Lavender Regret

I tip the last book into place, standing on my toes to reach the top shelf. The library is quiet, it's the middle of the afternoon and most students are in the commons having lunch outside. It's nice out, the sky is diamond blue and the sun is a bright pinprick high overhead. I look out the window, distracted.

"What're you looking at?"

I startle, then scowl. I hate being snuck up on.

"Nothing." I shove the empty book cart down the aisle with my foot. The creaking wheels don't carry it far. I follow it, walking away from her.

"You're still mad." It's not a question, more of an accusation. Her tone is incredulous. I walk faster.

"I'm not mad."

She follows me as I wheel the cart back toward the supply room. There are more books to be reshelved, standing in piles on the oak table. There are even more stacks of books waiting for rebinding, or page repairs.

"I said I was sorry." She had said she was sorry. A dozen times. Two dozen. It didn't change anything.

"I'm not mad." I fuss with the cart, maneuvering it into the corner, a momentary bout of OCD forcing me to perfectly align the wheels with the chipped paint of the baseboard. I'm not mad. I'm furious.

"You won't even look at me." I haven't looked at her. Defiant, I do now. She's got that kicked puppy look that I hate. Mousy brown hair pulled into a messy topknot, her eyes red-rimmed from tears she won't ever let me see fall.

"You read too much into looks." My tone is colder than I mean it to be. She flinches. "I have a class in twenty minutes," I tell her. It's the first unsolicited bit of conversation I've aimed her way in almost a week.

"So do I." We're in the same grade, but don't have any classes together. St. John's Academy is a large school, there are three campuses in the city, two for day students and this one for boarders. My parents travel as part of their job, my mother is a field producer for a news channel and my father is a musician. Their jobs don't leave much time for parenting, so I've been at St. John's since second grade. I spend holidays with my aunt in upstate New York. Summers I used to travel with my dad's band. This year I'll probably head home, eighteen is old enough to stay in L.A. by myself for eight weeks without getting in trouble. Maybe.

"Look," I say, exasperated now. Her presence grates on my nerves. The sight of her. The smell. Lavender and bubblegum and alcohol - one of those Victoria's Secret bodysprays. It clings to her, just like those baby blue leggings she wears under an oversized Playboy baseball t-shirt. She spends more time in the gym than I do, her figure slim and curvy at the same time. I catch myself staring, and my scowl deepens. "I don't know why you're here, but you should go." I should stop there, but I don't. "Jason is meeting me here before class."

I tell myself I don't care when her breath catches, I force myself to feign nonchalance, tidying a hopelessly disorganized stack of pages. I can't read the words, they're blurring together. I squint, trying to focus on the letters instead of the lingering lavender-bubblegum-ethyl-alcohol scent. It's ancient Greek. That's why I can't read the words.

"So you're back with Jason?" she asks. Her voice is high, unnaturally so. She too feigns nonchalance. She's not as good at it as I am. "Since when?" she asks. It's not a question, it's a demand. I don't owe her anything.

"Since you decided to try and force your agenda on me." It's a lame answer. I'm beating her up for something beyond her control. I have to blame someone.

"My agenda?" She's mad now. Good. Maybe she'll leave. "If I recall correctly, you were fine with my agenda until the lights came on."

She's not the only one that can go on the offensive. "I was drunk. You took advantage of that, you knew I wasn't rea-

"I didn't take advantage of anything," she claims, rounding the table to jab her finger at me. She's so small, nearly half a foot shorter than me. Her finger is tipped in a hot pink talon of self-righteous anger however, and I'd rather not be poked. I take a step back and peer down at her over the rim of my glasses. She hates that.

"What do you call it?" I ask snidely.

"We kissed," she says, stumbling over the words. Like her, my cheeks flame red at the memory. Anna's birthday party, had it really been a whole week ago? We were both drunk, and she'd stumbled into a guest bedroom in Anna's parents' house. Like some sort of tiny, deranged acrobat, she'd flipped onto the bed, jumping up and down, her hair flying. She'd convinced me to join her. When I fell, she'd fallen as well, on top of me.

"You kissed me," I'm quick to clarify. She had. Her hair spilling over my shoulders, breath soft like gin and tonic and sweet mint, she'd pressed her lips to mine, exploding my mind. I was drunk. I was straight. She always smells so good. I'd kissed her back.

She rests her hip against the table, less than a foot away from me. I'd backed myself into a corner, I'd look like I was fleeing if I tried to push past her, so I stand still.

"You liked it," she reminds me. Her lips curve into that stupid grin that spells trouble. "You tasted like vodka and Skittles," she continues, stepping a bit closer. I can't breathe.

"Jason is coming," I remind her, my attention shifting from her lips to the door and back again. I can feel my resolve wavering.

"I don't hear anything," she says. I'm running out of words, out of space. She's going to kiss me again and I can't let her, not again. At Anna's party things had gone too far. We were kissing, there on the tousled bedsheets, her athletic little frame splayed on top of me, and then the lights had come on, a million watts of over-exposure, a half dozen shocked faces at the doorway. I'd frozen, mortified. She'd kissed me again.

"What the fuck?" A girl's voice from the back of the growing crowd. That had snapped me out of it. "Get off of me," I'd demanded, shoving her harder than I'd meant to. Drunk-strength. She'd looked so confused. I'd scrambled off the bed, aiming my uncoordinated self toward Jason. He'd taken a step back.

"Dyke." The word had burned itself over my heart, a scarlet letter of sorts. Someone hooted, uncomfortable laughter at my expense. Jason turned and walked away after only this one word, leaving me with my hand uselessly outstretched.

"So what?" she'd called from the bed where she had remained, so carelessly unashamed.

"I'm not gay," I'd insisted hotly, shoving my way out of the room to chase after Jason. I'd been chasing him ever since. It's been a week now, and this is the first time he's agreed to meet with me. I think we can work it out. I'm not a dyke.

"Anyone home?" Her voice drags me back to the present. I shoulder past her.

"I have to go. Jason will be here any minute and I shouldn't be here, with you, when he gets here." I want to be here, with her. I'm not a dyke, though.

"You don't have to go," she says, her voice quiet. The quiet affords us the opportunity to hear the library doors open, outside the supply room. I hesitate. That'd be Jason. He's finally willing to talk to me again. I can convince him this was all a mistake.

"I can't choose you," I tell her, heading for the door. Regret lingers in the air. Lavender-and-bubblegum scented regret and the salty tang of private tears and the memory of her sweet, drunken little curves pressed against me in the dark.

"Don't go."

I go.