The Mistake
Page 26
Oh hell no.
11
Grace
You know those anxiety dreams where you’re walking down the hall in high school, or getting up on the stage of an auditorium to give a big speech—and you suddenly realize you’re buck naked and everyone is staring at you? And then all those pairs of eyes get bigger and bigger and it feels like hot lasers boring into your skin?
I am currently living that dream. Sure, I’m fully clothed, but despite Ramona’s numerous assurances that nobody is staring at me, I know I’m not imagining the curious looks and knowing smirks from my fellow students.
Damn Maya Stevens to hell. That bitch did the impossible—she made me afraid of walking into Carver Hall, my favorite place on campus.
It’s actually rather impressive that even limited by one hundred and forty characters, Maya’s sister managed to spin a beautiful tale of a pitiful, woe-is-me heroine whose fierce yearning for a certain hockey player leads her to fabricate a grand love affair filled with burning loins and endless passion.
In other words, Piper’s calling me a fucking liar.
“This is so humiliating,” I mutter as I pick at the chicken stir-fry on my plate. “Can we please just go?”
Ramona’s chin sticks out in an obstinate pose. “No. You need to show people that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what Piper is saying.”
Easier said than done. My brain knows that I shouldn’t care about some asinine Twitter bash fest, but my stomach hasn’t received the memo. Every time the words #GracelessLiar flash in my head, my insides twist into a mortified pretzel.
What the hell is the matter with people? It’s infuriating how they grant themselves the right to say whatever hurtful poison they want, without giving a shit about the person they’re hurting. Actually, you know what? I’m not even pissed at the rumormongers. I’m pissed at whoever invented the Internet and handed the assholes in the world a platform on which to spew their venom.
Fucking Internet.
My best friend treats my silence as an invitation to keep babbling. “Piper’s a bitch, okay? You know how possessive she is about the hockey players. She acts like every single one of them belongs to her, which is total bullshit. She’s probably consumed with jealousy that you managed to land one of the star players, who, by the way—” Ramona lowers her voice to a conspiratorial pitch “—she’s been chasing after since freshman year, but he keeps shutting her down.”
Sweet mother of Moses. Now we’re gossiping about Piper? Are there any mature adults at this motherfucking university?
“Can we please not talk about her?” I clench my teeth, which makes it difficult to take a bite of the noodles I’ve just raised to my mouth.
“Fine,” she relents. “But know that I’ve got your back on this, babe. Nobody talks shit about my BFF and lives to tell about it.”
I decide not to point out that Piper wouldn’t have been talking shit in the first place if someone hadn’t implied to Maya that I’d made everything up.
“If you want, we can talk about my misery,” she says glumly. “As in, the fact that Dean didn’t ask for my number after the movie last night—”
Ramona stops talking when footsteps sound from behind us. My shoulders tense, then relax when I realize the footsteps belong to Jess. Then they tense all over again, because it’s Jess. Lovely. Let another round of torture commence.
“Hey,” Jess greets me, her eyes awash with sympathy. “I’m so sorry about this Twitter bullshit. Maya shouldn’t have said anything to her sister. She’s such a gossip.”
If I had a dictionary on me, I would’ve opened it to the H’s, passed it to Jess, and forced her to read the definition of HYPOCRITE.
Luckily, my phone buzzes before I give in and hurl a bitchy retort her way.
When I see Logan’s name on the screen, my heart does an involuntary flip. I’m tempted to hop up on the table and wave the phone around to prove to everyone in Carver Hall that contrary to what Piper Stevens has posited, John Logan is “aware of my existence.” But I resist the urge, because unlike some people, I don’t need a dictionary reminder—I already know the meaning of futile.
Logan’s message is short.
Him: Where u at?
I quickly type back, Dining hall.
Him: Which 1?
Me: Carver.
No response. Okay then. I’m not sure what the point of that conversation was, but his consequent silence has a dampening effect on my already flailing self-confidence. I’ve been dying to talk to him since last night, but he hasn’t called, texted, or attempted to make plans. And finally he gets in touch and this is the result? Two questions followed by crickets?
I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. I’m not sure who I’m even upset with. Logan? Piper? Ramona? Myself? But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to cry in the middle of the dining hall, or give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me rush out five minutes after I got here. The girls at the neighboring table haven’t stopped smirking since I sat down, and I can still feel them watching me. I can’t make out a word of their hushed discussion, but when I glance over, all five of them quickly avert their gazes.
Ignore them.
Although my appetite has disappeared right along with my self-esteem, I force myself to eat my dinner. Every last bite, shoving stir-fry down my throat while pretending to care about Ramona and Jess’s conversation, which has blessedly shifted to a topic that doesn’t involve me.
11
Grace
You know those anxiety dreams where you’re walking down the hall in high school, or getting up on the stage of an auditorium to give a big speech—and you suddenly realize you’re buck naked and everyone is staring at you? And then all those pairs of eyes get bigger and bigger and it feels like hot lasers boring into your skin?
I am currently living that dream. Sure, I’m fully clothed, but despite Ramona’s numerous assurances that nobody is staring at me, I know I’m not imagining the curious looks and knowing smirks from my fellow students.
Damn Maya Stevens to hell. That bitch did the impossible—she made me afraid of walking into Carver Hall, my favorite place on campus.
It’s actually rather impressive that even limited by one hundred and forty characters, Maya’s sister managed to spin a beautiful tale of a pitiful, woe-is-me heroine whose fierce yearning for a certain hockey player leads her to fabricate a grand love affair filled with burning loins and endless passion.
In other words, Piper’s calling me a fucking liar.
“This is so humiliating,” I mutter as I pick at the chicken stir-fry on my plate. “Can we please just go?”
Ramona’s chin sticks out in an obstinate pose. “No. You need to show people that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what Piper is saying.”
Easier said than done. My brain knows that I shouldn’t care about some asinine Twitter bash fest, but my stomach hasn’t received the memo. Every time the words #GracelessLiar flash in my head, my insides twist into a mortified pretzel.
What the hell is the matter with people? It’s infuriating how they grant themselves the right to say whatever hurtful poison they want, without giving a shit about the person they’re hurting. Actually, you know what? I’m not even pissed at the rumormongers. I’m pissed at whoever invented the Internet and handed the assholes in the world a platform on which to spew their venom.
Fucking Internet.
My best friend treats my silence as an invitation to keep babbling. “Piper’s a bitch, okay? You know how possessive she is about the hockey players. She acts like every single one of them belongs to her, which is total bullshit. She’s probably consumed with jealousy that you managed to land one of the star players, who, by the way—” Ramona lowers her voice to a conspiratorial pitch “—she’s been chasing after since freshman year, but he keeps shutting her down.”
Sweet mother of Moses. Now we’re gossiping about Piper? Are there any mature adults at this motherfucking university?
“Can we please not talk about her?” I clench my teeth, which makes it difficult to take a bite of the noodles I’ve just raised to my mouth.
“Fine,” she relents. “But know that I’ve got your back on this, babe. Nobody talks shit about my BFF and lives to tell about it.”
I decide not to point out that Piper wouldn’t have been talking shit in the first place if someone hadn’t implied to Maya that I’d made everything up.
“If you want, we can talk about my misery,” she says glumly. “As in, the fact that Dean didn’t ask for my number after the movie last night—”
Ramona stops talking when footsteps sound from behind us. My shoulders tense, then relax when I realize the footsteps belong to Jess. Then they tense all over again, because it’s Jess. Lovely. Let another round of torture commence.
“Hey,” Jess greets me, her eyes awash with sympathy. “I’m so sorry about this Twitter bullshit. Maya shouldn’t have said anything to her sister. She’s such a gossip.”
If I had a dictionary on me, I would’ve opened it to the H’s, passed it to Jess, and forced her to read the definition of HYPOCRITE.
Luckily, my phone buzzes before I give in and hurl a bitchy retort her way.
When I see Logan’s name on the screen, my heart does an involuntary flip. I’m tempted to hop up on the table and wave the phone around to prove to everyone in Carver Hall that contrary to what Piper Stevens has posited, John Logan is “aware of my existence.” But I resist the urge, because unlike some people, I don’t need a dictionary reminder—I already know the meaning of futile.
Logan’s message is short.
Him: Where u at?
I quickly type back, Dining hall.
Him: Which 1?
Me: Carver.
No response. Okay then. I’m not sure what the point of that conversation was, but his consequent silence has a dampening effect on my already flailing self-confidence. I’ve been dying to talk to him since last night, but he hasn’t called, texted, or attempted to make plans. And finally he gets in touch and this is the result? Two questions followed by crickets?
I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. I’m not sure who I’m even upset with. Logan? Piper? Ramona? Myself? But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to cry in the middle of the dining hall, or give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me rush out five minutes after I got here. The girls at the neighboring table haven’t stopped smirking since I sat down, and I can still feel them watching me. I can’t make out a word of their hushed discussion, but when I glance over, all five of them quickly avert their gazes.
Ignore them.
Although my appetite has disappeared right along with my self-esteem, I force myself to eat my dinner. Every last bite, shoving stir-fry down my throat while pretending to care about Ramona and Jess’s conversation, which has blessedly shifted to a topic that doesn’t involve me.
