chapter seven

omg by jackie hayes

"Jessica Stanley? Jessica fucking Stanley is valedictorian?"

Wes is tapping his pencil against his desk and giving me a passive, whaddya gonna do, type shrug. "She got a better grade in AP lit than you did," he says, like that fact is casual and something I should accept. And I get all riled up over it.

"A better grade? My essays were ten times better than hers, my test scores were better and I participated in class way more than she did." I scoff, trying to blink away bitter, jealous tears. What a joke. "The only reason she got a better grade is because she did a bunch of extra credit assignments that I didn't need to do, and didn't have time to do because I was too busy with all the extra curriculars she doesn't have. You see Jessica Stanley writing, producing, and directing a movie? No, no fucking way!"

And Wes opens his mouth to say something else but I don't want him to say anything because whatever it is will just make me feel worse. Because I'm not valedictorian and I can't drive and I can't write songs or keep my boyfriend happy and all I can hear, rattling around in my head are the words not fucking you. "This is because the fucking administration staff has it out for me," I rush past him, squirming at my desk and thinking about how it really should've been me.

It's raining out. One of those heavy, loud rains that pound against roofs and windows like it's demanding entry, desperate to be let in. Fat droplets slam against the wide windows so loudly it's hard to hear anything else, impossible to ignore. One of those imposing rains that make it dark all day, like the sun never rose and never will. It puts me on edge, and all I can think of is who I'm supposed to get a ride from if it doesn't stop. "You need a fucking break, Tate," Wes casually observed, slouched, pencil still tapping but the noise drowned out by the rain.

"This summer," I tell him. Me and Wes have been fantasizing about the summer after our senior year since we were twelve. Beach trips, weekly parties, days in Seattle, a week-long trip to California. And with every blow to my ego, I'm thinking about it more and more. Planning, organizing, saving; delicate and subtle research on where one can hypothetically maybe potentially get a fake ID. And with the rain hammering on in the background, the summer is suddenly all I can think of.

And then the blows keep coming.

A seventy-three on my trig test, a eighty-two on my decolonization essay that left my eyes bloodshot and hands shaking from caffeine consumption, and, worst of all, a text from Mooney saying that, sorry, she's sick, the flu, and she doesn't know when she can film again. Sorry.

It doesn't stop raining. I'm standing by the door, under the shelter of the roof while people scatter from the back doors to their cars, books held up over their heads, hoods drawn in tightly and slight squeals as they get pelted by rain. I'm mall grabbing my board like a goddamn twelve year old, holding it against my leg and thinking that maybe Wes hasn't left yet and I can text him but I haven't seen him come through the door and I can't find his car in the lot anywhere and Parker's still not talking to me and Mooney's out sick and then, Bella Swan is tapping on my shoulder. She's got her big tan jacket on, it's swallowing her up and she looks pathetically sheepish in it. "Need a ride?" she asks, timid and unsure like she knows I have a right to be mad at her but doesn't know if I am, because I've never been mad at her before. She's never seen me mad, seriously mad, at anyone but my dumbass brother.

But, I am mad. I'm really mad at Bella. Because she bailed. She bailed on me the other night, she bailed on me when she started dating Edward, and she bailed on me when she started hanging out with Jake and I think that I am just a placeholder friend used to keep her father at bay and I do not appreciate being used. "No thanks," I tell her, thinking that maybe I might sound passive aggressive but no, I just sound polite. And I was gonna wait around to see if Wes came out but now I have to make a point so I jump off the steps and my board's on the ground and in the three seconds it takes me to kick off, I'm drenched.

The ride home is brutal. My jacket is soaked and so is my shirt and my jeans and my socks and everything and I'm shaking like a fucking leaf so I have to go slower than I normally do. Cars keep passing me. Some are nice and they avoid puddles but others couldn't give a shit and they plow right through them, drenching me in the frigid rainwater that splatters under their tires. And I think I'm gonna get sick like Mooney is and then everything will be really fucked.

And while I'm riding, hugging the sidewalk and swerving wildly to avoid puddles in a useless attempt to stay less wet, a truck pulls up beside me. It slows to my speed, and I turn my head to see the window rolling down. I scowl, and Paul what's-his-name is smiling at me like a goddamn maniac. "Need a ride?" he yells over the rain. He seems giddy.

The rain is hitting me in the eyes and I can barely see. "No," I yell back, kicking off the ground and stepping in a deep puddle. I play it off like it didn't happen but my socks are soaked and squishing under my toes.

"C'mon, Tatum, it's pouring. You're gonna get sick," he insists, like he cares.

I don't like Paul. I don't. And I felt that way the second I met him, or the second after, and it's just been getting worse since then. He pisses me off and I don't know why because technically he's really not even doing anything wrong but it's making my skin crawl. "I'm good," I yell back.

He doesn't speed up and peel off like I keep thinking he will. He's just maintaining that same speed while cars pass him and honk. "I'm not stopping until you get in the car. It's not safe to be out in this weather."

And I have this brilliant retort locked and loaded, but when I turn my head to snap it at him, something gets stuck under my board, and with the wet wheels and wet shoes and wet everything, it flings me forward and I land face first on the pavement.

The truck comes to an abrupt stop, and while I'm pushing myself up off the ground and cursing, Paul's opening the door and he's holding up my board for me and I decide, yeah, alright fine. Whatever.

His truck's warm. And he fishes out a sweatshirt from the backseat that he thrusts into my lap and he's insisting that he really wants me to wear it so I don't get sick. And I'm really fucking cold, so I peel off my comically wet jacket and throw his sweatshirt on over my t-shirt and suddenly I'm impossibly warm. I give him a reluctant, "Thanks."

"You should be more careful with that thing," he says of my new and already worn down board that's currently sitting in his backseat. He's teasing, like we're friends. "I've already seen you fall off it twice."

Another blow. "I'm actually really good at skateboarding" I insist, voice flooded with stubborn pride. "Both times were your fault."

I'm looking straight ahead, pointedly so, but I can still see when he turns his head to look at me. Once, then back at the road for a safety check, back to me again, and then back at the road. "Sorry," he says. I think he's grinning. He really doesn't sound sorry.

"Hmm."

I don't know what about my crossed arms and forced frown that's giving this kid any indication that I want to talk to him, but he keeps going. "So your boyfriend seems really cool."

And I'm embarrassed. Cheeks flushed and gaze averted. Because on the surface there's nothing wrong with what he said, but it hits me wrong. I don't know if he meant it to but I think he did and I feel like his judgment of Parker is a judgement of me and all the sudden it's like I have to defend my relationship. I don't say anything because I'm afraid of what I might say. I hope my silence will make him change the subject.

It doesn't.

"So how'd you guys meet? Hmm? Was it at the arthouse horror fan club meetup? I mean, I know a Robert Eggers fan when I see one."

I ball my fists up. He's right. Parker loves Robert Eggers. "Are you done?" I ask, annoyed, frustrated.

Paul just shrugs. Causal, relaxed. And I can't keep track of him and when he looks at me with that stupid and annoyingly-handsome grin all I can think about is the look of absolute loathing in his eyes when we first met. "Just asking a question."

"Sure."

I'm all mixed up. Mad and frustrated and embarrassed and for whatever reason I keep imagining what I must've looked like when I ate shit right in front of him. It's a lot, a lot of feeling, right up on the surface where I don't want it to be. I'm blushing and fidgeting and keeping my gaze rock solid. I don't want to give anything up.

Paul drives slow but even at his painstakingly careful pace we're at my house in less than ten minutes. He pulls up in the driveway and, to my absolute fucking horror, get gets out, like he's about to rush out and open the door for me. I scramble to get my seatbelt off and push the door open and I'm sliding out of the door when he reaches me. Paul chuckles, like there's something funny, and before I can slam his door he's reaching around me, going for my board in the backseat. But he's leaning into me, his arm over my head and his chest to my face and I have to lean up against his truck to avoid physical contact and I get all wrapped up in his scent for a second because he smells really fucking good and before I can clear my head he's upright again, offering my board up. "You should call me the next time you need a ride," he offers, smile never falling.

"Sure," I tell him, but don't mean it, and when I push past him to go inside, I hope it's the last time I see him.

Parker's sitting on my bed. His knees are touching mine and he's holding my hands in his, drawing circles on the side of my thumb. "I just don't get this whole jealousy thing of yours," I say, voice pouty and soft and eyes drifting. I'm looking at his dirtied Converse hanging off my bed and the pocket of his shirt and everything but him. And while I'm doing everything I can to avoid his eyes he's burning a goddamn hole in my skull with them. "Like, if you really trusted me, it wouldn't be an issue. You'd know nothing would happen."

His shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. "But I mean, it makes me uncomfortable, Tate. You don't even realize it but you're really popular, and attractive, and you have a lot of guy friends. And I don't know, like, half of them."

"But why does it matter if I have non-female friends? Like, if you trust me then you know that I'm not gonna do anything. And I guess that's my issue cause like, I haven't done anything to make you not trust me."

"Well, I don't know them, I don't trust them," he lists off, like it's obvious and I'm being dense. "And it makes me kinda suspicious when you hang out when random dudes I've never even heard of and then act like you don't care when it makes me uncomfortable," he concludes, like he's wrapping up a grand monologue, but wait, there's more. "Like, when you hang out with Quil. You know Quil openly flirts with you all the time and you don't even care."

My arms go up, defensive. "Why would I care? He's joking, it's a bit."

"Because you shouldn't want other guys to flirt with you! And I don't get how you don't realize how I wouldn't like that."

I deflate, knotting my fingers together. "Well, I mean, I get it, but I don't like it when you tell me what to do, who to hang out with." I pause. "Like, if I wanna hang out with Quil, I should be allowed to. We've been friends since we were kids. He's my brother's best friend."

Parker reaches over and tangles his fingers in my hair. It used to be a gesture I love but it doesn't do anything for me now. "Of course you can do whatever you want, Tatum. You're a free person. But I just want you to be considerate of us and our relationship, when you do it."

I'm biting down on my lip and I feel like I'm in time out. "What if I just like-what if I just, communicate better about it. And like, let you know if I'm gonna be hanging out with Quil or someone. So you don't feel like I'm hiding something from you."

I feel gross about what I say and it makes me shudder but Parker smiles, leans in and kisses my forehead. "That seems like a good compromise."

I don't tell him about my ride home. For whatever reason.

Me and Wes are making lemonade out of lemons.

Mooney's really sick. Like, really fucking sick. Me and Wes stopped at her place with some homemade chicken soup and a little get well soon card, because we're good friends, and her mom didn't even want us to come in. Because I guess Moon's just puking and sleeping and waking up to puke again. But she appreciates the soup, so says her mother.

And in this lost time, Wes has been editing the footage with do have, with me over his shoulder like a hawk, a judgmental, creatively critical hawk. Everytime sending a quick, working on the film with Wes text to Parker. When I'd get a thanks for letting me know text back, I'd feel sticky inside. And after we plowed through that in about a week, I decided that hey, we need some goddamn establishing shots.

So we're sitting on the side of the road along First Beach, camera set up on Wes's newly acquired tripod, getting footage of cars passing by. We've already got the nature shots, the rolling waves and the clouds through the trees and all that. And after we're done here, we gotta go all the way back to the high school and get some real classy building shots.

It's boring as hell, being a director with no one to direct. Bossing Wes around can only be so fun for so long.

I'm leaning against a rock in the parking lot, watching as Wes adjusts his camera while a busted up hatchback rolls on by. "Forest thinks we should write the soundtrack for our film," he shouts back to me, stepping away from his equipment when he's satisfied.

I kick my feet against the rock and let out a laugh. "Yeah fucking right. We'll be lucky if we can write one song by the time this thing comes out."

Wes grins, taking a seat in a rock next to mine. "Griffin actually has a couple of good songs in the works, but he's kinda stuck. Tryna convince him to bring to practice so he can get some fresh eyes on them. We're on a maybe right now."

A few pass cars by. Some are slow, staring at us and the camera as they pass. Some people ask what we're doing. Some drive past so quickly the camera rattles in its place. Whenever they do, Wes shoots up and rushes over there, stabilizing it and yelling curses at the cars.

And while we're sitting there, I think about Paul. It's gross that I do, but I've been doing it a lot, lately. When I start to lose control of my thoughts they end up drifting back towards him, for whatever reason. I guess I'm trying to make up some reason for the things he says and the things he does but I can't settle on one that makes sense and while I'm sitting there letting my thoughts of him consume me, I think I see something. Something across the street, tucked behind trees. Something big and hidden and when the leaves rustle, I straight up. "What's up Tate?" Wes asks, but I'm staring, hard, waiting for something. A sign. A movement. A flash or something, but there isn't anything.

"Nothing," I tell him with a shrug.

"Oh my god, Jessica! Congratulations!"

I'm hugging Jessica Stanley, tightly, matching the high pitched squealing noises she's making. "Oh my god, I totally thought you were gonna get it!" she says into my ear, twisting the knife in my side and I pull back from her hug. "Because I totally only got my grades from all the extra credit work I did and you are like, way smarter than me," she giggles, self-conscious.

I give her a bright smile. "No, you absolutely deserve it. You worked so hard!"

And I'm aware that I'm the fakest bitch on the planet, but what the hell else am I supposed to do? Tell her that no, Jessica, actually you don't deserve it. I do. And yeah, I am smarter than you. No. So I just smile and hug her and tell her what a good job she did because this is an Honors Society dinner and I'm wear a nice pants with a very cool and vintage blazer so I'm going to act like a good person.

My dad and Embry and Parker are sitting at a cafeteria table together, looking impossibly disjointed, while I mingle around with people that I don't really talk to and never hang out with. I keep looking back over there to make sure that my dumbass brother isn't being a dumbass and am consistently satisfied to see that his mouth is shut. Sometimes Embry will catch my eye, and give me a sour, twisted up face in clear disapproval of the fact that he has to be here.

Like I'm the one who made him come.

It takes about another four oh my god, how are you!'s before I can retire to my table and slump. Parker takes my hand under the table. "You look like you're running for mayor out there, Tate." Embry mocks, and then straightens out his back and puts on a high-pitched voice, "Oh my god no, I'm totally not jealous that you're valedictorian. No, I do not want to stab you at all. Don't even worry."

Parker snickers beside me while my father lightly hits the side of his head. "Be nice. Your sibling earned this night. Maybe you could learn something from them."

Yeah, I really earned this night. Four years of no sleep, late night studying and essays that were barely under the maximum limit just to be sitting at a table with a plastic lining, not going to any of the colleges I want to go to. Yeah, it's a really savor-the-moment type deal. And I don't want to be bitter but holy shit it's kind of ridiculous how little my work has paid off, how few of my goals I've actually met. At least my father has the decency to be proud of me, or at least, he's acting like it.

Parker leans into my side and says, "I'm really proud of you, Tate," and it makes me feel warm and for a moment I want to take him away from this table and kiss him outside where my father can't see.

And then Embry has to say something. "You know, Paul really wanted to come."

The words make me flinch, and Parker grips onto my hand a little bit tighter at the mention of another guy's name. "Why the hell would Paul wanna come?"

Embry shrug, like the answer is easy and thoughtless. "Because you guys are friends."

"We're not friends," I shoot back, now drawing circles on the palm of Parker's hand and ignoring the way he's starting at me.

"Paul thinks your friends," Embry replies, slouched in his chair that already looks too small for him. And my brother has never been this annoying before so I don't really know what's gotten into him but it's really pissing me off and there's one person in particular I think to blame for it.

"Well, Paul is wrong," I insist. "If you could kindly let him know."

My brother's scoffs. "I'm not gonna tell him that."

"Why?"

And then he straightens up, leaning against the table and starting me down. "Because I think you're being mean to him for no reason. You should just give him a chance. I think you guys could be friends. Good friends."

There's a palpable tension at the table. Me and Embry glaring at each other, Parker gulping at my side like he'd rather be anywhere else. And I think about dumping the punch bowl on Embry's head for ruining my special night by bringing up the one person I didn't want to think about. I think he's being selfish and moody and stupid and for a minute, I hate him again.

From in between us, my father raises a hand. "Oh look. I think they're serving the ice cream cake now."