May Kill Me

Thirteen

"I hope it's not too much trouble, but could you please mail me my yearbook?" 

I've decided to take a more tenacious approach to who could be messing with me, by finding out what where every single person in my year was now and what were they up to. I even got a brand-new notebook from Dollar Tree. 

I was supposed to start working on my Ancient Greek History paper but found this much more important. 

"Your yearbook? Feeling nostalgic already?" Mom chuckled into the phone. 

I wish. I wish it was all nostalgia and nothing more.

"It's for a sociology class," I explain, scrolling over Jonathan's list of friends. 

So far, I couldn't find a Scott Bronson online, at least not one who attended Bronwell College. 

"It should be on the shelf above my desk," I added.

"I think I see it..." Mom responded. 

Her statement was followed by some shuffling noise and a soft thud. 

"Yup, got it. I'll mail it later on today." 

"Sure, that sounds great! I really appreciate it." I tried not to sound too impatient, wishing my mom would drop everything and drive all the way to New Glasgow with the thing. 

"So, how is everything going?" 

I decide that I can't keep scrolling: my eyes are burning, so I snap my laptop shut and decide to focus on the conversation instead. 

"I saw Jonathan," I said casually, not wanting my mom to think it was a big deal. 

"Jonathan?" Mom echoed, sounding as surprised as I felt when I saw him at the frat party. 

"We happened to be at the same party," I explained. 

Mom didn't know anything about how things actually went down once I broke things off with him. I didn't want her to. 

After the party, and my public humiliation, all I wanted was to graduate in peace: the last thing I wanted was for her to march up the school steps demanding some kind of punishment for Jonathan or calling up his parents. 

I could still clearly remember the 'Slut' scribbled on my locker in a black Sharpie pen. I wrote 'Wow, how original. Is that the best you can do?' underneath?  No more writing appeared since, and I was mostly ignored by my classmates. For me, being ignored was far better than being bullied or called names. 

"But I don't want to talk about that..." 

"Why? Was he mean to you?" Mom asked, anger creeping into her voice. 

"No, it's just, you know... Irrelevant." 

"Well..." I heard some shuffling noise on the other side of the phone, "Whatever he says, I'm just afraid you'll go running back to him. That he's going to say or do something that'll sound very charming, and..." 

"Mom," I cut her off impatiently; I wasn't in the mood for a lecture. I knew her intentions were good, but there was absolutely no way I was getting back together with him, "I'm not going to get back together with him, okay? I just gave you an update. I can't control where he goes. He was in the area visiting a friend, and we happened to cross paths. That's all! I'm not stupid." 

Mom went quiet for a beat, which is how I knew she was angry. 

"This has nothing to do with your intelligence. Smart people make bad choices all the time." 

"Trust me, you don't have to worry about that. Can we talk about something else? I'm really not in the mood." 

"Fine." Mom said curtly, "I'm going to go to Vegas in January with the girls."