Bitter Sweet Submission

The bell rang and everyone scattered like roaches when the light comes on. I stayed at my desk, watching the door. Not waiting for anyone, just watching. That's what I told myself.

Simone was the last one out. She always was. She gathered her things slowly, like the world owed her patience, and she didn't look at me. She never looked at me unless she had to.

"Hey," I said. "Nice shirt. Did your mom pick it out from the boys' section?"

She stopped. Her hand was on the strap of her backpack, knuckles going white. I watched the tendon in her neck tighten and thought, there it is. That's the thing I'm looking for.

"I mean, it's fine," I said, leaning back in my chair. "If you're going for that whole 'I gave up' vibe. Very brave."

She turned around then. Not fast, not angry. Just slow, like she was deciding something. Her eyes met mine and I felt it in my stomach, that little flip I got when a teacher called on me without warning. But I pushed it down. I was good at pushing things down.

"You're so predictable, Marisol," she said.

The way she said my name. Flat. Like it was a word in a language she didn't care to learn.

"Predictable? I'm the most interesting thing in this school."

"You're the loudest," she said. "That's not the same thing."

She left. I sat there with my mouth open, which was stupid, because people don't get to talk to me like that. I'm the one who talks. I'm the one who decides what's true and what isn't. That's how it's been since seventh grade, when I figured out that if you say something mean fast enough and loud enough, everyone laughs, and if everyone laughs, you're safe.

Safe. God, what a joke.

I didn't think about her all through sixth period. I didn't think about her when I walked home, past the bakery that always smelled like burnt sugar, past the park where the little kids screamed on the swings. I didn't think about her when I got to my apartment and my mom wasn't home, because she never was, because she worked doubles at the hospital and came home smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion.

I made ramen. I ate it standing up over the sink. I watched the water run while I waited for the noodles to soften and I thought about Simone's eyes, how they were brown but not just brown. More like the color of tea when the light hits it.

Not that I cared. Not that it mattered.

The next day, she was waiting for me.

Not by my locker. Not in the hallway where everyone could see. She was in the parking lot, behind the dumpsters, where the stoners went to smoke and the janitors went to hide. And she was standing there like she owned the place, arms crossed, that same shirt from yesterday, and I thought, okay. Okay, this is something.

"You've been following me," she said.

"I don't follow anyone."

"Since seventh grade. You've been watching me. You think I don't notice?"

I laughed. It came out wrong, too loud, bouncing off the brick walls. "You think I care enough to follow you? You're nobody."

"I'm nobody," she repeated. "And you're the girl who made me cry in the bathroom freshman year. You remember that?"

I did. I remembered it perfectly. I'd said something about her shoes, how they were knockoffs, how everyone could tell. She'd gone into the bathroom and I'd stood outside the door, listening to her cry, feeling something hot and alive in my chest. Power. That's what it was. That's what I told myself.

"So?" I said.

"So I'm done," Simone said. "I'm done being your project."

She stepped closer. I stepped back. My heel hit the dumpster and I couldn't go anywhere.

"You're not going to say anything?" she asked. "No clever comeback? No insult about my hair or my clothes or the way I walk?"

"Your hair's fine," I said. And then, because I couldn't help it, because the silence was worse than anything, "It's actually kind of pretty. When you don't frizz it."

She stared at me. Something shifted in her face, something I couldn't name.

"Did you just compliment me?"

"No."

"You did. You said my hair was pretty."

"I said it was fine. There's a difference."

"There isn't," she said. "Not from you."

I didn't know what to do with my hands. I put them in my pockets. Then I took them out. Then I crossed my arms, copying her, and felt stupid, so I dropped them to my sides.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Because I want to know why you do it."

"Do what?"

"Everything. The comments. The looks. The way you laugh at me when I walk by. I want to know what I did to you."

Nothing. That was the answer. She'd done nothing. She was just there, quiet and pretty and unbothered, and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand that she didn't need anyone's approval. I couldn't stand that she walked through the hallways like she was already somewhere else.

"You exist," I said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

She stepped closer again. Now she was right there, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, something clean and green. Her hand came up and I flinched, expecting a slap, expecting something I deserved. But she just touched my collar. Adjusted it. Like I was a mess she needed to fix.

"You're shaking," she said.

"I'm not."

"You are."

I looked down. My hands were trembling, just a little, the way they did before a test I hadn't studied for. I hated it. I hated that she could see it.

"What do you want from me?" I asked. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.

Simone tilted her head. She looked at me the way you look at a puzzle you've almost solved.

"I want you to say you're sorry," she said.

"I'm not."

"Say it anyway."

"No."

"Say it."

Her voice was soft. That was the worst part. It wasn't mean or loud or anything I could fight against. It was soft, and patient, and it wrapped around my throat like a hand.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

She smiled. Not a nice smile. Something else. Something that made my stomach drop and my face go hot.

"Good girl," she said.

And I felt it. That thing I'd been chasing since seventh grade, that hot alive feeling, but different now. Pointed the other way. And I wanted more of it. I wanted her to say it again.

She walked away. I stood there behind the dumpsters, my collar straight, my hands shaking, and I knew I was in trouble. The kind you can't talk your way out of.