Текст книги "Art & Soul"

Автор книги: Brittainy C. Cherry

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

11 Levi

When I was eleven years old, I came to visit Dad during the summer. One of the first days there, he took me out to Fisherman’s Creek. We rented a wooden boat from the dock and sat in the middle of the creek all day long, baking in the sun. Our fishing hooks sat at the bottom of the water, no fish seeming interested at all in being caught. Dad bought himself a six-pack of cold beer and me a six-pack of iced root beer.

He scolded me for not wanting to put real worms on our hooks, saying that the plastic worms didn’t ever work, but Mom told me that we were supposed to respect nature. She said if we didn’t need it to eat, then we shouldn’t harm it.

We sat chugging our beers and getting bad sunburns.

The silence of the creek was something I always remembered. How we hardly moved in our boat, how the water only waved every now and then when a bird dipped in looking for a quick meal. After five hours of sweat, my fishing rod moved, and Dad jumped to my aid, helping me reel in the biggest catch of my life. “Pull!” he ordered, and I did. I pulled, pulled, and pulled some more.

The moment of truth came when the fish emerged from the depths of the water and we laughed. We laughed so hard I thought my stomach was going to explode and root beer would come out of my nose. Turned out, my fish was less of a fish and more of a big hiking boot. When Dad laughed, I laughed. Dad leaned against the side of the boat. “Dinner might be a little leathery tonight, Levi.” We kept laughing, me clutching my gut and him chuckling at my howls.

That was the last time we’d laughed together. It was the last time we were happy together.

I wondered what had happened.

What had changed and made him stop loving me?

Now the closest I got to hearing him laugh with me was when he watched old black and white comedies on television in the living room each night. He never asked me to join him, and I could tell he was a bit annoyed when I sat with him. So, I chose to sit in the foyer each night, around the corner so he couldn’t hear or see me. When he would laugh, I would laugh.

It almost felt like we were recreating a father-son relationship that was lost in time and space.

I’d never loved black and white comedies so much in my life.

12 Levi

popular | adjective | pop·u·lar | ˈpä-pyə-lər

liked or enjoyed by many people.

suitable to the majority.

frequently encountered or widely accepted.

I didn’t know how to fit in with the popular kids. I sat at their lunch tables, listened to their talk about parties, and tried my best to always smile, but the truth was we didn’t have anything in common. They came from families who had a lot of money and lived lives of luxury. I came from a cabin in the woods. They all played sports and had other after school activities. I had my mom and wasn’t allowed to join any clubs outside of the forest. I only had the violin, and Mom taught me the lessons.

None of these guys played any instruments, and even though the girls said it was sexy that I played the violin, they never went into deep conversations about the best violinists or the interesting idea of mixing classical sounds with modern music.

They mostly talked about sex, drinking, and the next party.

High school annoyed me. Since I’d arrived here I’d been labeled and tossed into a box due to characteristics that were none of my doing. I was placed with a group who had no desire to know me because they were only concerned with the outside. On the outside I fit. On the inside, I was an abnormality.

It was kind of disturbing how they all sort of slept and hooked up with each other like it was normal. Stacy dated Brian who made out with Jessica who had sex with Jason who sucked Victoria’s toes, who gave Eric a blow job after he slept with Stacy who was still dating Brian. It was like a weird, tangled up inbreeding group that only kept it in the family.

Plus, based on the definition of popular, these people were the exact opposite of the meaning. They were mean just for the hell of it. They were such a close-knit group compared to the majority of the school. Sure, they all loved each other, but the majority of the people at Mayfair Heights high school hated their guts.

unpopular | adjective | un·pop·u·lar | ˌən-ˈpä-pyə-lər

not popular: viewed or received unfavorably by the public.

When I looked across the cafeteria room, I always noticed Aria and Simon laughing with one another. Aria didn’t smile often, and her laughs were few and far between, but her friend had a way of bringing them out of her.

I’d been thinking about her laugh since the morning we’d stood in the forest talking about oxymorons, cancer, and other nonsensical things.

I liked that morning so much more than sex talk, drinking, and parties.

I liked nature, and deer, and Aria Watson—who was a girl who was somehow happy and sad all at once.

Sometimes we would lock eyes across the room and we wouldn’t look away. It was a full-blown staring contest. Who will look away first?

I never lost. She always turned away.

One night at 3:45 A.M. my cell phone started ringing. I groaned, reaching across my bed to answer it.

“Hello?” I drowsily said, my voice cracking.

“I have this idea that I want to run by you. I’ve been thinking about opening a record store in town and I want you to come home and run it with me. It can be our thing, Levi. We can have all of the best vinyl tracks and stuff. I bet there’s an old broken down warehouse or something we could use. And—”

She sounded so distant through the phone—so far away from reality. I’d wished the sound wasn’t familiar. But it was those same sounds and those same thoughts that pushed me away from Alabama to Wisconsin.

“Mom. It’s almost four in the morning.”

“Oh. Were you sleeping? I’m online now looking up to see if there are any abandoned shops in town. I even been making logos and stuff on Photoshop that we could use for the store. What do you think about blue and fuchsia? We need to come up with a name for the place. I know the people in town are always talking about how I’m a failure and won’t be successful—”

“Nobody in town thinks that, Ma.”

“I know what these people think, Levi. I can always hear them. Oh! And I recorded a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

She didn’t give me a chance to reply that I had school the next morning. She kept talking and talking. I placed the phone down on my stomach after an hour of listening to her nonsense gibberish talks, and I closed my eyes. I bet she wasn’t taking her medicine anymore.

Her late night phone call was the exact reminder I needed to why I decided to come stay with Dad instead of with her for the year.

I needed the break from her.

13 Aria

I’d missed school for a week due to morning sickness and feeling like complete garbage. After finally returning to school on Thursday, I asked my history teacher, Mr. Fields, for the bathroom pass after thirty minutes of him talking about boring things that happened hundreds of years ago. I’d been having bad heartburn from the taco bar lunch. It felt like someone was reaching into me and lighting my insides on fire while they proceeded to put my heart in a chokehold. I knew if I sat in class and had to listen to Mr. Fields’ monotone voice speak about Napoleon for one more minute I would probably pass out from boredom.

Walking down the halls, I saw my locker was once again covered with something. This time it was pregnancy pamphlets and condoms. I had to admit it was a great warning, but it was just a tad bit late.

“I hate my life,” I muttered to myself, taking off the garbage.

“High school sucks.”

I turned around to see Abigail standing inches away from me. Everyone in school called her Awkward Abigail because she was pretty much a social outcast. I knew that I too was an outcast, but as far as weirdos went, Abigail was at the top of the line.

She wore wind pants each day with an old sweatshirt that had a picture of Pink Floyd on it. Her feet were always in a pair of high heels that looked very painful. Whenever she walked, she walked hastily, which led to her making a swishing sound as her wind pants rubbed against one another. Her high heels clicked, her swishy pants swished. If she wasn’t speed walking through the hallways in a hurry to get to her next class, she was quoting some random person. Her eyebrows and hair looked bleached blond, and she was awfully pale, too. She didn’t believe in personal space, and I knew this firsthand because she was currently helping me take the condoms off of my locker, pretty much breathing down my neck.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It does.”

“Don’t let them get to you, though. It’s not a forever thing. ‘Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.’ You know who said that? Marcus Aurelius said that.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Google, Aria. The internet is swirling with people just telling you stuff that you didn’t know. Don’t take it all in, though. A lot of it is just government propaganda trying to scare you shitless so they can steal your money.” And with that she was off, swishing away.

I didn’t know Awkward Abigail cursed.

Thursday afternoons were my new least favorite thing. Mom wanted to know that I was okay, but she wasn’t sure how to get me to open up to her. I wasn’t planning to open up to her, so maybe that was part of the problem. Since I wouldn’t talk to her about the incident that led to the pregnancy, she believed I should at least talk to someone.

Dad was more into the pretend-Aria-doesn’t-exist parenting tactic.

I wished Mom was a little more like him.

Dr. Ward’s name reminded me of an asylum ward. Three of the walls in his office were bright white and the last one, baby blue. His furniture was all made out of polished dark wood, except for the powder blue couch against one of the walls, the blue candy bowl filled with jelly beans, and the blue pens that lay perfectly straight on his desk. I bet he learned that in psychology 101, the use of colors. Blue was supposedly a calming color that many often used to make people feel at peace, comfortable.

Personally, it reminded me of Picasso’s Blue Period, which was a pretty depressing time period for him, though some of his greatest masterpieces came from that dark place.

Another oxymoron: Picasso’s Blue Period of Brilliance.

“What’s on your mind, Aria?” Dr. Ward asked in his very therapist-toned voice. He was old, yet somehow still young, probably in his early thirties. Old enough to be a therapist, but young enough to still seem unworthy. I didn’t have a clue why Mom had picked him to try to crack into my brain. Dr. Ward didn’t talk much, but when he did, he was always asking me about my thoughts, my feelings, and my current state of being.

“Picasso,” I said, reaching for the jelly beans in his blue bowl.

“Picasso?” he questioned, a hitch in his voice.

“During 1901, Picasso went through a blue phase. He only used blues and a few shades of green in his paintings. It’s said that during those times he was highly depressed, but he also made some of his best work during that period. The Old Guitarist, for example, is one of my all time favorite paintings. It’s strange that during the darkest times of his life he created some of his best masterpieces.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, tapping one of the many blue pens against his lips. “And what made you think of Picasso right now?”

“Your office.”

“My office?”

“Yes. It’s depressing and stuffy.”

“Do you think it’s because of the actual room, or because of your current state of mind?”

I didn’t answer; I wasn’t sure what the answer was.

Maybe I was going through my own blue period.

“Do you feel depressed, Aria?”

I didn’t reply. I played the angsty teenager role. He didn’t seem to mind.

“How was the meeting?” Mom asked me, driving away from Dr. Ward’s office.

“Great,” I lied. “He’s really great.”

“Good.” She smiled, nodding. “Good, good, good. I’m glad you have someone to talk to.”

Yeah, totally.

After my therapy appointment, Mom had to go back to the hospital and Dad was working late, so it was my responsibility to grab Grace and KitKat from our neighbor’s house and make sure they had dinner. Boiled hotdogs and fries were as fancy as I was getting tonight, and the two of them didn’t seem to mind at all. There was nothing my two sisters loved more than fries and whatever the heck a hotdog was made of.

We sat at the table eating together, and Grace kept staring down at my stomach. “You’re really getting fat,” she said, stuffing her mouth with her hotdog, which was drowning in ketchup.

“Shut up, Grace.”

“You should think about going on a diet. Otherwise you’ll have a two hundred pound baby. Mrs. Thompson’s baby was pretty fat.”

“No one cares about Mrs. Thompson’s baby.”

“That’s not nice,” she hollered, ketchup landing on her colorful shirt. Grace’s outfits always looked like she’d walked through a Skittles factory and swum in rainbows. From colored bracelets to rainbow socks, you would think she would be as sweet and bright as her clothing. Not so much. “You’re not really nice anymore.”

“Well, calling your sister fat isn’t that nice either.”

“You’re so grumpy.”

I’m just tired. “Just eat your food, twerp.”

“So does your baby have a dad?” Grace asked, apparently not in the mood to give me a break.

“Grace…” The tone of my voice had an edge to it, warning her not to continue.

“He has a right to know probably that his girlfriend is knocked up with his baby.”

She had this crazy idea that only people who were married or at least dating could get pregnant. If only that were true. I refused to reply to her statement. Instead, I picked and stabbed the food on my plate.

“I bet your baby’s going to come out and his face is going to look like a butt. And it’s going to be all like this.” She made the ugliest face known to mankind, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

I also cried.

Emotional freaking rollercoaster.

14 Levi

Most of my love for music came from my mom, but Dad was the one who introduced me to the intense, beautiful skill of the air guitar and lip syncing when I was seven. Each night that I sat in the tree house, more and more memories of the man he used to be came back to me. I’d never forget the first song he taught me on the air guitar. It was one of my best memories with him.

Dad and I sat inside of the tree house, him with his case of beer, me with my case of root beer. He had a cigarette hanging between his lips as he crushed his first emptied beer can and tossed it to the side. I followed his movement with my root beer.

“I’m gonna teach you something that will get you a girlfriend some day, Lee. It’s the same way I landed your mom,” he said, lighting his cigarette. “The art of faking it.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but he turned to his left where his boom box was sitting beside an old guitar case. “You’ve ever played the air guitar? Or have you ever lip synced?” he asked.

“No.”

After a few puffs of his cigarette, he nodded. “All right. You gotta watch closely, because this shit is serious and takes dedication. Do you think you can dedicate yourself to learning this instrument?”

I laughed and nodded as I watched his fingers start tuning an invisible guitar. He hit play on the boom box and as the music filled the space, his fingers moved against the guitar and his lips mimicked the words, but he didn’t actually speak a sound. “More Than A Feeling” by Boston boomed through the room as he strummed and ‘sang’ every note, rocking his head along the whole time.

“Whoa,” I murmured as the song ended.

He smirked. “Yup. I got something for you, one second.” He turned around, opened the guitar case, and he lifted an invisible guitar. “My old man gave me this when I was a kid, and now I’m passing it down to you. Take care of it.”

I stared at my empty palms as he placed it in my hands. I cradled it as if I was holding the world against my fingertips. “Whoa,” I murmured again.

“All right. Are you ready? I’ll teach you the song I just played.” He hit play one more time on the boom box. We spent the night laughing, drinking beers, and learning how to become professional fake performers.

“What are you doing today?” Dad asked Wednesday morning. I had to make sure he was talking to me, even though we were the only two in the house. It was actually a miracle that we were standing in the same room. Most of the time when he saw me, he dodged in the opposite direction.

“Me?”

“Are you stupid? Who the hell else would I be talking to?” he grumbled as he opened the refrigerator.

I stayed up late each night since I found out about his cancer, researching and learning more and more about the disease. I also decided that I would blame the cancer for Dad’s grumpy personality—that way I wouldn’t feel like I was the one making him moody. “I have school.”

He grumbled some more, sounding conflicted. “You think you can skip? The doctor said I shouldn’t be driving myself after chemotherapy, and I ain’t got anyone else to take me. Lance normally takes me, but he’s off at some hippie music festival or some shit.”

It was the first time since I’d learned that he was sick that he’d actually admitted to having an illness. For some reason that made it more real to me. He really was sick. He really was fighting for his life.

“I can do that.” I nodded. I’ll do anything.

He cocked an eyebrow and poured a cup of orange juice. He slid it over to me. I thanked him. “You know how to drive stick?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Of course I didn’t know how to drive stick. Aunt Denise had helped me get my driver’s license in Alabama, but she hadn’t taught me to drive stick. Every other second Dad was cursing as I jerked us back and forth. “Jesus, Levi! I thought you knew how to drive stick? Switch the gear,” he ordered.

“I don’t.”

“What?”

“I just didn’t want you to have to go by yourself,” I said.

Jolt. Stop sign. Five inches past the stop sign. Jerk. Stop. Holyshitwe’regoingtodieeee.

“Well, that’s dumb. You should know how to drive. What the hell has your mom been teaching you down there?” He ran his hand against his chin. “I guess I’ll have to show you, seeing as how you can’t do shit right. In the meantime, just try not to kill me before cancer does me in.”

“I would like that,” I said, nodding. “I would like you to teach me.” He would’ve never admitted it, but I thought he kind of liked the idea too.

A nurse sat Dad in an open room and hooked him up to a machine that dripped liquids into his body. He hollered at them for missing his veins, calling them idiots, but the nurses remained unfazed by his attitude. I sat next to him in a chair, wondering if it was working, if those chemicals were saving him. Then I remembered what Aria’s mother had said about stage four lung cancer, and I tried my best not to get my hopes up.

I liked how Mrs. Watson was honest with me, but comforting at the same time.

There was a small table with graham crackers and juice boxes of which I helped myself. Dad scolded me, telling me the snacks were only for the sick people, but Nurse Maggie told me that family was welcome to the treats, too.

About thirty minutes later, a girl from school walked in with her mom. I figured she was in my shoes, helping her mom out, but when she was the one sitting down in the chair and being hooked up to the machines, I realized I was nothing like her.

Her skin was pale, ghostly, but she didn’t look sad. Not even scared. The same couldn’t be said about her mother. Her mother was terrified as she held her daughter’s hand.

“It’s okay, Mom,” the girl said, a large smile on her lips. “It will get better after this.”

She was comforting her mother while she was living some of the darkest days of her life.

I tried not to pay attention to her, but every now and then I would glance over.

“Where were you yesterday?” Aria asked at the bus stop. Simon was normally the first one to the corner, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen yet. I was certain he would be there soon enough.

I smiled at Aria and held my backpack straps. “Did you miss me that much?”

“No,” she huffed, kicking her shoe in a circular motion. “We were supposed to work on our project in art class yesterday and try to figure out what we were going to do, that’s all. Now we’re a day behind everyone else because of you.”

“Hold your horses, missy. I didn’t go ’round blaming you when you missed school for a week.”

“That was different,” she whispered, her moving shoe coming to a halt. “I had the flu, and I sent you a message with what books on abstract artwork to check out from the library.”

“Isn’t it called morning sickness?” I asked.

“I’m not answering that,” she replied, rubbing her fingertips against her eyebrows. She wasn’t wearing any makeup this morning and looked perfect. If I hadn’t known any better, I might’ve thought she was make-believe.

“Why not?” She kept so much to herself, it didn’t seem fair. I wondered often about who the father of the baby was, but it wasn’t my place to ask. If she wanted me to know, she would’ve told me. But then again, maybe she didn’t know that I was available to listen. “You can talk to me, ya know…about the pregnancy, if you need someone to talk to. I’m not even sure if you ever talk about it, but I want you to know that if you need a person to speak to, my ears are available for the conversation.”

Her nose wrinkled up, and she slapped her forehead as the school bus pulled up. “Geez, Levi! It’s hardly seven in the morning and you’re already annoying me. This isn’t boding well for how our day with one another is going to go.”

My lips turned up into a bigger smile. She was so cute when she was bitchy. “Too early for baby talk?”

“Way, way too early. A lifetime too early. Like, if we died, came back to life, died, came back to life again, died again, and came back again, it would still be too early to talk about it. You understand?”

“Completely.”

“Good.”

“So…we’ll resume the baby conversation around lunchtime today?”

“Why are you so freaking crazy?”

“Because my mama raised me that way,” I replied, allowing her to step onto the bus before me. “Which brings me to my next question: can I eat lunch with you and Simon? I mean, I know we normally have some hardcore staring contests from across the cafeteria, but I reckon we could continue our staring contests at the same table.”

“You make it really hard for me to be annoyed with you when you use that ridiculous accent of yours.” She smiled playfully. I liked that side of her.

“I can talk more like you if you want.” I switched my voice to my best Midwest sound. “How about we have a double deep-fried corn dog and then eat a brat and get a sip of water from the bubbler?”

“Ohmyfreakinggosh, a double deep-fried corn dog sounds so good right now.” I swear she actually drooled from the thought. “With ranch dressing.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a pregnant thing or just a weird Wisconsin thing, but there was a significant chance it was both.

When she said that I could eat lunch with them, I did a dance, which she told me to never do again.

So of course I did it again before I sat down beside her. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Seeing as how Simon isn’t here, I think this leaves an open invitation for me to sit next to you on the bus.”

“You’re pushing it today, Levi. You want to sit with me at lunch and on the bus?”

I nodded. “But it’s also so we can work on our project together. I figured if we are going to make this project the best we can, we need to start getting you in touch with good music.” I dug into my backpack and pulled out my CD player, then handed her one of my ear buds.

“What is that?” she said, a look of bewilderment in her eyes.

“A CD player?” I replied, confused by her confusion.

“People don’t use CD players anymore, Levi. That’s weird.”

“Um, maybe normal people don’t, but seeing as how I am clearly a total hipster, I think it’s safe to say that this is the new hip thing to do. The old hipsters listen to vintage records, which, let’s face it, sound freaking amazing in person, but they are such a hassle to drag around town. An old school CD player still holds that cool, authentic hipster feeling, and weighs quite a bit less than a record player. So, mainly what I’m saying is it’s an honor for you to experience the magic that’s about to happen in your ear. It’s going to be like an explosion of color.”

“Are you always so awake in the morning?” she joked.

“Every day.”

She placed the ear bud in her ear, and I placed the other in mine. I hit play.

“What CD is this?” she asked.

“It’s a mix that I made at my uncle’s house over the weekend. It has all my favorites. First song is ‘Open Rhythms’ by Bodies Of Water.” I bent my knees, placing the soles of my shoes on the seat in front of me.

As the song started playing, I relaxed into the seat, lifted my fingers, and played my air guitar intensely, making her giggle.

She didn’t say anything else, so I had to take in the subtle clues that a person always gave when enjoying good music.

Her foot started tapping.

Her body started rocking.

She closed her eyes with a smile.

She lost herself in it, and I couldn’t have been happier.

After first hour calculus, I walked up to Aria and drummed my fingers against her desk. “I think it’s nice that you laugh at Mr. Jones’ terrible jokes.” I smirked.

“What are you talking about? Mr. Jones’ jokes are classic. And I fear being seen talking to anyone who cannot appreciate a good nerdy math joke.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “So that’s what does it for you? Bad math puns? Really?”

She nodded. “Not everyone can be as cool as Mr. Jones,” she said, sliding her books into her backpack as she stood from the desk. I always walked her to her locker after class, and for a while she complained, but after some time, I think she kind of liked it.

Clearing my throat, I puffed out my chest. “Well, I’m just going to put this out there: I’m not trying to be obtuse, but you’re acute girl.”

“Ohmygosh, stop, Levi, that’s terrible.” She chuckled.

“I don’t know if you’re in my range, but I’d sure like to take you back to my domain.” I followed my first bad math joke with an even worse one, making her laugh even harder.

“That was awful, just stop. Go away.”

I gripped the straps of my backpack with a large grin. I started walking backward, keeping my eyes on her. “Okay, I’m going. But I want you to know that this thing between us, it’s powerful. There’s no word to express this new found connection we have, Aria. It’s like dividing by zero…you can’t define it.”

I got some crap from a few people for not eating at the popular table during lunchtime, but I didn’t care because Aria smiled at me as I walked toward her table.

“Thaumaturge,” she said, unpacking her lunch.

“Oh wow, thanks. I think you’re pretty good lookin’ too, Aria,” I replied, sitting down across from her.

“What?!” Her cheeks blushed over. Whenever she was nervous, she placed her thumb between her teeth and broke eye contact.

“Sorry, I always assume when pretty girls use big words, it’s a term of flirtation.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Okay, say the word again.”

“Thaumaturge,” she repeated. “I downloaded this dictionary app on my phone last night and that was the word of the day.”

“And the meaning?”

“A worker of wonders or miracles. A magician.”

“Okay, three things to say on this subject. One, what a badass word. Two, what a badass definition. Three, it’s a little sexy that you have a dictionary app.”

She blushed some more and I loved it. “Anyway, so each day, I get a new word.”

“Let me see that.” She handed me her phone. I scrolled through it and started typing.

“What are you doing?”

“Adding my number so you’ll text me the new word if it’s something brilliant, but we aren’t together. And now I’m memorizing your number so I can text you all of my brilliant thoughts and knowledge on the world as a whole.”

“Oh, I look forward to a complete in-depth explanation as to why the chicken crossed the road.” Before I could reply to her sarcastic remark, Simon came walking up to the table like a zombie and plopped down.

“You okay, Simon?” I asked. Aria gave him the same worrisome expression I was delivering.

“I missed first hour,” he muttered.

Aria’s hand landed over her heart. “Oh no!”

A chuckle passed through me as I took a bite of something that was slimy and kind of gray; the lunch ladies were trying to pass it off as turkey and gravy, but they weren’t fooling me. It was pig slop. “So? I’ve missed whole days. Aria has missed weeks.”

“I had the flu!” she argued. I gave her a half smile. Her lips turned up.

“No…you don’t understand. I missed first hour,” Simon said, pounding his head against the palms of his hands.

“Simon has never, ever, ever missed a day of school. Not even a class. He has a perfect record,” Aria explained.

“Had,” he corrected. “Had. Had. Had!”

His face was turning red with irritation and even though I should’ve known it wasn’t the right time to ask him, I really needed to know exactly why he was late. “Did you oversleep or something?”

“What? No. Never. I set four different alarm clocks. But, when I was in the kitchen this morning, I had a twitch in my hand while pouring my orange juice and the whole container dropped, spilling everywhere.”

“Oh no!” Aria said, her hand flying over her mouth. I didn’t understand. They were acting as if Simon was announcing he’d murdered someone in cold blood.

“Yup.” Simon nodded, his eyes shifting away from any form of eye contact. “It went everywhere. My dad already left for work, and Mom was off to a doctor’s appointment.”

“You should’ve called me,” Aria scolded her best friend. For…spilling orange juice…?

“I couldn’t. I was scrubbing away.”

“It’s not really that big of a deal. Don’t let it get to ya,” I said, chugging my chocolate milk.

“Not a big deal?” he argued, raising his voice an octave. “Not a big deal?! I had a perfect record! It was perfect! And now…” His head fell to the table, and he groaned some more. “Now I’m just imperfect.”

I was having a hard time telling if Simon was being serious or not. I couldn’t imagine ever having a complete meltdown over missing one class period. Heck, I would’ve actually been ecstatic to miss first hour calculus.