The Blue-Haired Boy Read online

  I’m a good second-place friend, so I say, “She gets it. You should talk to her.”

  Heather doodles her own name and then Collie’s on a blank sheet of paper. “Is that what you do? Call Liz?”

  “No.” I put on an exasperated face. “As you pointed out earlier, I’m not even on the social ladder. So there’s nothing to say.”

  Sucks to be Heather. Her best friend is a teetotaling virgin, and her second-best friend is on lockdown.

  “But there could be,” she says.

  From the way she’s winking, I know she’s thinking about Dane. And me. Being all sexually deviant. I can’t think that way about Dane. Or anyone. But I can’t tell her that.

  “No, you don’t get it,” I say.

  “You’re the one who is never going to get it. And I’m not either.”

  She sounds exasperated with both of us. But Heather doesn’t understand. Even if I got up the nerve to tell her everything about why I’m not interested in going to Victoria’s Secret, or talking porn, or dreaming of Dane wearing only his socks, it wouldn’t help.

  He would still be in the hallway, and I’d still have to pass him. He’d still be a part of my life. Which would only change for the worse if I told them.

  Because then they’d know, and you can’t un-know something.

  “Maybe someday you’ll meet Captain Lyric and you’ll be ready,” Heather says. “And when that day comes, you have to promise to tell me everything.”

  “Of course.”

  “You mean it? ’Cause it would make me feel so much better if I knew I wasn’t the only one.”

  My heart pounds as I choose my phrase. “I promise I’ll call you first.”

  A wicked little smile plays on Heather’s lips, and just like that, her uncertainty disappears. “Even if it’s Bodee Lennox.”

  “Even if.” The piece of paper Mrs. Tindell gave us at the beginning of class is still blank, so I say, “Hey, we’d better do this.”

  “I’ll do one to five if you’ll do six to ten.”

  I nod and open the book to the right page. This plan has gotten us As so far. When our regular teacher, Mrs. Tomlin, returns from maternity leave, this worksheet crap will finally end. I read this chapter over the weekend, so my answers take only a few minutes. I’m left with ten free minutes to consider Captain Lyric, Dane, and Bodee.

  Soul mate. Date. Question mark. In that order. None of them would want me if they knew the truth. And I don’t really want them, either.

  I know I’ll make myself go out with Dane tomorrow night to keep Heather happy. Liz takes some martial arts class I can’t pronounce on Tuesday nights, so I can’t count on her to help. Damn her Karate Kid skills.

  “What should I wear?” I whisper.

  “Something that shows your boobs.”

  “What boobs?”

  “Just wear that bra I got you for your birthday and a tight shirt. Maybe that red one with the snappy buttons.”

  I don’t have that bra anymore, but I shake my head. Maybe I’ll ask Liz what to wear.

  This dating thing is a problem. What if Captain Lyric knows who I am? He might think I’m into Dane. Then what if he stops finishing my lyrics on the desk? This date with Dane could ruin the one thing that’s getting me through junior year. It could mean Captain Lyric never confesses he wanted to be a priest until the day he saw me in the hallway, and I never get the chance to assure him his call to celibacy suits me just fine. Because I wouldn’t let that keep us apart.

  I’m more like Heather than she knows. Scared shitless and hoping a boy will love me someday even though I’m a mess. And Dane’s probably not looking for love.

  Besides considering how mad Heather will be if I find a way to blow Dane off, I’m stuck on what I ought to do about Bodee. If anything.

  Mom said it perfectly when she said, “Oh, that poor boy.” People have poor boy–ed him all day today. Rumor is that somebody on the football team even asked him after homeroom if he wanted to eat lunch at their table. And I overheard a teacher say she picked him up for school today. I figure he’s got maybe a week of grace before he goes back to being the Kool-Aid Kid and everyone at school moves on to the next tragedy.

  Turned out today was a blue hair day. Fitting, I’d thought, during our conversation this morning. Which made me part of the pity party Rickman High is throwing for him.

  I’d said, “Hey.”

  He’d said, “Hey.”

  Then I’d said, “See you around.”

  And he’d said, “Thanks for, uh, you know.”

  Then I’d snapped my locker shut and walked away.

  Bodee’s like this tall dead tree among a forest of green. Or an evergreen in winter surrounded by oaks. I can hardly ignore him anymore, because he’s like those trees. You notice them first.

  After sharing that slab of concrete on Saturday, I’ve started wondering about all the things I don’t know about him. And that’s a long list.

  I don’t even know what color his eyes are, since Bodee doesn’t really look at anyone. Green? Blue? Brown, like mine? Funny how people value eyes, when really, their colors are super limited. I doubt anyone would enjoy a new box of crayons if they came only in eye-color shades. And maybe his teeth are jacked up, because on rare occasions when he smiles, his mouth stays shut.

  Besides pain, what’s under that mop of Kool-Aid blue?

  Across from me I notice the absence of pencil sounds when Heather stops scribbling. She says, “Do you read these lessons ahead of time or something?”

  Of course I do, which is why I always finish before she does. I can’t help it; my mom’s a teacher. But I say, “No.” Because I’m not admitting to this level of responsibility.

  And because the homework distractions help keep me out of the closet.

  The closet is both my curse and my sanctuary. For at least an hour every day, I hide there. Folded and tucked. Arms wrapped around my knees while I will my mind not to live in whacked-out “before and after” mode. Which is hopeless. Because hiding behind my comics, football cards, stuffed animals, or my old copy of Superfudge never really works.

  “You thinking about Dane?”

  “Can’t stop,” I answer.

  The bell rings, and Heather tosses her folder into her overlarge purse. “Yay, lunchtime. Pizza or prepackaged?”

  Prepackaged food is generally safer, but my stomach can’t handle a bag of Heather’s favorite white cheddar popcorn. “Pizza.”

  “See you in there.” Heather splits while I take the time to straighten my desk. Tomorrow, if the universe hasn’t forsaken me, his handwriting will appear below mine. Then I’ll have fifty-three minutes to escape from reality into his words.

  I walk the hallway with my head down and earbuds in and don’t stop until I get to my locker. Too many people drop trays when they try to carry both books and food, so I’d rather unload my stuff and then deal with the long lunch line.

  I notice that Bodee’s not at his locker.

  Maybe he doesn’t have my lunch period, or maybe he’s already enjoying his new status as the football player’s friend. Then again, if it was my mom who died, I’d be in the bathroom crying off my mascara.

  Knowing Bodee’s location is not my job, but somehow the silence we shared on the bench connected us, and I find myself wanting to know if he’s okay.

  Or only pretending to be okay.

  Bodee is really none of my business. But I did follow him out of the funeral. And as I ask myself why I did, or why I’m thinking about him now, I know the answer.

  Because I’m pretending too.

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  About the Author

  Photo by Jen Creed, 2013

  COURTNEY C. STEVENS grew up in Kentucky and lives in Nashville, Tennessee. She is an adjunct professor and a former youth minister. Her other skills include playing hide-and-seek, climbing trees, and being an Olympic torch bearer. Faking Normal is her first novel. You can visit her online at www.quartland.blogspot.com.

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  Copyright

  Copyright © 2014 by Courtney C. Stevens

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  EPub Edition © February 2014 ISBN: 9780062295170

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