“I know about your hookup.”
Hookup sounded so wrong coming from her mouth; she could have flashed me, and I would have been less shocked. My throat tightened as I thought about Luke—even though a forced kiss didn’t qualify as a hookup in my mind.
“Mrs. Fiore, I didn’t hook up with anyone,” I said.
She leaned back again. “Wren, I have several people who told me otherwise.”
“Several people? That’s insane.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So you weren’t next to the boy in question on the bus? Or in the group photo? The same boy who was in a fight with your friend?”
I gripped the edge of my seat, grasping for some way to explain without spilling my guts. “It’s not like it sounds. He kissed me.”
“Are you saying this wasn’t . . . consensual?”
Luke was a shit, but I wasn’t about to make that big a deal out of it.
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
The tone of her voice got under my skin; it was the same tone she used for her no-Harvard comment to my Honors Lit class, like she knew better than me. “I’m saying it’s none of your business. Why are you even hassling me about it?”
“Yes, it is my business.”
“Who told you about this? Ava?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Yes, it does,” I said, standing up. “You’re accusing me of something that didn’t happen, so what you’re really saying is that you believe her over me.”
She stood up. “But something did happen,” she said, jabbing the top of her desk with her index finger. “You just admitted it. If this is how you carry yourself outside school, that’s your business—but you were on my time. That’s the real issue. And I take our commitment to Saint Lucy’s seriously.”
“Seriously? Really? You think making a wreath out of pompoms was fun for those people? News flash: That stops being fun after preschool. There’s nothing better we can do with our time there?”
“Sit down, Miss Caswell.”
My heart raced as I caved and dropped down into the chair. I’d never raised my voice to a teacher before.
“I could easily give you a detention over this,” she said, still standing. “But I won’t. Just a warning.” She sat down and looked at me, waiting. This was the most in-depth “gettin’ real” conversation I’d ever had with Mrs. Fiore. If there was any time to speak my mind, it was in that moment.
“Why don’t you think any of us are going to Harvard?”
She flustered. “I didn’t mean it the way you’re implying.”
“Well, it sounded pretty clear. I don’t want to be told what I can’t do before I even start trying.”
She ran her fingers across her lips, then rested her chin in her hand. “The truth is that the majority of you won’t go to an Ivy League school, and that’s fine. There are so many options out there. Different paths. It’s my job to let you know what choices you have, help you find your way. Although I don’t think your best path would be making the Vatican out of toothpicks.”
I laughed. “I wasn’t serious about that.”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. Was she joking with me?
“I know. You do sound passionate about Saint Lucy’s though. You really thought the craft was—”
“Lame.”
“What would you have done instead?”
What got to me the most was how forgotten the residents seemed to be.
“I don’t know, some of them just seemed happy talking, but maybe we could connect them with their families. Write letters. Help them make phone calls or something.”
“The Spirit Club makes monthly visits to Saint Lucy’s. These are voluntary, so you can imagine the turnout. A lot of the students who visit there just do it for the service hours. You have some interesting ideas, Wren. Maybe you could—”
“I’d like that. A lot better than decorating the hallway too.”
The bell for second period rang, and a flurry of activity—doors opening, footfalls, chatter—went on outside the door. Mrs. Fiore grabbed a pink pad. She signed the top sheet with a flourish, peeled it off, and handed it to me. It was a note letting my second-period teacher know why I was late. I grabbed my books and stood up, ready to leave.
“Wren, wait,” she said. “Thanks for commenting on my speech. I never realized . . . how that might have sounded. Nice to know someone was listening.”
Was I actually having a friendly conversation with Mrs. Fiore? I wasn’t overthinking or worrying about what I said before I said it. We may not be giving each other mani-pedis anytime soon, but it was a start.
“Thanks for not giving me detention, Mrs. Fiore.”
The hallway was mostly empty. A few stragglers scurried as the warning bell for second period sounded. The good feelings from my momentary victory with Mrs. Fiore faded. This incident had Ava written all over it. But why wouldn’t she just confront me? I wondered what Luke had told her about what she saw—probably twisting it around to where I forced myself on him. I wondered if some holier-than-thou guidance counselor was torturing Luke for his behavior. Probably not.
I sat through my next two classes, barely absorbing the lessons, hoping for the opportunity to question Ava before Honors Lit began, but she slipped into her seat as the bell rang, not even a glance in my direction. At lunch I stormed into the cafeteria on a mission, barely dropping my books with Mads and Jazz.
“Wren?” Mads called after me.
Ava, flanked by her usual posse of worshippers, was placing a supermarket bento box of sushi on the table as I approached. Darby Greene tapped her shoulder and whispered something. An uncomfortable couple of seconds passed where no one seemed to think it was necessary to acknowledge my presence. Ava finally looked up as she slipped the chopsticks out of their red wrapper. Her eyes zeroed in on the blue streaks in my hair.
“Nice hair. What, did you do a Smurf over the weekend?”
Oh, how I wanted to smash a California roll up her nose. Darby raised her eyebrows and took a slow sip of her Diet Coke, daring me to strike back at Ava. Jazz and Mads were suddenly next to me. Their support fueled my fire.
“No, I did Luke Dobson,” I said, letting his name roll slowly off my tongue. “And you know, you’re right, he can do some pretty amazing things with his mouth.”
Jazz gasped. Ava froze, chopsticks poised.
“Nice one,” Mads whispered.
“So can we talk now?” I asked.
Ava tossed the chopsticks on the table. She stood up with such force, the green plastic caf chair fell behind her, startling a girl at the next table, who hopped up when it hit the floor.
“Let’s go.” She barreled past me.
I followed Ava as she pushed through the swinging doors into the empty locker bay next to the caf. The deep bellow of someone practicing tuba echoed from the music room. Ava faced me, her eyes sharp.
“So, what?” she asked.
“Why did you tell Fiore I hooked up with Luke?”
She crossed her arms and stared at me, not giving an inch.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t do it. You were the one who walked in on us in the kitchen.”
Her nostrils flared, her eyes calculating and cold. “Us? There is no ‘us’ when it comes to you and Luke. If you think for one minute he enjoyed that . . . pathetic.”
“Didn’t feel that way when he kissed me.”
She nibbled her bottom lip fiercely. I stood firm, hands on hips, waiting for a response. We held each other’s glare, neither daring to blink. Finally Ava grunted a smug-sounding humph.
“Wren, I’m sure you’ve enjoyed your tour of A-listdom, but it’s over. So just drop it and go back to your nonexistent, sad, little social life.”