Ophelia After All Page 2

  “Oh yeah, they’re fantastic for them, but just the peels. They decompose really quickly and release phosphorus, nitrogen, and potassium into the soil, which the roses love,” I explain, shedding the cracks in my voice. “Plus, my dad loves freezing the leftover bananas and using them to make plátanos maduros.”

  “Now I’m hungry,” she laughs, starting to turn back around.

  “I can show you updated garden photos!” I showed her the first of this season’s blooms a few weeks back, but the Midas Touch bushes were her favorite and they’ve drastically blossomed since.

  The final bell rings before I can get to my phone. Ms. Fell clears her throat and asks us to get ready for a pop quiz.

  “You can text them to me later,” Talia whispers, then turns away. My face warms, but I clear everything in my head that doesn’t have to do with checks and balances.

  Talia finishes her quiz after me, flashing me a small smile on her way back to her seat. It’s impossible not to notice the way the harsh overhead lighting illuminates the golden ring hooked around her nose and highlights the lighter tones in her dark hair. As she sits, she pulls her thick curls into a bun with such ease, it almost looks like a magic trick. All that volume being condensed to defy gravity within seconds. When she drops her hands, the light catches on her glittery red fingertips.

  When I formally met Talia at the start of senior year, I only knew four things about her:

  1. She is friends with Wesley Cho and Zaquariah Field.

  2. She is quiet.

  3. Her nails are always painted a sparkly red color.

  4. She once kissed a girl and liked it.

  I never went out of my way to learn these things about her. But I’ve seen her around school enough that it was inevitable for me to recognize her face in a crowd and learn her name. Especially after Wesley started hanging out with both of us. I only noticed her nails because she and Lindsay had a math class together sophomore year. Lindsay thought it was weird that a girl who rarely wore makeup and whose closet seemed mostly comprised of flannels and khakis always had such pristine, glittery, in-your-face nails.

  Our first real conversation happened in this class at the start of the year, after we were seated near each other alphabetically and coerced into an icebreaker about our summer break. It wasn’t as awkward as it could have been, both in spite and because of the events the week prior, at Lindsay’s end-of-summer party.

  Half our senior class had been crammed into Lindsay’s stuffy basement, chugging watered-down beer Lindsay scored using her new fake ID, a birthday present from her cousin. The cliché topics we all silently swore to leave untouched until school began started slipping into every conversation anyway. “Where are you applying?” “What majors are you considering?” “Are you taking a gap year?” “What did you get on the SAT? Or did you take the ACT?” I finally snapped the tenth time someone asked me what I planned to do with a degree in botany, practically shouting, “I don’t know, maybe grow some plants?”

  Agatha hauled me away before I could embarrass myself further, and shoved a Solo cup of Diet Coke into my hand. She managed to pull Lindsay away from her third round of shots to play the ten-finger method of Never Have I Ever. Zaq dragged overdressed Wesley over, and Sammie joined soon after, because where there is Wesley and Lindsay, there is usually Sammie buzzing around them, trying to intervene. Slowly even the stragglers who I’d never seen at any of Lindsay’s other parties were playing along.

  The room shook with laughter at the expense of friends and echoed with whistling following every dropped finger, even if the admission wasn’t particularly promiscuous. We all groaned when Evan Matthews said, “Never Have I Ever dyed my hair multiple colors at once,” because his ex, Danica Peters, was sitting directly across from him with freshly dyed rainbow hair. Never Have I Ever could get extremely petty, and I was grateful Lucas wasn’t there to tempt me.

  My fingers stayed mostly raised due to what Lindsay likes to call my “lack of teenage experience.” My only lowered fingers were from cop-out answers about crushing on someone in the room or having piercings. Lindsay and Sammie, on the other hand, were in the negative finger zone within the first few rounds.

  Usually my raised fingers would’ve felt like a glaring sign above my head screaming “Look at me! I’m boring!” but something about the communal participation made me feel less on display. Like the collective vulnerability protected all of us from judgment. Maybe it was the feeling of senior year creeping up on me, the unspoken realization that it was the beginning of the end for our teenage years, but the laughter and cheers and ache in my cheeks from smiling so much made that night feel less like a subtle competition of slut shaming, blatant callouts, and discreetly raised or lowered fingers, and more like a celebration of whatever the past three years of high school had or hadn’t been comprised of.

  Most of my summer had been spent watering my roses with tears over Lucas. Even Agatha and Sammie dragging me to the local mall to scope out cute boys working at those clothing stores with shirtless guys on their bags couldn’t cheer me up. But that night, surrounded by my drunken peers and best friends, I’d forgotten all about my heartbreak.

  Agatha and Zaq got up to refresh their drinks, leaving an empty space between me and Talia. I’d been focused on ogling Lou Santos from across the circle, in all his basketball-playing, six-foot-five glory, but something about the way she stood out in the corner of my vision drew my attention away.

  She turned and smiled politely when she caught me staring, raising her red Solo cup in friendly greeting. Even in the dim basement lighting I could see the way her nose ring and deep red lipstick sparkled like her nails. I’d never noticed how full her lips were before then. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but a shrill voice interrupted my thoughts and drew Talia’s attention away.

  The voice belonged to Jackie Mitchell, one of those people you go to school with for ages but never actually get to know. The type whose birthday party you’d get a pity-invite to in middle school. That night, she wore a tight black tube top and a neon miniskirt that glowed in the dark room, accentuating her curves and leaving her collarbones on full display. I forced my eyes from her body, my face flushed from what was definitely jealousy over how good she looked, but I listened as she huskily said, “Never have I ever … kissed a girl … and liked it.” She batted her lashes at Lou, and he grinned devilishly as she, against the rules of the game, dropped her finger with a wink.

  Jackie’s claim to fame was when, during our freshman year, she and her best friend snuck into some senior party and drunkenly made out in a pool together. Some of the boys recorded it and posted the video to Twitter, because “girl-on-girl action is so hot,” making it the talk of the school for a week or so. I nearly broke Sammie’s phone when I saw he retweeted it.

  Most of the guys dropped a finger, and everyone moved on to the next confession, but I couldn’t. The ease with which Jackie admitted she liked kissing a girl alongside the blatant use of that admission as flirtation with Lou made my stomach inexplicably clench. My tenseness must’ve shown, because when I looked up from my drink, Talia was staring.

  She glanced at Jackie and rolled her eyes, then fiddled with her nose ring, dropping a finger discreetly in the process. Except she was looking straight at me as she did it.

  I didn’t react. I didn’t know how to, given the hot, oddly pained feeling that the look she gave me left in my chest. More than that, I was overwhelmed by the confusing intensity of why I suddenly needed to know everything about her.

  Before I could muster up the courage to scoot closer, Agatha and Zaq returned, passionately debating the difference between thrift stores and vintage stores, and I lost hold of what exactly I expected to get out of Talia in the first place.

  We didn’t interact for the rest of the night, the game dying out a few rounds later when Evan targeted Danica again and Sammie had to calm them both down before a fight broke out. Ags and I slept over once everyone went home, well
into the night, and I watched in envy as Linds and Agatha comfortably shared a blanket on the other side of the couch. I wasn’t envious of them cuddling together; I was envious that they could do it without feeling weird like I always did. I fell asleep to the sound of Lindsay mumbling about prom and Wesley, as I forgot all about Talia and her red lips, red nails, and red cup.

  By the first day of school, a week later, the significance of Talia had completely vanished. But when she turned around in government to pass back the syllabus and said hello to me for the first time, it all came rushing back.

  Every time she asked to borrow an eraser or reminded me of an upcoming test, I felt like I was sitting on that basement carpet all over again. I never brought up Linds’s party, too uncomfortable with the memory of how our small interaction affected me. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind couldn’t let go of the one thing I’d wanted to ask her most.

  What did she see in my face that night, looking at Jackie and Lou across the room, that made her confess?

  TWO

  By the time we’re back at our lockers after school, Agatha has a plan.

  “I am not running for prom queen,” Lindsay says, slamming her locker shut as she stands. “You know how I feel about Little Mermaid jokes. Why would I subject myself to that shit?”

  “Because you know how I feel about this theme. A prom-campaign project could salvage the end of senior year.” Agatha slams her locker even harder, like that’ll solidify her point. “I’m getting bored.”

  Linds rolls her eyes far enough that her green irises vanish. She turns to me. “O, how would you feel if prom was Hamlet themed? Would you run for queen?”

  “Of course I would. I’d finally have an excuse to re-create Ophelia’s iconic mad scene. Prancing across a stage throwing flowers and singing off-key would be very on-brand for me.” I mime pulling flowers from a basket, flicking my hand as if showering Lindsay with them. “Look, a fantasy of mine come true.” She bats me away.

  I get her annoyance, but if I endured an entire unit of studying Hamlet in English last fall without complaint, she can survive running for prom queen. If I had a dollar for every time Sammie told me to get myself to a nunnery, I’d have the type of financial security that would justify getting a BS in botany.

  “I heard ‘Ophelia’s fantasy’ and came running,” Sammie says as he and Wesley approach from opposite ends of the hall. I mime barfing while he wraps an arm around Linds, leaving Wesley stiff as a board on his own.

  “Agatha is trying to get Linds to run for prom queen,” I say.

  “We could get some real use out of that hair,” Agatha says.

  “We are not using my hair, nor my mortal enemy, Ariel of the Sea, to earn me a pointless plastic crown and a title that turns school dances into beauty pageants.”

  “Yeah, the title is what makes school dances about beauty,” Sammie says.

  Agatha raises her hands in surrender. “Fine. No go on the prom queen campaign.” Linds huffs a sigh of relief before leaving, with Wesley close on her heels.

  Once they’re out of earshot, Agatha turns to Sammie and me with a mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. “I’ll get started on campaign slogan ideas, and we’ll reconvene on Monday.” She shimmies away to catch up with Lindsay and Wesley, her thick halo of corkscrew black hair wavering as she goes.

  “Please tell me she doesn’t actually care this much about a meaningless theme,” Sammie says as we follow our friends to student parking. He’s towered above me for a while now, ever since his growth spurt halfway through freshman year, but I always forget just how tall he is until he’s right beside me. A consequence of being friends since infancy, I suppose. It’s just hard to reconcile childhood Sammie, awkwardly lanky with a bush of untamable black curls, with young adult Sammie, endearingly spindly with soft spirals of hair framing his narrow face.

  “Depends on which she you’re referring to,” I reply, cocking my head for emphasis and to see his face better.

  “Both of them,” he replies, but I watch his eyes track Lindsay as she bounces between Agatha and Wesley, telling a story with her entire body. I look away, the yearning in his eyes too much. “Agatha’s disdain has been made abundantly clear, but she’ll get over it once she refocuses on the bigger picture: getting to judge everyone’s fashion choices.” He laughs. “But I don’t want this Little Mermaid bullshit keeping Linds from enjoying herself.”

  “You know what would really help Lindsay enjoy herself?” I ask, nudging him with my elbow. “Having a date. I hear Wesley is interested if you want to help him ask her out.”

  The funny thing is, when Wesley transferred here halfway through junior year, he and Sammie actually got along pretty well at first. Lindsay tutored Wesley in math and invited him to sit with us at lunch because he didn’t have any friends yet. And while Sammie had never complained about being the only guy in our group of friends, I could tell he felt relieved by the company.

  The problem is that for as long as Sammie and Lindsay have been friends, they’ve had pretty obvious crushes on each other. And by obvious, I mean obvious to everyone but each other. Their flirting was never serious enough to cause real tension in the group and not enough where either seemed willing to act on it, but it was there. For years, Agatha and I waited for the day our group would be rocked by the intensity of intragroup dating, but every time it seemed like they were ready to commit, they dropped the ball. Lindsay would start dating a guy on the track team, so Sammie would get jealous and kiss another girl at one of Lindsay’s parties, and our fears would subside for the time being.

  Sammie finally seemed ready to ask Lindsay to the Valentine’s Day dance last year, but she asked Wesley before he got the chance. After that day, Sammie brooding at the punch bowl as Lindsay and Wesley slow danced among card-stock hearts and glimmering pink streamers, the budding bromance was no more. Just like my minor crush on the shy new boy, as Wesley went from stake-free fantasizing territory to Lindsay’s unforeseen romantic interest.

  This year has basically been a ticking time bomb of passive-aggressive comments between the boys while we all wait to see who’ll finally make a real move before we graduate. Though truthfully, Wesley is all passive and Sammie is almost exclusively aggressive.

  Sammie smirks, taking my taunts and jabs in stride. “Don’t rush my process, O.” He even has the audacity to wink.

  “What happens when Wesley asks her out before you do? Should I get some tissues ready? Ask my dad to prepare some of those cream cheese pastelitos for you?” I poke him in the side. “Just give me the word and I’ll tell him to cue up the heartbreak canciones.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ll just take you to prom to make her jealous.”

  “Wow.” I pause, fanning my eyes to dry imaginary tears. “I’ve waited all seventeen years of my life for this moment. I can finally, definitively, say I will be used by a man. Thank you for making my dreams come true, Samuel. Truly, it’s an honor.”

  He flips me off. “Whatever. You don’t have to worry about it because I got this. You’ll see.” We finally catch up to our friends as Agatha pulls a dingy orange flyer promoting cap and gown sales off her windshield, gagging at our class color.

  “Now they’re just mocking me.” She balls it up and tosses it to me. “For your roses.”

  “You can’t use colored paper as compost!” I shout as she blows several kisses, gets in her car, and leaves. I pocket the flyer anyway.

  “I better get going too,” Linds says. “I have to grab my car and pick up the twins from soccer practice.”

  “Where’d you park?” I ask, looking around for her signature red whatever-you-call-small-square-shaped-cars car that’s normally parked right beside Agatha’s white whatever-you-call-small-round-cars car.

  “I actually didn’t drive today,” Linds replies casually, but her eyes flash quickly to Sammie, then back to me. “Wes gave me a ride.”

  “That’s cool,” Sammie says in a voice that says he very decidedly does
not think it is cool. Lindsay smiles, and she and Wesley leave for the other end of the lot.

  Even with as limited car knowledge as I have, I know Wesley’s car is nice. I don’t know what Mr. and Mrs. Cho do for work, but Wesley’s cashmere sweaters and polished loafers don’t exactly hide their salaries. All things considered—rich parents, muscular body, handsome face—he should’ve turned out to be a massive tool. I suppose I should be more grateful for his silent demeanor, given the potential alternative.

  “You’re drooling again,” Sammie snaps as he stalks toward his car and opens the passenger door for me, tugging on it since it sticks no matter how many times he oils the hinges. He worked two summers at the vegan burger joint down the street from us to save up for his car, but his parents chipped in as long as he promised to help drive his sisters around. Instead of investing the additional money in, I don’t know, a car with better doors, he bought an entire set of encyclopedias that he keeps in the back seat. He’s a massive history nerd and uses them to pick his next personal research project.

  “Am not.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand while he isn’t looking. Wesley is cute, sure, but definitely off-limits.

  “Do her sisters even have soccer practice today?” he asks.

  “How am I supposed to know?” I get in and toss my bag onto the O–P volume.

  “You spent half of last year at the soccer fields watching Lucas’s games,” he says before starting the car. The engine sputters but eventually roars to life. “Didn’t you run into Linds all the time?”

  “His games were on Saturday mornings, not Friday afternoons. I have no idea when the twins have practice.”

  Sammie must notice my irritation, because he takes a deep breath and says, “Hey, I’m sorry about my Snooze-cus comment earlier.”

  “I don’t care that you think he’s boring.”