Chapter 13: After the Spin
922 Words
By the time the bell rings, I feel wrung out.
Not embarrassed anymore. Not shocked. Just… worn thin.
Kiss Carousel didn’t stop because people got bored. It stopped because someone finally yelled at everyone to knock it off, and even then, the attention didn’t disappear. It just shifted. Quieter. Sharper. Like everyone was filing me away for later.
I push through the hallway, head down, hat still on because taking it off in front of people feels worse than leaving it. My cheeks ache from forced smiles. My mouth feels strange—like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
Someone brushes past me and murmurs, “Worth it,” like we shared something.
We didn’t.
I reach my locker and fumble with the combination. My hands are shaking now, not from nerves, but from exhaustion. I didn’t know attention could feel this heavy. I didn’t know being noticed could bruise.
“Hey.”
Jasper’s voice cuts through the noise. Not loud. Just close.
I turn, startled. “Oh. Hi.”
He’s not leaning. Not scribbling. He’s standing there like he meant to be, blocking just enough space that no one else can crowd me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I consider the question. Then I huff out a quiet laugh. “Define okay.”
“That bad, huh.”
“I think I’ve been kissed more times today than in my entire life combined.” I pause. “Which sounds like something I should be happy about. I’m not.”
His jaw tightens—not dramatic, just enough that I notice. “Yeah. That tracks.”
I finally get my locker open and shove my books inside harder than necessary.
A couple of students slow as they pass. One of them points—not even subtly.
Jasper shifts closer, just enough. “Keep walking,” he says to them, calm but firm.
They do.
I exhale. “You’re very good at that.”
“At what?”
“Making people listen.”
He shrugs. “Journalism teaches you when to speak and when to stand there until someone feels awkward.”
“I feel awkward constantly,” I say. “I should major in it.”
That earns a small smile. Not teasing. Real.
We walk toward class together, and for the first time all day, no one tries anything. They still stare. They always stare. But they don’t touch.
It feels like mercy.
The class itself is a blur. I catch my teacher watching me more than once, lips pressed tight, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. Like I’m a fuse.
Nothing does.
That almost feels worse.
By lunch, my appetite is gone. The cafeteria hums with noise, and I know—know—that if I step inside, it’ll start again. Not loud. Not obvious. Just enough.
I turn away at the door.
“Ivy.”
Jasper again. He must be tracking me at this point.
“I can’t,” I say before he can finish. “I really can’t.”
“Okay,” he says immediately. No pushback. No convincing. “Outside?”
I nod.
We sit on a bench near the quad, winter sun weak but present. I hug my arms around myself, staring at the frost clinging to the grass.
“They think it’s funny,” I say. “Even the teachers. Especially the teachers. Like I woke up and decided to be… this.”
“You didn’t,” Jasper says.
“I wore a hat.”
He snorts quietly. “Yeah. Criminal.”
“I keep waiting for it to stop,” I admit. “For people to move on. But it feels like once you become a thing, you don’t get to go back.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s careful. “You don’t disappear just because people look at you. Even if it feels like it.”
I glance at him. “You’re very good at saying things that almost make me cry.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The peace lasts maybe ten minutes.
Then someone calls out, “Mistletoe Girl!”
I flinch before I can stop myself.
Jasper notices.
That’s the thing that changes everything.
Not the chaos. Not the kisses. The fact that someone finally sees the flinch.
He stands, positioning himself between me and the sound. “She’s busy.”
“With what?” someone laughs.
“Living,” he replies flatly.
They scatter—not embarrassed, just bored. On to the next spectacle.
My throat tightens. “You don’t have to keep doing that.”
“I know,” he says. “I want to.”
The rest of the afternoon crawls. A warning from one teacher. A pointed look from another. A whispered comment that makes my skin crawl.
By the time I reach my dorm, I’m running on fumes.
I shut the door behind me and lean against it, breathing hard. Then I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.
I pull the hat off and hold it in my lap.
“You’ve officially ruined my life,” I tell it quietly. “Over a week now. Do you feel accomplished?”
It stares back at me, innocent and ridiculous.
I place it on the desk instead of the bed this time. A little farther away.
Tomorrow is Friday.
I don’t know what happens if I wear it again.
I don’t know what happens if I don’t.
But for the first time since this started, I’m not wondering alone.
- Writer
