Capture the World (5 page)

SIX
The real world
Heart Bay High

HIGH SCHOOL IS a courtroom full of manipulators, judges, and juries, and I feel it—the judgment. I see the darting eyes and hear the exaggerated whispers. It’s the same every day, a never-ending, vicious cycle.

And every day, I fake being okay with it, but pretending I don’t care is a lot easier than actually
not
caring.

At my locker, I pull out a worn textbook—corners bent with graffiti-marked pages—and shove colored paper beneath the cover before cradling it against my chest.

“When did you become friends with Matthew Moretti?” Startled, I slam the door shut to find Gracie Edgewood leaning against the red-painted locker row, her brows knitted. Flat-ironed, blonde hair hangs down her back, a blue ribbon braided through it, the strands resting against her royal blue shirt. Gracie is obsessed with the color blue, so much so she even eats primarily blue foods. Processed dyes and all.

Her arms are crossed.

I go all defensive. “What? Me and Matthew? We’re not anything.” Passionate denial rushes out of me, the words stumbling into each other. “Or, you know, friends ... or whatever. That I know of.”

Her brows arch, and because she uses this awesome eyebrow pencil that literally brings them to 3D life, they practically shoot off of her head. “That’s not what I hear.”

What has she heard?

“What? You believe in rumors?” I ask. “Because, last I heard, you morphed into a smurf and moved into a giant mushroom in the woods.”

“Really?” Eyes shining, she steps into the hall, arms thrown out to hug the world. “That’s smurftastic!
Finally
! People who get me! I’m all hashtag blue brilliance!”

“More like hashtag lame.”

“That’s because
you’re
hashtag jealous.”

I laugh, the hashtag game something the two of us have done since Gracie passed me a ‘hashtag’ notebook in math our freshman year to stave off boredom. There were only two #rules to the notebook. If it couldn’t be hashtagged then it couldn’t be written, and any hashtag longer than two words was evicted. Long hashtags
was
trying too hard.

Gracie is unconventional, but she owns it, and I like that about her.

People stare, wading past her. Rather than move, she studies me, her amused grin slipping, a frown tugging her lips down like a curtain falling at the end of a stage production.

“Seriously, though, you’re not being pranked or anything, are you?” she asks, joining me.

Shouts and laughter reverberate down the hall. A group of boys wander toward us, all athletes surrounded by jostling students hanging on their every word. Matthew is with them, his looming frame closest to the lockers. On passing, he glances at me and nods, smiling.

It’s a private look that makes my pulse race and my skin tingle, like hundreds of crawling ants are scurrying up and down my arms and legs.

Inquisitive gazes seek me out, and I drop my head, avoiding them.

“Never mind.” Gracie bumps her five-foot-six-inch frame against my five-foot-two-inch one, nearly knocking me over, her gaze on the vanishing crowd. “He’s not pranking. Not with that look.”

“Is that the news on the street?” Sarcasm drips like honey, thick and sweet, off of my words.

She shuts down, mouth stitching together.

That’s exactly what they’re saying.
“Whatever.” I shrug. “Freedom of speech and all that.”

“I’ll take your whatever and hand you a load of bull.” Tugging a blue pixie stick out of a pocket in her cerulean backpack, Gracie rips the top off with her teeth and empties the candy into her mouth. “Picture their lips stapled together.”

“That’s gross.”

“Sewed shut, then?”

“You watch too many horror movies.”

“They’re educational.”

Edging past her, I walk backwards, pointing. “I’m going to see you on the news one day. All scary stuff.”

She wags her fingers at my face. “Hashtag be afraid!”

IN CHEMISTRY, I throw my book down onto the table I share with Matthew, colored paper spilling out onto the black surface, fireworks in a midnight sky.

His head shoots up.

“Word is, I’m being pranked.” I gesture at the two of us. “This whole you being nice to me thing.”

Matthew leans back, all cocky arrogance. “Do you want to be pranked?”

I give him bitch face.

He leans farther back, the chair’s front legs coming off of the floor. Even though the in-class group project the day before is finished, he’s still at my table. By the look of things, he doesn’t intend to move. “You do this to yourself, you know? Partly.”

His words punch me in the gut, and I sit hard, breathless. “
Whuh
?”

He leans forward, the chair knocking the floor, his hand dangerously close to mine on the table. “Not the stuff people say about your mom. That’s shit. I didn’t mean that.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he frowns. “I’m bad with words. I don’t say everything I’m thinking, and then it comes out all wrong. I meant
you
. The way you scowl at people. The way you push them away. You go too far with the whole protect yourself thing. It gives people the wrong idea.”

“I don’t want people to know me.”

He tips his head too close to mine. “Are you sure about that? Look,” he lowers his voice, “some people are jerks because that’s just them, but some people are jerks because you … well, you act that way toward them.”

Ouch!

The bell rings, silencing us.

Ignoring him, I face the front, the room a roaring mess of emotions drowning out everything Mrs. Pierson is saying. Matthew scoots closer, his jeans rubbing mine, and rocks his leg, bumping it against me over and over again.

I refuse to look at him.

“You’re not a jerk, Reagan,” he hisses.

“Does the insulting thing work on other girls?” I ask, still not looking. “Because it kind of sucks.”

“What? If you’re going to mumble, you’ve got to look at me. My hearing aids are awful. Damn things are way past due an upgrade.”

The Moretti family struggles aren’t a secret. There are too many kids and not enough money coming in. It’s why they fight so hard to be good at stuff, to excel at things like sports, academics, and art. They need the scholarships.

I turn my head. “Insurance doesn’t cover a new one?”

“With the restaurant, my family makes too much for state coverage and private insurance only covers so much.”

Mrs. Pierson babbles, and I wait until she gives the class her back before asking, “How much
are
they?” My question sounds blunt—rude—so I add, “If you want to tell me. You don’t have to.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “I have CIC devices, completely in the canal. We’re hoping to switch me to IIC devices, so that they’re invisible and closer to my eardrums. They’re over four thousand dollars. Apiece. We have to come up with half.”

“Damn!” I lower my voice. “I mean, wow.”

Giving me a smile, he shrugs. “I’m not in a hurry. I deal. I’ve had these over five years, though, and I’ve put them through hell. Repairs aside, they don’t work like they should.”

“Just like a boy, huh?’

He starts to chuckle, glances up at Mrs. Pierson, and then coughs to cover it up. “Because girls can’t be rough on things?”

The question sounds like
a double entendre
. “Whatever.”

We grin, eyes locked.

Matthew’s leg stills, flush against mine. Our gazes dart from the room to each other to Mrs. Pierson.

“You’re not so bad,” Matthew whispers suddenly.

The way he says it makes me pause. “Is that what they’re saying, too? That I’m terrible?” He stares at my lips, not saying anything, and I find myself pleading, “Don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say.”

It’s harsh, cold, and cruel. He doesn’t sugarcoat it, and I sink down into my seat, his words about the way I project myself to others ringing through my head.

Is that how he sees me, too?

Near the end of class, I touch Matthew’s knee under the table, my palm tingling at the contact. His eyes fall to my face.

“Okay,” I tell him.

“Okay, what?”

“I can do this. Be friendly.”

“Really?” Throwing a look over his shoulder, he adds, “So, it’s that easy, huh?”

My fingers play with the colored paper on the table, folding and unfolding. “Was it supposed to be hard?”

“No.” His gaze drops to my fiddling hands. “I’m not pranking you, Reagan.”

I don’t reply because I’m not sure I care if he is. It’s like the fantasies I share with my mother. They’re better than reality.

WE’RE IN THE hall, everyone mingling after the final bell when the world suddenly goes from round to flat. Like if I walk to the end of the corridor to push open the double exit doors leading outside, I’ll fall off the ends of the Earth. Simple as that.
Boosh!
Just fall off. Screaming all the way down.

Gracie’s waiting for me when I come out of my last class, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Well, I’m busy this weekend.” She dances in place, fishing for guesses.

I humor her. “Ruby Rose is in town?”

Gracie has a major girl crush on Ruby. Posters of the woman coat her bedroom walls.

“No, but wouldn’t that be the shit?” She frowns. “God, you really know how to depress a girl.” Field goaling her hands, she frames my face. “Hashtag
downer
.”

“You asked.”

“No, I didn’t.” She bounces, grin returning. “I’m doing a piece on the new coffee shop in town for the school paper. The grand opening. They’re doing a huge student discount for it. Anyway, they’re having karaoke. Want to come? We could go to my house afterwards.”