Hello, Goodbye

18: Grace

 { unedited }

Two weeks pass and Saxon remains distant, as does Grace. She figures Saxon is only distant because she is. Because he expects her to make the first move. She sighs, sneaking a sidelong glance at him, twirling her pencil in her hand. English and lunch are specifically torture, as she has to see him and seem alright about the two of them simply exchanging, Hello, how are you?’s.

He isn’t looking at her now. He’s staring at the teacher and she wonders what he’s thinking. She had hopped on the bus two days earlier, the Monday, and there hadn’t been a seat on the bus beside Saxon. He had his arm around another girl and she had her head on his shoulder and the two were laughing. She had taken a seat regardless to the fact that she wanted to hurl.

She wants to see him staring at her. She wants to demand an explanation about the girl with the pretty blonde hair and fair skin and blue eyes and too much make up. But every time she nearly storms up to him, she remembers the words he himself had uttered stubbornly, “I don’t know why it matters to you so much if you yourself said that absolutely nothing is going on between us.”

And she knows it shouldn’t matter, knows the girl shouldn’t matter. Knows Saxon is only a friend, if that at all. She takes her eyes off of him just as the bell rings. She gathers her things hastily but by the time she’s ready to leave the room, Saxon is already out of it.

Her stomach drops when she seems him, pressing the girl from the bus against the side of a row of lockers. He’s speaking to her, his breath against her face, and twirling a lock of her light blonde hair around his finger. She’s smiling and their legs are resting against each other. He presses his lips against hers and Grace turns away, her teeth clenched and tears clouding her vision.

“Evidently, you’re not the only girl he’s been kissing,” she says, setting her tray down on the table. She jerks her head towards where Saxon is, his arm slung across the shoulders of the girl, who is playing with his hand. “So, I guess it’s official.”

“Oh, what?” Zeya looks over at where Saxon is and almost spits out her salad. “Saxon and Greta?”

“I know, it was hard for me to believe too. I mean, two weeks and they’re already so cute and cuddly with each other? Makes me sick.” Andrew is sitting on the other end of the table, a smile plastered on his lips. “She’s beautiful, though, and he’s the most handsome guy in our grade, I believe.”

“Saxon and Greta?” Zeya repeats, still staring, wide-eyed. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice. But, two weeks?” She looks over at Andrew now.

“Why else did you think he stopped staring at Grace in English and stopped sitting with the two of you at lunch?” he says, voice soft and expression sympathetic.

“Stop.” Grace presses her eyes shut. “Here’s a better question,” she says, her eyelids fluttering open, “Why’s he doing this?” She glances at Saxon and the girl, Greta. Jealousy and rage bubble up inside of her, but she pushes them down harshly, letting a sad expression slide onto her features instead.

“Not everything is about you for Saxon, anymore, I’m afraid,” Andrew says. He sounds as if he’s teasing her but his face makes him seem dead serious. Like he is stating that there are fifty states in America.

“Yeah. Or,” Zeya smiles thoughtfully, “he’s trying to make you jealous.” She pushes down her jealously even further into the deepest, darkest part of her soul and forces a smile.

"He wouldn't be interested in me, anyway." She takes note of how she herself had not even thought of saying, I wish. Maybe because she doesn’t wish to be in a relationship, or to even kiss, someone who had drunkenly kissed one of her close friends and now wraps someone in his arms who has peroxide blonde hair and too much make up covering her probably already perfect hair.