“If you say ‘Bad Liar’…”
Conner barks a laugh and says, “Yeah. Youarea Bad Liar. That song suits you perfectly.”
“At least a terrible liar is better than a good one.”
“True.”
We stop at the flight of stairs of Block B. Samantha hovers near us as if she’s waiting for Conner to leave so she can walk the rest of the way with me. “I’ll see you at recess, Noya.” Then, he raises his arm, waves behind me, and says, “Hey, Sammy.”
“Hi!” she chirps. Samantha gravitates towards us, a brimming smile on her face. As Conner leaves, she leans into me and says, “He likes you.”
I blush as I say, “Yeah.”
“Do you like him?”
I stay silent, which, to Samantha, seems to confirm my feelings for Conner.
We sitin our seats when I notice Samantha has a stack of flyers sticking out of her schoolbag. “What are those?”
“Oh, did you want one?” Samantha takes one out and hands it to me. I scan the bold letters: SCHOOL TALENT SHOW!!!
I can tell Samantha created those flyers. Her excessive use of exclamation marks, glittery paper, and clip art makes it seem like she attacked the paper. I place the flyer in my bag while she speaks about it at great length because she and a few others are running the show and creating the theme in her drama class.
After English, we walk to math. Miss Moore—our year adviser—waits with Mr Brown. He points to me, and Miss Moore turns and smiles, her glassy lips shiny in the fluorescent light.
“Noya,” she calls, yet my name sounds awkward on her tongue. It’s as if she doesn’t know how to pronounce or say it and has only seen it on paper. My name comes out like a question. “May I speak to you for a minute?”
I eye Samantha when she tells me she will write notes in the back row. My Brown glares at Samantha as if her saying that means she will write the answers, too.
Miss Moore waits until the class has entered and the hallway is empty.
I spoke to Miss Moore once during high school. In the seventh grade, Edward’s friends dared him to jump off the second floor of Block C and into a bush. Miss Moore was on lunch duty, so I told her about the incident. It was brief, but that was our only conversation.
Now I’m going back through my memories, wondering if anything stands out as Conner comes to mind and when hepumped his music and sang at the top of his lungs. She was there, wasn’t she?
“Noya, how are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good,” she says while bobbing her head. “I wanted to talk to you because I sent out the permission slip at the beginning of the year, and you are the only one who hasn’t returned it.”
“What permission slip?”
“For the years Eleven and Twelve Girls’ excursion this weekend.” She folds her arms across her chest, wanting to look more intimidating. Little did she know that there was only one intimidating person in my life. Everyone who tries is like a flea I could get rid of with some treatment. “Now, if more girls decided not to go, I wouldn’t be so persistent—but I’d also love it if you could go.”
She digs her hand into her shoulder bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I don’t need to open it to confirm it’s the permission slip. “It will be an amazing wilderness experience.” She leans in, cups her hand to the corner of her mouth, and says, “And there are no boys.”
I smile, strained and unbelievably forced, and reply, “I’ll talk to my parents again.”
“I also placed my number there if they had further questions or needed reassurance.”
Throughout math, I dwell on what to do with the permission slip. I can ignore it and pretend Miss Moore never approached me. It would stand out to Miss Moore because everyone turned in their slips except for me. But it’s not like they care if I don’t go.
Samantha tries to convince me, telling me she and two other friends will share a cabin and conveniently have a spare bed. This allures me because I won’t be home on the darkest nights of the week, so I can avoid it all and have a peaceful sleep for once.
Then, there is the thought of coming home Sunday afternoon to see my room destroyed: my mattress flipped, clothes torn, and sticky with beer.
We descend the stairs when I sense a hovering presence behind me. I turn my head slightly, my body jolting forward, and I stumble down the steps and roll my ankle. A spark of pain shoots through, aching as I rest my foot on the cement and rise.