You Again

“Right... she’s dead.”

Monet let her words hang in her room like a broken ornament, reminding her of what she’d lost. Three nights in a row, her mind taunted her with picturesque dreams of her mom. “Mwen fyè de ou cheri,” her mom called out in each one, twisting the knife even deeper. Somehow, her memory preserved her mother as she was in 2008: a youthful 36, beaming with joy, her face unaffected by time, mummified. Monet clung to that particular image of her mother, the last one she had.

Her mother, Esther, appeared with a transient warmth oozing pride, only to be snatched away at the sound of an alarm.’It’s natural for you to be missing your mother right now,′ Monet mocked in her psychiatrist’s voice, unsure if dreaming about her dead mom could be considered “normal.” She imagined that her psychiatrist might remind her that her mother had always been proud of her, and likely still would be.

Desperate to lull her nagging thoughts, she turned to her bedside table and grabbed her phone: 10:30 am, a slap in the face. A half-asleep arm wiped the drool from her face, and she propelled herself upright. “It’s just stress,” she told herself. Today was the day she’d been waiting for after all, the 2016 class valedictorian was going to be announced. One announcement had the potential to either soothe her stress-induced dreams or send her into a new, more violent spiral.

“Start the day off right,” she groaned, fumbling for the orange bottle that sat next to her lamp.

Across the bed, her phone vibrated loudly.

Roman:Uh, hey, Mo. Did you get the student body email?

The email.

She dragged herself from the warmth of the bed and slowly made her way to her carefully organized desk. In the corner stood a gold pencil cup, filled with color-coordinated pens—the obnoxious ones with the feathers attached to the ends. Right off to the side, propped up and adorned with notes, was a mirror.

Her eyes found her favorite.

‘Sorry, I threw a pencil at you. I was being a dick,’ one of the many half-crumpled notes read.

She chuckled, the memory still fresh. Roman had passed it to her during Mr. Becker’s long-winded lecture on the periodic table. The note had been his white flag after a week of silent treatment. A familiar warmth rose in her chest at the thought of Roman.

“Focus,” Monet muttered, shaking her head. “The email.”

Her eyes glanced over the pleasantries, instructions for graduation day, and the multiple warnings about senior ditch day, to find that one word. Valedictorian. Once her eyes found it, she quickly slammed them shut. This was it. She would never be able to go back to this moment. With a deep breath, she took in the gentle scent of lavender wafting into her room from the candle in the hall.

This year, for the first time, we have a two-way tie for valedictorian. Monet Dubois and Roman Wilkerson are tied with a 4.3 GPA.

Tied, the word might as well have been written in scarlet. The warmth that once sat in her chest sank to her stomach; it churned as she went over all the possible outcomes of this “tie.”

“No.”

Slamming her laptop shut, she forced her thoughts into a dark corner of her mind. Quicker than she could realize, her fingers opened her phone and sent a one-word reply to Roman, “Yep.” Monet threw her phone back into the bed, then herself along with it. What harm could a few more hours of sleep do?

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

A small sound, like a bird pecking at the glass, jolted Monet awake.

Tap-tap-TICK.

Annoyed, she tried to force herself back to sleep, but the sound persisted. As the speaker inched closer to the window, the sound grew more familiar. ’I know he’s not...” Throwing the curtains open, she peered down to see a blurry figure standing in her yard. Not far, a white Jeep Wrangler sat parked in the driveway.

“Mo! Monet! I know you can hear me! Come down!”

Roman.

Before she could even yell at him to shut up, the front porch light flicked on, illuminating her grandmother, Victoria, standing with her arms crossed, the screen door pushed open with her hip.

“Bondye! Ti gason, ou pèdi tèt ou?” Grann shouted, her voice piercing the night. (My God! Boy, have you lost your mind?)

Roman, caught in the spotlight, just grinned sheepishly. “Non, Grann, mwen la pou m wè Monet.” (No, Grann, I’m here to see Monet.)

“Hm.” Grann’s expression didn’t soften. “I see you’ve been working on your Creole.”

“I think I’m getting pretty good.”

“Eh, keep working,” Grann said dismissively. “What possessed you to throw rocks at my granddaughter’s window?”

Roman’s playful demeanor fell, his shoulders hunching as he rumbled, “I need to see her. I got an email from Peterson, I...We-”

“I don’t care what Peterson said,” Grann interrupted abruptly. “It’s a school night. Arthur’s caught up in the office.”

“Come on, Grann. Just for a few minutes. Please?”

Victoria stared him down for a long, hard second. Monet knew that look. Grann was about to crack. “Hmm. If I let you in, you have to promise me, cross your heart – there will be no funny business.”

“I promise. Thanks, Grann.”

“You and that girl will be the death of me,” she muttered, turning to go back inside.

“You know you love me!” Roman called after her.

“Eh.”

Throwing her arm across each other, she closed the blinds, her eyes scanning the room for a brush, lip gloss, mascara, anything. She likely had three minutes before Roman would be at her door. Out of ideas, she licked her hands and caressed her dancing curls back into place. Bright purple mouthwash caught her eye in the bathroom mirror reflection. She rushed to swish it around for a few seconds while she lathered her face with lotion.

A knock startled the tube of Carmex out of her hand.‘Good enough.’Shaking herself calm, she gently opened the door, and there he was. Soft, downturned hazel eyes gazed down at her. Standing up straight, she stood there blocking his lanky six-foot frame from entering.

“Mo,” Roman said, a half smile dancing on his lips.

‘Don’t let yourself be charmed by him. Don’t let yourself be charmed by him,’ she thought.

“You gonna let me in?”

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see if you’re okay,” he said, his hand reaching for hers. A gesture that tugged at her, urging her to melt into him, as she’d done many times before.

“Why wouldn’t I be? We’re tied after all. It’s an honor,” she mocked. Leaving the door open, she made her way to the bed and plopped down. For a moment, she stared at the ceiling, imagining what she’d say if Roman were named valedictorian.

“The honor is mine, actually,” he called from the doorway.

With time, her ability to hide her emotions around him faded. Her annoyance was palpable, “Shut up!” Roman shot his hands up, as if to surrender. “This matters just as much to you; don’t pander to me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, sitting on the side of her bed. “Mo, you’re going to win.”

“Why did it have to be you? I could’ve managed if it were anyone else. I can’t root for myself against you.”

A thick silence settled between them. Monet knew Roman wanted her to win, and that knowledge only tightened the guilt coiled around her chest. She felt the familiar pull of a spiral before she could stop it. Her fingernails bit into her palms as she pushed herself up and began to pace.

“What kind of girlfriend doesn’t want her boyfriend to win?” She wasn’t really asking him. Her eyes moved restlessly around the room, landing on nothing. “A shitty one.” She answered herself before the thought could fully form. “I know your situation. Your dad would be furious. And here I am, only thinking about myself.” She let out a short, humorless breath.

“Mo,” he called out from the side of her bed, his eyes glued to her.

“If I win, he could disown you. He,” she stammered, ignoring him. “He could ask you to break up with me. I should withdraw from consideration.” The idea that had been swirling in her stomach bubbled up; clear, concise, bringing everything to a halt. Her words almost stung as they spilled out of her mouth. If it was what would keep the peace, or what would protect Roman, she had no hesitation.‘It’s not like my mom could be disappointed from the grave.’

Just long enough, he had let her projectile word vomit all over the room.

“Monet,” he called out, his voice strong and sure.

“What?” she asked, confused. “Wait, you never call me that.”

Roman stood up, his height on display yet again. Upright, he walked over to her and placed his lanky arms around her. Like coals, his touch sizzled when it met her skin—soothing the anxiety that threatened to boil over to a simmer. Monet melted into him for a moment, a six-foot safe haven that smelled of cedarwood. Everything about him felt warm in that moment. Clinging to him, she hoped it would last just long enough for her to savor it.

“You are not going to withdraw.”

His words rang in her ears, sweet like honey.

“But your dad,” Monet cut in.

“What about him?” Roman held her tighter, using one hand to caress the small of her back. “I don’t care about being valedictorian, Mo. I don’t care if losing pisses my dad off; I want you to win. You deserve to win.”

With no time to fight it, Monet’s eyes grew dewy. Tears just barely holding onto her waterline. “Oh, he’s really going to kill you now,” she joked, her head still buried in his chest.

“Your mom. She’d be proud of you, even in the unlikely chance I win.”

There it was, the sentence that opened the floodgates.

“God, I hate you,” Monet scoffed. Roman was always perfectly equipped with the right thing to say, exactly when she needed it. It was annoying, really.

A loud horn blared through the window, interrupting the moment, their moment.

“Justin?”

“Yeah, I don’t have driving privileges anymore, remember?”

“Right,” she said, breaking from their hug. “You should get going anyway. My dad should be home soon.”

“Alright, alright, I’m leaving,” he said, lifting her head with his index finger. For about ten seconds, he just looked at her; a silent conversation taking place between their eyes. Monet took the moment to take him in for a little while longer. The winter had paled his usually tan skin, unchanging his dark toussled hair. It was a marvel how Roman came from his father, Michael. Day and night would be an understatement; Roman was handsome, charming, and warm. While Michael, well, Michael walked through life with an unsettling arrogance.

One final honk of Justin’s car horn separated them.

“See you later, Mo.”

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

′One, two, three...′ Monet counted to herself as her freshly painted French tips traced the stitching of her seat in Michaels Yukon. A silence so dry hung in the car since Michael, Rose, and Roman had picked them up. Grann sat nestled between Roman and Monet in the back seat, her lavender perfume stifling the rest of the breathable air in the car.

“Thanks again for the ride, Mr. Wilkerson,” Monet stammered. Turning her head over, she could see Roman mimic her, thanking his father.

“It was a pleasure, sweetie,” Rose warmly stated. Her eyes darted over to Michael, looking for him to say something, anything kind.

Monet used to think Michael liked her, but that was until she and Roman started dating. From then on, he just seemed to tolerate her. She wondered if it was because she was a distraction for Roman, or if he wanted him to end up with someone... well, not like her.

“Valedictorian,” Michael said, letting the word sit there. “That must mean a lot to your family.”

“Dad.” Roman’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

Grann leaned over to Monet, whispering, “Enbesil (idiot).”

“I think what Michael meant to say is that your mom would be so proud of you, Monet,” Rose interjected, trying her best to ease the tension.

′That must mean a lot to your family?′ His words made her chest burn; her fingernails dug into her palms, trying to silence her comeback. She’d let him slide with those comments one too many times. “Michael, Roman being nominated must be a big deal for your family as well,” Monet shot back. “Considering where you and your business started.”

A dry cough escaped from Michael, “Well, congratulations.”

Silence engulfed the car, marinating until they arrived.

The car came to a halt in front of the school. Rose turned over her seat and flashed them a smile, nodding for Monet and Roman to head inside.

“Ou bèl anpil, cherie,” (You look beautiful, sweetie), Arthur said, squeezing Monet tightly.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“How was the car ride over?”

“I’ll let Grann tell you on the way home,” she scoffed. “Come on,” she motioned towards their seats in the front. “They should be getting started soon.”

What felt like days passed by agonizingly. Adding to the unbearable nature of the evening was the creaking of the bleachers. With every anxiously tapping foot, the sound grew louder and louder. Among the anxiously shaking was Monet, and just to her right Arthur; his knee had not stopped shaking since the ceremony began. They sat through every award imaginable, from most artistic, most likely to succeed, kindest, and most aptly awarded most improved to most improved. From across the auditorium, Monet gave Roman an empathetic glance. Almost to say ‘I wish this were over.’

The right corner of his mouth slid up in that half-smile he always did. Mouthing to her, “It’s okay.′

“And now... The award you’ve all been waiting for,” Principal Peterson announced. “After long consideration, the faculty has decided to name Monet Dubois the 2016 class valedictorian. Monet, please make your way down to the stage to collect your sash and tassel.”

In an almost trance-like state, Monet’s legs carried her down to the stage. Standing center stage as teachers and faculty fawned over her, her eyes remained on him. Both to slow the impending panic attack and to see if he was okay. Fidgeting with the tassels, she took a deep breath, easing toward the microphone.

“Thanks, uh,” she managed, clearing her throat. “I mean, thank you to the faculty and staff for this award. Congratulations to the class of 2016,” she said, chewing at the corners of her mouth.

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

​

Unceremoniously, the crowd poured out of the gym, leaving behind a few stragglers: Justin, Roman, Arthur, Grann, and Beth. They stood near the exit chatting and laughing. Beth, Justin’s mom, beamed at his most accomplished award, anxiously looking over her shoulder for her husband.

“Here she is, our valedictorian,” Beth cooed.

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Connell,” Monet blushed.

Grann emerged from the group, polaroid camera ready. “I need a photo of the three of you, c’mere,” she said, playfully motioning to Roman and Justin.

The trio shared an uncomfortable glance. It had been ages since they last took a photo together— first grade, to be exact.

“Please. Just one,” Monet mouthed, her doe eyes directed at them.

“Alright, just one picture,” Roman offered.

“That’s all I need,” Grann said, motioning for them to scoot closer together. “Act like you like each other,” she laughed dryly.

“I know those two like each other. Like me, not so much Grann,” Justin joked, avoiding getting any closer to them.

“Come on, J, you know we love you too,” Roman added.

Roman placed his hand gently on the small of Monet’s back, his touch warm and steady. On her other side, Justin leaned in just enough for his shoulder to graze hers. They held the pose for about 10 seconds before the flash signaled the all-clear. Swiping the plastic back and forth, Grann waited for the photo to develop.

“Here!” Grann shouted, showing the photo to Arthur and Beth. Her wrinkled fingers held it as if it were worth millions. Grann was always lightyears ahead of everyone else. Beaming with pride, Grann was already imagining the frame she’d use.

For the three of them, it would become invaluable with time. Captured in ink, the last photo the three of them would take together for another decade.

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚