I slide across the bench to the aisle, then stand up in the moving bus.
The first to drop out was Alex. We were friendly when we saw each other in the halls, but it never went beyond that.
At least, with me it didn’t.
Bracing my hands against the backrests, I make my way to the front of the shifting bus.
Now down to the two of us, Jessica and me, the whole thing changed pretty fast. The talks became chitchat and not much more.
“When’s the next stop?” I ask. I feel the words leave my throat, but they’re barely whispers above Hannah’s voice and the engine.
The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror.
Then Jessica stopped going, and though I went to Monet’s a few more times hoping one of them might wander in, eventually I stopped going, too.
Until…
“Only other people here are asleep,” the driver says. I watch her lips carefully to make sure I understand. “I can stop wherever you’d like.”
See, the cool thing about Jessica’s story is that so much of it happens in one spot, making life much easier for those of you following the stars.
The bus passes Monet’s. “Here’s good,” I say.
Yes, I met Jessica for the first time in Ms. Antilly’s office. But we got to know each other at Monet’s.
I hold myself steady as the bus decelerates and pulls to the curb.
And we got to know Alex at Monet’s. And then…and then this happened.
The door wheezes open.
At school one day, Jessica walked up to me in the halls. “We need to talk,” she said. She didn’t say where or why, but I knew she meant Monet’s…and I thought I knew why.
I descend the stairs and step from the gutter up onto the curb. I readjust the headphones and start walking back half a block.
When I got there, Jessica was sitting slumped in a chair, arms dangling by her sides like she’d been waiting a long time. And maybe she had. Maybe she hoped I would skip my last class to join her.
So I sat down and slid my hand into the middle of the table. “Olly-olly-oxen-free?”
She lifted one of her hands and slapped a paper on the table. Then she pushed it across and spun it around for me to read. But I didn’t need it spun around, because the first time I read that paper it was upside down on Jimmy’s desk: WHO’S HOT / WHO’S NOT.
I knew which side of the list I was on-according to Alex. And my so-called opposite was sitting across from me. At our safe haven, no less. Mine…hers…and Alex’s.
“Who cares?” I told her. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
I swallow hard. When I read that list, I passed it down the aisle without a thought. At the time, it seemed kind of funny.
“Hannah,” she said, “I don’t care that he picked you over me.”
I knew exactly where that conversation was headed and I was not going to let her take us there.
And now? How do I see it now?
I should’ve grabbed every copy I could find and thrown them all away.
“He did not choose me over you, Jessica,” I said. “He chose me to get back at you and you know that. He knew my name would hurt you more than anyone else’s.”
She closed her eyes and said my name in almost a whisper. “Hannah.”
Do you remember that, Jessica? Because I do.
When someone says your name like that, when they won’t even look you in the eyes, there is nothing more you can do or say. Their mind is made up.
“Hannah,” you said. “I know the rumors.”
“You can’t know rumors,” I said. And maybe I was being a little sensitive, but I had hoped-silly me-that there would be no more rumors when my family moved here. That I had left the rumors and gossip behind me…for good. “You can hear rumors,” I said, “but you can’t know them.”
Again, you said my name. “Hannah.”
Yes, I knew the rumors. And I swore to you that I hadn’t seen Alex one time outside of school. But you wouldn’t believe me.
And why should you believe me? Why would anyone not believe a rumor that fits so nicely with an old rumor? Huh, Justin? Why?
Jessica could have heard so many rumors about Alex and Hannah. But none of them were true.
For Jessica, it was easier to think of me as Bad Hannah than as the Hannah she got to know at Monet’s. It was easier to accept. Easier to understand.
For her, the rumors needed to be true.
I remember a bunch of guys joking with Alex in the locker room. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, Baker’s man.” Then someone asked him, “Pat that muffin, Baker’s man?” and everyone knew what was being said.
When the row cleared out, only Alex and I remained. A tiny wrench of jealousy twisted up my insides. Ever since Kat’s going-away party, I couldn’t get Hannah out of my mind. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask if what they had said was true. Because if it was, I didn’t want to hear it.
Tightening his shoelaces, and without looking at me, Alex denied the rumor. “Just so you know.”
“Fine,” I said. “Fine, Jessica. Thank you for helping me the first few weeks of school. It meant a lot. And I’m sorry Alex screwed that up with this stupid little list of his, but he did.”
I told her I knew all about their relationship. On that first day at Monet’s, he had been checking one of us out. And it wasn’t me. And yes, that made me jealous. And if it helped her get over it, I accepted any blame she wanted to put on me for the two of them breaking up. But…it…was…not…true!
I reach Monet’s.
Two guys stand outside, leaning against the wall. One smokes a cigarette and the other is burrowed deep into his jacket.
But all Jessica heard was me accepting blame.
She rose up beside her chair-glaring down at me-and swung.
So tell me, Jessica, which did you mean to do? Punch me, or scratch me? Because it felt like a little bit of both. Like you couldn’t really decide.
And what was it you called me? Not that it matters, but just for the record. Because I was too busy lifting my hand and ducking-but you got me!-and I missed what you said.
That tiny scar you’ve all seen above my eyebrow, that’s the shape of Jessica’s fingernail…which I plucked out myself.
I noticed that scar a few weeks ago. At the party. A tiny flaw on a pretty face. And I told her how cute it was.
Minutes later, she started freaking out.
Or maybe you’ve never seen it. But I see it every morning when I get ready for school. “Good morning, Hannah,” it says. And every night when I get ready for bed. “Sleep tight.”
I push open the heavy wood-and-glass door to Monet’s. Warm air rushes out to grab me and everyone turns, upset at the person letting in the cold. I slink inside and shut the door behind me.
But it’s more than just a scratch. It’s a punch in the stomach and a slap in the face. It’s a knife in my back because you would rather believe some made-up rumor than what you knew to be true.
Jessica, my dear, I’d really love to know if you dragged yourself to my funeral. And if you did, did you notice your scar?
And what about you-the rest of you-did you notice the scars you left behind?
No. Probably not.
That wasn’t possible.
Because most of them can’t be seen with the naked eye.
Because there was no funeral, Hannah.
