Alex knows about my rocky years in Linfield, of course, but for the most part, I try not to revisit them. 

I’ve always preferred the version of me that Alex brings out to the one I was back in our hometown. 

This Poppy feels safe in the world, because he’s in it too, and he, deep down where it matters, is like me.

Still, he had an exceptionally different experience at West Linfield High than I had at its sister school. 

I’m sure it helped that he played sports—basketball, both for the school and in the intramural league at his family’s church—and was handsome, but he’s always insisted the clincher (a point or fact or remark that settles something conclusively) was that he was quiet enough to pass for mysterious rather than weird.

Maybe if my parents hadn’t been so completely encouraging of every facet of my brothers’ and my individualism, I would’ve had better luck. 

There were kids who dealt with disapproval by adapting, making themselves more palatable(good), like Prince and Parker had in school, finding the overlap between their personalities and everyone else’s.

And then there were people like me, who labored(done) under the misconception(a view or opinion that is incorrect because based on faulty thinking or understanding) that eventually, My Fellow Children would not only tolerate but ultimately respect me for being myself.

There’s nothing so off-putting to some people as someone who seems not to care whether anyone else approves of them. Maybe it’s resentment: I have bent for the greater good, to follow the rules, so why haven’t you? You should care.

Of course, secretly, I did care. 

A lot. 

Probably it would’ve been better if I’d just openly cried at school instead of shrugging off insults and weeping under my pillow later. 

It would’ve been better if, after the first time I was mocked(laugh) for the flared overalls my mom had sewn embroidered patches onto, I hadn’t kept wearing them with my chin held high, like I was some kind of eleven-year-old Joan of Arc, willing to die for my denim.

The point was, Alex had known how to play the game, whereas I’d often felt like I’d read the pages of the guidebook backward, while the whole thing was on fire.

When we were together, though, the game didn’t even exist. 

The rest of the world dissolved until I believed this was how things truly were. Like I’d never been that girl who’d felt entirely alone, misunderstood, and I’d always been this one: known, loved, wholly accepted by Alex Nilsen.

When we met, I hadn’t wanted him to see me as Linfield Poppy—I wasn’t sure how it would change the dynamic of our world for two once we let certain outside elements wriggle their way in. 

I still remember the night I finally told him about it. 

The last night of class our junior year, we’d stumbled back to his dorm from a party to find his roommate already gone for the summer. 

So I borrowed a T-shirt and some blankets from Alex and slept on the spare twin bed in his room.

I hadn’t had a sleepover like that since I was probably eight: the sort where you keep talking, eyes long since shut, until you both drift off midsentence.

We told each other everything, the things we’d never touched. 

Alex told me about his mom passing away, the months his dad barely changed out of pajamas, the peanut butter sandwiches Alex made for his brothers, and the baby formula he learned to mix.

For two years, he and I’d had so much fun together, but that night it felt like a whole new compartment in my heart opened where before there had been none.

And then he asked me what happened in Linfield, why I was dreading going back for summer, and it should’ve felt embarrassing to air my small grievances(unfair treatment) after everything he’d just told me, except Alex had a way of never making me feel small or petty.

It was so late it was almost morning, those slippery hours when it feels safest to let your secrets out. 

So I told him all of it, starting with seventh grade.

The unfortunate braces, the gum Kim Leedles put in my hair, and the resulting bowl cut. 

The insult(treat with disrespect) added to injury when Kim told my whole class that anyone who talked to me wouldn’t be invited to her birthday party. 

Which was still a solid five months off, though it promised to be worth the wait, thanks to her pool’s waterslide and the movie theater in her basement.

Then, in ninth grade, once the stigma(mark) had finally worn off and my boobs(an embarrassing mistake) had arrived practically overnight, there was the three-month stretch during which I was a Hot Commodity. 

Until Jason Stanley kissed me unexpectedly and responded to my disinterest by telling everyone I gave him an unprompted(done without being encouraged) blow job in the janitor’s closet.

The entire soccer team called me Porny Poppy for, like, a year after that. 

No one wanted to be my friend. 

Then there was tenth grade, the worst of all.

It started off better because the younger of my two brothers was a senior and willing to share his Theater Kid friend-group with me. 

But that only lasted until I had a sleepover for my birthday, at which point I found out how embarrassing everyone thought my parents were. 

I quickly realized I didn’t like my friends as much as I’d thought.

I’d told Alex too about how much I loved my family, how protective I felt of them, but how even with them, I was sometimes a little lonely. 

Everyone else was someone else’s top person. 

Mom and Dad. Parker and Prince. Even the huskies were paired up, while our terrier mix and the cat spent most days curled together in a sun patch. 

Before Alex, my family was the only place I belonged, but even with them, I was something of a loose part, that baffling extra bolt IKEA packs with your bookcase, just to make you sweat. 

Everything I’d done since high school had been to escape that feeling, that person.

And I told him all of that, minus the part about feeling like I belonged with him, because even after two years of friendship, that seemed like a bit much. 

When I finished, I thought he’d finally fallen asleep. But after a few seconds, he shifted onto his side to gaze at me through the dark and said quietly, “I bet you were adorable with a bowl cut.”

I really, really wasn’t, but somehow, that was enough to cool the harsh sting of all those memories. 

He saw me, and he loved me.

“Poppy?” Alex says, bringing me back to the hot, stinky car and the desert. “Where are you right now?”

I stick my hand out the window, grasping at the wind. “Wandering the halls of East Linfield High to a chant of Porny Poppy! Porny Poppy!”

“Fine,” Alex says gently. “I won’t make you visit my classroom to teach Billy Joel Radio History. But just so you know . . .” He looks at me, face serious, voice deadpan. “If any of my juniors called you Porny Poppy, I’d fucking waste them.”

“That has to be,” I say, “the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He laughs but looks away. “I’m serious. Bullying’s the one thing I don’t let them get away with.” 

He tips his head in thought. “Except me. They bully me constantly.”

I laugh even though I don’t believe him. 

Alex teaches the AP and Honors kids, and he’s young, handsome, quietly hilarious, and freakishly smart. 

There’s no way they don’t adore him.

《People We Meet on Vacation》

by Emily Henry  从朋友到恋人

只是搬运工加个人笔记。