Page 29

Just Lia

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

On a breezy Wednesday in late January, Paloma, Isaiah, and I arrive in Ceramics to find a substitute teacher at Ms. Robbins’s desk. He takes attendance with the roster she left, cruising through the first third of the alphabet before calling, “Amelia Graham?”

My breath catches.

Paloma glances at me, her gaze inquisitive.

The substitute lifts his chin to scan the room.

On the first day of school, I’d prepared myself to be called Amelia as each of my teachers took attendance for the first time. I’d braced for the squall of sorrow, and the necessary correction.

Today, Amelia is a blow to the back of the head, painful and disorienting.

“Lia, please,” I manage, though the words do their best to stick in my throat.

The sub nods, then moves on while I hear my name over and over, in Beck’s baritone.

My phone buzzes. I slip it discreetly out of my pocket and give it a glance.

A text from Paloma: You okay over there?

Yep , I reply, working to adjust my expression from grief stricken to indifferent.

You look like you’re gonna be sick.

I’m fine , I text back, then pocket my phone.

The sub finishes attendance and sets the class loose on our works-in-progress. I shoot out of my seat, nearly knocking down a pair of sophomores on my way to the shelves where prefired projects are kept. My lopsided coil pot sits on a board beneath protective plastic. I pick it up and head for my workspace, knowing full well that I’m acting weirder than usual and hoping my tablemates won’t mention it.

Paloma and Isaiah lackadaisically chat about last night’s basketball game, a win, as they head to the shelves to collect their projects. They give me matching looks of bewilderment as I hurry past.

I love you, Amelia Graham.

Oh, Beck.

I’m perilously close to crying when laughter bursts from the table behind me. My classmates, having a fantastic time on the sub’s watch.

I should be doing the same.

I straighten my spine and draw a fortifying breath. I’m getting better at sliding from brink-of-tears to an approximation of composure, I realize as I roll a new coil from a lump of clay. What a travesty, that this is a skill I’ve had to hone.

I enjoy sixty seconds of restorative quiet before Paloma and Isaiah return with their coil pots. I watch from the corner of my eye as he pulls the plastic from his project. It looks so much better than mine, like actual art.

He assesses my pile of coils and says, “Looking good, Amelia.”

It’s the most benign comment, but it unravels all the mending I managed in the last couple minutes. Fire awakens in my chest, burns up my neck, and singes my face as I meet Isaiah’s cheerful gaze.

He sobers immediately.

I leave my stool—just get up and walk away, without a word to him or Paloma, whose mouth has opened in disbelief.

Weaving through tables and stools and people carrying their fragile projects, I end up in the space’s only private place: the glaze closet. It’s cool, lit by a single bulb. Standing with my back to the entrance, I pretend to consider shades, though my pot isn’t ready for its bisque firing, let alone a coat of color.

My devastation is embarrassing.

My embarrassment is devastating.

There’s a shuffling sound behind me.

I expect Paloma, but—no.

My heart beats differently in Isaiah’s company.

I hate it. I hate the way he makes me feel.

I turn as he steps into the closet, bumping the door just closed enough.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Whatever I did… Whatever I said.”

I sigh. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I must’ve, because you’re acting—”

He cuts himself off, which stokes my frustration.

“I’m acting how? Immature? Bitchy?”

Both, for sure.

His eyes go big. “No—shit. I’d never call you either of those things. Jesus, Lia. I was going to say that you’re acting like I fucked up. I’m trying to fix it.”

“Why? Why do you even care?”

He shakes his head, letting his gaze fall to his Converse, and I think, Fine. Point out the way I’m acting and don’t take accountability for the way you’re acting. But I’m wrong because he is trying to take accountability, and I’m so freaking messy and self-involved, I can’t accept an apology like a normal human being.

I step toward the door. The closet is so small I have to brush by Isaiah to get to the exit and, when I do, he catches my hand. I freeze, breathing hard for no good reason.

His fingers curl loosely around mine.

“I don’t like how this feels,” he says quietly. “You, pissed at me.”

“I’m not pissed at you. I’m just…pissed.”

“Why?”

I’m not sure how to articulate an answer, but I try. “Because life sucks.”

He laughs, dry as dust. “Yeah, I get it. Life’s fucked me over a thousand times.”

I know so little about him. I like to think that’s because I’m chill, a cool girl, the opposite of intrusive. But truthfully, learning about him, learning to like him, makes me profoundly uncomfortable.

“You never seem angry,” I say.

“I’ve figured out how to deal. Most of the time.”

He presses his palm to mine.

My heart is beating so fast.

Isaiah is taller, leaner than Beck.

His skin is olive, freckle-free.

He smells like wintergreen gum and juniper.

His hand fits differently around mine.

Beck would hate me for this—hate me for wanting this.

After everything I promised you , I tell him.

“I don’t like to be called Amelia,” I say to Isaiah.

I feel stupid, voicing it, but he doesn’t leave me time to wallow.

“Then I’ll call you Lia.”

“Just Lia?”

“Just Lia,” he repeats, his voice filling the closet with reassurance. “And listen—you’re obviously going through some shit, but you should know…I look forward to this class ’cause I get to spend it with you. If it were up to me, I’d see you outside Ceramics.”

I have no idea how to respond; the truth is shameful.

I decide, haltingly, on “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Will you let me know if you ever want that too?”

I shift, letting my arm graze his. “I promise I will.”

Reasons to Avoid Isaiah Santoro

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.