That Was Then

12-Now

I am so deep inside my own head that I worry when I see my classmates getting up and shuffling around that I've missed the entire class. Physically, I am there but I have no idea what is going on. A quick glance at the clock tells me that class is not over yet and I notice that everyone is pairing off. Not really knowing anyone or even what they're doing I just sit at my desk and watch, planning to play the new girl card if Madame Dishier asks why I'm not participating.

I listen to the students around me to try to figure out what we are supposed to be doing. "la fin de semaine dernière.." Everyone is partnered up, discussing what they had done over the weekend in French. Or they're supposed to be anyway, most of them are just chatting with their friends.

"En Français," Madame Dishier demands. The boy in the desk in front of me turns toward me and raises an eyebrow in question. I nod, but before we can begin to discuss our weekends Kya is standing next to him with her arms crossed. So much for not talking to her today.

"Move." She says to him and he does. I want to laugh at how absurdly cliché that was. Mean girl tells skinny, pimple faced boy to move and he just gets up like a well trained puppy and goes. I also kind of want to cry, or run away. Or maybe tip the desk over that she is lowering herself into. But I don't laugh or cry or run or tip over any desks. I fix my face into an expression that I hope falls somewhere between bored and friendly. I feel my throat clench like it does when I read a sad book or see one of those commercials about abused animals on TV. I will that lump in my throat away. I will not cry.

Kya is looking at me expectantly with her oddly beautiful eyes. They are a kind of watercolor aqua blue with more water than color. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. Does she see five years of dance class and the girl who used to bring peanut butter and pickle sandwiches to school every day in third grade? Does she see the girl who held her hand when she had to get stitches on her chin from a miscalculated gymnastics move on her mom's coffee table, or the girl from the eighth grade dance with a stain down the back of her ice blue dress and tears streaming down her cheeks? 

I see it all. I see the light dusting of freckles on her nose that she has covers with makeup. I see my best friend that punched Jackson Terdy in the face for putting gum in my hair and then spent the next several hours using peanut butter to comb it out. And then making me a peanut butter and pickle sandwich afterward. But I also see the girl who, just three years later, taped a sign that said "big" above my last name on the back of my hoody. "Big Deel" she had dubbed me and she didn't mean that I was important. She'd thought she was so clever with her fat joke.

"What do you think you are doing?" She enunciates each word clearly as though it is the English language we are trying to learn.

"En Francais." I remind her and try not to smile when her face reddens in anger. She begins to speak again but then Madame Dishier hovers over us so we actually have to talk to one another about our past weekend. It's amazing the way Kya's whole demeanor changes when somebody else is looking. Kya says that she went to a football game, struggling through the sentence in French. I tell her that I went shopping and that squeezing feeling in my throat happens again because this is how things could have been. We could have stayed friends, or at least acquaintances. We could have talked about our weekends on Monday at school even if we didn't spend them together anymore. How did it get to this point? Why did it have to be one extreme or the other? All or nothing.

"What are you doing?" Kya hisses again as soon as Madame Dishier turns her scowl onto another duo. I don't even respond, just raise an eyebrow as though confused. "Why are you here?"

"Going to school, learning French..." I tell her and she scoffs. She knows that I have no use for a high school French class.

"Why are you back?" She asks, more to the point.

"Why not?" I shrug, my nonchalance is challenging her patience. She tries to stare me down but I am not the same girl I was two years ago and I will not let her bully me. I hold her gaze and tilt my head a little. "Is that a problem?"

"Just kinda feels like you're up to something," She accuses me. She keeps her voice low and looks around the room like she is worried that somebody might hear us. Conspir

"Like what?" I ask her, amused.

It's her turn to shrug. "Just kinda weird that I hear about some new girl flirting with my boyfriend this morning and then my friends are all talking about Blakely Deel." She rools her eyes as she says my name and I don't miss her emphasis on the word "my", marking her territory. 

I press my lips together, suppressing the triumphant smile that threatens to split my face. I lean in closer to Kya as though I'm going to tell her a secret. I want to be sure that she hears what I am about to say and I have to admit that I'm getting a sick sense of pleasure from the drama of it all. "I guess I'm kind of a Big Deel."