The Square root of falling: A Brazos High Novella
The Square root of falling
A Brazos High Novella
Amy Sparling
Contents
1. Jules
2. Jake
3. Jules
4. Jake
5. Jules
6. Jake
7. Jules
8. Jake
9. Jules
10. Jake
11. Jules
12. Jake
13. Jules
14. Jake
15. Jules
16. Jake
Epilogue
Also by Amy Sparling
About the Author
One
Jules
When my alarm goes off at 6:40 in the morning, I’ve already been awake for an hour. It’s not like I planned it or wanted this early bird morning. It was just really, really hard to sleep last night knowing that today is the first day of my junior year of high school. I remember the young, innocent, (and frankly stupid) me back in my freshman year. I was so excited to get to high school that I jumped out of bed and eagerly got dressed in the outfit I’d picked out weeks before after a day spent at the mall shopping for the perfect first day attire. Oh, that poor innocent version of me. That Jules Minuti had no idea what would happen to her just two years later.
I throw my blankets off and sit up in bed, letting out a frustrated groan. I didn’t pick out my outfit last night. In fact, I didn’t even go shopping for new school clothes this year because I just didn’t care. New school clothes imply that you want to look nice. Looking nice means you want other people to think you look nice.
And the only reason I’ve ever wanted to look nice was so that boys would like me. That is not who I am anymore.
I snort sarcastically as I shuffle toward my closet and fling open the door. I do not want boys to like me this year. In fact, I am so over boys this year. Maybe even forever.
I grab the first Brazos High T-shirt I find and then retrieve a pair of jeans off my closet floor. I wore them a few days ago but they don’t look dirty. Eh, good enough.
I get dressed and pull my hair into a ponytail and then stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth. All my makeup sits neatly in the makeup caddy next to my sink, but it’s just going to stay there. I cannot be bothered to get all dolled up for the stupid first day of school.
My carefree, no-nonsense attitude lasts for exactly five minutes, give or take. Then suddenly I’m breaking down. It happens when I’m walking out to the kitchen where my mom is drinking coffee and waiting on her toast and my dad is watching the news in the living room because he works from home and doesn’t really get started working until noon most days.
It’s right about here, when I grab a blueberry muffin from the pantry, that I feel my chest break open.
Not literally, of course.
It’s a metaphorical break, but the pain is real.
I told myself this wouldn’t happen. I spent all summer telling myself I’d be okay. That I’d move on and go to school and be fine. I dig my teeth into my bottom lip as I pour a cup of orange juice and take a bite of my muffin.
I guess all those words I told myself were just lies because it still hurts and I am still not over it.
Not over him.
I grit my teeth, draw in a deep breath, and take another huge bite of my muffin. You can’t possibly cry while eating a blueberry muffin, right? It would go against the laws of physics or baking or something.
Mom spreads strawberry jam on her toast and then sits next to me at the kitchen table. “You ready for the first day of school?” she asks.
I shrug. “I suppose.”
“Only two more years left and you’ll be all grown up.”
I shrug again. I will not cry.
I will not think about him.
The only good thing about my life right now is that I finally turned sixteen last May and now I can drive myself to school. I have one of those weird late birthdays where everyone else in my sophomore class turned sixteen way earlier than I did. But I’m finally the legal age to drive, and my mom did the most amazing thing and gave me her car over the summer. She got a new car for herself, and I got to be the lucky recipient of a slightly old, slightly scratched up, but totally amazing Chevrolet Cruise. It’s mine, all mine, and I finally get to drive myself to school. Woohoo!
My excitement wanes as I make the short drive across town to my school. It doesn’t matter how much I try to distract myself, or how much I lie and tell my heart it doesn’t need to hurt anymore, I’m still hurt. It’s been three and a half months and yet… still hurt.
I hate this.
I hate him.
Trevor Blankenship was my first “real” boyfriend. He asked me out to the homecoming dance in August of my sophomore year and we were inseparable ever since. He was tall and cute and he really liked me. He’d write me love letters on actual paper instead of through text. But he sent me love letters through text too. We met up before every class and held hands while we walked to our next class. He’d wait for me after school and drive me home. I was totally smitten. My mom says that teenagers don’t really know what love is, and I guess I understand where she’s coming from, because we don’t have years of life experience or whatever. That’s why I won’t say that I loved him… what I felt for him was definitely real and strong and overwhelming. If it wasn’t real love, it was something very close to it.
I thought we would be together forever. I had daydreams of the vows I’d recite at our wedding, talking about how he was my high school sweetheart and my first real boyfriend and how now he’d be my forever soul mate. What a fool I was.
It was just one week before my birthday, back in May. It was a Sunday. The night before, Trevor had gone to a house party with some of our friends, but I wasn’t able to go because my mom didn’t want me out that late. My curfew was 10:00p.m. until I turned 16. But Trevor went to the party without me, and I guess whatever happened there made him decide to break my heart.
Sunday morning, I’d woken up, texted him hello with what I now feel is an embarrassing number of heart emojis (ugh), and then I wondered why I didn’t get a reply back. Two whole hours went by, which was by far the longest we’d ever been without texting. Finally, I checked Snapchat and that’s when the worst day of my life unfolded.
Trevor had posted a bunch of Snaps to his story. I will not relive them all right now because I really don’t want to cry, but suffice it to say he posted stuff saying he decided to be single now.
My boyfriend broke up with me on Snapchat.
I swallow down the ball of anger that rises in my throat. I must have relived those awful memories a little too deeply just now because now I’m arriving at school and I don’t even remember driving here. I turn into the student parking lot and find a spot to park. This is my first time driving to school, and I choose a parking spot way in the back. I don’t know why. It just feels right. Parking back here away from everyone is kind of a metaphor for how I’m going to live out my junior year. Not alone exactly, but single.
I’m not totally alone. I have Abby, who is the greatest friend in the world, and several other friends. Platonic friends. I made this choice a few weeks ago while I was crying over a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and I am not backing down on it.
This school year will be all about my studies. Not boys.
I won’t date. I won’t flirt. I won’t so much as look at a cute boy this year. Why? Because it’s just not worth it. Boys are stupid. Dating is stupid.
High school sweethearts are stupid.
After suffering through weeks of heartache and nights of crying myself to sl
eep, I now have a brand new philosophy in life:
You can’t get a broken heart if you don’t date anyone.
I park my car and hang up my new Brazos High parking pass over my rearview mirror. My hands grip the steering wheel as I stare ahead at my school, a two-story building that’s been here forever. My parents went to Brazos High School. I wonder how many hearts have been broken at this place. Probably way too many. But that’s on them because those people were dumb enough to fall in love and get their hearts broken. I won’t make that mistake twice. Nope.
The first day of school means we all meet in the cafeteria to get our class schedules. I head to the table marked M-R since my last name is Minuti, and I wait in line to get my schedule. Coach Branson hands it to me and when I turn around, I smack straight into my best friend.
“Please tell me we have classes together,” Abby says, handing me her schedule. Abby is short with long dark hair and tanned skin. We’ve been best friends forever, because unlike boyfriends, Abby won’t break up with me over Snapchat.
I hold our class schedules next to each other and skim down the list. I have math first, which is kind of good because it’s a hard class and I’m more functional first thing in the morning. Abby has cosmetology first period. But we have History together for second, and we have the same lunch, and then Interpersonal Studies together in seventh period. That one was a given because not many people take that elective class. We signed up for it together hoping we’d get in the same class, and we did.
“Two classes and lunch,” I say, handing it back to her.
She frowns. “Blah. Better than no classes, I guess.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing perfectly fine,” I say with a haughty tone that makes her laugh. I keep up the tone and put on a snooty accent. “Why on earth would you even ask such a thing?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know why I’m asking. You might run into you-know-who today… I’m just looking out for you.”
I make a gagging sound. “I am so over you-know-you. I don’t care if I see him. I don’t care to see any boys, actually.”
She looks like she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t say anything. I hook my arm through her elbow. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
Last year, the school decided to raise money by selling coffee from little coffee carts in the cafeteria. It was a huge success, and the students love it. I didn’t much care for coffee until these coffee carts arrived on campus, and now I love a hot cup of dark roast with hazelnut creamer. It’s my morning ritual.
We get our coffees and start walking toward the main hallway. Abby grabs my arm. “Don’t look to your left,” she whispers. “Evil ex-boyfriend alert.”
I scoff like it’s no big deal, but inside, my heart is pounding. “I really don’t care,” I say, looking straight ahead. “I am so over him.”
“I’m just looking out for you,” Abby says. She saw me cry so many times over the summer that it’s no wonder she doesn’t believe that I’m totally over Trevor.
But maybe I don’t believe it, either. Because the only thing I want to do is look to my left to see if I can spot him.
Luckily, I’m strong enough to resist.
Two
Jake
Sweat drips down my forehead and I don’t even bother to wipe it off. There’s no point because the back of my hand is also coated in sweat and the air is thick with early morning humidity that clings to my clothes and every inch of my body. My feet trudge on, my shoes soaked from the dewy grass as I make my fifth lap around the high school. The rest of the soccer team is here, too. We are all being punished for something I did not do.
This past weekend, a few Varsity players decided to have a party out at the lake. Not only was the alcohol abundant, the incriminating photos they took of themselves and posted online were also abundant. We’re all underage, and we’re all representing Brazos High’s Varsity Soccer team, and that kind of conduct is not allowed.
Coach made that very clear when he yelled at us this morning before our practice. We are examples of how student athletes should act, and that alcohol-fueled party was the exact opposite of what they expect from us. Now to make up for being such bad teenagers and poor role models, we’re running laps.
I wasn’t even at that stupid party. I don’t drink, and I don’t do drugs, and I’m actually a pretty good person as far as being a teenager goes. I might be the only junior at Brazos High who hasn’t sent nude pictures of myself to anyone. I’ve never even taken a photo like that, much less sent it to someone.
But we are a team, and when one team member messes up, we all get punished as a team. Coach was also very adamant about that as well.
I look over at Brock Curtis as he jogs beside me and I scowl. Brock is always down for a wild house party with beer, booze, whatever. He’s one of the people who should be punished right now. Not me.
It’s only ten minutes until school starts when Coach finally lets us go back inside. We’re all covered in sweat and have to shower before changing back into school clothes. The locker room is packed, and I have about three minutes to get dried off. My dark hair does not look good when it’s wet. I let it grow out this summer and now it’s just past my ears, but it’s all shaggy and messy because I haven’t had it trimmed since before school got out last year. I rake my fingers through it, but it’s no use. Without a blow dryer, I look like a wet dog.
But it doesn’t really matter, because I am the hottest guy in Brazos High School.
Trust me, I know how that sounds. Don’t hate me—it’s not my fault.
I didn’t make up that title for myself. I don’t even believe it, and that’s the honest truth. But somewhere in junior high, girls started calling me cute. It’s like I hit puberty and suddenly girls liked me. It only got worse in high school, when I got this reputation for being a player. I don’t know who started the rumor, but people suddenly all believed that I dated college-aged girls and thought I was too good to date girls at my own school. I don’t know. Then the freshman yearbook came out, and I was voted Hottest Freshman. And then last year I was voted Hottest Sophomore and Hottest Boy—for the entire student body. Now, as crazy as it sounds, being hot is kind of my identity.
And it’s weird. It’s so weird. All the guys act like it’s some cosmic blessing to be crowned as a hot guy in high school, but I think it’s more of a curse.
Girls are either intimidated by me or they think I’m some arrogant jerk who prides myself on looking good. No one knows my real secret, the embarrassing awful truth that I keep buried deep down inside…
I’ve never had a girlfriend.
Not even a date.
And now I’m seventeen years old, and a high school junior, and somehow I have this fan club of girls who look at me and bat their eyelashes in the hallways but never actually talk to me. And the longer I go without having a girlfriend, the more worried I get that I’ve been cursed with some kind of single-forever-life and that I’ll never be able to break out of it and ask a girl out.
It really sucks.
The bell rings, meaning we have five minutes to get to class. The entire soccer team scrambles out of the locker room and toward the cafeteria to get our schedules. There’s hardly anyone left in here, so I don’t have to wait in line to get mine.
I have math class first period, which is way across the school and upstairs. Despite being forced to run laps for the last hour, I now have to run again to get to class on time.
“No running!”
I don’t recognize the older woman who yells at me, but she looks like one of the teachers who would have no problem taking the time to write me up if I ignore her warning. So I slow down and give her a sheepish please-don’t-hate-me smile as I walk by. Her stern expression turns soft and then she smiles back at me. That is probably the only benefit of being attractive. All women smile at me if I smile back at them. Of course, when an older woman does it, it’s kind of creepy.
I ignore tha
t thought and keep walking. Just great. Thanks to some idiots on my team, I’m going to be tardy on the first day of school. Awesome. What a wonderful way to start out the year.
“Hi, Jake.”
I turn to see a pretty girl with blonde hair wave at me. I have no clue who she is, but I wave back. Every time a girl flirts with me I tell myself to just be brave and ask her on a date. But then I always chicken out. And it’s not that I’m worried about being rejected… it’s just that I don’t want someone who only wants me for my looks.
I want to meet a girl in a fun casual way. I want to get to know her and slowly fall for her. I want her to do the same for me. But it feels like every girl at this school already knows me—if only for my reputation alone. They all see me and think “there goes the hottest guy in the school” and they don’t even care to know who I am as a person.
The worst part is that every time I complain about my situation to my guy friends, they’ll roll their eyes and make fake crying sounds and say, “Oh boo-hoo, the hot guy is sad.”
Sometimes I daydream about waking up one day and becoming the actual jerk womanizing player that people assume I am. I imagine walking the halls with this weird superiority complex as if I think I’m better than everyone else because I was voted hottest guy in the school. I imagine just picking a random girl and asking her to be my girlfriend. I’m sure she would probably say yes. I mean, right? I’m the hottest guy in the school, after all.
But I can’t do that. I don’t want just any girl. I don’t want someone who only wants me because they’ll get bragging rights if they date me.
I want someone real. I want someone sweet. Maybe even someone who has no idea about my stupid reputation for being attractive.