Part 84: James

James didn’t talk to Hannah at school, but they never talked at school so that was fine. Besides, what was the point of trying to talk to her when she was surrounded by a gaggle of girls and sixth-grade boys on the cusp of puberty? You couldn’t have a real conversation at school. Someone would always come by and interrupt or distract, and no amount of sorry about thats and it’s fine no problem and what were you sayings could ever keep him from feeling frustrated afterwards.

But then he overheard Mr. Brown say (on the phone, during English, the class subdued by the old black-and-white TKAM movie) that he would have Hannah take her essay test after school that day. Someone was hounding him about grades, from the sound of it. The office, the principal. (He was a cog, no real power.) And that would cut into their time together that afternoon.

Because while it no longer made sense to post his diatribe on Myssenger, James still felt tied to his timetable: he would X out all yesterday's windows without reading the messages, he would be off the computer by 4. Maybe 4:10. 4:15 at the latest. But he couldn't be caught spending the afternoon online like he used to, not the very day after he turned down the offer of a new computer. His dad would be baffled, start asking questions. Susan would know it was about Hannah. And they couldn’t find out that he loved Hannah. James had a distinct feeling that if his love ceased to be private it would cease to exist. It couldn’t live outside of him.

Love was powerful, but it was also vulnerable. Like a . . .

He’d think of a simile later.

When he did reveal it, expose it, it had to be to Hannah herself. It was a gift meant only for her. And to accept it, she had to be purest, most Hannah-like form of Hannah possible. And before that Hannah could emerge, they would have to talk about New York first. The idea was distasteful, like a looming doctor’s visit. Something to be endured.

He’d rather talk about anything than New York. He hated New York, all of a sudden. Cities were fine, but New York - there was something rancid, rotten about it. Something festering. Rats everywhere, right? Of course Hannah loved it (you could see it in her eyes as she addressed her crowd of sycophants); she loved ugliness.

It would all depend, James decided, on which Hannah he got that afternoon. New York Hannah, Victoria’s best friend Hannah, and he’d make up some excuse and get offline. But real Hannah, the Hannah who would want to hear about Mr. Brown and Sean, the Hannah who could accept the gift of his love and keep it secret, keep it sacred, that Hannah was worth more than anything.