I'll Be Here

smiles a question.
    She grins an answer. 
    He brushes her hair behind her ear and leans in to murmur something.  It is secret whisper—the kind that’s just between the two of them.  She brings a French fry to her bright pink lips.  I think about how much Dustin likes ketchup and suddenly the scene feels wrong. 
    Dustin Rant and Taylor Irwin.
    Dustin and Taylor.
    Taylor and Dustin.
    I try it out in my head.
    Moments shudder past.  
    My jaw is resting on my knees.
    A softball could fill up my mouth.  A whole fist.  Two hundred cotton balls.  A million black ants.
    It’s like I’m in some sort of parody of high school life and I have a line that I am supposed to speak but I’ve forgotten what it is.
    I’m fine.  
    Heads lift.  My neck burns with the stares of hundreds of eyes.  I look left and right and crash into Dustin’s gaze.  His eyes are squinted and his forehead ruffled like he’s embarrassed for me.  Or maybe he’s ashamed that he was ever associated with me.  Taylor’s stare flickers to mine and her chin pops up with the small gesture of a challenge. 
    I die a little.
    Allison is reaching for me but I push her away.  
    “I—I—uh—”  Clearly there are no right words when this level of embarrassment is breached.  Heat spreads outward from my core.  It spreads over my skin like water spilled on a glass-topped table. 
    I swallow my thundering heart.  Its drumbeat thuds against my breastbone with a loud clang.  It is so loud that I worry that everyone can hear it even through the clunking metallic noises of people moving through the cafeteria line with their bright orange plastic trays and dangling silverware.  I will be famous on television for having the loudest heart in the history of ever. 
    Everyone is looking at me.  Well—everyone except for the people that are really into their pudding and the weirdos that claim to be above high school drama and refuse to be caught actively taking an interest in it.  I almost feel like I’m choking—like my crazy, out-of-control pounding heart is blocking my breathing and clogging up my airway.  I do the only thing that I can think of doing in my off-kilter state, slightly psychotic state—I bolt. 

 
     
     
     
    Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
    ~Oscar Wilde
     
     

 
     
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    My mom says that I’m slow to react when I’m processing strong emotions.  According to her, it took me four and a half months to acknowledge that my father had moved out of our house.  She claims that she tried to talk to me about the divorce over and over but I would put my fingers in my ears and hum loudly if she brought it up. 
    I was five at the time so I really can’t say my memory of the time is clear, but what I do remember about being five has nothing to do with my parents breaking up.  I remember that my uncle came for a visit and took me to watch the annual boat parade and he handed me a huge stick of baby blue cotton candy and let me eat the whole thing. 
    I remember that we moved into our loft apartment and I got the room with the circular window and the slanted ceilings that made me think I was living in a doll house. 
    I remember that my mother dyed her hair red for a few months and that I had a bright purple bikini with a bow in the center. 
    I remember that we roasted marshmallows on a burner on the top of the stove and we used them to make s’mores and that mom let me crawl into her bed if I was scared at night.  She would tuck my hair behind my ears and whisper me to sleep. 
    I’ve always thought of it as selective memory and in a lot of cases it’s served me well.  Two years ago it may have been the only thing that got me through each day.  Now I’m wondering if this “selective memory” is the reason I am so blindsided by my boyfriend and my friend hooking up behind my back. 
    Honestly, how could I have not known that something was happening between them? 
    How did I miss it? 
    How long was it going on? 
    Who else knew about it?
    After missing lunch and two entire class periods, I am able to pull myself together and come out of the bathroom stall.  With the scratchy school paper towels I wipe my face dry and stare into the mirror at my reflection.  Great.  I look like complete shit. 
    The door swings open and Macy Jones walks in with a hall pass dangling from her hand.  She stops midstride when she sees me. 
    “Are you okay Willow?”  She’s