January 6, 2014 - Time

Time heals all wounds.

Apparently, whoever said that deserved a refund. Christmas break came and went, and the things June had said during our little drinking disaster kept replaying in my head like a cursed audio file I couldn’t delete. Honestly, I felt guilty for thinking about it at all - especially on Jesus’s birthday. Pretty sure the season of giving wasn’t supposed to give me that mental imagery.

New Year’s passed, everyone made ambitious resolutions they’d abandon in three days, and the fireworks never stopped. Random explosions echoed across the neighborhood at unpredictable intervals. The stray dogs shook and cowered under parked cars, so I spent most nights walking around with kibble, crouching near trembling shadows and whispering reassuring nonsense like I was some kind of bargain-bin dog psychologist.

Meanwhile, my mind was also fireworks - except instead of colors, it was just the repeated explosion of one intrusive thought: Did they go all the way yet?

Every time the question surfaced, something in my stomach tightened. Knotted. Twisted. Hurt. And I hated that I kept stabbing myself with it, like a private hobby in emotional self-harm.

It didn’t stop. When classes resumed, the memory still felt like our drinking happened just yesterday - painfully fresh. Which made sense, because my mood had been stuck in a permanent hangover.

“Stupid June,” I muttered.

I lounged in my chair, leaning back and rocking it dangerously while reading a book. Ginny, unfortunately positioned within splash radius, had the privilege of watching each of my near-**** experiences. I’d slipped twice already; she’d jumped both times. On the third slip, she slapped my arm and told me to knock it off.

Naturally, I told her - strictly for research purposes - that practice makes perfect.

Then I rocked again.

By then, it had finally sunk in that Jackie wasn’t never meant to be mine. And because my brain had decided to go for the world championship in self-****, I stopped looking at her altogether - even when June wasn’t around. On the days June stayed at his desk, I kept my eyes safely glued to my book. Immersed.

Every time I looked at Jackie now, the images from June’s drunken bragging resurfaced instantly - vivid, uninvited, like my imagination had developed a personal vendetta. It was almost like I’d been standing right there, which made everything worse.

Something in me cracked. Quietly. Like a hairline fracture spreading under the paint, invisible until it wasn’t.

By the latter half of high school, I had unintentionally turned myself into the classroom cryptid. If my friends weren’t around for recess or lunch, I stayed inside and read anything I could grab - mysteries, fantasies, Christmas books even when it wasn’t December. It was easier to lose myself in someone else’s world than sit outside and watch the one I wanted unfold without me.

That day was one of those days. I wasn’t hungry - though even if I had been, there was a fifty–fifty chance I’d have skipped lunch anyway. Most of the class had gone outside. June and Jackie included.

A few classmates lingered inside, chatting quietly. The whole school buzzed distantly like a hive, muffled and rhythmic.

Then footsteps approached. A chair scraped across the floor. Someone sat down.

A sharp floral perfume drifted across my desk - definitely not Jackie’s soft, clean scent.

I looked up.

Pat.

Pat, short for Patrice. One of the “cool girls” - the type who always looked two grades older than everyone else, like they’d been briefed on adulthood early while the rest of us were staring blankly at our Biology assignments. Some of them dated older guys too, which at the time counted as a badge of honor even though it mostly screamed danger signs.

Pat’s skin was warm olive, her hair pulled back to highlight her sharp cheekbones, and she had the kind of ballerina posture that made you sit straighter by instinct. She could have pirouetted across the room and no one would have questioned it. She grinned at me, braces catching the light, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that meant she was either about to annoy me or adopt me as entertainment.

“Heartbroken?” she asked.

I raised an eyebrow and closed my book with a soft, controlled thud.

“Says who?”

“Says everyone,” she replied, leaning in like she was about to spill royal gossip.

“Well - everyone except the lovebirds themselves. They’re too busy floating in their own little bubble.”

I sighed - loudly, theatrically - then lowered my gaze and arranged my face into the most pitiful expression I could craft.

“Before class,” I said solemnly, “I cried for four hours. Completely dried out. Otherwise you’d find me lying here in a puddle of sadness.”

Pat’s smirk vanished. Genuine concern softened her face. She opened her mouth-

And I snorted.

She slapped my arm and burst into laughter.

“I thought you were serious!”

“What, you think I’m writing tragic poetry about Jackie in the margins of my Math notebook?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

“Sorry to disappoint. My bad poetry only happens when English class demands it. And even then it’s accidental.”

She laughed louder. A few classmates glanced over. She didn’t care.

It was interesting - the longer I talked to her, the more natural it felt to talk to a girl. Had I been like this before? Before Paulie? Pat was easy on the eyes and she had this confident, slightly chaotic energy that made conversations feel like small performances.

And she didn’t leave either. She asked about my book, drifted into teacher gossip, then class gossip. At first, it felt like she’d come over to tease me - maybe test if I’d crumble.

But the longer she stayed, the more it felt like she stayed because she genuinely enjoyed talking.

Eventually she tilted her head and said, “You know… you’re actually fun to talk to.”

“I’ll take that,” I said, leaning back. “Though ‘actually fun’ feels borderline insulting.”

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear.

That was when the door opened.

My friends filed in - Minnie first (of course) then Kyle trailing behind him like the moon behind its planet. Joseph and Mike came next, mid-argument about something dumb enough to blur into background noise immediately. Then June and Jackie walked in together, laughing along with Jackie’s friends.

Jackie stopped in the doorway.

Not long.
Just a beat.
But long enough that I felt it.

Pat noticed too. She slid her chair back, smiled politely at Jackie, and said, “Sorry, I borrowed your seat.”

I leaned back and opened my book again, staring at the words without understanding a single one.

Jackie nodded once - neutral, unreadable - and sat down. Sketchbook out. Pencil up. Mechanical movements, like she’d practiced this exact routine too many times.

Pat returned to her group. The moment she reached them, her friends erupted - squeals, whispers, the unmistakable sound of teenage gossip being hurled around like confetti.

Curiosity poked at me. I glanced back. Pat wasn’t giggling like the others - she was smiling knowingly, whispering something that sent the girls into another wave of shrieks.

My eyes drifted to Ginny. She scowled from her desk, arms crossed. Only then did I notice she was growing her hair out - the pixie cut slowly giving way to something softer, the ends brushing her jawline. This was new, she ever only had that pixie cut since I knew her.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“You’ve been there the whole time?” I said, startled.

“I ate here,” she replied, unimpressed. “Now answer me, dum-dum. What was that about?”

“I think they’re making fun of me,” I said, flipping through my book to find my missing page.

Ginny muttered under her breath, “No… no, she wasn’t.”

I turned halfway toward her, ready to ask what she meant -

But Jackie crumpled a page of her sketchbook so suddenly and so violently it looked like the paper had personally insulted her ancestors. She shoved the page deep into her bag, took a breath, and continued sketching, her movements sharp around the edges.

And me?

I sat there wondering - for one useless beat - why she had frozen in the doorway at all.

Then I shoved the thought aside. No point tearing myself open for answers I’d never get.