The jock god rears back like I’ve hit him. “You really think I’d do some half-ass job? Wow, Blair. You think so highly of me.”
“What else am I supposed to think of you?” I stop in the middle of the stream of people and plant a hand on my hip. “Because you’ve just treated me oh so kindly for the past two years.”
Sawyer squares off against me, the two of us obstinate boulders in the middle of a sea of students. “Like I said, let’s not forget who started this war.”
“Oh my god, let it go, Sawyer. We’re not friends, we’re never going to be friends. Not again. You’ve solidified that. I have no idea what’s gotten into you the last few weeks, but it doesn’t make up for how horribly you’ve treated me. So no, I don’t feel like working with someone on a project that is going to cost me my entire grade this marking period.”
“Because you’re just Miss Fucking Perfect when it comes to everything government. Lest anyone forget you’re the head honcho on class cabinet. Jesus Christ, Blair, you act like you’re some congress member when all you do is decorate the gym with streamers for some lame dance.”
I swear, it feels like he just shot an arrow through my chest. I know my student government position doesn’t wield any power, but it’s the one passion I have in this hellhole that is high school. And he’s just slicing right through the only thing I actually enjoy about this place.
My temper snaps, and I come out with knives drawn. “Maybe I just don’t feel like working with some daddy’s boy who isn’t used to working for anything in his life. You skate through life, Sawyer, everyone knows it. You’re an athlete, which means you’re given preferential grades. And eventually, you’ll skate through college and take your nice cushy, easy job at our fathers’ firm because you don’t know how to work hard for—”
I’m in the middle of my sentence when a force knocks me sideways, and the books and binders I’m holding go flying everywhere. I topple to the floor, about to be chopped liver under the feet of all the students rushing to their next period before the bell rings.
My hip is throbbing as I hear, “Jeez, you can’t just stand in the middle of the hall.”
The high, whiny pitch of the voice belongs to Hailey, I’d recognize it anywhere. My personal items are scattered as people unconsciously kick them about, and I squirm around on the floor, trying to gather them while my body aches from the hard fall.
As I collect my books, I hear Hailey crack a joke. “Oh look, I guess it was granny panty day at the Oden household. What happened, Blair, all your sexy panties were in the wash? Wait no, I doubt you even know what sexy is.”
Her little minions crack up behind her, and I keep my eyes on the tiles beneath my hands. My underwear must be peeking out of my jeans, not that it’s granny panties at all. It’s a cute pair I picked up from the Gap, but apparently that equals frigid and prude.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I try to will the thought into being so that the universe pays me some small mercy.
“Fuck, it’s not like anyone would want to see her in a thong.”
That one comes from Sawyer, and his voice is ice. Its jagged edges pierce my heart, and they all cackle together. I stay down, wishing they’d just move on, let me suffer my humiliation in peace.
Not one of them moves to try and help me as I gather up my things and bite the inside of my cheek so hard that I taste blood. I try to keep my fingers from shaking out of embarrassment and hot shame. It’s one thing for Hailey and her bitchy worker bees to bully me, but I thought, for one short moment, that Sawyer was actually turning a corner.
I know now that I’m dead wrong. He’s one of them, always has been, always will be. I insulted him with my comment about working for our fathers, and he pointed a loaded gun straight at my confidence.
I make it past them, fleeing down the hallway, before I find a janitor’s closet and fling myself inside.
Only then do I let the tears come. Hot and streaming, as I bite my fist to keep from making any noise.
15
Sawyer
After homecoming, everything usually passes by in a flash.
From soccer games to school projects to weekend parties, life seems like a blur. It’s a marathon to the holidays, and with college applications looming over our heads, every senior I know seems jumpy and also trying to live on the edge. Or, well, as on the edge as a seventeen-year-old kid in suburban New Jersey can live.
I’m sitting at our kitchen table, my laptop and a ton of notes laid out around me, when Dad walks in.
“You working on your essay?” he asks, going to the fridge and pulling out a container of blueberries.
Dad brings them over to the table, plopping down in a chair and placing the fruit between us. We each pop a couple in our mouths and stare silently at what I already have in my document. It’s the supplemental essay, my main one for the general application already having been completed about two weeks ago.
This is the more important written portion of the two. This is what the professors and admissions officers for the architecture program will see, and will determine whether
