Read How to Say I Love You Out Loud Online
Authors: Karole Cozzo
How to Say I Love You Out Loud
To my Luxie Lou and Christian J—
never, ever give up on your dreams
& Mr. H, for never letting me give up on mine
I’ve had the privilege of serving children with disabilities and their families in the public and private school settings for the past decade. I have the utmost
appreciation and respect for their bravery, strength, perseverance, and resilience as they confront challenges big and small. My experiences with these families did, in part, inspire some of the
content of this book and prompt the messages about acceptance and advocacy included within. However, this story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely
coincidental.
Turn the page for some Swoonworthy Extras . . .
There’s a particular kind of energy radiating from school on the first day, part nervous freshman energy, part rambunctious senior energy, and part
look-how-I-reinvented-myself-over-the-summer energy. The vibe is the same every year, at any given school, even as the students change, as the timid freshmen become bored sophomores and a new
graduating class takes over. The excitement will, very predictably, dissipate by Friday, but on the Tuesday after Labor Day, the return of students turns the school and parking lot into a veritable
beehive alive with the buzz of frantic activity and socializing.
As I walk toward the front door, Erin Blackwell struggles to catch up with me while holding her Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup steady, her designer flip-flops slapping the concrete. “Hi,
Jordyn,” she greets me tersely.
“Hey, Erin. What’s wrong?”
It’s only 7:42 a.m., and we haven’t even stepped into the building yet. I don’t know how or why she already looks stressed, but she does. Erin is sort of perpetually stressed.
As are a lot of kids at Valley Forge High School.
As am I a lot of the time, if I’m being honest. Stress is absorbed through osmosis around here.
“Ugh.” Erin shakes her head in disgust. “It took me forever to get my contacts in, so my hair started to frizz, and it’s so humid that the waves wouldn’t hold when
I finally did get around to doing it. The drive-through at Dunkin’ was backed up, like, a mile, and they forgot to put the caramel in my cappuccino anyway. Which is all really unfortunate
because now I’m late, and I look a hot mess, and I have A.P. Bio first period. I think Bryce is in my section, and it would have been really nice to actually feel like I have my shit together
before walking in there.” Finally she remembers to breathe. “How can I be so far behind before the day’s even started?”
Erin’s anxiety is so potent, I need to take a deep breath of my own.
Erin is a doe-eyed Bella Thorne look-alike, and I assess her long, strawberry-blond locks. “Your hair looks gorgeous. You look gorgeous. We still have twelve minutes before the homeroom
bell. And I thought things were getting better with Bryce?”
She’d had a rough summer as she tried to move on from their dramatic breakup in June.
“They are. It’s just hard being back at school.” She frowns. “Makes me feel like things should go back to the way they were last year. Plus, I don’t really feel
like hearing him join in on all that BS where the guys rate the hottest freshman girls, ya know?”
“Well, I think you’re one of the hottest junior girls.” I smile and tug on the bottom of one impeccably curled strand of her hair. “He’s going to see you and regret
everything.”
“Everything” being the girl from the Shipley School he hooked up with behind Erin’s back.
Erin stops in her tracks and looks at me, chewing her lip. “Really? You think he’ll even notice?”
I take a final deep breath as we approach the front door. It’s only 7:43 and already I’m exhausted. “Positive.”
We push into the fray and are swept up in the tide of students moving through the lobby. Dana Travers, senior cocaptain of the varsity field hockey team, rushes past us, sending a reminder over
her shoulder. “Practice starts
on time
today, ladies. No first day excuses.”
I nod, even though I lack Dana’s zeal for competitive team sports. But I need some kind of athletic activity to round out my college applications and I’m a decent midfielder, so
hockey it is.
A group of students from the exclusive Musicians’ Guild are already disassembling their instruments after what must have been a very early morning rehearsal. As we move through the
shifting crowd, which emits loud voices and sweaty energy, I notice a serious-looking kid leaning against the wall and pushing his glasses up his nose as he reads a physics textbook, one
overachiever of many. We haven’t even been to
homeroom
yet.
The atmosphere in the lobby leaves me feeling dazed and sluggish, and I struggle to wrap my head around the frenzy. I’m still on summer time. Life was much more relaxed when I was peddling
Philly soft pretzels at the tennis club poolside snack bar, chatting with Alex when he appeared at the side window covered in dirt and grass clippings during a break from the hot sun and the
demands of keeping the golf course pristine with the rest of the grounds crew.
To be honest, though, there’s a part of me that has a hard time keeping pace with the student body at Valley Forge regardless of the season. This will be my second year at Valley Forge
High School. My family moved to Berwyn from Lansdale, a town about thirty minutes away, last summer. At my old school, most kids didn’t really care that much about their grades or
extracurricular activities, knowing they’d end up in nearby state schools. My new classmates always seem to be looking over their shoulders to see who might be gaining on them. Last year, I
felt like at the same time people were sizing me up as a new friend, they were assessing me as some kind of potential threat. To their class rank. To their first-chair position in orchestra. To
their acceptance letter from Princeton.
I don’t get it, or maybe they just don’t get
me
. I prefer to fly under the radar, and I’m sure as hell not trying to steal anyone’s spotlight. I hate the feeling
of eyes on me, always have. I’ve had way too many eyes on me over the years, even if they weren’t on
me
, per se. Even after a year, I’m still not sure how well I fit in
here. Crammed like a sardine in the small upper lobby waiting for the homeroom bell, I feel strangely alone and disconnected.
Then I catch sight of something familiar, propped against the foot of one of the old wooden benches. It’s a worn black JanSport, with
ALEX
written in Wite-Out across the front pocket. I
perk up at once, instantly feeling more grounded. Alex is around here somewhere. He’ll throw me my favorite smile—the one that makes it seem like we’re laughing at some joke no
one else gets—and this place won’t seem as serious or intense.
Suddenly, I can’t wait to see him. We haven’t talked much in the past few weeks, because his family was on vacation and he stopped working at the club when two-a-days started for the
football team. Sometimes I’d see him down by the field after our evening practices, but most nights he seemed kind of distracted, überfocused on football, I guess. Alex isn’t the
best player in the world. No matter how many wind sprints he runs or how much time he spends in the weight room, he’s perpetually second string. You can tell it annoys the crap out of him,
this one thing Mr. Perfect can’t be perfect at. I find his frustration sort of endearing. And the rest of the team must find his persistence admirable, because they elected him cocaptain,
second-string skills and all. He’s just got those natural leadership genes, like a young, half Hispanic Barack Obama or something.
Alex is a good person. And as if to prove my point, he walks through the door closest to the teacher lot, barely visible behind the tall stack of books he’s carrying for Mrs. Higgins, our
ancient librarian, who hobbles alongside him, smiling up in admiration.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling. My friend is such a Boy Scout. Seriously. I’m not kidding—he’s an
actual
Boy Scout who’s been working on this big Eagle
Scout project in whatever spare time he has, which isn’t much. But on a daily basis, he seems to go around earning merit badges in Helpfulness and Nobleness and all that good stuff.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Erin, and take off in his direction.
He notices me over the top of the books and grins instantaneously. “Air Jordan, there you are!”
I smile in response to today’s selection from his litany of ridiculous nicknames: Air Jordan . . . M.J. . . . Twenty-three . . . or as he called me for a while in Spanish class last year,
Veintitrés.
I can’t think of a single thing I have in common with the basketball icon Michael Jordan, other than my name, which is Jordyn Michaelson. I’m five foot three, with hazel eyes and
wavy dark shoulder-length hair cut in layers. Female. And white—sadly so, being that summer just ended. But for whatever reason, Alex is amused by the stupid nicknames. Thing is, as stupid as
I find them, it’s impossible to look at his face when he’s busy cracking himself up and not feel amused, too.
His brown eyes get all sparkly, and his wide grin of even white teeth gets all goofy. Combined with the close-cropped black hair and slight widow’s peak, all I see is a little boy looking
for mischief. Alex is one of those people who looks right
at
you, for real, and practically dares you to make mischief with him.
Hurrying toward him, I realize I’m opening my arms to give him a hug, even though hugging isn’t something we usually do. There are unspoken boundaries we have not dared to cross, not
even dared to
approach
, since last year. I’m so focused on Alex that I don’t even notice Leighton Lyons, our other hockey cocaptain, trotting across the lobby from the opposite
direction, until we have a full-on collision. Our shoulders slam into each other’s and I stumble backward, off balance, my heavy backpack nearly pulling me down.
I right myself and rub my shoulder, grumbling inwardly. Girl really needs to learn that other people inhabit this planet. Where is she headed in such a hurry?
When I look up, I get my answer, even though it’s not one that makes sense. Not. At. All. I see her arms wrapped around Alex’s torso, beating me to the punch with a hug. Then I watch
as she does one better and plants a quick, flirty kiss upon his lips. “Hey, babe.”
I stand and stare in disbelief, like an idiot, waiting for it to compute. Which it doesn’t. Leighton hugging Alex. Leighton
kissing
Alex. Leighton calling Alex
babe
.
What? When? How?
But none of it cuts as deeply as him casually looping his arm around her waist and turning to talk to me like none of this requires an explanation. Like none of this should bother me in any way.
At least he has the decency to ask if I’m okay, which Leighton does not. “You alright, Jordyn?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Even though suddenly I’m not. There’s a sick feeling in my gut as the realization sinks in that suddenly everything is different.
“Please,” Leighton interjects. “She takes harder hits than that on the field every day.” Pinching Alex’s side, she smirks at him. I notice how they stand exactly
eye to eye, the same height, and I feel small and insignificant. “We’re just as tough as you guys, right, Jordyn?”
“Umm, sure.”
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, smiling all the while, but rubbing her hand with the pad of his thumb while he says it. “I was so pissed I had to miss the staff
party. You’ll have to give me the recap.”
I swallow my feelings and try not to bat an eye. “Yeah, it was quite the event. They added karaoke this year. And to be honest, I really would have been okay with summer ending
with
out
having to see Mr. Jacoby perform ‘Happy’ in a bathing suit.”
