Read Online Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend by Carrie Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Carrie Jones
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me, whispering about me and Dylan, me and Dylan. People like Rachel Austin and Callie Smith say hi and ask how I’m feeling, and I know that today I am in the hot topic in the Eastbrook High School hallways and in the notes everyone passes each other instead of listening to the teacher, and don’t forget all the text messages.
“Did you hear Belle Philbrick passed out at lunch?” Katie Vachon says to Travis Bunker as I walk by. “She and Dylan broke up.”
“Did you hear he’s gay?”
“No way,” Katie says. She used to have a crush on Dylan. We run spring track together. I used to think she was nice, until right now.
“Yeah-huh. Somebody saw him kissing a guy with no hair at parking lot of the Bangor Mall.”
“Wow.”
“Double wow.”
“She booked it out of there, too.”
“She fainted?”
“Swear to God.”
“Mimi says she’s totally mental.”
I ball my hands into fists and wonder if they think I can’t hear them.
Shawn passes by and says, “Hi.”
Some people nod.
Some people turn their heads away. Some people turn their hearts away. Some people turn, turn, turn.
Totally mental.
Some people like Rosie Piazza ask me how I’m doing, if I’m okay.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
Dylan isn’t the only one who knows how to lie.
I slip into my chair, hoping no one will notice me. Tom’s desk is right behind me, but I don’t look at him. I’m afraid to look at him. I’m afraid to look at anybody in here, but there’s one person I really want to look at. There’s one person I want to stare with x-ray-vision eyes, just stare and stare and stare and ask him, “How could you?”
I want to grab him by the shirt and haul him up out of his chair like I’m one of those ripped action-movie stars. I want to beat him over the head with a guitar until they both splinter into pieces on the floor. I want to haul his squat butt up and say, “How could you? How could you? He was mine!”
But that was never true, was it? He never was mine.
He always belonged to himself. He always belonged to Bob. I just didn’t know it. I didn’t know anything.
“Guten Tag, Belle,” says Mr. Reitz, Herr Reitz we’re supposed to call him.
So much for being invisible.
“Guten Tag, Herr Reitz,” I say real low, so I almost can’t even hear myself.
He saunters up to me and smiles. He’s wearing lederhosen today, which is better than when he wears his clown outfit or dresses up like a female opera singer. That means we’ll be doing Beatles songs in German. You can always tell what the lesson plan is by what Mr. Reitz wears. First, though, he decides to torment me.
“Was habst du letztes Wochenende gemacht?” he asks.
What did I do this weekend? I slouch down lower and say the only thing I can remember in German right now.
“Ich habe im Atlantik letztem Wochenende geschwimmen.” I swam in the Atlantic. It’s a lie, but it’s better than, “I found out my boyfriend was gay, passed out at lunch, cried for hours, and wished I could die.”
Herr Reitz, always the actor, grabs his arms and shivers. “War es kalt?”
Yeah, I tell him, it was really freaking cold. “It was so cold that the chickens were lining up at the KFC, begging to jump into the pressure cooker.”
That throws him. That throws everyone, and Herr Reitz bends over, clutching his lederhosen-clad stomach. I let myself smile.
When he finally rights himself he says, “Can you say that in German?”
I shake my head.
“You don’t have to. That was too funny. Somebody write that down!”
Then he goes back into German Teacher Mode, moves on to Bob and asks him the same thing, “Was habst du letztes Wochenende gemacht?”
Bob flinches and behind his glasses, his twitchy little eyes look at me. His twitchy little eyes look at me and it’s all I can do not to get up and pound him. Behind me, I can hear Tom let out a breath real, real slow. I grip the edge of my chair and will myself to be still.
Herr Reitz waits
“Did you hear Belle Philbrick passed out at lunch?” Katie Vachon says to Travis Bunker as I walk by. “She and Dylan broke up.”
“Did you hear he’s gay?”
“No way,” Katie says. She used to have a crush on Dylan. We run spring track together. I used to think she was nice, until right now.
“Yeah-huh. Somebody saw him kissing a guy with no hair at parking lot of the Bangor Mall.”
“Wow.”
“Double wow.”
“She booked it out of there, too.”
“She fainted?”
“Swear to God.”
“Mimi says she’s totally mental.”
I ball my hands into fists and wonder if they think I can’t hear them.
Shawn passes by and says, “Hi.”
Some people nod.
Some people turn their heads away. Some people turn their hearts away. Some people turn, turn, turn.
Totally mental.
Some people like Rosie Piazza ask me how I’m doing, if I’m okay.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
Dylan isn’t the only one who knows how to lie.
I slip into my chair, hoping no one will notice me. Tom’s desk is right behind me, but I don’t look at him. I’m afraid to look at him. I’m afraid to look at anybody in here, but there’s one person I really want to look at. There’s one person I want to stare with x-ray-vision eyes, just stare and stare and stare and ask him, “How could you?”
I want to grab him by the shirt and haul him up out of his chair like I’m one of those ripped action-movie stars. I want to beat him over the head with a guitar until they both splinter into pieces on the floor. I want to haul his squat butt up and say, “How could you? How could you? He was mine!”
But that was never true, was it? He never was mine.
He always belonged to himself. He always belonged to Bob. I just didn’t know it. I didn’t know anything.
“Guten Tag, Belle,” says Mr. Reitz, Herr Reitz we’re supposed to call him.
So much for being invisible.
“Guten Tag, Herr Reitz,” I say real low, so I almost can’t even hear myself.
He saunters up to me and smiles. He’s wearing lederhosen today, which is better than when he wears his clown outfit or dresses up like a female opera singer. That means we’ll be doing Beatles songs in German. You can always tell what the lesson plan is by what Mr. Reitz wears. First, though, he decides to torment me.
“Was habst du letztes Wochenende gemacht?” he asks.
What did I do this weekend? I slouch down lower and say the only thing I can remember in German right now.
“Ich habe im Atlantik letztem Wochenende geschwimmen.” I swam in the Atlantic. It’s a lie, but it’s better than, “I found out my boyfriend was gay, passed out at lunch, cried for hours, and wished I could die.”
Herr Reitz, always the actor, grabs his arms and shivers. “War es kalt?”
Yeah, I tell him, it was really freaking cold. “It was so cold that the chickens were lining up at the KFC, begging to jump into the pressure cooker.”
That throws him. That throws everyone, and Herr Reitz bends over, clutching his lederhosen-clad stomach. I let myself smile.
When he finally rights himself he says, “Can you say that in German?”
I shake my head.
“You don’t have to. That was too funny. Somebody write that down!”
Then he goes back into German Teacher Mode, moves on to Bob and asks him the same thing, “Was habst du letztes Wochenende gemacht?”
Bob flinches and behind his glasses, his twitchy little eyes look at me. His twitchy little eyes look at me and it’s all I can do not to get up and pound him. Behind me, I can hear Tom let out a breath real, real slow. I grip the edge of my chair and will myself to be still.
Herr Reitz waits
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