Free Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul

thoughts.There’sastringinsideofme,ateensy-tinystring,andI’mpullingonit.IknowIshouldn’t.But.
    Hudson.HetoldmeIwashard-core.Brilliant.HemademebelieveinsomethingIthoughtwaslonggone: himandme.Ipullthestringalittlemore.I’mbackthereagain,weakwithwanting.Andwhereishe?He hasn’ttextedorcalled,andI’munraveling.Iclosemyeyes.Trytoignorethestring.Buthishandsinmy hair.Hiseyes.WhydoIlethimdothistome?Why,afterallhistalkofloyalty,didIexpecthimtoditch Jolene?Why,afterallthistime,didIexpectadifferentending?
    Irollontomysideandstareatthehand-drawnmapImadeinsixthgrade.It is Thanksgiving.Maybe he’swithhisfamily.Maybehe’llcalltomorrow.
    ButFridaycomesandgoesandIstillhaven’theardanything.NotfromJolene,whosecarIdrovehome.
    WhosefrontdoorIopened,slowatfirst,thenfast,soitwouldn’tcreakwhenIcarriedherthroughit,even thoughherparentsweren’tthereandwouldn’tcheckonheranyway.
    NotfromKris,who’sgrounded.
    NotfromHudson,whoheldme.
    By Friday night I can’t fight it. I pull the string and paw through every jealous memory I have of HudsonandJolene:herupturnedsmiles;hisdowncasteyes;thewayhekissedherinthehall,likenoone else existed. I force my eyes open, make them see—Jolene didn’t take Hudson. Hudson chose Jolene.
    He’schosenhereverydaysincethemanhuntgame.

That’s loyalty.
    Iflipoverandburymyfaceinmypillow.Iblinkintotheblack,breathethecottoninandoutuntilthe exhalesdon’tacheandtheinhalesaresmooth.
    If Hudson thinks I’ll take what I can get and disappear into the walls again, he’s wrong. It’s been almostayearandahalf.Iwillnotbethatgirlagain.
    Iamnotthatgirl.
    WhenHudsonsaidgood-byetomeatBella’s,hesaidhe’dfindme.Instead,I’llfindhim.Tomorrow’s Saturday—the soccer game. Hudson’s on varsity. I told Jake I wasn’t going, but I will. And for once I won’tcontrolmyself.Iwon’tstandbackandwatchquietlywhilethewordsclawatmythroat,fightmy lipstogetfree.I’llletthemcomerippingout.I’lltellhimhedoesn’tmeanathingtome.ThatIdon’tthink about him. That I never did. That he can go back to her, because I’m done with him. It’s over. It never existedinthefirstplace.
    Andmaybewhenthewordsareupandoutofme,I’llbelievethem.
    UNCORRECTEDE-PROOF—NOTFORSALE
    HarperCollinsPublishers
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    CHAPTER9
    I HAVEN’T BEEN to Tamaques Park in years. I half expect to drive into a swath of egg-yolk-yellow paper labeledDivision41,Block522—butasIturnthefirstcurve,it’sobviousthateverything’sexactlywhere I left it. The tennis courts and playgrounds on my left, the basketball courts on my right. The baseball diamond, paved walking paths, and patches of open grass inside the largest part of the loop. I lean forwardinmyseatandlookoutacrosstheopenfieldinfrontofme.Ispotacoupleofboyskickingaball, settingupmakeshiftnetsandflagsontheflatgrassintheoutfield.ButHudsonisn’toneofthem.SoIkeep driving, up the tiny hill and into the small parking lot near the pond. I park my car—Jake’s old one, actually—andstareoutatthefield.
    I can almost see us—Cal, Hudson, Kris, and me (Jolene was away with her family)—that summer night after sophomore year when we walked to the park, lay down in that field, and made up our own constellations.AtleastKrisandCaldid.Iwasquiet,tryingtofindtherealonesIknewfromtheposterin Jake’sroom:Orion,theHunter;Perseus,theHero;Cassiopeia,theQueen.
    Hudsonwasquiettoo.Thenagain,hedidn’treallytalkifhedidn’thaveto.Butafteraparticularly disgustingcreationfromCalinvolvingafarmanimalandthenameofasexualposition,weallburstout laughing.KrisandIclutchedourstomachs.Whenwefinishedgiggling,Iputmyhandbackontheground.
    That’swhenHudsonslidhisfingersthroughmineandleftthemthere,betweenbladesofgrass.Itwasthe secondtimewe’dheldhands,anditwasastepup.Lasttimeinadarkroom,thistimeunderthenightsky.
    Ispreadmyfingersoutsohiscouldfallthroughthespaces,andeventhoughhishandswerehotterthanthe