Crushed (4 page)

I harden my voice.
Stay distant, Fletch
. “There’s nothing left to say. That was made clear.” 

Disbelief clouds her face. “Stop it. Why are you being so cold? I know you like me.” She stares into my eyes, daring me to look away. “You know it’s true.”

I bristle and pull my towel tighter around me. “It doesn’t matter, Cal.” I recite the lie I’ve practiced everyday for the past week. “You’re like a sister to me, and hooking up with you is gross.”

She clenches her jaw, and she shakes her head slowly, as if giving herself time to digest my words.

“You’re such a liar.” Tears well in the corner of her eyes but don’t fall. 

Don’t cry, Cal, please don’t cry
. I want to reach out and dab the frozen tears. I want to pull her to my chest and tell her I’m sorry. But I don’t. I stand here, half-naked, shivering, with my hand firmly clenching my towel. I make no effort to comfort her.

Calista drops her head. I watch the small vibrations of her trembling lip, and wonder if she hates me.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispers. Without warning, her fist slams into my bare chest.

“Why?” she screams. Calista never screams. She doesn’t rage; she doesn’t throw fits. She’s steady and calm.

My mind spins, trying to make sense of what she’s asking. “Cal, it’s not like that. I didn’t mean to—“ 

“What is it, Fletch?” She waits for me to say something, and when I don’t, she turns and runs down the hallway to the stairwell. I stand there, listening to her footsteps echo as she runs farther away. I don’t try to stop her. 

I notice, for the first time, a few students watching me. But I don’t care. Let them think what they want. 

I slam my door shut and kick the garbage can next to me. It flies across the room and strikes the opposite wall.

This needs to stop. I can’t have her running around school causing scenes. Hell, what am I saying? I can’t start fights. Not over Calista. 

It’s freaking senior year. I shouldn’t be dealing with this crap. I’m supposed to be meeting the new girls, stressing about college, and smoking weed with my friends to take the edge off. Not worrying about Calista. 

The night before my first move-in day, when I was fourteen, Dad came into my room, sat in my desk chair, and told me, “High school is for testing the limits. It’s where you begin to figure out who you really are. Don’t worry about what others think, Fletch, just worry about you. It’s your time to experience things and live.”

Maybe I’ve taken his advice too literally. Maybe I don’t care about other people at all.

My hands shake, shake, shake. I knot them together and press them into my forehead. 

I can do better than this.

***

All seven-hundred-and-fifty Harker students fill the Quad. My friends are gathered in a loose group, near the benches, comparing schedules for last minute changes. There’s an open space where Calista should be. 

“Oversleep, Fletch?” Paige asks as I saunter up.

“I was dreaming about you and didn’t want to wake up,” I joke. 

She holds the back of her hand against her forehead and pretends to faint. “Oh my God, I can die happy.”

I study Paige for a minute. She doesn’t seem upset with me. Maybe she doesn’t know Cal came by to see me?
Yet.
She doesn’t know yet. Because once she does, no doubt she’ll give me the evil eye and tear into me.

Brady snatches my schedule from my hand. “Looks like we have American Lit together.” 

“Nothing else?”

“Nope.”

Paige plucks my schedule away from Brady and compares it to hers and Reid’s. “Nothing here, either. You’re on your own this year.”

Fantastic. In three years, I’ve always had at least one friend in each class. Can my day get any better?

The ten-minute bell rings, and my friends and I scatter. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I fall in with the crowd headed toward the brand-spanking-new science building. Construction started last year, even though some old guy left his entire fortune to the school years ago. Apparently, his relatives were so pissed, they sued Harker. Or so my dad says. He would know, being in charge of alumni giving and all.

Hall signs indicate Physics Room A is at the end of the left wing. I find it easily enough. Everything about the room smells new, and its shininess reminds me of those staged college brochure pictures that are supposed to convince me the college is a scientific or theatrical or business powerhouse. 

Mr. Smits, an injured Desert Storm vet, hops around the front of the classroom on his pogo stick of a prosthetic leg. He messes with the video camera trained on his desk, and behind him, a huge screen shows the image. High-tech teaching at its best. 

Since the start bell hasn’t sounded, most of us stand around talking. Kyle Bennett, the guy who walked in on Cal and me, is telling everyone about his less-than-interesting summer.

“So, what about you, Fletch? Did you have a fun summer?” he asks. I’m surprised he doesn’t ask about this morning. But then again, he is what Brady calls a ‘boy scout-type.’ He probably thinks it’s rude or something. 

I flick at a piece of lint from my Harker School navy sweater. “It was fine. I went to San Diego.”

The unbuttoned collar of Kyle’s dress shirt pulls away from his neck, revealing his gross chest hair as he nods enthusiastically. I wonder if he’s ever gotten laid? Probably not. How sad would it be to start college and never have gotten a piece of anything?

“That sounds great! Did you look at colleges? I’m thinking about applying to UCSD.”

“No.” I want to be snarky, but what’s the point? Kyle’s not hurting anyone. “I was visiting my cousin Reilly. I go every year.”

“That’s cool.”

It was. We surfed everyday, hung out with a group of extremely hot girls, drank beer on the beach, and just lived. “It was okay.”

“Good morning, everyone.” Mr. Smits’s monotone voice echoes off the cold, hard surfaces of the room. “Please line up against the wall.” He points to the bank of windows, as if we can’t figure it out.

I shuffle, along with my classmates, across the room. Despite my general lack of interest in science, Mr. Smits’s classes are usually exciting. In chemistry, we spent about a month learning how to blow things up, and I’m pretty sure I could make a mean pipe bomb if I wanted.

“When I call your name please take the next available seat. Starting with this one.” He pats the corner of the workstation nearest him. 

Alphabetical seating. I swing my eyes around the room trying to figure out who I’ll be paired with. There are only twenty of us in the class. I do not want to sit with Kyle.

“Allen.” Seat one taken.

“Alvardo.” Seat two.

“Baumgarten and Bennett.” Kyle drops his stuff at the second table.

A bunch of girls are left along with a few guys I’ve never really hung out with. I pray I get a girl.

“Colson.” I take a chair at the third table and hold my breath.

“And Diaz.” Exhale.

Sarah Diaz slides into the seat next to mine. Luck is on my side. She’s the hottest girl at Harker – all long blond hair, curves and legs – the kind of girl you want to do stuff to and then exaggerate when giving details to your friends. 

“Hey, Fletch.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, in that way girls think is cute.

“What’s up?” I lean back in my chair, trying to look nonchalant. 

Sarah rolls her eyes and drops a glittered notebook on the desktop. “Still the same Fletch, I see.” 

I’m not sure what exactly she means. Sure we hooked up sophomore year, but we’ve barely talked since then. Doesn’t mean we can’t have a repeat performance.

“If you say so.”

Sarah flips her notebook open and diligently copies Mr. Smits’s whiteboard scrawls, outlining as she goes. 

I don’t bother to take notes. Chances are it’s all in the syllabus. Why make more work for myself?

“Do you like physics?” she whispers, taking a break from her fervent note taking.

“Don’t know. Never took it before.” 

Sarah gives a low laugh. “Dumb question.”

“Not at all. I think some over-achievers, like Kyle, do physics on Friday nights for fun.” 

She draws her eyebrows together and plays with the end of her ponytail. Her hair matches the honey color of her skin. “He’s so annoying,” she whispers.

I nod. Actually, he’s not bad. Just a little over-enthusiastic. But whatever, if she doesn’t like him, I’ll play along.

Kyle hands back a stack of syllabi. I take one for myself and give Sarah hers before passing them on to the next table.

Mr. Smits scratches some dates on his tablet with a special hi-tech pen thing, and the words appear on the overhead screen. “This is also in your syllabus. Memorize it.” He bounces to the front of the room and taps the whiteboard with the pen. “These are the three dates of the three exams on which seventy-five percent of your grade will be based. The rest of your grade comes from lab work. And only because it’s the first day of class, I’m going to ignore all the extraneous talking.” He glares in our direction. 

Sarah runs her finger down the paper, scanning the list of assignments. “We need a study group if we want to pass this class.”

“Okay.” It doesn’t look harder than any other Harker class. 

“Seriously, don’t you think this is going to be a hard class?” I half-shrug, thinking it’s the end of her freak-out, but it’s not. “I have to get an ‘A’ if I want a chance at Columbia.”

Suddenly, having Sarah Diaz as a lab partner seems like a pain-in-the-ass. But I say, “Yeah, it does,” and crumple the paper before dropping it into my bag. “Just let me know when you want to study.”

She turns my unopened notebook over and neatly prints a number across the back. “Call my room later and we’ll set something up.”

Nice. It’s not even second period and I’ve already scored a phone number. Brady’s gonna be pissed. 

The bell trills. Mr. Smits does his half-walk half-hop thing to the door and pushes it open, giving us permission to leave. At Harker, even if the bell rings, you still have to wait for the teacher’s dismissal.

While Sarah places her stuff in her bag, I wait. Maybe because I don’t want to see Calista between classes. I don’t know. Waiting just seems like a good idea.

Sarah starts toward the door, looks back over her shoulder and asks, “See you later, Fletch?”

I nod. “I’ll call you.”

5

It’s not uncommon to find a friend or two hanging out in your room when you come back from class.

What I don’t expect is to find Reid and Brady standing on my balcony shooting a Super Soaker at unsuspecting passers-by. But seriously, why am I surprised?

“You have the best room in the school.” Reid pumps up the water gun and drenches some poor freshman. “Hot chicks on The Beach and the ability to terrorize underclassmen. This is awesome.”

I toss my bag on the extra bed near the door. “What the hell you guys? You’re going to have…” I pause, searching my memory for the right name, but come up with nothing. “My RA on my case.”

“Not expellable, Fletch.” Reid lets another stream of water fly. That’s Reid’s governing law: as long as it’s not expellable, it’s okay.

“I don’t care if it’s not expellable. If he’s watching me, because of you two dicks, how am I going to have any fun?”

A blast of ice cold water soaks through my sweater and sprays all over my bed. 

“Fuuuuck.”

“What you get for being such a pisser.” Reid chuckles as he turns his attention back toward The Beach.

I strip off my drenched shirt, throw it into the corner and grab a new one from my drawer. “Thanks for reminding me why I didn’t want to room with either of you.”

“You’re not exactly Mr. Ideal Roommate, either. Ever hear yourself snore?” Reid props the Super Soaker by the door and flops on the bed. “It’s like a fucking freight train.”

“Whatever. At least I don’t keep lotion and Kleenex next to my bed,” I retort. Reid and I roomed together last year. It wasn’t bad. He spent most of his time at Paige’s.

Brady snorts. “Yeah, Reid. Why do you keep that so close to the bed? Paige not servicing you enough?” he says and makes an obscene motion with his fist. 

A long groan rumbles out of Reid. “You guys are jealous because I always have a source. You two never know if you’re going to feast or starve.”

“Speaking of starving, you got anything to eat?” Without waiting for my answer, Brady walks back into the room and opens the mini-fridge. “Some Coke, some fruit – why do you have fruit? What’s wrong with you?”

I shove him out of the way. “There’s chips in the closet.” 

Brady flings a bag of chips at Reid and takes one for himself. 

“Dude! Those are full-sized bags. Share.” I pluck Brady’s from his hand and toss it back into my closet. “I’m not your personal grocery store.”

Brady sits on the floor, below Reid on the bed, and the two of them tear into the chips like they haven’t eaten in years. Crumbs spray out of his mouth. “So whastsgoinonwifcal?” 

“What?” I locate my vintage 80’s playlist, the one Brady hates, and click on it. The music pulses out. Hmmm. Maybe I need some new speakers. The bass is too weak.

“Not this crap again. Jesus, Fletch. You need better taste in music.”

I shrug, and for about thirty seconds, relief washes over me because I’ve successfully distracted Brady. 

He reaches around me and pauses the music. “You didn’t answer me. What ya do to Calista?”

My stomach drops to my feet. I spent the day successfully avoiding Cal by skipping lunch and eating in my room instead. “She was upset about Hannah.”

“Liar.” Reid throws a fistful of chips at me. “Paige said she was bawling in first period because you did something. So what did you do?”

I spin around in my chair. A lump sits in my throat. “She was?” 

Brady swallows and gives me an incredulous look. “Told you.” 

I unpause the music and pretend I’m not listening. 

“What did you tell him?” Reid asks. He’s picked up the guitar he always carries with him and plucks out a few notes, like he’s testing the strings, before playing along to the music blasting over the speakers. I watch in envy as his fingers move up and down the neck.