Y. That perfect letter. The wishbone. The fork in the road. The empty wineglass.

The question we ask ourselves over and over. —Marjorie Celona

____________________________________

KATIE

DECEMBER // WEEK 2

I hated Wednesdays, precisely because my AP Calculus teacher, Mrs. Caldwell gives incredibly hard, weekly quizzes. They're a friendly reminder that school is for learning and not slacking off, like the whole class would if we didn't have weekly quizzes. Mrs. Caldwell was an evil genius. This Wednesday, however, turned out to be worse than most. I walked out of my Calc class after handing in my test, breathing a sigh of freedom, only to be ambushed by Mr. Crowley, the Dean of Athletics. I instinctively hunched my shoulders forward and tried not to flinch—like I did when I was touched by every guy my mother brought home. The Dean took no notice of my tensing up and pulled me a little closer. You could say that he was definitely the hands on kind of teacher.

"Hi, Katie," Mr. Crowley began, his arm feeling like 400 tons of cement on my shoulders. I felt like Atlas, holding up the world.

"Hi, Mr. Crowley, how are you?" I asked somewhat meekly, like a mouse whose hole was being guarded by a Saber tooth tiger.

"Doing great, thanks." He answered quickly, not bothering to ask me how I was. He continued to walk me down the hallway. It was clear he could care less how I was doing. He wanted something. "So, Katie, what are you doing next week?" I opened my mouth to reply but nothing came out. I suppose he took that as a sign of me having no plans. "How would you like to film the boy's hockey game?" he pressed, acting like it was a privilege for me or something.

"Uhh, Mr. Crowley, I don't think that's such a good idea." I mumbled staring at the dirty, scuffed tile floor. It was always a mystery to me why the floors were white. The color is supposed to represent goodness and purity... innocence, as Principle Agley likes to put it. The idea is to connect our school with 'goodness' and 'purity.' Purity my ass. They just make it harder for the janitors to clean. Besides, I think the principle would be quick to take back his words and drench the school in black if he knew how innocent his students really were.

"Sure it's a good idea, Katie!" Mr. Crowley exclaimed. My words clearly went in one ear and zoomed right out the other. "Most kids would jump at this opportunity!"

"Then why don't you ask one of them?" I grumbled, resisting the urge to cross my arms. "There's like 2000 other kids in this damned prison you call high school!

"You watch your language, Miss Hawthorne!" He raised his voice, before continuing in a softer, more controlled manner like he hadn't just yelled at me. "As a student of King High who is not participating in a winter sport, you have a responsibility to support your school." He used his lecture voice. "Come to think of it, you don't participate in any sports." Mr. Crowley tried to sound surprised, but we both know that he had probably memorized my file like a private investigator before coming to see me. I'll be you that he knows me like the back of his hand.

"That's because you cut the only decent sport there ever was. I raised my voice and shoved his flabby arm off my shoulder. I stopped walking and glaring vehemently at him.

"And that would be?" he asked clueless, trying to make it sound like he had no idea what used to be my life.

"Track, Mr. Crowley," I sighed closing my eyes. "You cut the track program." The only thing worth coming to school, worth waking up in the morning for... was gone. "There are three hundred clubs here, Mr. Crowley, and you took away the best one. So no, I will not be filming the hockey game next week." I was heated now, but reality snuck up behind me like a little kid on the playground and shoved me off the swings. I fell hard, regaining my quiet composure.

"Well, Katie, I'm sorry you feel that way. And I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you, but you will be at that hockey game next week and you will be filming." Mr. Crowley fixed his tie, like that was that. With that he turned his back and walked away, knowing he had me.

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out as I watched his tubby waist waddle down the hallway. I loathed hockey—ever since my darling father had won #1 Dad of Year after walking out on me five years ago. He didn't even look back. It's been three blessed years since I've seen him, and I don't even know what I would do if I met him face to face. I wasn't counting on seeing him though, since I would be standing up on a high platform... on the other side of the ice... far away from his precious hockey bench, moving an expensive video camera back and forth. I pushed all these thoughts of my dad out of my head and into the "lost and never will found" bin as I walked into the cafeteria. I saw my other half and hurried over to her after grabbing an apple—one of the only things that looked remotely edible.

I slid into the seat across from her. "How'd your Calc quiz go, soul mate?" Isabel asked me as she pushed some salad around the plastic carton that it came in.

"It was good. I struggled a bit on question 2, but the rest were easy."

"I cannot believe she gave you all those problems. I'm in regular Calc and I can barely do 4 problems in an hour, and she gives you like a lot more!" she gaped at me, knowing how hard AP Calc was.

I opened my mouth to reply when Isabel kicked me hard. There would definitely be a bruise there in about five minutes. I rubbed my shin and frowned at her. "What was that for?" I hissed

"Jake Roswell just walked into the cafeteria. You know, the hockey superstar from Creek Hill?" Isabel sighed contentedly as she stared dreamily at the infamous hockey player... as if she couldn't be any more obvious. "Aren't you gonna stare with me, Northie?" Isabel teased, calling me what most people who attended Northshire High had been called. But now, since the merger, there was no longer a Northshire High nor a Creek Hill High... Just King High, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I had never actually seen Jake Roswell before, but I knew way too much about him, since Isabel was practically in love with him... and even that was an understatement.

"Yeah, because I would love to draw more attention to myself. I already have to watch him play hockey next week." I told her, refusing to turn around. Isabel was the one who stared at him 24/7 and talked about how hot he was.

"He's number 27!" Isabel blurted out, before slapping her hands over her mouth and looking around to see how many people heard her. Once she regained her sanity, she continued. "You're going to the hockey game? Since when do you go to hockey games? You hate hockey, Katie. Ever since your dad..." Isabel told me, like I didn't already know. She was my other half for a reason; I told her everything, though my other half happened to be in love with hockey.

"I have to film the game. Mr. Crowley made me." Dick. I took a bite out of my apple.

"He can't make you!" Isabel jabbed her dinky plastic fork into her salad. If her salad was a serial killer, he would have fatal injuries. "But you can stare at Jake Roswell. God, he is so hot." She sighed. I had a somewhat vague, mostly hazy image of Jake Roswell and I didn't intend on sharpening it up any time soon.

"He can be very..." I trailed off trying to find the right word, "Persuading," I sighed.

"I'll go with you to film. Ya know, keep you company." she wiggled her eyebrows at me, though I knew that she just wanted an excuse to ogle over Jake from a different viewpoint. "It gets pretty lonely up there on the platform, and I don't suppose you would be interesting in talking with the other person who is filming for the other team." Isabel giggled. She got a little boy crazy sometimes. Especially over hockey players. Even if they didn't play hockey, but were somehow involved in the program... she always found a way to put them on a pedestal. If Isabel had found out that one of the hockey players had killed someone, her reply would probably be something along the lines of I bet he had a good reason for it. And resume dreamy lovestruck gazing.

"Not a chance in hell. I hate people." I told her flatly, but she already knew that. Isabel was my one and only friend, namely because I avoid social situations like the plague, and also because she was the sole person I had told my life story to, along with every other thing that happened daily. Then I remembered last week, and how totally uncharacteristic it was of me. I almost opened my mouth to tell her about the guy I hooked up with in the bathroom at Blackie's last week, but something stopped me. It might have been because I was still questioning whether or not it really happened, or maybe I didn't tell her because I wanted to keep the memory to myself for a little longer.

My thoughts drifted back to the guy. I didn't exactly know who it was, but God, was he a good kisser, but that didn't really mean anything because I didn't have much to base it off of. I was certain it was a guy on the hockey team because of his King High Hockey sweatshirt, but seeing as I've never bothered to take any interest in hockey, I had no idea who is who. It's not like I'd seen any of the players up close; they're too busy dealing with the hoards of screaming, barely half-clothed girls attempting to give them what's left of their dignity and sanity.

What the hell, screw it. Isabel needed to know. Who else do I have to tell? Uhh, no one. "I kissed someone last week." I whispered loudly, staring at her for a reaction. I couldn't help but smile a little bit.

"Oh. My. God. Who?" Her jaw dropped and her eyebrows launched off into space.

"I don't know his name," I told her. "I think it was a hockey player, though." For once in my life, I was thankful we were sitting by ourselves during lunch. I really didn't want anyone else to overhear this conversation. "Well... it was a he, wasn't it?" She was almost sarcastic. Isabel also spoke quickly with lots of arm movements and hand gestures.

"Yes, it was a he, Is." I laughed using her nickname. "He looked like an Abercrombie God!" I gushed, which was also not like me. "I was in Blackie's... getting her coffee again so she wouldn't be hungover or whatever the coffee does for her, so continue on with her life like she didn't blackout every night." I trailed off, knowing I would soon be in a fit of rage if I kept talking about my darling mother.

"What was he doing in there at 3am?" Isabel asked, trying to scratch out all the details like a detective on CSI.

"I don't know, okay?" Isabel had a downside: she needed to know every little single detail about everything, making a five minute story, turn into like a three day story. It really annoyed me at times, but I couldn't really do anything about it.

"Okay, Miss Sassy Pants! Fine!" Isabel wouldn't let me wriggle away from her. "So what did he look like? I'm sure we can narrow down the team." Isabel said, coming to my very unwilling rescue. I'm not sure if I wanted to find out who I kissed or not.

"Uhh, he had brown hair." I told her, surely, remembering how good it felt to have my fingers tangled in his hair.

"Dark or light?" she asked me.

"Why does that matter?" I asked quizzically.

"It matters because like a fourth of the boys on the team have dark brown hair and an eighth of the boys on the team have light brown hair." She answered me like it was a no-brainer. Now I know how she felt when I tried to explain her Calc homework to her.

"Dark brown," I told her quickly wanting to get this whole thing over with. My stomach was a nervous pool of butterflies riding the world's fastest, highest roller coaster. I was a butterfly trapped on the roller coaster, in the front seat and I wanted off this ride. Now.

"What color eyes did he have?" Isabel asked as she clapped, clearly enjoying this.

"You don't know the hockey boys' eye colors!" I called what I thought was her bluff.

"Derek Leighton has blue eyes and Alex Martini has brown eyes with flecks of yellow in them." She told me off the top of her head, her eyes never leaving the hockey player's designated table in the middle of the cafeteria

"Wow, you're good."

"I know," she replied, impatiently waiting for me to continue.

"Mr. Abercrombie's eyes were blue." I told her.

"Are you sure?" Isabel sounded careful, like a jury debating every piece of evidence in a capital one case.

"Of course I'm sure," I almost snapped at her. I could remember those chilly, blue eyes like I could remember my name. His eyes practically burned a hole through my soul. I felt naked under his steady, scrutinizing gaze, but I just couldn't look away last week. "Why?" I asked, reminding myself not to get sucked up the memory and continue feeding Isabel tidbits of information.

"Because that narrows it down to two people."

"Really? Only two? Who?" I demanded.

"Alex Martini, who everyone calls A-Mart and Jake Roswell." Isabel smiled thoughtfully at saying Jake's name.

"Tattoo on his back or not?"

"I don't know. He was wearing a long sleeved shirt and it's not we were attempting to rip each other's clothes off." Though I wouldn't have minded. I shook my head laughing, feeling like we'd never find out who I kissed in that bathroom. "Who has the tattoo?" I was suddenly very curious.

"Jake," she told me with a devilish glint in her eyes. I bet Isabel had dreamed about running her fingers over his tattoo. I suddenly felt a burning, tingling sensation in my fingertips. No. Nope. Definitely not gonna start thinking about running my fingers over his tattoo. Dammit! I thought about it!

"Belt or no belt?" Isabel asked.

"What difference does that make?" I asked as the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

"Belt or no belt?" she repeated, completely disregarding my question.

I shut my eyes tightly for a minute, delving back into the sweet memory. I could almost feel the cool metal of his belt buckle pressing up against part of my bare stomach now, just above my belly button. "Belt," I answered before I opened my eyes.

"It's Jake." Isabel answered definitively. "You kissed, Jake Roswell." She told me. Then it hit her and Isabel started jumping up and down wildly. "Holy fucking hell, you kissed Jake Roswell!" So, Mr. Abercrombie did have name.

"How do you know?" I asked, trying to keep my balance, and wishing she would keep it down. People were starting to stare as we made our way to 5th period English.

"Well A-Mart doesn't wear a belt, so his pants are always halfway to Antarctica. Jake on the other hand is slightly more refined than his caveman companion and wears a belt. I don't understand why guys can't just buy pants that fit them." Isabel replied, almost going off on a tangent, like she does with most of her English Literature essays.

"So, you're sure I kissed Jake?" I asked.

"I am absolutely positive, Katie. If he had dark hair, blue eyes, and a belt... you kissed Jake Roswell. Besides," she added, "'Mr. Abercrombie' describes him perfectly." Isabel began to launch into another one of her tangents about the famous Jake Roswell, and I began to tune her out. "Now, if you really wanna find out, you gotta kiss him again and get him out of his shirt. The rest of his clothes are optional." She winked at me as we walked into Mr. Pin's room.

"Good afternoon, Pinheads!" He greeted us proudly once we were all seated. Yeah, my English Lit teacher definitely had the chillest name ever. "Today, we will be diving into Shakespeare's tragedy, Hamlet." he walked around the room, tossing books onto each of our desks.

"All right, the Fresh Prince of Denmark!" a hockey player from the back said and high-fived his friend. I was almost shocked that a hockey player was in my English Lit class. It was for smart people. I suppose this kid was one of the smarter hockey players.

"Yes, Alex, the Fresh Prince of Denmark." Mr. Pin gave an approving nod to Alex, seeing as he was a hockey player and had the intelligence level to know where the play took place. I take back everything I just said about him being smart. I had the urge to turn around and confirm that I didn't kiss A-Mart, but I was too scared, so my eyes stayed glued to the green blackboard.

"Now, for five Pin Points," Mr. Pin was referred to extra credit as Pin Points. Coolest. Teacher. Ever. English Lit was on of my favorite classes specifically because Mr. Pin taught it. "Who can tell me whose skull is on the cover?" he held the book up for everyone to see, though we all had copies on our desk.

"Will points be deducted for incorrect answers?" Isabel called out.

"Yes, but you have a chance to argue why you believe you're right." Mr. Pin replied. This was a typical and very great part of his class—even if you got a question wrong on one of his insanely hard tests, you had the opportunity to explain to him why you were right and deserved to keep the points.

"Horatio's?" A boy with red hair who sat next to me asked.

"No, it is not Horatio's skull, but why do you believe that it right?" Mr. Pin stopped walking and looked at him, inquisitively.

"Because everyone always dies in Shakespeare's plays." he said bluntly.

"Go on," Mr. Pin encouraged him.

"I believe that the skull is foreshadowing for the ending of this play and represents the grim fate that lies in store for everyone." he leaned back in his desk chair.

"Excellent answer, Bradley. I like how you're thinking about this play. I will give you three Pin Points." Mr. Pin walked over to his desk and made some tally marks in his grade book. Bradley pushed his thin, wire rimmed glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose when he didn't think anyone was looking. I smiled slightly and turned my attention back up to Mr. Pin who had gotten the right answer from some girl named Julianne. She had overly blonde hair and wore way too much pink.

"Almost fell out of my chair. Can't believe that Creek Hill girl knew the answer." Isabel leaned over from her seat and whispered to me. "P.S. That's Jake Roswell's girlfriend." she smirked at me. Holy fucking hell, I kissed a guy who had a girlfriend. I was shocked. I was about to tell Isabel her pants were on fire, but I remembered how well that turned out last time. She knew everything when it came to hockey players I reminded myself.

"We are not done with this conversation yet!" I whispered back at her, angry that she chose my favorite class to drop a bomb on me as big as Jake's girlfriend.

"Whatever you say, Home Wrecker." she smiled slyly at me, before jotting down a few notes that Mr. Pin had written down on the board.