P.S. I Like You(37)

Mr. Ortega frowned. “I’m very disappointed. After-school detention for two weeks. I’ll shorten it to one if you change your mind about coming clean and taking responsibility for your actions.”

“But—”

“That’ll be all.”



“What’s wrong?” Isabel asked me at lunch.

All I wanted to do was tell her what had happened. It was all I could think about. But I didn’t know how she’d react. What would I even say? I imagined how our conversation would go.

Remember that pen pal I told you about in Chemistry? It’s your ex. I’ve been exchanging letters with your ex.

The one you hate?

Yes, the one you broke up with because he hated me and I hated him. The one I still hate. Apparently we’re okay on paper. Perfect, actually. So maybe I’ll date him through letters the rest of our lives. Cool?

Of course it’s cool, I mean, I’ve made out with him and talked to him for hours on end for months on end, but hey, he’s all yours now.

No. That wasn’t how it would go at all. It would be better to have this delicate conversation off school grounds. Just in case I did cry, or if she punched me or something equally as dramatic.

“Can we talk later?” I asked Isabel. “After school. I need to tell you something.”

Her brown eyes grew concerned. “That sounds so cryptic. Are you okay?”

“Later. I’ll tell you later.”

She squeezed my hand. “Okay. Later.”





The already-long day ended an hour later than usual because of detention.

Ashley looked over at me as she pulled into our driveway. “You’re mopey today. Detention isn’t a big deal. I was in there like every other month. It’s a great time to get homework done.”

I didn’t want to tell her this had nothing to do with detention and everything to do with my letter-writing world being shattered.

“Good idea,” I muttered.

“Guess who asked me out?” Ashley asked brightly.

Like I wanted to hear about her—or anyone’s—love life at the moment. “Who?”

“Mark. The boy who saw the food in my teeth. Apparently I’d already made it through the first two stages. Thank goodness.”

“He told you that?” I glanced at my sister. “He said, ‘Ashley, first I found you mysterious, then I found you intriguing, and then when that food was on your tooth, I found you adorably funny. So now I can ask you out?’ ”

Ashley grinned. “Yes, that is basically what he said.”

“How?”

“By asking me out.”

I grabbed my backpack and climbed out of the car. “It probably went more like this: ‘Huh, that girl is cute, I should go out with her. Because guys don’t care about anything else. They don’t care about personality or intrigue.’ ” I could hear the bitterness in my voice but I didn’t try to stop it.

“Wow.” Ashley raised her eyebrows at me. “Jaded?”

“Yes, I’ve unlocked that achievement. Leveled up.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I headed for my room, needing some time to unwind on my guitar before I called Isabel.

I reached my bedroom. I should’ve known something was wrong when the door was wide open, or when my guitar case was only halfway under my bed. I should’ve, but I didn’t. I pulled the case out, very calm. The latches were undone, but I figured I’d just left them undone the night before. I flipped open the lid.

The first thing I saw were all the strings loose, a couple broken completely. That didn’t have me panicking, just a little angry. Strings were easy to replace. But then I saw the jagged line across the neck of the guitar, close to the body.

“No, no, no, no.” I pulled it out and only the neck came—the end as spiked as a rake. The rest stayed in the case, completely severed. My face drained of all feeling. “No! Mom!”

My mother arrived at my door, breathless. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

I held up the bodiless neck for her to see.

Her expression went from panicked to sympathetic. “Oh no. What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?” I exploded, feeling tears threaten. “Jonah happened! I’ve asked you a million times to keep him out of my room.”

Mom frowned. “Jonah did that?”

“Who else? I certainly didn’t do it.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I don’t have to jump to anything. I’m holding the conclusion.” I threw the broken piece into the case and sank onto my bed face first.

“Oh, honey. We’ll figure something out.”

“What?” I said, my voice muffled by the mattress. “You can’t afford to buy me a new guitar. This one took me six months to earn. What’s left to figure out?”