driving home drunk on Wilmington Ave, she’ll find a way to put me right back into my proper place.
The politics of high school don’t just stop because some unlucky bastard lies six feet underground. No. The game continues. It’s just the rules that change.
But I’ll win the war before she even knows there is a war going on.
I see her glance up at me from underneath her bangs. She sips on a straw , leaning her cheek on her hand, her elbow resting on the lunchroom table. Her JCrew top fits tight against her chest.
Yes, I notice.
She takes a long pull on her straw.
I can’t help but swallow.
She tilts her head. She’s taking me in. She’s designing her attack.
But I’ll make the first move.
I push my chair out from the table and head toward the trashcan. I throw my trash away and head out of the lunchroom without a second glance. I have laid the trap. I wait in the hallway outside of the cafeteria. I pretend to look at the newly posted flyers on the dangers of teenage drinking.
Right on cue.
Georgina rushes out of the cafeteria, almost colliding with me. Her shoulder brushes against mine and my skin tingles. She takes a step away from me, pulling down her shirt, which has ridden up seductively in her haste. Surprise passes over her face.
She thought she would have to chase after me.
“You left this,” she replies, holding up my Physics textbook.
“Thanks,” I mumble, tearing my eyes from her and turning my attention back to the flyer.
She sighs. “I’m so sorry, Edward.”
“Ed.” Only Brett is allowed to call me Edward. And it’s been forever since she has. Once we had a long conversation about her distaste for nicknames. She told me that I was named Edward, and it was a discredit to any name when someone took it upon himself or herself to shorten it. I remember making some comment about her reading too many hippie lovin’, down-with-the-state, protect-your-identity, 1984- ish books. She has called me Ed ever since.
Georgina clears her throat. I have missed whatever she has said. Lucky for me, I have an excuse —uncontrollable, undeniable grief.
Thank you, Tristan!
She points to the poster. “I know we aren’t friends, Ed, but if you want to talk sometime…”
“What do you care?” I snap. The angry, introverted, mourning man is just the sort of brooding male girls go crazy for. Of course, I guess I am angry. And introverted. But I can’t mourn someone who left on his own terms. And I know that’s how it was.
It’s no different than when a celebrity dies. Like the almighty King of Pop. The same people who were calling him a child molester years ago were crying and lamenting him the minute he died. They used to call his kids freaks, and yet they clung to the idea of them during the memorial. I am one of the closest people to Tristan and his death, and that makes me a hot commodity.
People love others’ misfortunes, and Georgina wants a front row seat.
“Everybody liked Tristan, you know. He was great. Maybe I haven’t been the nicest person to you. I know I haven’t. But it shouldn’t surprise you when I say I feel his loss too. As a Christian, I offer you someone to talk to if you need it.”
Wow. People really use the Christian line. I wouldn’t have a problem with it if I thought for once second she meant it. I’m all about a higher power if that’s what gets you through the day. I almost believe her when she says it too. She oozes earnesty. She’s had a lot of practice.
I think back to the copy of The Outsiders that Tristan gave me, and I remember the night he was referencing in his note. I also remember what part Georgina Fritz played in that night, and I remember she’s a snake.
My eyes find the floor. I bite the inside of my cheek and begin to rock back and forth. She moves closer to me. “Want to get out of here? I can get us some passes.”
Georgina has made it a point to volunteer as a student aide after school every year since freshman year. The girl