Today Tonight Tomorrow

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  He’s not my bro. And every other sophomore English class is reading Huck Finn this year. Forgive me if I was looking forward to it.

  Brady Becker has changed his profile photo.

  Brady Becker liked this.

  I can’t imagine looking forward to blatant racism and misogyny, but you do you.

  Lily Gulati

  Is… every conversation going to be like this?

  Neil McNair

  No.

  yes

  Neil McNair has left the chat.

  8:28 p.m.

  HE’S STILL NOT answering his phone. Delilah Park is probably making a room full of romantics laugh and laugh, and Neil McNair is not answering his phone.

  My group chat starts lighting up again, and while I know we have work to do, I’m relieved we’re okay.

  KIRBY

  hello from the other siiiiiide

  MARA

  Kirby. WHY.

  KIRBY

  But Neil is silent. I’m about to lose my nerve completely when he exits a small brick building across the square.

  “Where the hell were you?” I ask, aware I sound like a parent furious their child has come home after curfew.

  All around us, parents haul their kids toward the zoo exit.

  He gives me an odd look. “I was in the bathroom. I whispered to you in the exhibit. I told you that you should go to your thing and text me when you’re done.”

  “I didn’t hear. I was—worried,” I say, stilted, because it sounds so ridiculous. “We have to stick together. I thought you’d—” I break off, suddenly embarrassed by my reaction.

  “Abandoned you?” he asks, but he doesn’t say it meanly.

  “Well… yeah,” I concede. “Or that you’d been killed.”

  “I wouldn’t abandon you. I swear.” He clears his throat, looks at his watch. “Shit, it’s almost eight thirty.”

  “Yeah. I know.” The anger I forgot in my panic that he was gone makes its way back to the surface. I picture stacks and stacks of Scandal at Sunset, all waiting to be signed. I bet no one there feels guilty about buying them. I bet they don’t turn the covers over to make sure no one else can see them as they leave the store.

  “Can you show up late?” His eyes are large behind his glasses. Hopeful.

  At this point, it’s too late for late. “No thanks. I don’t need to draw more attention to myself.” Even as I say this, there’s a tiny part of me that relaxes at the idea of missing the signing. No anxiety over figuring out where to sit or what to say to her. The opposite of FOMO. I’m not entirely happy with this tiny part of me, but still—it’s there. “I shouldn’t have taken that edible. I completely lost track of time in the exhibit.” That must be what’s messing with my brain too.

  “Well, it would be great if you told me what it is so I can at least attempt a helpful suggestion.”

  “It’s a book signing,” I say with a sigh, trying to make that tiny relaxed part even smaller. It’s easier to be upset with him, so I focus on that instead. “My favorite author, Delilah Park, is—was—doing a book signing, and thanks to Henry ‘it’ll just mellow you out’ Quinlan and your supremely well-timed disappearance, it’s practically almost over.”

  He doesn’t say the obvious: that I didn’t have to wait for him.

  “You didn’t want to tell me about a book signing?” he asks, further igniting my frustration. He says it like it would have been so simple. “Didn’t we talk about romance novels earlier? Didn’t you see one on my shelf? I don’t know why you felt you had to keep this a secret.”

  “Because I’m writing a book, okay?” It just slides out, and after a moment of shock, I realize I like the way it sounds out loud. Admitting it sends a shot of adrenaline through me. “A romance novel. I’m writing a romance novel. I’m not ready to show it to anyone yet, and it’s probably terrible anyway—I mean, some parts of it are okay? I think? And I haven’t told anyone because you know how people treat romance novels, and I just thought, this event, seeing her, being around other people who love these books… I thought I’d feel like I belonged there.”

  I’m not sure why my brain picks the moment I declare myself a writer to prove I’m completely inarticulate. I brace myself for the taunts, but they don’t come.

  “That’s… extremely cool,” he says.

  I wasn’t expecting the relief to feel quite like this: my shoulders relaxing, a long exhale. I assumed he wouldn’t understand the weight of a secret kept for so many years—except maybe he can.

  “You really think so?”

  He nods. “You writing a book? Yes, absolutely. I don’t think I’ve ever written something longer than ten pages.”

  “I want—” I break off, collect myself. There’s no going back now. “I want to be a writer. And not in the sense that I’m writing and that, by definition, makes me a writer—it’s what I want to do with my life. And it feels… really lonely sometimes. Not the actual writing—of course that’s mostly solitary. But feeling like I can’t tell anyone, it almost makes me think it doesn’t really exist. This book signing felt like some validation of that.”

  “I’ve read your papers,” he says. “None of that was fiction, of course, but you’re a good writer.”

  “Sure didn’t stop you from nitpicking my grammar and punctuation,” I say, but I want to relish the compliment. I want to embrace what I love all the time, not just with Neil on the last day of school, when the stakes are pretty much nonexistent. I want to be fearless about it even when people judge it. “I guess it’s like, in my head, my writing can be as great as I want it to be. But as soon as I declare I’m a writer, I’ll have something to prove. It’s hard to admit that you think you’re good at something creative. And then it’s so much worse for women. We’re told to shrug off compliments, to scoff when someone tells us we’re good at something. We shrink ourselves, convince ourselves what we’re creating doesn’t actually matter.”

  “But you can’t believe that. That it doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s just as valid as becoming a lexicographer,” I say, zero sarcasm in my voice.

  “Maybe it’s the whole concept of a guilty pleasure,” Neil says gently. “Why should we feel guilty about something that brings us—pleasure?”

  He stutters a bit before uttering that word, the tips of his ears turning pink.

  I point at him. “Yes! Exactly. And it’s usually things that women and teens or kids like.”

  “Not everything.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Boy bands, fan fiction, soap operas, reality TV, most shows and movies with female main characters… We’re still so rarely front and center, even rarer when you consider race and sexuality, and then when we do get something that’s just for us, we’re made to feel bad for liking it. We can’t win.”

  His expression turns sheepish. “I’ve… never thought about it that way.” Neil McNair admitting I’m right: another surreal moment.

  Still, his agreement doesn’t feel as validating as it should. If we’d talked about this one, two, three years ago… we could have had a Westview romance-novel revolution.

  Neil swipes around on his phone. “Look at this.” He’s pulled up Delilah’s Twitter. Her most recent tweet is from a few minutes ago.

  Delilah Park @delilahshouldbewriting

  AMAZING event tonight at Books & More! Thanks to everyone who showed up. I might read some pages from my next book at an open mic. Is Bernadette’s any good?

  “Do you know what she’s talking about?”

  “Oh. It’s something she does sometimes. She always talks about the importance of reading writing out loud to really get the rhythm of it right, and she likes doing it with an audience.”

  “So why don’t we go to that?”

  I know he’s trying to be helpful, and I appreciate that, I really do, but… “It’s not the same,” I say, feeling myself deflate. The whole point was to be around people who love what I love. “And we shouldn’t waste any more time. Let’s just move on.
”

  He slips his phone back into his pocket. “If that’s what you want.”

  I force it to be. We make a plan to return to my car and drive to Gas Works for the view clue. When we reach the bus stop along Phinney Avenue, hoping for a shortcut, the numbers on the digital sign inform us the 5 isn’t coming for another twenty minutes. Though the sky looks ominous, we decide to walk. It’s all downhill from here. Literally.

  “It’s weird no one’s come after me,” I say, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to guard against the cold, trying my best to banish Delilah from my mind. “I mean, we don’t know how many of them teamed up. But it seems like everyone’s been going for you, not for me.”

  Neil straightens. “Well, I am the valedictorian.”

  Ignoring him, I say, “It’s making me uneasy, not knowing who it could be.”

  “We’ll just continue to be careful,” he says. “Three more clues. We can make it.”

  The first raindrop hits my cheek when we’re a few blocks from the zoo.

  “Okay, so what’s on your shirt?” I ask. “It’s been bothering me all day.”

  He grins. “It means ‘anything sounds profound in Latin.’ The literal translation is ‘everything said in Latin seems deep.’ But that sounds like Yoda-speak.”

  “Who?”

  He staggers backward, clutching his heart. “What did you say? I might have to take back that nickname.”

  “No—” I start to protest before catching myself.

  This makes him smile. “You like it,” he says. There’s a glint in his eyes, like he understands something I don’t. “You like that nickname.”

  And… I kind of do. It hasn’t felt irritating in a while. It’s a language only we have, even if it’s a reference I don’t understand.

  “It’s original. And it’s better than Ro-Ro, which is what my dad calls me.”

  The smile deepens. “Okay, Artoo. Yoda,” he continues, as though informing me how a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is made, “is a Jedi master of an unknown species who trains Luke to use the Force.”

  “The little green guy?”

  He groans, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. “The little green guy,” he confirms, resigned.

  The street we’re on is mostly residential, pastel-painted houses with progressive political signs in their front yards. The drizzle turns into a steady rain, making me miss my cardigan.

  “So… if we’re going to keep going, there’s something I need to tell you,” Neil says.

  “Okay,” I say, hesitant.

  “Do you remember when we compared college acceptances?” I nod, and he continues. “I applied early decision to NYU’s linguistics program. I was going to have to scrape for the application fees if I didn’t get in, and then I held my breath, knowing I’d be relying on loans or financial aid or both. I sort of let you believe that I got lucky, and I did, but…” He turns sheepish. “I don’t really talk about it with my friends, but I get… embarrassed sometimes. About money. And not having very much.” He steals a glance at my face. “And this is exactly why I don’t. Because it always gets this reaction, this sympathy. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Artoo.”

  “I—I don’t,” I say quickly, though he’s 100 percent right. I try to make my face look less sympathetic. “I just didn’t know.”

  “I do a good job disguising it. The suits help. I scoured Goodwill until I found what I wanted. I learned to tailor them myself with my mom’s old sewing machine, though I never did a perfect job. I worked overtime to save up for regional quiz bowl competitions. It’s all about projecting an image. I feel like I’ve spent all of high school maintaining this image because I don’t want people’s pity. And when I get out of here, I just want to start fresh. I don’t want to be Neil McNair, valedictorian, or Neil McNair, whose dad is in prison, or Neil McNair, the guy who never has enough money. I want to see who I am without all of that attached to me.”

  I sink my foot into a puddle that splashes muddy water up my knee socks. “I want you to have all of that,” I say, meaning it. “Though if you don’t want my sympathy, I’m not quite sure what else to say.” Now it’s my turn to be sheepish.

  “Just… be normal. Don’t change how you act because you know this about me. Don’t let up on me.” Rain soaks his hair, drips down his glasses. “I’d hope that you of all people wouldn’t treat me differently.”

  “Okay. I won’t. I still find you quite insufferable.” Though I’m stuck on something else he said: Don’t let up on me. After today, when will I have a chance not to?

  However fun this is, however much I’ve enjoyed our conversations, I can’t let myself forget that this—our rivalry, our partnership, even potentially our budding friendship—ends after tonight. Is there a word for what happens after your sworn nemesis lets you into their room and tells you their secrets?

  “Good. I’d hate to disrupt the balance of the universe.”

  I want to roll my eyes at this, but despite the frustrations of the past hour, my face decides to pull my mouth into a smile.

  And—I let it.

  By the time we reach the car, we’re soaked and shivering. I hurl myself inside. Neil is much more meticulous than I am, drying his glasses and the face of his watch with a few delicate swipes against the seat cushion.

  When he sits down next to me, his hair is slicked with water, his T-shirt pasted to his skin. If I thought his T-shirt was revealing, his wet T-shirt is downright indecent.

  I grope under the seat for my cardigan before remembering where it is. “I left my sweater at the record store.” My teeth are chattering.

  He removes a dry gray hoodie from his backpack. “Here,” he says, holding it out to me. “Take this.”

  “Are you sure? We’re both pretty soaked.”

  “Yeah, but you’re wearing less.” His face twists, brows coming together to form a pained expression. “I hope that didn’t sound gross. I meant, you’re not wearing anything underneath the dress except, uh, you know. Like, you don’t have pants or tights or leggings under it. To be honest, I’ve never understood the difference between tights and leggings. I’m making it worse, aren’t I? You’re wearing a completely normal amount of clothing. Are you seriously going to let me keep talking?”

  “Yes.” Flustered Neil is never not funny. “I knew what you meant. Thanks.” I zip the hoodie over my rain- and coffee-splattered dress. Then I blast the heat and retie the armband to his hoodie sleeve. “Leggings are footless and usually much thicker than tights.”

  It’s not until I lean back in the seat, waiting for my car to warm up, that the scent of his hoodie hits me. It smells good, and I wonder if it’s detergent or just the natural scent of Neil, one I’ve never really paid attention to before. I guess I’ve never been close enough to notice. I’m stunned by how much I don’t hate it, so much so that it makes me light-headed for a split second.

  It might also be the weed cookie warping my brain again.

  He shoves his hands toward the vents.

  “It’ll heat up soon,” I say. I’m afraid of the mythological beast I’ll see in the mirror, but I sneak a glance anyway. My eyeliner has mostly faded, and mascara has migrated down my cheeks. I swipe it away, then tug the elastic out of my hair and open the car door so I can wring out the water as best I can. With the extra bobby pins in my cup holders, I pin it back up. My bangs, though…

  “You’re always messing with your hair.”

  I withdraw a hand from my bangs like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be. It’s strange when someone else notices your nervous habits. “My stupid bangs,” I say with a sigh. “I can never decide what to do with them.”

  He studies me for a long moment, as though I am a sentence he’s trying to translate into another language. “I like them the way they are,” he says finally, which isn’t helpful and somehow makes me more self-conscious.

  I vow to cut them before graduation. I am not taking hair advice from Neil McNair.

 
I plug in my phone and put on the Smiths. Back to rainy-day music.

  Neil groans. “Seriously, do you not have any happy music?”

  “The Smiths are happy.”

  “No, this is mopey and depressing. What’s this song called?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  He grabs for my phone. I try to snatch it back, but he’s quicker than I am. “ ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’?”

  “It’s a good song!”

  He scrolls through my phone as we wait for the car to heat up. I’m gripped with that itchy someone’s-messing-with-my-phone feeling. He selects a song by Depeche Mode and places the phone back in the cup holder. My shoulders relax.

  “Gas Works?” I say, and Neil lets out a long-suffering sigh.

  “It’s not the best view, but fine. And we have to figure out this Cooper clue or we’re fucked. I’m going to do some more sleuthing online, see if Sean or Adrian or Cyrus have any ideas.”

  With Neil on his phone, we drive in relative quiet for a few minutes, except for Dave Gahan singing about not being able to get enough. When I make a left turn, something in the back seat thuds to the floor.

  Neil twists around to look. “You always carry around that many books with you?”

  “Oh shit,” I say, banging the steering wheel. “I was supposed to return those today!” It completely slipped my mind this morning with the power outage. “Do you think there’s any chance school is still open?”

  “Yeah, given that it’s almost nine o’clock—no, Artoo. It’s definitely closed.”

  “How much do you think the fine would be?”

  “Per book? You have, what, five back there, so… a lot.” He clucks his tongue. “I hear they don’t let you walk if you have overdue books. It could be an urban legend, though. I haven’t heard of it happening to anyone. Hey, you could be the first!” He glances at the books again and then back at me. “Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.”

  I blink at him, waiting for some magic solution.

  “We have to break in.”

  I snort-laugh. “Right. The valedictorian and salutatorian breaking in to the school library. Not to mention, we can’t keep taking detours like this.”