Paper Flowers (Pretty Plastic People) ★

021. The Mystery Man

A/N: Let's play a game.  Document the first things that run through your head as you're reading this chapter—comment as much as you want (as long as it relates to the chapter haha)!  Let's see how crazy they can get XD

{Also, pictured above is Cassidy heading to tennis practice.}

021. The Mystery Man

At Aquino High, you never really know anyone.

I don't mention anything about the tape to Liam until Monday. He texts me Friday night to tell me that his date with Celia went really well and that they're going out again the next day, so over the weekend I let him stay in his haze of infatuation. I figure he should be able to enjoy love without it being tainted by the Post-It note system.

Instead, I spend the weekend focusing on myself. It's an interesting change, working to be the best I can be instead of simply better than someone else. I take a ball machine out to the tennis courts in our neighborhood and slam forehands until I get the stroke just right; then I do the same for my backhands. I'm sweating but don't let myself stop until I've been out there for two hours.

Then, I collapse on the bench at the side of the court and guzzle down water, letting the cool liquid slide down my throat. It's freezing outside but the sun is peeking out through the clouds, and I tip my face back to absorb the light. It slowly works its way into my skin, easing my numbing muscles and warming me.

When I'm not too busy working, I sit and replay the six-second clip of Taylor's voice. He sounds ominous and foreboding, nothing like the gentle voice that had reassured me that we belonged together. I remember how he'd told me that I wasn't good enough for someone like Spencer, that we deserved each other because we were both so messed up. I'd bought into the lie because I'd believed it about myself: I'd never truly thought that I was powerful or perfect. The lies I fed myself were just attempts to make myself feel better.

I am Erika Soto. I try it out in my brain, letting it rattle in my skull before I let it go. It doesn't help me anymore.

Monday morning, I show up at school early. My locker doesn't have a Post-It note on it, which surprises me because I'd distinctly heard Spencer call dibs on me at the meeting Friday. As I'm wondering what happened, I catch Spencer's eye across the hallway and he heads my way.

"I took the liberty of throwing out the Post-It note," he says, scanning the empty face of the locker. "That's okay, right?"

"Definitely." I think that maybe I'll put something else on the front of my locker: some stickers or a poster. Something that defines me more than a piece of paper with a number on it.

Spencer is staring down at his hands as if they're the most fascinating thing in the world. "I'm sorry about losing the recording," he says. When I look up at him I see the bruise under his eye is almost gone; there's just a trace of blue encircling his cheekbone. I shrug. "You tried. Losing it isn't the worst that could happen. Trust me, I've done a lot worse."

He hesitantly cracks a smile and I return it, hoping that the wordless exchange counts both as an apology and as forgiveness.

"We're going to take this system down," he says. "Got it?"

I curl my hand into a fist and he bumps it, grinning. Then I turn and look down the hallway. Post-It notes still pepper the lockers in the senior hallway, a sprinkle of red, blue, and yellow. I wish I could run up and down the hallway tearing them all off before I crumpled them into one big ball of paper and threw them away. Some of the Post-Its are decorated, with hearts or smiley faces or initials—I can't believe girls are actually endorsing this system.