.”
I read a couple of them, but they’re so long and I haven’t really been all that interested in what’s happening, because it’s all happening elsewhere.
“I just want us to keep the dialogue open,” Mom says. “It looks like people are catching it here. It’s not just a travel thing anymore.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Do you know what this means?”
“I’m already always making sure I don’t bring things home to Rebecca. I’ll just stay away from anyone who seems sick.”
“That’s a start.” There’s a look on her face as she turns on the news on the radio. All the way to school, we listen to the newspeople talk about the number of cases in Canada, and a man who caught it from his wife.
“Well, maybe people will actually get flu shots now,” I say.
“This isn’t the regular flus we’ve got vaccines for, Boss,” Mom says. “This is new, and we’re going to make sure we don’t bring that crap home to Beck, okay?”
I nod as we pull into the school. “Okay.”
I hop out of the van and make my way through the main doors. As soon as she arrives, Lara comes straight to find me at my locker.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“The whole thing was awkward,” I say.
“I shouldn’t have gone up to that guy.”
“It’s fine. It’s over now.”
“I formally apologize.”
We lock eyes, and I can tell it’s difficult for her to be the one who says sorry first. “I formally accept.”
“Here,” she says, then hands me her yearbook.
“Thanks.”
“See you at lunch,” she says as Rianne comes up behind her.
In class, Garrett insists on sitting next to me. I pretend to ignore him, but he keeps asking me questions about the chapters he should’ve read already.
As soon as the lesson starts, I pull out Lara’s yearbook. I go through the Grade Ten students, and there are no students named Alex. But then I find her: Alessandra Leone. So pretty but with an edge, the right side of her head shaved. Her hair is long and black, her makeup on point, thick cat-eye liner.
This is not the kind of girl I have any tingles for.
I deflate with the confirmation that for an entire week, I actually made one of my elaborate scenarios merge with reality. My imagination is next-level sophisticated.
“Why are you looking at that?” Garrett says.
“No reason.”
I’m on edge, waiting for Garrett to say something to crush my soul, waiting for him to make others laugh at my expense, but he doesn’t.
“What chapter should I pretend I read up to?” he asks.
“I don’t really know how they expect you to catch up when you’ve missed so many weeks of classes,” I say. “But it’s not my job to hold your hand.”
“I didn’t realize you were this mean, B,” he says. “See, I’d usually make some time-of-the-month joke right now, but I won’t.”
“How can you seriously think that everything you’ve done in the past doesn’t matter in the present?” I say, then I make a show of moving to the edge of my side of the table and angling my body away from him. “You’re trying to be nice to me, and it makes no sense. It’s all fake.”
“Come on, B. You can’t seriously think I’m that bad.”
“Yes, I do.”
He shrugs and lets out a deep sigh. “Fine. I won’t ask you for help anymore. Happy?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, I lied anyway.” He puts his textbook down between us and points to a page. “It’s just a quick question, B. Can you just explain the whole anthropology thing to me? Because I thought it was all about digs and using those little paintbrushes to get sand off old artifacts, am I right?”
When I look at his face, he’s got this dumb grin like he’s waiting for me to laugh.
“You’re very . . . confusing,” I say.
He shrugs and takes his book back.
The more he talks to me, the more he asks me questions about our schoolwork, the less I find myself tensing up and wanting to lash out or run away. It’s like he’s becoming some annoying, harmless guy in my class—a guy I don’t really have to spend much energy on. It’s a little like what happened with Trey once we all started hanging out, like there was this understanding that things changed, we’re different people, and we’ve just moved on. I just tucked away that old version of Trey in my mind—the one who laughed at me and sometimes made fat jokes—and he became a different Trey that I don’t have any particular problem with. But with Garrett—it’s on a different scale.
I just feel like the twelve-year-old I used to be would be so mad at me right now, like I’d be betraying myself by not actively wishing him harm, for allowing myself to have an almost conversation with him.
At lunch, while I’m putting my things away in my locker, Alex texts me.
[Alex] R u OK?
It’s not a conversation I want to have during a chaotic cafeteria lunch, so I slip away into the small corridor between the two sets of doors that lead into the gym.
[Baylee] Totally. I was just a little shocked, but it’s OK now. I’ve had time to process.
[Alex] I really feel like a jerk for not coming clean sooner.
[Baylee] I should’ve asked you your pronouns when we started talking. I shouldn’t have assumed.
[Alex] No, it’s my fault.
[Baylee] Well it’s all swell now. Everything makes sense.
[Alex] OK but nothing’s changed on my end.
Of course nothing’s changed on her end—she knew what was going on the whole time. It’s on my end that wires got crossed.
[Alex] Can we meet? Like, officially?
[Baylee] OK, sure. Why not, right? ☺
[Alex] Saturday?
[Baylee] I’ve got my birthday party that night, but maybe earlier in the day?
[Alex] It’s your birthday?
[Baylee] Not technically. It’s the week after, on the 13th. This is just the party Rianne is throwing for me, at her house.
We make plans to meet one town over, at Crestonvale Square. I push through the door, a smile on my face, until I smack straight into Taylor and her two friends.
“Watch where you’re going,” Taylor says. “You almost slammed me across the hallway.”
Her two friends continue on, both looking at their phones, but Taylor stays behind, waiting for me to react while she makes a show of fixing her clothes and adjusting her purse, like I tackled her or something.
“Too bad that didn’t work out, I guess,” I say.
“You might be seven times my size, but I’d still kick your ass,” she says.
Attitude and annoyance grow in me, and I allow them to because none of my friends are around to hear her call me names. These are the perfect moments to lay into her. “First of all, you forgot to blend your foundation toward your neck, as usual. Second of all, you only curled the sides of your head, and none of your friends told you the back is all flat, so you just keep walking around like that. You’re welcome.”
She lifts her phone to record me. “I don’t even understand why you’re saying these things to me.”
I stare at her.
“Every year, I try and be nice to you, but you’re just such a big angry person,” she says.
“Don’t record me, Taylor,” I say. “You better not post that anywhere.”
She flips her hair over her shoulder—including the unraveled, weak waves at the back—then speaks to the camera. “I’m not sure why I have this reputation for being a massive bitch. Here I was, just walking along, minding my business, and I nearly get knocked to the ground, and then I’m the one getting insulted for it. There are two sides to every story, and now you’ve just witnessed the truth.”
“I doubt your seven followers care,” I say. “Anyone who knows you is painfully aware that you’re just an empty corpse that was granted the ability to walk, and your only skill is frying your hair with bleach and a flat iron.”
“See? Do I deserve this?” she says to her phone, then she slips it into her purse and faces me. “Don’t worry, Kunkel’s Cankles, I’ll blur your face when I post it.”
“I think it would be a much better video if you were to blur your own face.”
A dry laugh I know so well rings out from somewhere to my right, and that’s when I notice Garrett sitting on the ground, in the little alcove that leads to the science labs. There’s a sandwich in one of his hands, while the other one holds our social studies textbook open in his lap.
“Mind your business, Ugly New Guy,” Taylor says to Garrett.
“Oh, so if I want in on your business, I gotta go follow your pathetic Instagram, then?” Garrett says. “No, thanks.”
“I don’t have time to be talking to losers,” she says. “Bye.”
Taylor walks on and rejoins her friends.
“Don’t you dare start calling me Kunkel’s Cankles instead of Bertha,” I tell Garrett, a finger aimed at him in warning.
“Bertha?” he says, with a look I could almost believe was genuine confusion. Then he laughs. “Oh, right. You’ve got a good memory, huh, B?”
“Whatever, Garrett.”
“You can’t honestly think I’m like her. Maybe a little before, but not now. That girl is a witch. She probably eats babies for breakfast, am I right?”
I almost let out a laugh. Almost.
Instead, I turn around and walk away.
It would be so much easier if Garrett would just go back to being evil, because this current version of him is unsettling. He’s got me wondering if he was ever as awful as I remember him being. I don’t know how to be around a deactivated bully.
Seventeen
Saturday comes quickly, and I’m nervous, as though this were a blind date. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself this is nothing to get so wound up over, I still feel the somersaults of anticipation and excitement deep in my belly. To be honest, I’m still holding on to the idea that the Alex I envisioned will be the one standing in Crestonvale Square when I get there.
I can’t figure out why I’m still running straight for disappointment, but here we are.
Crestonvale Square is a place where restaurants and entertainment spots are arranged around a large movie theater, the kind with dozens of rooms and with big recliner seats. There are walkways that connect each spot to the next, neon light shows on the sidewalk, and music that plays over speakers erected along the paths. Everyone comes here, even in the dead of winter, when the huge fountain in the middle of the square turns into a skating rink.
I stand by the metal fence that surrounds the dessert place’s patio. It’s four in the afternoon, which means I’ve got three hours before having to be at Rianne’s. My phone shows no alerts. The anxiety is like a little ball of nausea swinging up and down from my heart to my belly. I become convinced that if I try to talk, I’ll be out of breath. I’ll be the fat girl who’s gasping for air while standing perfectly still.
A cautious gaze around me reveals the sprinkling of people walking in groups, alone, or hand in hand. The rink is mostly children skating with their parents, and beyond it are the steps to the majestic theater entrance. I’ve always dreamed of coming here for a date.
“Think it’s weird we never talked on the phone first?” a voice says from beside me.
It’s her, leaned up casually against the same barrier my butt’s touching.
“Oh my god,” I say, taking her in, and then I have to look away.
“What?”
“I looked at the yearbook.”
“Oh.” She lets out a little laugh. “Yeah, that would be the old me.”
No one who looks like Alex has ever been right here, in front of me, in real life. They’ve only ever been on TV, on Instagram or TikTok.
Alex is almost as tall as I am—or she would be if I wasn’t wearing my heeled ankle boots. She’s thin, wearing ripped jeans and a white button-down shirt that peeks out from underneath a dark gray winter trench coat. Her short hair is dyed blond, but the black roots are very noticeable, in a stylish way. It’s brushed in all directions, looking perfectly tousled. Her eyes and her piercings are stunning. There’s silver everywhere, but no makeup in sight.
“Your voice . . . ,” I hear myself say.
“My voice what?”
“It’s exactly the way I imagined it.”
She tips her head to the side, looking at me with curiosity. “How so?”
“Well, I mean, obviously I had given you a guy’s voice, on account of the misgendering mishap, so I spent all week making it less masculine in my head, but I just couldn’t make it super high-pitched either. I had to work within this narrow framework or else the vision of you I’d created would’ve crumbled. And then I saw the yearbook today, and it crumbled. But now . . . it’s uncrumbling.” I am rambling and my cheeks are burning. I hold my hand out. “Hello, I’m Baylee and I overthink everything.”
She takes my hand and shakes it slowly. “Sounds like you’ve had a rough week, reinventing me and all.”
I shrug. “It gave me something to do.”
She continues holding my hand, slowing the shake down. Then she looks down at my feet. “Those are some serious shoes.”
“Thank you,” I say, letting go of her hand. “Wait—was that a compliment? Are they ridiculous?”
“They’re very much not ridiculous.”
I look at her feet, at the beat-up, lace-up suede boots that kind of look like winter sneakers. She notices and goes, “No, don’t look at my footwear! There’s probably dog shit on them, but I had no choice but to wear ’em.”
“Why?”
“They’re the only pair I have at the moment. I have to go shopping, which is a thing I dislike doing so much.” Alex nods, and then her face changes to reveal confusion. “Did I just tell you there’s shit on my shoes?”
“You did.”
“Wow. All right.” She extends her hand again and I take it. “Hi, I’m Alex, and I ramble when I’m nervous.”
“Me too!”
She laughs, but all I do is smile. The kind of smile that pulls my ears back and makes my eyes water a little. She’s still holding my hand, and oh god—here I go. If I had any doubts before, they’re gone.
This crush has smacked me right in the face, and I don’t feel steady on these heels right now.
Out of nowhere, two strangers walk over like they know us.
“Hi, people,” a girl says, smiling wide.
She’s a curvy blonde who instantly makes me remember who I am. Anytime I sense that I’ve finally gotten a hold on myself and that I feel completely okay with the fact that it’s me who is standing in a moment, starring in my own life and totally deserving of the spotlight, some other girl who is amazing in all the ways I am not, who looks the way I wish I could, has to walk over and remind me that the feeling I have doesn’t belong to me.
Just like that, I lose the glittery vibe and take a step away from Alex.
“Hello,” I manage, assessing this girl’s outfit. The jacket made of leather or faux equivalent, slashed with silver zippers, is something they’d never make in my size. It’s totally not appropriate for this weather, but I appreciate the choosing of fashion over comfort, as my feet freeze in these heeled boots. Her hair is wild, her makeup heavy, and on her feet are studded pointy suede boots. She has the edge I’ve been wanting to add to my look, except it’s effortless on her. More importantly, it’s available to her.
Next to her is someone with a masculine look that I refuse to assign a gender to on account of how much doing that very thing screwed things up between Alex and me. They’re in baggy jeans and a puffy black winter jacket, and their only accessory that I can see is a chunky silver chain.
“How’s everything going?” the blonde says to no one in particular.
Alex sighs. “Baylee, these are my friends. This is Blake, and that’s Pen.”
“Hi,” I say to the short-haired person, and even though I’m pretty sure she’s a girl, because Alex told me her best friend Pen is a girl, I’m still scared to come off like an ignorant turd, so I say, “Alex told me about you. She, her?”
Pen stares at me with a dead look. “She-her what?”
“Stop it,” Alex says, smacking Pen’s arm. “She’s asking your pronouns. Don’t be an ass-bag.”
“She, her, but hold the bows and high heels,” Pen says.
“It’s a long story,” Blake says to me, flashing me a friendly smile. “It could maybe be a book, even. Anyway, it’s righteous to meet you, Baylee. Alex has told us all about you.”
“Really?” I resist taking a glance at Alex, but inside I’m butterflies. “You’re really pretty. Your whole look is so on point.”
“Oh wow—thanks so much. Well, your shoes win everything, by the way. And I totally love your eyebrows. What do you use?” She inspects my face closer. “I’ve been dying to ask since Alex showed me your picture. They even look really good up close.”
I reach into my purse, grab hold of the cream filler and micro-felted-tip brow pen, and hand them to her. “I fill my brows in, then I define them and add hair with the pen. Oh—then I brush them in place with a clear gel. It’s a little pricey, but it’s so worth it.”
She pulls her phone out to take a photo of the products. “Drugstore? Sephora?”
“Either,” I say.
Blake turns to Pen and says, “Can we go real quick? There’s a Shoppers two blocks away!”
