“Okay, well.” Her other hand rests on her stomach over the blankets, and I watch it rise and fall with each breath. “So, who else did you tell?”
“My family,” I say. “I mean, Nora saw the Tumblr, so then I had to.”
“Right, but I mean, who else other than Abby?”
“No one,” I say. But then I close my eyes and think about Blue.
“Then how did it end up on the Tumblr?” she asks.
“Oh, right.” I grimace. “Long story,” I say, opening my eyes again.
She angles her head toward me, but doesn’t reply. I can feel her watching me.
“I think I’m about to fall asleep,” I say.
But I’m not. And I don’t. Not for hours and hours.
22
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Jan 1 at 1:19 PM
SUBJECT: Re: auld lang syne
Jacques,
Poor zombie. Hope you’re already sleeping again as I type this. The good news is that there are still four days left of vacation, which should clearly be devoted exclusively to sleeping and writing to me.
I missed you last night. The party thing was fine. It was at my stepmother’s grandmother’s house, and she’s about ninety years old, so we were back home in front of the TV by nine. Oh, and Mr. Sexual Awakening was there. His wife is extremely pregnant. She and my stepmom were comparing ultrasound photos of their fetuses at dinner. Our Little Fetus looks like your basic cute little alien with a big head and tiny limbs. You can actually see his or her nose, so that was kind of cool. But, unfortunately, Mr. Sexual Awakening’s wife had a 3D ultrasound picture. All I can say, Jacques, is that there are some things you can’t un-see.
Any plans until school starts again?
Love,
Blue
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Jan 1 at 5:31 PM
SUBJECT: Re: auld lang syne
Zombie is right. I’m a freaking mess. We just got back from Target, and I actually fell asleep in the car on the way home. Which, thankfully, my mom was the one driving. But you have to understand that Target is like five minutes away from my house. How weird is that? So now I feel kind of strange and groggy and disoriented, and I think my parents are going to want to do dinner tonight As a Family.
Ugh.
Sorry to hear about the trauma of the 3D ultrasound, from which you so kindly tried to spare me the details. Unfortunately, I’m a freaking idiot with very little self-control when it comes to Google Images. So now it’s forever seared into my memory as well. Oh, the miracle of life. You may also want to look up “reborn dolls.” Seriously, go do it.
Nothing much going on here this weekend, other than the fact that every freaking thing in the universe reminds me of you. Target is full of you. Did you know they make these big massive Sharpies called Super Sharpies? And then there’s superglue, obviously. It’s like an office supply Justice League. I seriously came this close to buying them, just so I could text you pictures of their crime-fighting selves. I would have made capes for them and everything. Except SOMEONE still doesn’t want to exchange numbers.
Love,
Jacques
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Jan 2 at 10:13 AM
SUBJECT: Reborn
I think you’ve rendered me speechless. I just read the Wikipedia article, and I’m looking through pictures now. I kind of can’t stop looking at them. You might have found the creepiest thing on the entire internet, Jacques.
And I seriously laughed out loud at your crime-fighting office supply Justice League. I wish I could have seen them. But about the texting thing—all I can say is that I’m really sorry. The idea of exchanging phone numbers just terrifies me. It does. It’s just the idea that you could call me and hear my voice mail message and KNOW. I don’t know what to say, Jacques. I’m just not ready for you to know who I am. I know it’s stupid, and honestly, at this point, I spend about half my waking hours imagining us meeting in person for the first time. But I can’t think of a way for that to happen without everything changing. I think I’m scared to lose you.
Does that make sense? Don’t hate me.
Love,
Blue
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Jan 2 at 12:25 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Reborn
I guess I’m trying to understand where you’re coming from with the texting thing. You have to trust me! Yes, I’m nosy, but I’m not going to call you if you’re not comfortable with it. I don’t mean for this to be a big deal. And I don’t want to stop emailing. I just also want to be able to text you like a normal person.
And YES, I want to meet in person. And obviously that would change things—but I think I’m kind of ready for them to change. So maybe this is a big deal. I don’t know. I want to know your friends’ names and what you do after school and all the things you haven’t been telling me. I want to know what your voice sounds like.
Not until you’re ready, though. And I could never hate you. You’re not going to lose me. Just think about it. Okay?
Love,
Jacques
23
IT’S THE FIRST DAY BACK at school, and I honestly consider spending the entire day in the parking lot. I can’t explain it. I thought I would be fine. But now that I’m here, I can’t seem to get out of the car. I feel a little sick just thinking about it.
Nora says, “I really don’t think anyone is going to remember.”
I shrug.
“It was on there for, what, three days? And that was over a week ago.”
“Four days,” I say.
“I don’t even think people really read the Tumblr.”
We walk in through the atrium together just as the first bell is ringing. People are stampeding and pushing down the stairs. No one seems to pay any particular attention to me—and for all of Nora’s reassurances, I can see that she’s as relieved as I am. I move with the crowd, working my way toward my locker, and I think I’m finally starting to relax. A couple of people wave at me like normal. Garrett from my lunch table nods and says, “What’s up, Spier?”
I toss my backpack into my locker and pull out my books for English and French. No one has slid any homophobic notes into the slats of my locker, which is good. No one’s etched the word “fag” into my locker yet either, which is even better. I’m almost ready to believe that things have gotten a little better at Creekwood. Or that no one saw Martin’s Tumblr post after all.
Martin. God, I don’t even want to think about having to see his stupid evil face. And of course he’s in my first fucking period.
I guess there’s still this quiet pulse of dread when I think about seeing Martin again.
I’m trying to just breathe.
As I’m walking into the language arts wing, this football guy I hardly recognize almost runs directly into me coming down the stairs. I step back to steady myself, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me right in the eye.
“Why, hello there,” he says.
“Hi . . .”
Then he grabs me by the cheeks and pulls my face in like he’s going to kiss me. “Mwah!” He grins, and his face is so close I can feel the heat of his breath. And all around me, people laugh like fucking Elmo.
I yank my body away from him, cheeks burning. “Where are you going, Spier?” someone says. “McGregor wants a turn.” And everyone starts laughing again. I mean, I don’t even know these people. I don’t know why in God’s name this is funny to them.