He Loves Me Not

CHAPTER ONE

I can already tell I’m going to hate every minute of this process. You’re asking me to bare my soul despite the fact we’ve only known each other for exactly eleven minutes. I’ve been watching the slow movement of the minute hand on your wall clock, designed to look like the paddle of a canoe against the slightly faded river scene.

It’s sort of a cheesy clock, if you ask me, but everything in your office is pretty lame. It’s almost like you’re trying too hard to make it feel cozy. From the little wooden signs on the wall with cliché sayings about seizing the day and taking advantage of every opportunity, to the canvas paintings of sunsets over peaceful lakes. Your office basically screams I’m a therapist trying to make you think you’re comfortable!

Here’s a news flash: I’m not comfortable, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you.

But since I’m being forced to sit here, I guess we might as well talk. Sitting here in silence would probably be just as awkward, and I know what you have to say about me is going to have a lot to do with whether they let me out of this place. I know I need the therapist sign-off to go home. I need you to say this was just a onetime episode and I can go back to being normal. I need you to believe I’m okay and everything is fine now, even if I’m not sure I believe it.

The days and weeks leading us to this room seem all fuzzy in my mind. It’s like trying to recall the details of a dream that seemed so incredibly vivid at the time, but five minutes after you wake up, you’re left with only wisps of vague concepts and nothing substantial enough to hold on to. When I look back at the last year of my life, I feel like all I have are those wispy details.

Obviously, I know I’m here to talk about Adam. I know that’s what you’re waiting for, as you tap that stupid gold pen against the page of your notebook. You want me to spill everything out and let the story flood your office. You’re convinced putting the whole thing into words is supposed to help me somehow.

We’ll work through it together, you say cheerily, as if it’s a difficult word problem written on the blackboard. But we weren’t together through it all. I was alone, and just because you’re sitting here with me now doesn’t mean I don’t still feel like I’m stranded on a deserted island.

You want me to give it a try. You’re gently urging me to open up. You’ve probably practiced that look in the mirror, so it’s just the right amount of concern paired with encouragement.

It’s not easy, though, you know. I can’t just put words to all the things that have been going on in my head for the past year. I don’t even know if words exist within the English language for some of these feelings. I know you want me to try, but for Christ’s sakes, don’t you think I’ve been trying?

Start at the beginning, you say, adjusting yourself in your seat. You cross your legs, one ankle over the other, and tuck them neatly behind the leg of your chair. It sickens me how professional you look, like the perfect image of a therapist on TV.

Pretty, polished, poised.

I bet you were always this pretty. Long blond hair that falls just perfectly into large ringlets around your face. I bet you try to pretend like you don’t know how gorgeous you look, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail draped over one shoulder. The minimal makeup is a nice touch, too, an attempt at making it seem like you don’t care too much about your appearance. But all you pretty girls are the same. Of course, you know how pretty you are. Pretty girls always know, even though they pretend they don’t.

What you don’t know, wouldn’t even be able to begin to comprehend, is what it’s like to be the other type of girl. The type of girl who isn’t pretty or polished. The type of girl who tries so hard to make herself look acceptable, but always seems to come up short. I could never figure out how to tame my frizzy curls, and I sure as hell would never be able to make my ponytail look so effortless. I’ve spent the entirety of my teenage years battling the chaos that grows out of my scalp, and I’ve never once come up victorious.

Sitting here across from you, watching you use a manicured hand to toss your ponytail over your shoulder, I’m even more aware of the mane of flyaway curls that frame my face, despite the fact I’ve tried to slick my hair back into a tight French braid. As if having wild, untamable curls isn’t bad enough, my hair is an obnoxiously bright red, which by its very nature draws attention to my inability to control it.

I resist the urge to reach up and flatten my fringe of rogue curls against my head. Instead, I just stare back at you, watching your cool blue eyes study me. I find myself briefly wondering if you’re judging me, and I almost laugh out loud, realizing that’s basically your job.

You ask me to start at the beginning like that’s an easy location to find. I suppose for most people it is. The beginning is definable, the starting point of the story. But as I watch you watching me and listen to the tap of your pen against your notebook, I have no idea where that place could even be.

There isn’t one specific moment that started everything. I can’t pinpoint one day where everything changed. It’s almost like I just woke up one morning and suddenly realized I had lost control. Things had been set into motion at some point, and I was no longer capable of stopping them, and this is where we ended up. It doesn’t feel like there was a beginning. It feels like there was a before, a during and a now. And it feels like there are different versions of me in each part. Like the me that’s sitting here with you today isn’t the same me that was there in the before part. She was a completely different girl. I don’t even feel like I know that girl.

The Sasha of before would never have believed the Sasha of now could exist. And yet, here we are, you and I, sitting in your office with the stupid paddle ticking off the minutes we’ve been staring at each other. Twenty-seven minutes in, you stop tapping your pen and place it down on your notebook in your lap. You fold your perfect hands and say, ever-so-gently, Sasha, I can’t help you if you don’t let me.

I let out a sigh. I know, Doc, that’s the thing you don’t get. You can’t help me. I’m beyond help.

CHAPTER TWO

I’d been so certain high school would be a brand-new start for me. I thought I could shed the loser reputation I’d unfairly been branded with and start fresh. I could reinvent myself over the summer between eighth grade and high school and become the cool girl I dreamed about being. I was positive everything was going to be different when I entered Baymont High School.

Except it wasn’t.

I was about to start my junior year and not a single thing had changed. It turns out, you can’t just reinvent who you are. You can’t erase an image of yourself from everyone else’s mind and replace it with the image you want them to see.

So, despite the fact I’d spent that whole first summer coordinating cool outfits and practicing hair and makeup techniques I’d learned online, when I walked into school on the first day of ninth grade, no one looked at me any differently than they had the year before. I was still spineless Sasha, the nerdy girl who cried at the end of the documentary about baby turtles and accidentally told my math teacher I loved him at the end of class one day.

I kept up the fight to become popular through my sophomore year. I woke up at the crack of dawn and painstakingly straightened each and every strand of my frizzy, rebellious hair. I’d spend another thirty minutes slathering concealer over the gaggle of freckles that populated my cheeks and nose. I carefully selected my outfits based on the trends I studied on Pinterest. I put in all the effort, but no one seemed to notice. And by the end of the day, my hair would poof back up and my freckles would be shining through my cracking foundation.

I know I’m not pretty. We don’t have to pretend I am for the sake of my self-confidence. My own mother didn’t even try to hide the fact that, visually, I was a disaster.

Maybe if you dyed your hair brown you would blend in better, she said.

Once, while I was waiting for her to pick up a prescription at CVS, I wandered over to the makeup aisle. I was looking at a display of deep red lipsticks, halfheartedly wondering what I might look like wearing such a dramatic color.

Oh, God, no, my mother said, rounding the corner of the aisle and forcing me out of my daydream.

Put that down, that’s for the type of girl that can handle standing out in a crowd.

By the start of my junior year, I’d given up on the idea of changing my reputation. I stopped wasting time and energy on fixing my appearance, realizing no one was noticing me anyway. I accepted my place as a loser. The type of person who could sit next to you for an entire year in English class, and when asked my name, you wouldn’t be able to recall it. Easily forgotten, only distinguishable as that really smart redheaded girl.

That’s why it came as such a shock, to everyone really, when Adam Lincoln sat down next to me on the first day of third-period chemistry.

Adam Lincoln was tall and effortlessly handsome. His brown hair was just a little too long, causing him to have to swipe it out of his eyes when he smiled. He was the catcher for the varsity baseball team and had been a star since his freshman year, when he made some amazing play that sent the team to the state championships for the first time in decades. Adam Lincoln was up there with the high school royalty.

When he walked into the room on the first day of chemistry, I obviously couldn’t help but watch him. He glided into the room with the kind of effortless ease all popular kids possess. Do they teach that? Do they pull the pretty kids aside early on and teach them how to look so Goddamn perfect? Where I try to slink into a room hoping no one will notice me, Adam’s presence basically commands attention. I watched him flip his hair out of his eyes as he surveyed the classroom in front of him like a king overlooking his subjects.

The stool next to me was unoccupied, which wasn’t a surprise. Many of the stools were still available, as class wouldn’t officially start for another three minutes. Everyone knew choosing seats on the first day of chemistry was a tactical decision. The two people sharing a station would be lab partners for the remainder of the year. Short of a death or an act of war, there was no changing seats or partners after today.

I anticipated my partner would be the unfortunate soul who happened to arrive last to class. I was secretly hoping perhaps there would be an odd number of students, thus sparing me the embarrassment of someone dropping their shoulders at the realization there were no more available spots and sliding onto the stool next to me as if they had just been handed a social death sentence.

But after glancing around the room, Adam Lincoln walked directly to my table. He smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but notice how there appeared to be gold flecks floating in the brown pools of his eyes. I was so busy staring at him, I almost didn’t realize he had spoken to me.

Anyone sitting here?

Uh, no, no one is, I stammered, realizing I probably looked ridiculous gawking at him like that. Internally, I scolded myself while pretending to study the large poster of the periodic table hanging nearby. Adam slid onto the stool and dropped his backpack on the floor between us. I noticed a few of the other girls in the room glancing at our table, and I could have sworn they were glaring at me.

The rest of the stools around us filled up, and Adam acknowledged a few friends as they filtered into the room. I expected he’d get up and move his seat at the last minute, realize the mistake he’d made and run to safety before it was too late. When the bell rang, Mr. Carter closed the door and welcomed us all to class. He passed around a seating chart, and we all signed our names, chaining us to the seats we’d just selected.

I printed my name in delicate letters and slid the chart across the table to Adam. I held my breath, half expecting him to see my name printed on the paper and suddenly realize who I was. I waited for him to raise his hand and announce to Mr. Carter that there had been a mistake and he needed to change his seat.

But Adam just printed his name onto the chart next to mine and passed it on. I watched as the paper moved away from us, still struggling to believe Adam Lincoln had just willingly partnered himself with me for an entire year.

You must think I’m naïve, that I’m some kind of idiot for not realizing every kid in school knew a nerd like me would excel in chemistry. You’ve probably already figured out that Adam strategically chose his partner to ensure his chemistry grade was high enough to keep him on the baseball team.

Of course, I should have realized that the second he sat down, but honestly, it didn’t dawn on me until several weeks later. By the time it did, it was already too late to turn back.

During our second class, we had our first lab assignment. It was a stupid worksheet, an intro-to-laboratory-work type of thing. The purpose was obviously to familiarize ourselves with the equipment and materials available to us. It was essentially a glorified scavenger hunt.

Only one worksheet was provided to each station. With the sheet between us, we set to work crossing off tasks as we completed them. Most of the tasks were so simple, they didn’t require much discussion. Adam and I moved around each other, collecting the items on the list, practicing lighting Bunsen burners and arranging beakers across the desk.

There was only about five minutes left of class when I leaned down over the paper to read the last task. At that exact moment, Adam leaned in to cross off the task before it. Our shoulders bumped as his arm brushed against mine. I leapt back, nearly toppling my lab stool in the process. Adam smiled, his dimples making a sudden appearance as he continued to scratch off the number on the paper.

I felt my face begin to burn. Most girls look endearing when they blush, a soft pink filling the apples of their cheeks and making them appear sheepish and sweet. The heat was rising into my eyebrows, and I knew my face would be turning a blotchy, tomato red. I don’t blush; my face ignites with a red-hot fire that sets my hair ablaze. The knowledge of how ridiculous I look when embarrassed only increases my embarrassment. It’s a never-ending cycle that almost always ends with tears.

Adam didn’t appear fazed by the inferno transforming my face. The last task on the paper required us to undo all the preparations we had done for the fake lab. We had to return our materials to their places and clean up our workspace. Adam collected all the equipment he could carry and transported them to the back of the room. Luckily, by the time he returned, I’d suppressed the urge to cry enough to force myself to help with the task. With my head bent in an attempt to mask my still-obvious embarrassment, I cleared away the last of the materials and scrubbed down the tabletop, despite the fact that we hadn’t actually done anything that might have required scrubbing.

Adam looked over the worksheet and handed it to me for final approval. He grinned and asked me if I thought we’d get an A on our first assignment. I stared down at the paper, contemplating if he was seriously doubting whether we properly completed the fake assignment. It was essentially the easiest thing we would do all year, and it certainly hadn’t taken any amount of skill or expertise. Before I could determine if he was joking, the bell rang.

Adam slipped gracefully off his stool and slung his backpack over one shoulder. He raised his hand in a wave as he sauntered out of the classroom and was engulfed by the storm of kids pressing through the hallway. I stared after him, finally deciding that he had, in fact, been joking.

CHAPTER THREE

I know what you’re thinking. I’m pathetic. It’s true, of course. But someone like you will never be able to understand what it’s like to be a loser. I wasn’t prepared to be wittily bantering back and forth with one of the most popular boys in the junior class. There aren’t any books that you can study to tell you how to properly engage in a conversation with a teenage boy. At least, not in our library.

Luckily for me, or