Page 9 of Little Pieces of Light

Emery

In calculus the next morning, Mr. Greer scribbled endlessly on the whiteboard.

For the rest of the students, it seemed to make sense, but the figures and symbols were like hieroglyphics to me.

I was hopelessly lost and completely distracted by the fact I had Xander Ford’s number sitting in my phone.

In a few short hours, we’d be face to face.

Or sitting right next to each other, like we had on the rock like we did when we were kids…

Only we weren’t little kids anymore. Xander certainly wasn’t. His voice on the phone yesterday, for instance. Hearing it for the first time in seven years was like vertigo. And not the bad kind. His voice had deepened, but it was still him .

Whatever that meant. As if I knew Xander anymore. Or ever. My heart was still claiming ownership because I thought I’d been in love with him, but that was obviously a stupid, silly thing to believe.

He’s going to save my ass in math. A tutor. That’s all he is.

“Miss Wallace?”

I jerked out of my thoughts to see the entire room watching me.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was wondering if you could explain to the class the difference between a definite integral and an indefinite integral?”

I froze. My notes were no help, just doodles. I lifted my chin. “I don’t know,” I stated, as if I could make being unprepared seem cool.

Glances were exchanged and muffled laughs swept through the students; no doubt they were all wondering why an airhead like me was in AP Calculus.

Mr. Greer frowned. “It’s an honest answer, anyway. Miss Bennett? Care to give it a try?”

The eclectic girl next to me nodded. Today she wore a patchwork denim skirt, black tights, and an orange patterned top. “A definite integral has upper and lower limits. An indefinite integral has no limits.”

“Correct. Take note, Miss Wallace,” Mr. Greer said, and went back to the board.

I gave my best whatever eye roll, but my cheeks burned.

The girl leaned toward me and whispered, “Hi, I’m Harper. If you ever need help—?”

“I’m good, thanks,” I snapped with a fake-sweet smile.

Harper recoiled and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from tearing up. For some annoying reason, I cried when I was angry. Which only made me angrier. I was pissed at my father for making me take this class and pissed at myself for being a bitch to Harper…

And at Xander for abandoning me.

Blinking furiously, I copied everything Mr. Greer wrote on the board, even if I didn’t understand a thing. Even if I just wanted to run out the door and not stop…

Class ended and we all filed out. Harper Bennett walked in front of me.

Her dark hair was in a messy braid, but when I looked closer, I could see it was intricately woven and messy on purpose.

Her whole style was deliberate and original.

A Bend girl, but so what? I was a Richie, and my life was a mess.

If I had someone to talk to, a real friend, maybe I could—

“Hey, girl!”

Sierra Hart, Aria Kingston, Delilah Winslow, and Elowen Blake, were all waiting for me.

My crew was all dressed in tight-fitting tops and baggy, designer pants, wore perfect hair and makeup, and carried with them a cloud of expensive perfume.

I joined them, and we made our way through the brightly lit halls to our next classes.

“Who’s the fashionista?” Aria—with large, dark eyes and raven hair—asked with a snide smile and a nod for Harper walking just ahead.

“She’s new. A Bender,” Delilah said with authority.

Sierra, pretty, with auburn ringlets, giggled. “Did she make her outfit herself?”

“Probably,” I scoffed automatically, as if I were a character in a movie and it was my line.

Harper flinched but kept walking—shoulders straight, head high, until she turned down a separate corridor, away from us vultures.

Shame burned my cheeks. “But I kind of like it. She has interesting style.”

“You’re joking, right?” Elowen said. “Don’t tell me you’re growing a soft spot for the Bend kids.”

“Let’s maintain some standards,” Aria, the meanest of the mean girls, put in. “This school would be perfect if they kept out the charity cases.”

I stared at my “friends,” wondering if they believed half of what they were saying or if it was all for show. Like me.

Elowen caught my expression. “You okay?”

She was technically my best friend, but I’d always suspected that if I were to get hit by a bus, she’d send me flowers and steal my boyfriend on the same day.

“My period arrived early,” I lied. “Cramps from hell.”

“Ah, gotcha,” she said. “You do look a little pale.”

“Oh my God, speaking of newbies, did you see the new guy in our class this year?” Delilah exclaimed. “Another Bender. His dad was a big-time scientist or something until he had a nervous breakdown, and his mom walked out.”

I blinked. “How do you know that?”

Delilah shrugged one shoulder and smiled coyly. “I have my ways.”

“His name is Xander something,” Aria said. “He’s in my debate class, and he’s so above it all, you’d think he invented arguing. The teacher has no clue what to do with him.”

“I think he’s kind of hot.”

All eyes turned on Sierra. I felt a stab of something sharp in my stomach, worse than a cramp. Something like jealousy. Jealous that she had the guts to say it and jealous because Xander was mine.

Stop it.

Sierra looked up from twirling a lock of hair to see all of us staring, and she giggled. “Please, I would never . Where would he take me on a date? McDonald’s?”

“On his bike,” Delilah said with a knowing nod. “He doesn’t even have a car.”

Elowen arched a perfect brow at Sierra. “You want to take a ride on his bike?”

The group burst out in laughter.

“Oh my God, stop ,” Sierra said. “I’m just saying he’s kind of…built?”

“It’s all that bike riding,” said Aria, and the laughs came again, ringing out in the halls, loud and sharp.

“Sierra has a soft spot for the poors,” Delilah said. “Like Dean Yearwood.”

“Everyone knows Dean is special. He gets a pass,” Sierra said, and sighed dreamily. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for the lean muscly-type, even if it’s wasted on a Bender.”

“Wow,” Aria said dryly. “Our very own Mother Theresa.”

Yet another peal of derisive mirth. Elowen noticed I wasn’t joining in and frowned, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Waiting for the Advil to kick in.”

“Mmkay, it’s just that we saw the new guy yesterday and you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

All eyes turned to me.

“You know him, Em?” Delilah arched a brow. “Have you taken a ride on his bike?”

I couldn’t tell them that I’d met Xander once upon a lifetime ago for one perfect afternoon. Or that I knew he was built from rowing, because he’d mentioned it on the phone last night. Hell, given this conversation, it was obvious I couldn’t even let them know he was tutoring me.

I put on an incredulous expression. “How could I possibly know him?”

Elowen shrugged. “Tucker might have some thoughts if he catches you ogling the new guy.”

“Right?” Aria chimed in. “He’d set some boundaries with Xander. With his fists.”

“He would not. Tucker’s not a complete Neanderthal,” I said, not entirely sure I believed it.

“He’s protective of his woman,” Sierra said. “You’re so lucky, Em. You have a boyfriend who would fucking kill for you.”

My stomach roiled. The idea of Tucker beating the shit out of a guy because of jealousy wasn’t romantic; it was scary and disturbing. And another reason to keep anything with Xander to myself.

But this was the pot I’d been stewing in for years, and only now did I realize it was boiling over.

It had only taken one glimpse of Xander Ford to rekindle all the feelings I’d had when I was with him on that rock.

Comfort and safety and being myself. Like I’d forgotten those feelings existed in the world.

Like maybe I could have them again if I were brave enough…

“Em? You coming?”

I’d fallen behind. My crew was waiting.

I adjusted my imaginary crown and fell back in step, wondering what they would think if they knew that my heart was secretly counting down the minutes until I could be alone with Xander.

The bike-riding Bender who invented debate…

But I had a whole day to get through first.

My next class was AP English with Ms. Alvarez.

She was new to the Academy, and though this was only the second day in her class, she was already my favorite teacher.

. Mid-thirties, with a long dark braid down her back, she had a relaxed, friendly vibe.

She reminded me of Harper Bennett with her earthy clothes and funky jewelry…

and then I saw Harper sitting toward the back.

Students had shuffled seats and now the only available desk was beside hers next to the only available seat.

A flush of heat crept over my face at what my friends had said about her. What I had said.

Whatever. What do you care what she thinks?

But that was the bitch of being popular—we all pretended we didn’t care what anyone thought, when we actually cared what everyone thought.

I took the empty seat. Harper kept her eyes straight ahead, chin up, hands folded neatly on her notebook. Ms. Alvarez moved to the front of the class and wrote on the whiteboard the word villanelle .

“Can anyone tell me what a villanelle is?”

A few hands went up, including Harper’s.

Ms. Alvarez smiled. “And, no, I’m not referring to the character in Killing Eve. ”

Hands went down along with some laughs. Harper’s remained.

“Yes, Ms. Bennett?”

“It’s a poem in which the first and third lines of the first stanza are alternated and repeated throughout.”

“Very good.” Ms. Alvarez returned to the board and wrote as she spoke.

“To expand, a villanelle is a nineteen-line poem comprised of five tercets, or three-line stanzas, and one quatrain, or four-line stanza. It has a very specific rhyme scheme and, as Ms. Bennett said, repeating refrains. The most famous villanelle is Dylan Thomas’s Do Not Go Gentle into That Goodnight , but it’s not my favorite. This is my favorite.”

She turned to the class with a smile and tapped the whiteboard, where she had somehow written out an entire villanelle while explaining a villanelle.

“Sylvia Plath’s Mad Girl’s Love Song ,” she said. “Is anyone familiar with Plath?”

Hannah Greenway raised her hand. “Didn’t she kill herself by sticking her head in an oven?”

Ms. Alvarez’s smile tensed. “She did. That’s the sensational, unfortunate detail that overshadows her many achievements.

But Plath was a prolific writer of scores of letters, journals, short stories, and a novel, and she won the Pulitzer-Prize for poetry—all before the age of thirty.

” She stepped aside. “Please take a moment to yourselves to read Mad Girl’s Love Song . ”

I did and it felt like the poem had slapped me in the face, each line screaming Xander Ford’s name. Now that he was back, there was no escaping him. He was everywhere I turned, even in the words of a poet who died more than sixty years ago.

“Would anyone like to tell me about this poem?” Ms. Alvarez asked. “Not only what you think it means, but how it makes you feel?”

My hand rose, almost as if pulled by a string.

“Ms. Wallace?”

“I think the poem is a girl writing about a boy who went away. He said he’d come back but he didn’t, and so she waited and waited. She waited so long that now she wonders if everything that happened between them was only in her imagination. Like, maybe she made him up inside her head.”

“Very good,” Ms. Alvarez said gently. “And how does it make you feel?”

“Sad,” I said. “And lonely. Like true love is a delusion. It isn’t real. Like it breaks promises and doesn’t come back.”

The class went silent until a few murmurs broke me out of whatever crazy spell had come over me. Two senior girls—not in my group—whispered and made boo-hoo faces at me. My cheeks burned.

Ms. Alvarez smiled. “Well done, Emery. Thank you for sharing.” She turned back to the board.

“Our first unit is going to be poetry, where we will be studying the works of Sylvia Plath, Gwendolyn Brooks, and Mary Oliver, among others. You can find our first unit’s reading on your iPad. Please click on the link…”

Ms. Alvarez continued with classroom business, assignments, and her expectations for the year while I stared at the poem on the whiteboard. It was as if Sylvia had written it just for me.

Harper leaned and whispered, “That was really good.”

“Thanks—”

“Too bad you’re a total fake.”

She offered a sweet smile—her version of the one I had given her in calculus—and turned her attention back to our teacher.

Indignation made my face hot, but then I realized it was actually just shame.

Harper was right. I was a complete fraud.

I had a million things I wanted to say that were true and real, but no one to say them to.

Because of the facade I’d built to my parents’ expectations.

A pretty house on the outside and a total mess on the inside that I kept designing in my mind to make it better.

If I didn’t keep up appearances, the whole thing would come crashing down. What would happen to me then?

A strange thought infiltrated my mind.

I’d be free.