Fireworks
Page 23
“I could have been, though,” I said, sitting up before I could stop myself. “Guy picked me over Olivia, remember? I’m the one who decided not to do it.”
“I never liked that Guy, is the other thing,” my mom continued, almost as if she hadn’t heard me, like she’d already made up her own version of events and that was that.
“You never met him, Mom.”
“No, I know I didn’t, but just the way you described him. He seemed real Big City to me. Like he thought real highly of himself.”
Well, that much was true. Guy did think highly of himself. But he’d thought highly of me, too. It was possible he was the first person who ever had.
“Now, Olivia, sure,” my mom continued, still fussing with my hair like I was a little kid. “You always kind of knew Olivia was going to go do some cockamamie thing, didn’t you? She comes from that kind of family, her mom walking around with her nose in the air all the time. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it seemed stupid to me to begin with.”
I nodded wordlessly, still staring at the TV and telling myself the stinging at the back of my throat was anything but tears. The worst part was how I knew she was trying to tell me something nice—that she’d missed me, that she thought I was smart for owning up to who and what I really was. In her mind, there were a limited number of things a person could do, only a few places they fit in the world; trying to change that was embarrassing and shameful for everyone involved. I got it, truly. At the beginning of the summer, I’d felt the exact same way.
Now, though, I wasn’t so sure.
Still, I thought as I sat there, it didn’t really make a difference anymore, did it? Maybe I could have been something else, in an alternate universe. But in the end, here I was anyway, back in the same place I’d always been. I’d made sure of that myself.
“Anyway,” my mom finished, unmuting the TV just as the twist ending was revealed, everything suddenly making sense at once. “It’s good to have you back where you belong.”
I met Sarah Jane for breakfast at Waffle House a couple of mornings later. “So,” she said once we’d placed our orders, “how is it being back?”
“It’s good,” I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. I didn’t want her to think I thought I was better than her, that I was—as my mom would have said—putting on airs.
Sarah Jane snorted. “You’re miserable, I can tell.”
“I’m not miserable,” I protested, though in fact that was basically the perfect word to describe it. “I’m just . . . lost, I guess? I’m back at my mom’s. I have zero job prospects. And I miss Olivia, honestly, which makes me feel like a huge chump.”
“You’re not a chump,” Sarah Jane said as the waitress set our plates down on the table. “You’re human. And maybe it’s a good thing you’re apart, you know? I know you guys were joined at the hip and all, but it’s gotta be kind of freeing, isn’t it? Not to have to worry about her all the time? I mean, you could do anything now.”
“I don’t know about that,” I protested. “I barely graduated, remember?”
“Oh, don’t be dumb, Dana,” Sarah Jane said flatly, reaching for the sticky-looking pitcher of syrup. “Grades or no grades, you were one of the only people in our whole class who knew her ass from her elbow. You never even wanted to be a pop star and you got Guy freaking Monroe to offer you a spot on tour with Tulsa MacCreadie.” She shook her head. “Don’t insult the rest of us by acting like you’re stuck at your mom’s forever. What about your cute boyfriend, where’s he in all this?”
I picked at the edge of my waffle. “I broke up with him before I came back here,” I admitted.
“Of course you did.” Sarah Jane made a face. “And for what? So you and Tim can live miserably ever after? That was dumb.”
I blew out a breath instead of answering. The truth was, I could barely sleep for thinking about Alex—trying to convince myself that I didn’t still miss him, that my chest didn’t ache with the loss. I’d been so sure that breaking things off with him had been my only option. But what if I’d been wrong?
“Olivia always needed you so much more than you needed her,” Sarah Jane continued, shaking her head thoughtfully. “Maybe now you can put all that energy into yourself instead.”
I thought about it for a moment. It was the same thing Charla had said, I realized, albeit a little more bluntly, and maybe they were right. But I didn’t know how to see past how angry I was at Olivia, or how hopeless I felt at being back here. I didn’t know how the hell I was supposed to move on.
“What’s that dorky talk show thing you guys always used to say to each other?” SJ asked, reaching for her coffee cup. “‘Live your life forward’?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said, like it was just that obvious, “do that.”
My mom went out that night, didn’t say where she was going; I lay in bed and stared at the patterns of light on the ceiling, waiting for her to come home.
God, was this really going to be my entire life?
I thought of the fireworks at Disney, the colors exploding above us. I thought of laughing my head off at Guy’s weird bidet. I thought of being on that airplane, terrified and exhilarated, of Alex asking me what I’d do if I wasn’t doing this.
Olivia had been right, in the end: I’d never really cared about being a pop star. I’d never meant to chase after fame. But I wanted something more than this—that much was undeniable.
And I knew where I wanted to start.
I threw back the covers and I went to the phone in the hallway, dialed Alex’s number, and listened to it ring two hundred miles away.
“Hi,” I said, taking a deep breath when he finally answered. “It’s me.”
EPILOGUE
My anatomy class ran over on Tuesday, and I hurried home in the late-autumn sunshine so I could get changed before my shift at work. A cool breeze blew my bangs into my eyes as I unlocked the mailbox in front of the apartment—it finally felt like fall here, the long, baking summer over at long last—and reached inside for the usual stack of junk mail and bills. There was something else wedged in the back, though, and with some effort I pulled out a small padded manila envelope addressed to me in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
I climbed the narrow staircase to the unit I shared with another girl from my program, smelled the student-apartment smells of cheap cleaning solvent and weed. I was about to open the envelope when the phone rang.
“Hey, you,” Alex said when I picked up the receiver in the kitchen, the deep, familiar sound of his voice setting something alight at the base of my spine. “How was your exam?”
“Not terrible, actually,” I admitted, twisting the phone cord around my finger. “Not great or anything, but not a total disaster.”
“You rocked it,” Alex said, all confidence, and I smiled. I’d never met someone who was so perfectly confident in my ability to do whatever I set my mind to, whether it was soloing at Madison Square Garden or correctly identifying all the bones in the human foot on a midterm at Southeast Community College. It made me feel like I could grab the sky. “We’ll celebrate this weekend.”
“We will, huh?” I felt my heart tumble in anticipation. Tulsa’s tour was coming through Atlanta on Friday; Alex and I would have forty-eight whole hours together, the first time we’d be in the same place since we’d gotten back together three months ago. Just thinking about seeing his face in person—imagining having his hands on me again after all this time—turned my whole body warm and prickly.
“We will,” Alex promised, and I wondered again how I’d managed to get so lucky. It was work, the past few months had made that much undeniable; it was missed calls and gnawing loneliness and the beat of my own jealous heart—but it was undeniably solid, too. We were good for each other. I knew it in my bones. Together we were so, so good.
“I’m excited to see your place,” Alex said now, and I looked around the tiny, sparsely furnished apartment. It wasn’t much, two cramped bedrooms and a hundred layers
of shiny paint on the doorjambs, everything an industrial landlord white—but the floors were clean and wide-planked and it got bright yellow sunshine in the morning. A water glass of wildflowers sat cheerfully on the desk.
Most important of all, it wasn’t my mom’s house.
“Yeah,” I said slowly, feeling a grin spread across my face as I imagined him coming here. A part of me had known for a long time that I couldn’t stay in my old bedroom forever, that I’d shrivel up there day by day. But if this summer hadn’t happened, I don’t know if it ever would have occurred to me to make a change. If I’d gotten anything out of this whole crazy adventure, it was the realization that my life was mine and mine alone. There was always going to be stuff I couldn’t change about my circumstances. But I got to decide. “I’m excited for you to see it, too.”
“I gotta let you go,” I told him after we’d talked a bit longer—about the show they’d done last night where none of their mics had been working properly; about the girl Mikey had met in Tennessee. “I’m late for work.” Turned out I hadn’t been wrong when I told Alex I’d be a waitress if I wasn’t in Orlando—but he hadn’t been wrong, either, when he’d told me that wasn’t all I could do. I was taking a full load of classes, trying to get my miserable grades up. And we’d see what came next after that. “I’ll see you soon.”
“You will,” Alex said. “I love you.”
I smiled. “I love you, too.”
I’d almost forgotten about the padded envelope by the time we hung up, but it caught my eye again once I’d changed into my work clothes, before I walked out the front door. I ripped it open quickly and peered inside, my heart catching at the contents: the snapshot of me and Olivia from the photo shoot, and a blank tape in a plastic jewel case. No label, no note.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. I was cutting it close for my shift at the restaurant, but my curiosity got the best of me: I stuck the tape into the boom box in the tiny living room, hit the button for play, and listened to the soft popping sound that came with a homemade recording. When I heard the opening bars of “Tangerine” I tilted my head to the side, curious; when I heard Olivia’s voice my mouth fell wide-open in surprise.
I stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, full of anger and shock and a purple kind of sadness, letting myself miss her more than I had since I walked away. I thought of all the dumb songs she’d sung to me over the years to cheer me up, the two of us lying in her yard and in her rec room and tucked into our sleeping bags side by side: Olivia, sing “Dancing Queen.” Olivia, sing “I Will Always Love You.”
Olivia, sing “Tangerine.”
I hadn’t talked to Olivia at all since I’d left Orlando. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. I didn’t know if the two of us could ever get back what we’d taken from each other—but for the first time it occurred to me that maybe, after everything we’d been through, we’d given each other just as much.
I looked out the window of my apartment. I closed my eyes and listened to the song.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a solitary job, but anyone who says they do it alone is a liar. I have so much help:
Alessandra Balzer, my editor, and every other dreamboat at Balzer + Bray/HarperCollins. What an honor to be a part of this astonishingly sharp, talented team.
Josh Bank, Joelle Hobeika, and Sara Shandler, who tell all the best stories, along with Les Morgenstein and all the cool kids at Alloy Entertainment. I am so very lucky; I am in such very good hands.
Christa and Courtney and Julie and Corey and Natalie and Tess and Annie and Elissa and Emery and Bethany and Maria and Melissa and Dahlia and Ally and every other gorgeous writer and blogger and librarian who has sat with me at a bar or in a convention center hallway or on the internet over the last few years and taught me about writing and about life, along with the hundreds of YA authors whose beautiful, complicated work inspires me every day. What an incredible club to be a part of. I am so humbled and proud.
The Fourteenery, always.
Rachel Hutchinson, to Pluto.
Lisa Burton, Jennie Palluzzi, Sierra Rooney, and Marissa Velie, beloveds; Jackie Cotugno, most favorite; Tom Colleran, best friend and old love and wartime consigliere. Cotugnos and Collerans, who hold and keep me: you are all so completely wonderful. I love you all so much.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo credit Jennie Palluzzi
KATIE COTUGNO is the New York Times bestselling author of 99 Days and How to Love. She studied writing, literature, and publishing at Emerson College and received her MFA in fiction at Lesley University. Katie is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in Iowa Review, Mississippi Review, and Argestes, among others. She lives in Boston with her husband, Tom. You can visit Katie online at www.katiecotugno.com.
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BOOKS BY KATIE COTUGNO
How to Love
99 Days
Fireworks
Top Ten
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COVER PHOTOS © 2017 BY FELISHA TOLENTINO
COVER DESIGN BY ELAINE C. DAMASCO
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Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
FIREWORKS. Copyright © 2017 by Alloy Entertainment and Katie Cotugno. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938959
ISBN 978-0-06-241827-2 (trade bdg.)
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EPub Edition © March 2017 ISBN 9780062418296
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