Only Mostly Devastated

by Sophie Gonzales

  “Yeah. I know you do.”

  Matt was leaning against the bar, all attention on Lara. He definitely liked her, anyone could see that. She was giving him a little bit back, sure. Giggling, hair tossing, et cetera. But she kept looking around the room, like she was keeping tabs on someone.

  Darnell and Niamh, on the other hand, had pulled away from the group. He gave a shocked-sounding laugh at something and nudged her shoulder. She rubbed the spot he’d touched with a wide grin, then curled the tips of her glorious, long hair around one finger.

  “Definitely Darniamh,” I decided. “They’re an inevitability.”

  “Darniamh,” Will repeated. “That’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  “Another reason Lara and Matt don’t fit. What can you do with those names?”

  “Latt? Mara?”

  “Larmatt?” I tried, and Will choked on his drink.

  “That’s ridiculous. It sounds like a cleaning product,” he said, wiping his chin.

  “You think? I thought it was more like a ground surface. Like, hey, I’ll meet you out on the Larmatt.”

  “Let’s go shoot some hoops on the Larmatt court.”

  It wasn’t even that funny, but we started giggling until we were helpless anyway. Half of it was me laughing at the stupidity of it. The other half was because it felt so damn good to be talking to Will out in the open.

  When I’d calmed myself—which took an embarrassingly long time, because every time me and Will caught each other’s eyes we cracked up again, despite the weird looks we were getting—I straightened and noticed something.

  Over near the stage, red-haired Renee—Lara’s Renee— was standing beside a guy I didn’t recognize. Not that that was unusual. What was unusual was how close she stood to him. With her hand in his. And her cheek leaning against his shoulder.

  That wasn’t the body language of someone who was flirting, or even someone who was about to hook up with someone. Nope, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that was unmistakably the body language of someone in a relationship with someone.

  Lara was nowhere to be seen. I did a quick sweep of the bar. Niamh and Juliette didn’t seem to have noticed she was gone. Although, to be fair, Niamh looked like she’d forgotten anyone other than Darnell was in the room at all.

  Maybe Lara was in the bathroom or something. But maybe not. “Hey, I’ll be back in a minute,” I said to Will. An apparently naive part of me wanted to check that Lara was all right. For some unexplainable reason, I gave a shit.

  Well, she definitely wasn’t in the crowd anywhere. She wasn’t backstage, or hanging out on the sidewalk outside like a few others were. I stood outside, crossing my arms and looking around, then decided to head back in. Just before I did, though, I wandered around the side to peek down the alley. There was Lara. She was sitting on the edge of the curb, her soft pink, tulle skirt haloing around her on the dirty concrete and her stockinged legs stretched out in front of her. She was clutching her leather jacket across her chest for warmth, staring ahead at nothing.

  Without a word, I sat next to her, plonking myself right above the storm drain.

  She didn’t even look at me. “Yes?”

  “I saw Renee in there. Wanted to see if you’re doing okay.”

  She laughed shortly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Do you want me to spell it out?”

  There was a long silence. Then she waved a hand, her silver bracelets jingling. “Screw her. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Nah. You can totally do better than that. But it still sucks. So.”

  Lara drew one leg up and picked at her boot. Her face twisted up, like she was trying to scratch her nose without touching it.

  “How long were you two hooking up for?” I asked.

  She sighed, clearly resigning herself to the fact that I wasn’t going to leave this alone. “Like, a year, I guess? It was only at parties. It didn’t mean anything.”

  I figured. Hence, the drinking. Because if you could blame it on alcohol, then you didn’t have to deal with any awkward conversations. Like, “me, gay, what? Nah, that’s just a side effect of alcohol. Blurry vision, inability to walk straight, sudden insatiable desire to undress other girls. Wait, that doesn’t happen to everyone? Weird.”

  “Do you think it meant anything to her, or … ?”

  “We never talked about it. Probably not. Why do you care anyway? Oh,” she said, slapping her forehead with so much exaggeration she might as well have been a Looney Tunes character, “it’s because of Will, isn’t it?”

  I studied her, then shrugged. “Maybe. That, and I figured you wouldn’t have many other people to talk to about this.”

  She actually relaxed at this, and made a taken-aback face. It kind of felt like a trap, but I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “So what’s his deal, anyway?” she asked. “Is he pretending nothing ever happened, or is he just playing straight?”

  “Not sure right now. You said he’s been spending time with his ex, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Lara let her hands fall in her lap. “… I made that up. They haven’t been talking. Not that I know of, anyway.”

  “Oh, thank God.” I grinned. To my surprise, she grinned back, and it didn’t even have the slightest hint of Evil Queen to it. I hadn’t realized she was capable of that when it came to me.

  “Do you think he still likes you?” she asked.

  “Will? I don’t know. No clue.”

  “Ugh. Don’t be that person. Figure it the hell out, okay? I can’t stand people who float around, wringing their hands and hoping someone sees how goddamn special they are. If you want him, go after him. If you don’t, find someone else, and make sure you flaunt it in his face for good measure. It’s sure as hell what I’m gonna do.”

  Now this was the Lara I recognized. Even though she was snapping, however, she was snapping with me, not at me. She shook her head, but half-smiled at the same time. By God, we were making progress! At this rate, with a little positive manifestation and a sprinkle of mindfulness, we’d be making friendship bracelets and inventing handshakes by New Year’s.

  Footsteps at the entry to the alley made us both look up. Juliette and Niamh had found us, their heels clattering on the concrete.

  “I was texting both of you,” Juliette said. “Where’d you go?”

  Lara stood up and folded her arms. “Wasn’t feeling the vibe in there. Call me old fashioned, but I’d take a house party over a group of schoolkids getting high off sugar. Kind of juvenile, don’t you think?”

  “Lara, in case you haven’t noticed, this night isn’t about you. We’re here for Ollie. Can’t you pretend to have a good time for an hour or so?” Niamh snapped.

  Juliette blinked, looking shocked. Even I was a bit taken aback. Niamh had been pretty quiet toward Lara ever since the great mashed potato incident of 2019, but I hadn’t expected her to openly confront her

  Lara and Niamh faced off. It seemed like they might throw down. That, or Lara might even apologize. Instead, Lara pulled her flask out of her pocket, took a deep swig, then handed it to Niamh. I guess it was a gesture of peace, even if it wasn’t exactly an apology. “Why pretend?” Lara asked.

  Niamh studied the flask, her face stony.

  “Come on, you two,” I said in a quiet voice. “Talk it through, or let it go. Holding grudges isn’t going to solve anything.”

  Lara folded her arms. “I’m not the one who—”

  Juliette and I both gave her a sharp look, and she cut off midsentence.

  Niamh sighed, turned the flask around in her fingers a couple of times, then brought it to her lips and tipped her head back.

  Juliette and I glanced at each other with relief. A temporary truce, sealed with a vodka shot. I didn’t even have to break into a solo performance of “Give Peace a Chance.” I counted this as a win, if there ever was one.

  12

  “Dylan, come out of the water right now,” I said, in what was supposed to be a “firm parent” voice.
It had a tinge of panic in it, though, and was probably a touch too high-pitched to strike fear into anyone’s heart. I was torn between not wanting to take my eyes off him in case he drowned, and trying to watch what I was doing with Crista. It’s hard to delicately clean approximately twenty pints of blood from a mystery wound without glancing at your hands every now and then.

  “No.”

  “Dylan!” So help me God.

  “Wanna play! Wanna swim!”

  “Ouch, Ollie,” Crista yelped through her tears, pushing my hand away. “Stop.”

  “I have to get the blood off.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “It’s only gonna sting for a second, I promise.”

  “You’re not cleaning it right. You can’t clean blood with a napkin. It’s going to get sepsis.”

  Well, a napkin was all I had. And how the hell did she even know what sepsis was? I ignored her, and turned back to the lake. “Dylan Thomson, if you don’t come here in the next five seconds …” I didn’t finish the threat, because I didn’t know what an appropriate punishment for someone who wasn’t even three years old was. This was only my third day here, and my first day looking after my cousins without an adult nearby. Usually I’d threaten to grab Aunt Linda or Uncle Roy. But they were out God-knew-where with my parents. So here I was, trying to run a dictatorship while my two citizens were staging a coup.

  The napkin began to fall apart. It was dark red, and so were my hands, and I was starting to think I might vomit. What the hell had Crista done? Should I take her to a clinic? Would she lose her leg? Should I call Aunt Linda? Or 911?

  A shadow fell over us, and out of nowhere, someone was kneeling by my side. “Hey,” the someone said. “Do you need a hand? It doesn’t look like the napkin’s gonna cut it.”

  Crista and I glanced up as one. Our Guardian Angel was a guy about my age, with thick dark hair that curled a little at the ends, light brown skin, and a first-aid kit.

  I said something that didn’t even slightly resemble English.

  “Dad forces me to bring the kit every time I take Kane here,” the guy said, unzipping the bag and fishing through various wipes and bandages. “That’s my little brother. He’s right over there, in the water. This is the first time the kit’s come in handy, though.”

  Speaking of firsts, this was the first time I’d ever seen Crista shut up. She was staring at the guy like he’d ridden in on the back of a unicorn. I had a nasty feeling I was looking at him in the same way.

  The guy held up a pack of disinfectant wipes. “Is this okay?” he asked.

  Was water wet? Was the day hot? Were his freckles perfect? Of course it was okay. Nothing had ever been more okay in all of human history. Someone needed to write a ballad about how okay this was. I needed a picture of this, to submit to the Oxford English Dictionary, to substitute in for the definition of “okay.”

  I think I managed a faint nod.

  “What’s your name?”

  He wasn’t asking me, unfortunately.

  Crista was totally solemn. “Crista.”

  “Isn’t that a pretty name? I’m Will. Crista, is it okay if I clean off your leg? It looks like it must hurt a lot.”

  Crista also managed a faint nod.

  Will glanced up at me. “If you wanted to go and grab Dylan, I can hold the fort here for a sec.”

  Wait, did he know Dylan? Did he know me? Had we always known each other? Suddenly, I remembered how many times I’d screamed Dylan’s name across the shore. Right. That made sense.

  “Yeah,” I choked out. “Thank you.”

  Then we really looked at each other, and it was like being locked into place. Like I couldn’t have blinked if someone was offering me a winning lottery ticket to. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt like this looking at a guy. But it was maybe the first time a guy had stared at me in the same sort of way.

  “Anytime,” he said. And smiled.

  “I still don’t get what the difference between major and minor is supposed to be.”

  I kept my eyes on my bass without pausing in the plucking. “I’m not listening to you.”

  Will made a point of turning his textbook upside down, and tipped his head at a 90-degree angle. He was sitting backward on one of the metal chairs, crossing his legs at the ankle in front of him. His hair was a little too long, hanging in his face in dark, wavy tendrils.

  “Seriously, Ollie. How do you decide one note is sad and another is happy?”

  I paused in disbelief. “You don’t have minor notes. You have minor scales and chords.”

  “But aren’t the minor notes the black ones?”

  Now I felt as baffled as he looked. “Black notes? Do you have synesthesia or something?”

  “Huh?”

  “Like hearing and tasting color?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Will said, jumping to his feet and striding over to the piano. He played several notes in ascending order. “Black note. Black note. Black note.”

  Suddenly, it clicked. He was talking about piano keys. He was even more screwed than I’d thought. I burst out laughing and dropped my bass to join him at the piano. “No, hold on. Okay, these, all of these, are keys. Piano keys.”

  Will threw his hands up, frustrated. “Well, I don’t know!”

  “Clearly not.” I smirked. “Multiple notes make up chords. You can play a chord in one hit, or rolling, like this …” I played a C, E, and G with a quick wrist movement, “and it’s the notes in the chords that make it major or minor. So this is a major chord. You can hear it, see? It sounds happy?”

  “Are you sure you aren’t the synthetic one?” Will asked.

  “Synesthesia.”

  “Po-tay-to po-tah-to. I don’t see how that sounds happy. It just sounds … I don’t know. Blah.”

  Will hadn’t exactly made a habit of joining me in the music room at lunch—that probably wouldn’t go unnoticed by the basketball guys—but he’d followed after me occasionally over the last few weeks. Today being one of those occasions. He always told the others it was to get one-on-one tutoring from me, and no one seemed too suspicious.

  In our defense, it wasn’t exactly the scene of a depraved porno when we shut the music room door. Or, unfortunately, even a regular, nondepraved porno. He never made any attempt to touch me, or sit too close, or throw me a loaded compliment. We just hung out, chatting about music, or life, or nothing at all. Even though I couldn’t forget the fact that he wouldn’t admit he liked spending time with me to his friends, I gave in and let him join me every time he flashed that smile. Aunt Linda would be proud.

  Between these lunchtime visits, Music Appreciation, and the occasional conversation after English—always ostensibly so he could ask a question about an assignment or something until his friends left the classroom—it was getting easier to adjust to the idea of going at his pace. I didn’t have the energy to resist his endless olive branches. Even if they resembled olive twigs more than branches, sometimes. Plus, it felt so much better to let him melt me than to fight to stay frozen.

  Despite our fragile truce, though, a part of me wanted to at least clarify if we were supposed to be totally platonic now, to address the elephant—and ringmaster—and whole freaking circus—in the room, but I was too self-conscious to bring it up without an opening. Like, what if he said I imagined everything at the lake, and I had to deal with the inescapable knowledge that I was going slowly mad? Call me dramatic, but it was starting to feel like I had imagined the whole thing.

  Maybe Will found this normal, but for me it was super weird. Like, how do you handle being just friends with someone when you have in-depth knowledge of what their tongue tastes like? Among other things.

  Also, I didn’t want to freak him out. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, everything that happened at the lake was in the past. Including his entire sexual orientation, apparently. At least we had a rhythm going in our new little friends-without-benefits pantomime. He hadn’t pushed me into a single mop bu
cket since we started this dance.

  Will dragged his finger across the piano keys, from high to low. Stunning. This guy was such a natural talent. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” he asked.

  “My house. We’re having Aunt Linda and the kids over. Probably gonna be kind of quiet, but as long as I get to eat my body weight in Brussels sprouts, I’m happy.”

  Will slammed his hand on the piano, clunking the keys. “Wait, you what?”

  “What?”

  “Brussels sprouts? Is this a sick joke?”

  “I’d never joke about Brussels sprouts. They’re the best all roasted, with bacon bits and some syrup …” I trailed off, dreamy. It occurred to me that my feelings for Brussels sprouts bordered on sexual.

  He blinked at me. “Ollie, that’s foul. Yuck. If I’d known your taste was that bad I never would’ve—” He caught himself, then became suddenly interested in the piano again. Oh, there it was. The opening to acknowledge summer. He was kidding himself if he thought I wasn’t gonna take this for all it was worth.

  “Never would’ve what?”

  “You know what.”

  “Done my taxes?”

  “No.”

  “Gone paragliding with me?”

  “We never went paragliding.”

  “It’s on my list. And to be fair, you never did my taxes, either. Was that an option?”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Oh,” I said, dropping my mouth open, and then whispering, “you meant you would’ve never let me dribble your basketballs?”

  Will let out a noise that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from a surprised dog. He drove his elbow backward and into my side. “Shhh!”

  I’d gone to laugh, but the smile dropped right off my face. Seriously? We couldn’t even discuss it in private? Wasn’t that a tad dramatic? “What?” I asked loudly. “Afraid all the people in the room might think you’re gay if they found out you hooked up with me?”

  “Ollie, seriously.”

  I stepped back and threw my arms out, spinning in a circle. “There’s no one here, Will. I get that you don’t wanna advertise that you knew me before school, but do we have to keep pretending we don’t have a history when we’re alone, too? It’s making me feel kind of uncomfortable. I don’t know where we stand.”