When You Were Everything Page 5

  “Oh,” I said. I tossed a handful of the braids over my shoulder with a flourish. “Thanks.”

  I tried to get Layla’s attention, but she was still talking to Mason, who was touching the collar of her shirt.

  “I’ll meet you in Mr. Yoon’s class?” I said to Layla, hoping she’d take the hint and come with me, but she nodded kind of absently, not getting it. So I just straightened my glasses and headed to the stairwell alone.

  “I’ll walk with you,” Jase said. And before I could tell him, No, thank you, he was on the stairs above me hopping up them backward like an overgrown five-year-old.

  “How was the rest of your summer?” he asked me.

  “It was okay. I hung out at that new coffee shop by my building. Layla dragged me to some concerts. So, normal, I guess. How was yours?”

  Jase grinned, and his dimples were just as cute as I remembered.

  “Pretty okay,” he said. “My parents are riding me about balancing soccer and grades and keep threatening to make me quit the team.”

  I frowned. I knew how much Jase loved soccer. He shook his head. “Don’t look so concerned. It’s just typical Asian parent shit.” Then a little wrinkle creased his forehead. “But I guess I’ve…missed you?” he said. “Am I allowed to say that?”

  I paused on the stairs. I didn’t miss him, not like that.

  “Not like that,” he said quickly, reading my face again. “Not like let’s get back together.”

  “Good,” I said. “We broke up for the right reasons. And look, I know you’re only stuck with me right now because Mason is trying to hook up with Layla. I get it. You don’t have to lie or pretend you really want to hang out.”

  I started walking again, wishing Layla were there, wondering what it would be like when she started dating Mason for real (because it felt pretty inevitable). Would Jase and I have to have these awkward interactions all the time?

  “God, I suck at this,” Jase said. He reached for my hand and gently turned me around. We stepped to the side to let a herd of other students pass, and I was standing on a higher step than him, so we were eye to eye. “I’m not ‘pretending,’ Cleo. I’m just trying to say, you’re the kind of person who is obviously not there anymore when they’re not there, if that makes any sense. We used to talk every day, and it sucks that we don’t anymore. Is that so hard to believe?”

  I crossed my arms. “Kinda,” I said.

  “What I should have said is I want to be friends—real friends—because I liked you as a person long before you were my girl. Still do.”

  I smiled a little. “Really?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I guess I miss your big head, too,” I admitted. “Sometimes.”

  “Right, so. Can we really try to be friends? It’s gonna be a long three years if we don’t talk to each other at all. And from the looks of those two”—he gestured in the direction of where we’d left our friends behind—“we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  He grinned and I opened my arms. “Bring it in,” I said, and when he hugged me, he lifted me off my feet.

  * * *

  —

  After that, things got even weirder.

  I made it to homeroom a few minutes before Layla, and I was slipping off my backpack when she walked in. I was shocked beyond words to see Sloane Sorenson step into class right behind her.

  I’d saved a seat for Layla, right next to me. The only other empty desks were a few rows away, closer to the back, and for a second Layla actually looked a little torn, like she was considering sitting with Sloane instead of with me. But after Sloane shrugged and walked past me to find an empty seat, Layla came to take the chair next to mine.

  “I was hoping Sloane w-w-would b-be in our homeroom!” Layla said as soon as she sat down.

  “I didn’t even know she was a sophomore,” I said.

  Layla nodded. “Oh. I thought I t-t-told you. When she told me a c-couple of weeks ago, I was really ssssurprised too.”

  “A couple of weeks ago?” I asked, and Layla nodded more. “We t-text sometimes,” she said.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Sloane as Mr. Yoon started taking attendance and going through the morning announcements. Though they both have reddish hair, Sloane’s lighter-skinned than Valeria; taller too. But now that we were in a brightly lit classroom instead of in Valeria’s dimly lit living room, or on her rooftop in the dark, I could see it a bit around the lips, and in the slope of her forehead—a family resemblance. She turned toward me and kind of frowned, probably because I was staring at her like a freak.

  Just then the door of the class opened again. A boy with rich mahogany skin and a zigzag design buzzed into his short hair stepped inside. I instantly remembered Dom, but it was strange to see someone I thought I’d never see again in a place that guaranteed I’d be seeing him daily.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, and I’d forgotten that his voice was so low and heavy, like every word he said was a well-kept secret. “I’m a transfer and I went to like three other classrooms before I figured out this was the right one.”

  A few people giggled.

  “No problem,” Mr. Yoon said. He went over to the laptop on his desk. “What’s your name?”

  “Dominic Grey,” he said. “But I go by Dom.”

  I wonder how I didn’t notice that Dom was a sexy-ass name when we first met.

  I nudged Layla. “Do you remember him?” She was texting under her desk, and she had a half smile on her face. She looked up.

  “I d-don’t think so,” she whispered.

  “He was at Valeria’s party, in the summer. He did that magic trick when we were on the roof?” I whispered back.

  “Oh yeahhhh,” she said. “I w-w-wonder what he’s doing here.”

  “Transfer,” I said. “Didn’t you hear his heavenly voice?”

  Layla laughed.

  I watched Dom’s Jordan-clad feet as he walked down my aisle, and I was surprised when he paused right by my desk.

  “Cleo, right? Jase’s girl?”

  “You’re hilarious,” I said.

  “I know.” He smirked, and I scoffed. “I like your shoes,” he whispered before continuing past me. I looked down at my boots, then up again at the back of Dom’s long body. He was lifting the shoulder strap of his bag over his head, taking the seat right next to Sloane.

  From where I was sitting, I could see every detail of the design cut into his hair. It was different from that night on the roof, when it reminded me of Van Gogh’s starry sky. Today it looked like a hedge maze, one I wouldn’t have minded getting lost in.

  “I’m new here, too,” I heard Sloane say to him. I couldn’t hear what he said back, but Sloane laughed, then reached over and folded down the collar of his shirt, exposing the smooth, brown skin that stretched over the knobs of his collarbone. I bit my lip and turned back to Layla.

  “Who are you texting?” I asked her, because she normally would have been giving me crap by now about the way I was ogling the new boy. Plus, she usually only broke our school’s screenless policy to text me, and my phone had been silent all period.

  “I’m t-t-texting Sloane,” she said. She glanced up at me and wrinkled her nose. “She’s so funny.”

  I looked around the class, unsure of what planet I was on, where Jase wanted to be friends, Layla was texting someone who wasn’t me, Sloane was in our grade, and Dom was right here, sitting behind me in homeroom. I was relieved when Mr. Yoon started roll call. At least my name and my presence were things I could control—things I knew would always stay the same—even if everything around me was moving in directions that made no sense at all.

  THE STACKS, PART I

  Layla and I compared our schedules after homeroom and quickly realized that was the only class we h
ad together.

  “This sucks,” she said, pouting.

  She actually had a little tantrum in the middle of the hall, throwing her backpack and semishouting about the world being unfair until a teacher came out of a classroom and said, “Miss Hassan, what seems to be the problem?”

  When we parted ways, we hugged like we’d never see each other again, and I won’t lie, I felt a little weepy.

  Before she walked away I said, “Let’s meet in the school library after last period to do our homework.” She nodded and mouthed you over everyone before she walked away.

  On the other hand, in addition to homeroom, I had three classes with Dom: chemistry, geometry, and AP lit with Ms. Novak. When I stepped into English, Dom was already there, sitting in the front row, a book open on his desk.

  “Hey,” he said when I walked in, like we were old friends or something.

  “Hi,” I muttered, still a little annoyed about how different my and Layla’s schedules were.

  “What are you reading?” he asked me. I’d grabbed a seat in the row behind him, diagonal from his desk which was front and center, so that he had to twist almost all the way around to see me.

  “Othello,” I told him. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  He pressed his lips together. “So you like betrayal, huh?” he whispered.

  “No. What I like is the language.” I recited a few of my favorite lines. “What wound did ever heal but by degrees? She gave me for my pain a world of kisses. Men should be what they seem.”

  Dom poked out his bottom lip like he was impressed.

  “But I won’t lie,” I continue. “The jealousy, betrayal, and revenge are pretty entertaining.”

  Dom let out a breathy laugh.

  “Okay, okay,” Ms. Novak said, calling class to order. “Welcome to AP English Literature and Composition. This year we’ll explore novels, poetry, and plays from several different time periods in order to prepare you for the AP exam at the end of the year. Keep in mind, this is a college preparatory course, so this isn’t easy stuff. But all of you are in this class because I believe my regular literature class wouldn’t be challenging enough for your reading and writing levels.”

  Ms. Novak winked at me and I grinned.

  I wouldn’t say I was a teacher’s pet, or that I was Novak’s favorite, but she definitely liked me. She and my dad were really good friends, and after I aced her class last year, I knew I wanted to take her every year I was at Chisholm Charter.

  She passed around a syllabus and I read the list of required reading to myself. I was really excited to see Hamlet as one of the first plays we’d be diving into.

  “We’ll spend most of the year learning to interpret the meanings behind the language in the works on the list in front of you, and learning to write about those interpretations. In other words, welcome to the art of coming up with convincing bullcrap, people.”

  The class laughed.

  “In all seriousness, though, it’s gonna be hard, but it’s gonna be fun. I promise.”

  * * *

  —

  The rest of the day made me forget about the morning’s weirdness, so when I stepped into the library after school to meet Layla, I wasn’t thinking about homeroom or Sloane. But when I saw Layla sitting on the floor right by the door texting, I couldn’t help but wonder who was on the receiving end. Luckily, Ms. Novak was there too, and she was leaning over the circulation desk talking to my dad.

  “…the application is pretty straightforward,” I heard her say.

  “Is she telling you about London?” I asked, skipping over to his desk. The application for the Young Scholars Program at Shakespeare’s Globe was up on his computer. I gleefully clapped my hands. “It sounds friggin’ perfect, doesn’t it?” I asked him.

  Ms. Novak pulled up some pictures next—all the photos she took while she was there over the summer. The three of us—me, Daddy, and Layla—crowded around the computer to see. Daddy shook his head and straightened his glasses. “It sounds perfect for you, Baby Girl.”

  “Daddy,” I said, looking around. I hated when he called me Baby Girl at school. I glanced at Layla and we both cringed.

  “Oh, right. Cleo,” he said, correcting himself. I reached out and tugged his tie.

  “I was explaining that you have to write a short statement of interest, and that the deadline is anytime between now and the end of October. I think you’ll find out if you’re accepted in December,” Ms. Novak said to me.

  “You’ll read it, right? My statement of interest when I’m done?” I asked her. “I want to make sure it’s perfect.”

  “Duh,” she said, and I giggled.

  “Stacks?” Layla asked after we’d gone through about a hundred of Ms. Novak’s photos and I was in a full-on London-induced trance. I tore myself away.

  “See ya later, Novak,” I said. “Daddy, come grab me when you’re heading home.”

  We walked back to our favorite corner of the library, and I started spreading out my books and papers and pens.

  “How was the rest of your day?” I asked Layla. She had started taking her stuff out of her bag, but once everything was unpacked, she didn’t open any of her notebooks. She was back on her phone, texting again.

  “Eh, okay, I g-g-guess.” She put her phone down and turned to me, dipping her head and sweeping all her messy waves up into a bun. “AP c-calc is going to be c-c-crazy hard. And I weirdly have a b-b-bunch of classes with Sloane.”

  All the kids at Chisholm are brainy, but Layla and I are brainy in different ways. She’s great with numbers. I’m better with words. But I didn’t think this would divide us in any real way until college. I wonder if Sloane is on the same track as Layla because she’s into math and science too.

  “Sounds like a nightmare,” I said. I meant the math class, but it sounded like I was talking about Sloane.

  Layla forced out a rush of air before she was able to speak the words, “Harsh, C.”

  “I meant calc!”

  “Suuuure you did.”

  Her phone buzzed again and when she picked it up she grinned. Her fingers tapped across the screen. She paused. She laughed. “Sorry,” she said, glancing at me. But she kept texting.

  “I have a bunch of classes with Dom,” I said. That got her attention, and she put the phone facedown on the floor.

  “Were you staring at him as much in those c-c-classes as you were in homeroom?”

  “Hahaha. You’re so funny,” I said. Layla nudged my arm.

  “I’m just fucking with you. He’s c-c-cute. You interested?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “I’m more concerned with not screwing up in Novak’s class and getting into this Shakespeare program at the moment.”

  Layla nodded. “Well, you’re bloody brilliant. You’re quite a shoo-in, Cleo Baker, if you ask me. They should pick you over everyone, love. Always and forever.” She said it all theatrically, in a much better British accent than she’d been using during the summer.

  “Whoa!” I said, staring at her. “You didn’t stutter at all just now!”

  Layla smirked. “Yeah, me and my s-s-speech therapist have been trying a b-bunch of new things out, including accents, and this thing c-c-called smooth speech? Since I d-don’t stutter when I ssssing, she thinks I can trick my brain into thinking it’s sssinging by speaking in an accent or in a sort of sing-y voice?”

  “That’s so cool!” I said. “But it’s weird that you don’t sound like you. Not the stuttering, just you know, your normal voice.”

  Layla shrugged, her mouth flopping open and closed—a block. She pointed to her own mouth, and rolled her eyes, frustrated. Eventually she said, “I’m g-g-going to k-keep trying it out and we’ll see. I d-don’t think I’ll talk like that all the time, or use accents or whatever. B-but it could be useful for stuff in class. P-p-presen
tations or reading or stuff like that, you know?”

  “Totally. Okay, we should get some work done.” I already had easily four or five hours of reading even though it was the first day. I pulled my earbuds out of my bag. “Wanna listen?”

  Layla nodded and tucked one of the earbuds into her ear, and we leaned back against the closest bookshelf. I put on Billie Holiday. With the first novel I had to read for Novak’s class in hand, I watched Layla open her calculus book and grab a pencil.

  We’d only been working for about twenty minutes when her phone buzzed again. She picked it up and started giggling, but I just tried to focus hard on the words on the pages in front of me.

  “How much longer d-do you think we’ll b-b-b-be in here?” Layla asked.

  “Does there need to be a time limit? I thought we’d do what we normally do and stay till my dad left.”

  Layla bit her lip. “I might head out sssooner than that,” she said.

  “Okay…,” I replied.

  “It’s just that…” She put her phone down and looked at me. Her dark eyes seemed excited. “Sloane and Valeria are g-g-g-going to this record store that just opened, and I thought it c-could be fun.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “But I mean, I won’t g-g-go if you d-don’t want me to.”

  I didn’t want her to. But what I wanted more was for her not to want to.

  I picked up my phone and changed the music just so I didn’t have to look at her while I lied. “No, it’s cool,” I said.

  Layla grinned. And the fact that she grinned made the pit of my belly ache dully, distantly. She wasn’t paying enough attention to me to read between the lines. She wanted to go so badly that she didn’t even notice I wasn’t telling the truth.

  She retied her Chuck Taylors and pulled out my earbud just as Ella Fitzgerald’s rendition of “Over the Rainbow” started to play. I didn’t realize she’d be leaving right away, but she started packing her stuff into her bag a second later.

  “Oh,” I said again, so low she didn’t hear me. Ella’s voice and Layla moving away from me made me think of Gigi, and other precious things I’d let slip through my fingers. I swallowed hard and sat up straighter.