She nods silently.
“That was just about me wanting you to always feel like I’m here for you and not about me thinking there’s anything wrong with you being . . . asexual.” I test out the word, wanting to be sure I’m using it in the right way. I take a step closer and cup her arm with my hand. “You’re my best friend. The only one who’s ever willing to go all in on my ridiculous plans and the only one whose faith in me is unwavering. I want you to be able to tell me everything. And if it’s something I don’t understand, I want to learn. And I know it’s not on you to teach me about it.”
Her lips split into a half smile. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. I just didn’t know how. And . . .” She shakes her head. “When we were playing Two Truths and a Lie, it felt like a good time to just get it out there. Like, it wouldn’t be some big deal. It’s just my sexual orientation in the same way that you’re straight and Hannah’s a lesbian. I wanted to tell you, but I also know that you’re always looking for a solution. So I was scared you’d think this was something that needed fixing.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I don’t think you’re broken,” I say. And I mean it. “I love you because you’re Amanda,” I tell her. “And that means loving all the little and big things that make you—you!”
Amanda throws her arms around me and squeezes relentlessly. We’ve never been the type to hug much. Not like Ellen and Willowdean. But in a way, I’m okay with that. Because this hug—this suffocatingly tight hug that Amanda has perfected from years of wrestling with her brothers—means so much more.
After lunch, I rush over to AP Psych in the hopes that I’ll catch Malik a little early and maybe we can talk. If I’m being honest, I have totally daydreamed about this moment. Us in Mr. Prater’s dark classroom with the twinkling lights. Except in my daydream, no one else is there. We would talk and talking would turn into kissing and kissing would turn into love and love would turn into forever.
I know, I know. But aren’t daydreams supposed to be embarrassing?
I settle into my seat and wait for Malik. Slowly students begin to trickle in, and my daydream begins to dissipate. The second-to-last bell rings, and Mr. Prater strolls in with a fresh mustard stain on his tie. He waits in the doorway for any stragglers, and just as the final bell rings, Malik squeezes in past him.
He plops down beside me and says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo. Our eyes lock for one . . . two . . . three seconds before he looks away and we are right back where we started.
I turn away and reach into my bag for my textbook. I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can, because if I don’t, I might just cry.
When Mr. Prater isn’t looking, I shoot off a quick text to the one person I know has carried the weight of a truly painful crush.
ME: I’m having a CRUSH-911.
She responds almost immediately, which surprises me, even after all this time, because I’ve always felt like she’s way too cool for me.
WILLOWDEAN: Operator. What’s your emergency?
Callie
Fourteen
Life without a cell phone is a desert without water. It’s killing me.
I literally asked Kyla to play Scrabble with me the other night. (For the record, I won. Obviously.) The only lifeline I have to Bryce is school, and my mom’s been checking in on me in every single class. The woman is a hawk.
I stand behind the counter at the gym wiping down the same spot of glass over and over again to give the appearance that I am indeed very busy. Millie and her uncle are doing some routine maintenance on the weight equipment. Today, Tuesday, is her first day back since her emergency wisdom-teeth removal, and I nearly hugged the girl when I saw her.
While she was gone, I was left to finish my training with Inga. She tried to fire me four times, despite the fact that she’s not paying me, and even made me go stand outside in the giant muscle suit while I waved around a big NEW MEMBERSHIP SPECIALS sign. When I asked her why, she said I was breathing too loudly.
The bell above the door chimes and, shockingly, a customer walks in. I nearly jump off my stool and recite the greeting Inga drilled into me. “Hi, welcome to Down for the Count. Are you a member or a first-time guest?”
The guy—tall and broad and on the huskier side—clears his throat before responding. “Uh, yeah. I’m not a member.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Millie rush over to the desk beside me.
My brow wrinkles for a moment as I try to place his face. Rosy cheeks, soft blue eyes, and a few acne scars on his chin. His blond curls have a reddish undertone, and something about his face feels boyish. “You’re in my grade, aren’t you?”
“Mitch, right?” Millie pipes in. “I think you know my friend Willowdean.”
His already bright cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “Uh, yeah.”
Mitch, Mitch, Mitch, Mitch. I squint. There it is! “You’re on the football team! With my boyfriend! Bryce. I knew I recognized you.”
Mitch has always been that big dopey guy who tags around with Bryce, Patrick, and all the other guys from the team. I don’t really know him, but now, stuck in this gym and phoneless, I feel like freaking Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I nearly scream, “I want to be where the people are!” Like this big burly dude is some kind of lifeline to my previous life.
But instead I just bite my bottom lip while Millie gives him the lowdown on all of our membership packages.
I take his cash as he pays for the first three months of his membership.
He looks at the cash longingly as I deposit it into the register.
“We appreciate your business,” I say, “but the way you’re looking at this cash, I sort of feel like I’m forcing you to pay a parking ticket.”
“A birthday gift from my dad,” he explains. “So I can get in some extra training before next season when the weight room at school is closed.”
“Senior year,” I say. “Surely you’ve had some scouts interested.” Unlike Bryce.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well,” says Millie, “we’ll laminate your card while you work out and hand it back over before you leave. Towels are in the locker room and on the wall by the punching bags. My uncle Vernon—Vernon, wave!”
Vernon offers a quick wave but doesn’t look up from his duties.
Millie smiles sheepishly. “He’s a certified trainer and offers one-on-one sessions as well. If you need help operating any of the machinery, just ask Vernon or me for assistance. Callie here is still a newbie.”
I chuckle. “You’re a pro on the workout machines?”
I expect Mitch to laugh, too, but his lips turn into a straight line.
The color drains from Millie’s face, but her voice is defiant when she says, “Yes, actually. I am.”
“Okay.” It was a joke. The girl can barely get through a sentence without giggling, but suddenly she’s taking herself seriously?
Mitch clears his throat again. “Well, I guess I better get my dad’s money’s worth.”
Without a word, Millie takes his card to the back office to be laminated as Mitch adjusts one of the leg machines.
I sit down on the stool, and something about my whole body feels heavy. It’s guilt. It settles into my stomach and turns to concrete. What I said to Millie was dumb, I know. But it was funny! I mean, any other guy in Mitch’s crowd would have totally laughed.
I watch as Millie walks back up to the front desk.
I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say.
It doesn’t matter, though, because before I even have a chance to form a word, she slaps the card down on the counter and says, “Don’t forget to give him a welcome bag.”
“I won’t.” My voice squeaks.
I should’ve said I was sorry. I know that. But something inside me rears up, and I find myself somehow annoyed instead. It was just a dumb joke. And probably way more mild than what she’s used to hearing. She should just get used to it. The world is a tough place. Especially for people like her. She could at the very least get a sense of humor.
Everyone stands out in some way. It’s not like I don’t get upset every time some stranger thinks I’m not white enough or not Mexican enough or when someone thinks I’m Kyla’s babysitter and not her sister. Millie needs to toughen up, and I say that as someone who has had to do the same.