Ella's Twisted Senior Year (5 page)

Kennedy tugs my arm, her long nails digging into my skin when I try resisting. “What the hell was that?” I ask as we head back toward our table. I want to turn around and apologize to Ella, but who knows what kind of wrath Kennedy would inflict upon both of us if I did. Luckily most people have turned back to their food, proving that the attention span of teenagers is never that long.

Mr. Brown walks up to our lunch table the second we sit down. He clears his throat.

“Ms. Price, may I have a word with you?”

Kennedy turns around in her chair and peers up at him with her innocent little angel look. I’ve seen her use it on her dad to get him to let us stay out past curfew. “What can I help you with, Mr. Brown?”

I’m not even joking. She bats her eyelashes at him.

Lines deepen across the teacher’s forehead and I can practically hear him thinking that he doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this. “You can help me by keeping to yourself during lunch. You know that stunt was inappropriate.”

She gasps, putting a hand to her chest. “Sir, I was only trying to help! I mean, the administration should be embarrassed that they didn’t do something first. That poor girl lost her house. You should be talking to Ella since what she said was way worse than my offer to help her.”

He frowns. “Let’s just keep any announcements you may have to yourself, okay?”

She gives him a coy smile. “Sure thing.”

He leaves quickly, probably happy to have fulfilled his teacher duties for the day. I watch him walk away, curious to see if he’ll go chastise Ella as well.

“What are you looking at?” Kennedy says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. A cloud of perfume follows her hand. “I’m talking about prom here, Ethan.”

I look at her, and then at the rest of my crew, and it dawns on me for the first time that Kennedy has never invited one of her girlfriends to sit with us. From the day we started dating, she’d moved to my lunch table with the guys, quickly making friends with all of them.

Where did she sit before we started dating? And why are her only friends other cheerleaders who never seem to hang around with us unless we’re at a pep rally?

Kennedy taps the notebook in front of her. I’d bought her lunch—a salad and a bag of Cheetos—but she hasn’t even touched it yet. Prom planning is more important, I guess.

“Okay so, I’m still deciding between the pink dress and the white one. Your tux just needs to be black and it’ll match with whatever tie I get you.”

“Why are you so intent on being a bitch to Ella?” I ask. “You didn’t even know who she was until Friday.”

Kennedy closes her prom planning notebook and slaps it on the table so hard it makes all the guys look up.

“Would someone please tell me why my boyfriend cares so much about some stupid homeless girl who is
not
his girlfriend?”

Keith takes a bite of his burger and shrugs. “Because they used to be best friends?”

Ah shit.

Her gaze whirls on me and I get the sudden urge to hold up one of those bullet proof shields that swat teams use. “Do you have something to tell me?”

I try act casual and reach for a chicken nugget. “We used to be friends when we were kids. I haven’t talked to her in years.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Really? Years? Because you two seemed to be having a great conversation when I saw you in the hallway on Friday.”

“It’s nothing, Kennedy. Just let it go.”

She lets out a huff of air and then reaches for her backpack on the floor. “I don’t even want to plan prom right now,” she says, like it’s some kind of epic sacrifice. She shoves the notebook back in her bag.

I know exactly how I want to end this conversation.

I want to break up.

Only I don’t say it, not here in front of everyone. I’ve been a bystander to one of Kennedy’s public scenes once today. There’s no need for an encore.

“Hey am I still coming over to study for the math test today?” I ask her.

She pretends to consider it for a moment and then shrugs. “If you want.”

“Okay, great.”

With my resolve set, I’ll only need to survive the rest of the day. Then I’ll go straight to Kennedy’s house after school and break up with her. I’ll do it on her front doorstep so there’s no awkward walking back through her house when it’s over. The more I think about the plan, the more confident I am that this is the right decision to make. I don’t know what I was thinking dating her.

Okay, maybe I do. I was thinking: hot, popular, likes me.

This is just high school and I know it won’t matter in the future, but it matters to me now. I don’t want to be known as the guy who dates someone as possessive and rude as Kennedy Price, hot cheerleader or not. She can’t get away with stomping all over everyone, including her boyfriend. She’d reeled me in with her flirty eyelashes and heavy-handed compliments on my athletic skill, saying she’d watched me all during football season but didn’t have the courage to approach me. Right. She lured me in and I’d bought it all, like a fish who’s too stupid to see the sharp hook underneath the bait.

The next time I date someone, I’ll make sure she’s more than just a pretty face. She’ll have to be worth it.

*

When the bell rings before last period, I duck out of physics and turn left, purposely taking the long way to the athletics hallway so I can avoid Kennedy. Usually we walk together to last period since I have athletics and she has cheer, but I’m so pumped about breaking up with her that I’m afraid I’ll give it away before we meet at her house. Breaking up with her at school would be a terrible idea, so I’m resorting to sneaking around like a criminal. At least this is the last day I have to worry about her.

When I reach E hallway, it’s nearly empty. That makes Ella’s hot pink backpack stand out even brighter than usual. When I’d hugged her at my house, she told me go away and maybe I’m just an idiot but I have to talk to her again.

“Ella,” I say, jogging to catch up with her. Her shoulders straighten. “Hey, about today during lunch,” I continue, ignoring the cold shoulder she throws my way. “I’m sorry about Kennedy. That was uncalled for.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” she says, staring at the floor as she walks. Junior high feels like decades ago, but now that I’m back to walking next to her like I always used to, I get the urge to grab onto the handle at the top of her backpack and push her around just like the old days. She used to giggle and scream and shove me away, but no matter how much she pretended to hate it, she’d always wait for me after class so we could walk together.

“Well I’m glad it doesn’t bother you, but it bothers me,” I say, struggling to think of something else to say. I just want to talk to her, as stupid as it is. “Look, Kennedy and me are—” I stumble over my words. Should I admit we’re done before I’ve told Kennedy?

Ella looks over at me and she’s even cuter than she was at lunch. Her long bangs are swept across her forehead and tucked behind her ears. “A couple?” she says, thinking she’s finishing my sentence for me.

I shake my head. “So how’s your family doing? Do you have a place to stay yet?”

She folds her arms over her chest and stops in front of the art room. “You don’t have to act like you care, Ethan. Sorry our patio furniture got in your pool.”

“I haven’t used the pool in years.”

Her eyes flicker with something like surprise but she quickly recovers and her blank stare returns. This girl is good at making me feel unwanted.

I run a hand through my hair. Why is it so important to have her like me again? Why am I dying to get a smile out of her? She’s the one who hates me and rejected my crush all those years ago. I should let it go and walk away, but my feet stay rooted to the ground.

“You should give me a call if you need anything.”

Her head tilts to the side. “I don’t have your number.”

“It’s the same one from junior high,” I say, realizing too late what her words meant. She’d deleted it.

“I still don’t have it. But don’t worry, I’m fine without your charity.”

She does smile now, but it’s not the sweet kind I’ve been hoping for. It’s a thinly veiled insult as she turns on her heel and disappears into the art classroom, pulling the door closed behind her.

The bell rings and I head toward the locker room. Coach never notices if we’re a little late since we get five minutes to change clothes. After that exchange with Ella, I’m not in the mood to shoot hoops today. Ella didn’t get a phone until a couple years after I did, and by that time she’d had my number memorized since she’d call me on her mom’s phone all the time. The stench in the boy’s locker room is especially horrid today, but that’s not what makes my face fall.

Ella not only deleted my number from her phone, she forgot it completely.

I toss my backpack into my locker and tug on my gym clothes. Maybe running a few laps will help clear my head. I’m just about to slam the locker door closed when I hear my phone vibrate. I lean in, ignoring someone telling me to hurry up, because right now all I can think about is the possibility that maybe Ella just texted me.

Maybe it was all a lie, or she was just messing with me. She has my number after all. My heart races as I tear through my backpack, finding my phone. I slide open the new text message and see Mom’s name on the screen instead of Ella’s. I groan and click to read the text.

Good news! The Lockharts are going to stay with us for a while! 

There’s still three months left in school but Ms. Cleary seems to have given up on teaching us seniors any new artistic skills. Every day for the last two weeks have been free days, and I stick with my watercolors even though they totally suck. I am not an artist. You know those abstract canvases in art museums that sell for millions of dollars and people look at them and claim they could paint the same thing?

Yeah, I couldn’t make one of those.

I lean over my table, sitting on my knees on the stool, hovering over the cardstock I’m using as a canvas. I’d grabbed a set of different shades of orange and now I’m attempting a sunset. Only I can’t really focus on the brush strokes because I keep noticing all the artwork around the room. There’s clay projects and canvas paintings and stained glass work left here from students over the years. One of my favorites is a paper mache earth that’s beautiful on one half of the globe and the other half is on fire with orange tissue paper flames sticking out everywhere.

But that’s not the art that catches my attention. It’s the collections of sketches on the wall, way up near the ceiling. Five square pieces of art, all drawn by the same guy. I see the prints on t-shirts all over school. Ethan’s artwork has the same irony from the sketches he’d make as a kid, but now the jokes are about pop culture references, like the cartoon coffee cup that has a face and a stick hand that’s holding a wand. It says “Espresso Patronum” in Ethan’s scrawly handwriting and I see that freaking T-shirt all over the school.

I don’t own any of his shirts for obvious reasons, but there are several of his designs that I’d love to wear, if things were different.

I have to physically shake myself in an effort to stop thinking about him and our conversation in the hallway. Why is he trying to be nice to me? Maybe he just feels bad for his girlfriend’s actions. Even though he’s only gotten hotter since eight grade and he’s one of the most popular guys in school, he’s probably still the nice guy he’s always been. That must be the reason behind his sudden need to remember that I exist.

I throw my hair into a messy bun and tell myself to focus on the stupid paints and the sunset. In a few months, school will be over and I’ll start taking culinary and baking classes and I’ll be so busy with trying to start my own cupcake shop that I’ll easily be able to forget Ethan. Again. Maybe the tornado destroying everything was a good thing after all. It means I don’t have to go back to Canyon Falls Circle, and I’ll never have to look at Ethan’s house again.

Near the end of class, my abysmal painting skills have made something that actually kind of looks like a sunset. I add some purples and pinks and blend them into the horizon. Maybe a sprinkle of glitter will make it pop and look like something worthy to hang on the wall.

I realize a second too late that I don’t have any walls right now. Ugh.

I reach into my pocket to change the song on my phone. Ms. Cleary lets us work to music, so long as we have earbuds. There’s a new text and email from my mother. The email subject says: HERE’S THE PLAN.

I read the text first.

Mom:
Sent you an email!

I roll my eyes. In a world where I get emails and texts on my phone at the exact same time, I don’t know why she feels the need to tell me when she emails me.

I open the email, which was sent from her work account. Her work emails are always annoyingly in all caps since she uses caps for filling out hospital forms. I almost don’t bother reading it until after school, but the word
Poe
sticks out as something Mom would never write. She’s not into classic poetry so . . .

I freeze as I skim the words on the screen, and then force myself to read over them very, very slowly. This can’t be happening.

ELLA,

GOOD NEWS! WE’LL BE STAYING WITH THE POE’S UNTIL WE GET OUR NEW LIVING SITUATION FIGURED OUT. GO OVER THERE AFTER SCHOOL AND DAD AND ME WILL BE THERE AFTER WORK.

LOVE YOU,

MOM

*

April’s eyes widen when she meets me at my car after school. I’d texted her
SOS
and
911
and then fifty thousand panic face emojis. They don’t really make an emoji to define when your life has completely been ruined, so I had to get creative.

“What is it?” she says, grabbing my arms and shaking me. She’s way taller than I am so it almost looks like I’m a kid being abused by their mother. “Are you dying?”

“Dying of mortification, yes.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, girl, that’s the worst kind of ailment. I need details.”

I shake my head and I can’t even bring myself to tell her in words. So I hand her my phone and let her read the email. I can’t stop looking around the parking lot, hoping none of the students walking to their cars is Ethan. I can’t bear the idea of seeing him right now. Or in the next few minutes when I get to his house. Or ever.

“Shit,” April says, handing the phone back. “Why would they do that?”

“Because his parents and my parents are friends. I don’t think they really grasp the whole fact that I haven’t been over there in four years.” A sob catches in my throat and I turn around, leaning against my car for support. “I can’t do this, April.”

She pats my back. “Yes you can. You’re Ella Lockhart, the girl who stood up to that bitch, Kennedy. Think of how much she’ll hate knowing you’re sleeping in her boyfriend’s house.”

I laugh. “Yeah, that could be fun. But seeing Ethan every day is going to be the worst.”

April waves a hand. “Nah. Just keep to yourself and keep ignoring him. Don’t let him know it bothers you. You’re strong. You can do this.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You’re right. I can do this.”

*

Mrs. Poe is the picture perfect housewife and she has a mommy blog to prove it. She is the queen of Pinterest and cooks a balanced meal almost every single night. By the looks of her front door, with its spring themed homemade wreath, I’d say she’s only improved her homemaking skills since the last time I was over here.

I swallow back my nerves and tell myself not to remember that time. I left this house crying after Corey broke the news to me. It would be so easy to come back into this house crying again. But I won’t. I hold onto the lie that April told me at school—that I’m strong—and I use it as my weapon against all of the anxiety that snakes up my legs when I press the doorbell.

At least Ethan’s truck isn’t here yet. Maybe I can slip into the guest bedroom and disappear before he gets home.

Mrs. Poe appears a second later, her hair in a cut in a bob and dyed a fiery red.

“Ella!” she says, grabbing me in a hug right here on the threshold. “You’re so beautiful! I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” She ushers me inside. “Dakota will be here soon. She’s excited to have you staying with us.”

Dakota was such a sweet kid when we were younger. I wonder if she’s still the same, or if becoming a teenager has changed her. Their house still smells like warm apple cider and I wonder if that smell is built into the walls or something. Besides some new furniture, it’s still the same place I remember. My chest constricts with all of the unwanted memories that flood into my mind.

“Where’s Ethan?” I ask, since it’s kind of obvious that she’d only mentioned one of her kids a second ago. Maybe I’ll luck out and the answer will be
he moved to Fiji to study abroad and he won’t be back for months.

“Don’t you worry about him,” she says, squeezing my shoulder as she leads me into the kitchen. “He’s been warned to be nice to you and besides, it’s been years since you broke his heart, kiddo. He’ll be fine.”

Wait.
What?

Mrs. Poe opens the refrigerator. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sweet tea, if you have it.”

She grins and waves a manicured hand at me. “Of course I have it. It’s made with natural sweetener not sugar. I’ll get you a glass.”

Why does she think I broke her son’s heart? It must have gotten lost in translation from whatever Ethan told her when we quit hanging out. Maybe she’s confusing me with another girl but I’m not about to ask and bring it all out in the open again.

I sip my tea and Mrs. Poe explains that my parents will be staying in their pool house, which was converted into a one bedroom, one bath guest room a few years ago. I remember it as a room filled with pool floats and bathing suits, but I’m guessing it looks a lot better now that it’s been renovated.

I’ll be staying in their rec room instead of the old guest bedroom. Mrs. Poe shows me the guest room, which is now her office. She takes her mommy blog very seriously. There are awards on the walls and bookshelves filled with books and picture frames of her kids throughout the years. The left side of the room looks like a craft store and all of her supplies are ordered and labeled neatly. I catch a framed picture of Ethan and me on Halloween when we were five and he was dressed as the Tin Man while I was Dorothy.

I run my finger down the frame while Mrs. Poe talks on and on about her blog and how busy it’s been keeping her. Apparently she almost flew to New York City for a TV show but it didn’t work out.

The house phone rings and she jumps. “I have to get that,” she says, scurrying out of the room. “Show yourself to the rec room, sweetie. I’ve got an air mattress set up in there for you.”

Mrs. Poe’s office and the master bedroom are on the first floor of their house, and from what I remember, the rec room is the biggest room on the second floor. There’s a short hallway at the end of the stairs. To the right are Dakota and Ethan’s rooms, and to the left is the rec room which is twice the size of the other bedrooms. I spent so much time up there when I was a kid. Ethan used to have a massive TV and a foosball table up there.

My hand drags along the banister as I climb the stairs, noting that the carpet is new and the people in pictures on the wall have aged and changed over time.

When I reach the second floor, instinct makes me turn right. I don’t know why I do it, maybe morbid curiosity or maybe I’m just hoping to find a reason why Ethan has been nice to me lately.

My hands shake as I approach his bedroom. I glance behind me and then push open his door.

His twin bed has been upgrade to a queen size, the Star Wars sheets replaced with a dark blue comforter. He has football trophies on a shelf and a desk with a laptop and a collection of old iPods. In a way it’s exactly the same as it used to be, but it’s also different. There’s deodorant on the dresser next to a stack of T-shirts from his online company. I sit at his desk and spin around in the rolling chair. His room smells like cinnamon; like the copious amounts of Big Red gum he’s always chewing. I guess some things never change.

There’s a digital tablet next to his laptop and I peer at a sketchpad opened to a blank page. I pick it up and flip through the sketches, all rough drafts of designs for his shirts. It feels wrong going through his things, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

My heart aches for the best friend I used to have, but hatred burns deeper in my veins. How could he have done that to me? If he didn’t like me, he could have just told me. He didn’t have to get Corey to do it for him.

I put the sketchpad back exactly where I found it. The sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My breath catches in my throat. Maybe it’s just Dakota. I think the junior high gets out of school around the same time we do. Please,
please
, just be Dakota. How will I explain being in here without looking like a total freak?

I go to stand, hoping to act like I simply took a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong room, but my legs won’t move. Fear keeps me glued to the chair and in the very next instant, it’s too late.

Kennedy Price appears in the doorway. Her mouth flies open and a cold stab of fear makes everything go blurry.