All Our Worst Ideas

by Vicky Skinner

Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then her eyes travel over my shoulder, and I can only assume that Amy has stood up. “Oh,” Mom squeaks. “Hello. Are you new?” Her eyes shoot back to me, and then she gives that giant smile again.

  “I’m Amy,” Amy says, stepping up to the counter. “I started a few weeks ago.”

  Mom’s smile gets bigger, if that’s even possible. “Well, Amy, it’s wonderful to meet you.” Her eyes shoot back to me, and her smile loses some of its excellence. “Honey, I have to get to work, but I just wanted to make sure you got your application for MBU in? Because the deadline is coming up quick. Remember I told you that you needed to go ahead and get it in before the weekend. Don’t wait until the last minute.”

  I can feel Amy’s eyes boring into me, can feel my skin going red the way it does when I’m even slightly compromised, can feel the lie rising up in my throat. “Yeah, Mom. I sent it this morning.”

  Mom’s smile is blinding. “Oh good. Awesome. Well, I’m working until six. Call me if there’s an emergency.” Mom sends Amy a little wave. “Nice to meet you, Amy. Love you, Oli.”

  I wait until Mom is firmly on the sidewalk before turning back to the computer. I don’t look at Amy, but I can feel her beside me. I can feel her eyes. She doesn’t take her seat again, but instead, presses her hip into the counter and looks up at me.

  “You’re applying to Missouri Baptist?”

  I shrug. That’s as good as an answer, right? She already knew I was touring the campus, thanks to Brooke and her big mouth.

  “My boyfriend’s older brother goes there. Maybe you guys would get along.”

  I keep my fingers moving on the keyboard, make sure I don’t give away that that word, boyfriend, makes my stomach feel twisty. God, what the hell do I even care if she has a boyfriend or not? It’s not like I didn’t see them together.

  She sits back down at my feet, and once she’s settled, she smiles up at me.

  It’s not like I like her or anything.

  I clear my throat. “Where’s your boyfriend going, if you’re going to Stanford?”

  She doesn’t reply for the amount of time it takes to scan three records into the system, and when I look down at her, she’s staring straight ahead, looking a little dazed.

  “Amy?”

  She jerks and looks up at me, her eyes glassy. “Yeah? Oh, um. He hasn’t decided yet.” She tilts her head back until it’s resting against the wood of the shelf behind her. “Who knows, maybe he’ll go to Missouri Baptist, and the two of you will be friends.”

  Over my dead body.

  AMY

  I CRIED ALL the way to work, but it doesn’t really hit me until I get home. Almost everyone is already in bed, and the house is completely silent, which means that even though I can feel everything—all the stuff I’ve been forcing down all night at work—rising up inside me, I can’t just sit down on the couch and cry, because my mother, so accustomed to listening for the noises of her children getting up in the middle of the night, will hear me. And she’ll want to comfort me. She always does.

  So, I do what I do when I want to cry. I get in the shower.

  Our shower is really loud, and you can’t hear much over the sound of the water. So once it’s going, I curl up on the bottom of the tub, wrap my arms around myself, and cry. I can’t stop hearing all the words that Jackson said over and over in my head.

  For so long, my drive was the thing that Jackson liked most about me. But now, it’s too much for him. And now we’re months from graduation, and he wants to change his mind. What does that even mean for us in the future? Are we completely done? By “take a break” does he mean “break up?”

  Either way, it stings.

  It stings because I thought Jackson loved me, the real me, the me that follows the rules and stays in on Friday to get ahead on homework and is working damn hard to have a real future that doesn’t involve this house and all my siblings and working full-time at J-Mart instead of going to the school of my dreams.

  I cry until my fingers are wrinkled like prunes and the water has gone cold, and then I hiccup while I wrap a towel around myself.

  But when I open the door, my mother is sitting on the little bench in the hallway, looking at me. She doesn’t say anything, just opens her arms, and I sigh as I walk to her and let her hold me.

  OLIVER

  AFTER WORK, I sit in front of my computer with the online application for Missouri Baptist University up on the screen. I’ve been staring at it for so long that I’m pretty sure I just saw the first rays of the sun outside my window.

  I’ve typed my name, but that’s it. I couldn’t even bring myself to type in our apartment number, because I get a sick feeling in my stomach every time I bring myself to look back at the screen.

  Because I don’t want to go to Missouri Baptist University.

  And I don’t want to go to University of Missouri-Kansas City.

  Or Rockhurst.

  Or Avila.

  Or any of them.

  It’s not that I think college is a bad idea.

  I just think college is a bad idea for me.

  Because the more time I spend at Spirits, the more I’m pretty sure that is what I want to do. I want to have debates with Brooke about whether or not jazz counts as classical music and wear stupid clothes so that customers can have discounts and listen to Amy talk shit about my favorite song. I want to own my own record store, and why would I go to business school when I can learn from Brooke?

  I slam my computer closed. Then I gather all the stupid brochures that are lying around my room, all the paperwork on loans and dorm halls and campus tours, and I throw it all in the trash. And then I take the trash out so Mom won’t find any of it.

  Back in my room, I put Grace, Jeff Buckley’s iconic album, on my record player. The only good thing Dad ever did was leave me his record player when he moved out, and my walls are filled from floor to ceiling with vinyl for it.

  This is the only education I need.

  AMY

  I’VE KNOWN JACKSON since we both started at East almost four years ago. And since I’ve known him, he’s always done the exact same thing for his birthday. Jackson’s best friend, Bryce, throws him a huge party, as his parents are particularly lenient on the party front, and while everyone dances and drinks and hooks up in dark corners, Jackson sits on a homemade throne, wearing a birthday crown. It’s juvenile, to say the least, but it’s tradition.

  I know Jackson said I shouldn’t come this year, but by God, I’m going to show up anyway. I don’t have any friends, and people at school don’t particularly like me. No one wants to be friends with the girl who never goes to the parties; the girl who always follows the instruction sheets step-by-step; the girl who cares more about her academic standing than she does about her social life. But Jackson has always seen the other side of me. The side that loves loud music and bright colors and the feel of a guy’s hands on me. Jackson picked me. He loves me. I’m not throwing away what we had.

  I wear a dark pair of skintight jeans and a black lacy top that I know Jackson loves, and do my makeup like I’m trying to start a war. I’m the girl he wants, and tonight, I’m going to remind him why.

  The party doesn’t start until ten, and close to eleven, I pull up in front of Bryce’s house. The party is already in full swing, with people shivering outside while bodies move inside the house. No one really seems to notice when I slip in the door. No one ever really notices me, and for the most part, I’m okay with that. Maybe that’s one thing Jackson is right about—I don’t really have time for people right now. But I can make time for him. I know I can.

  Bryce’s house is four times the size of the house I share with my family, and Bryce is an only child. What it must be like to not have to share a bathroom with four children under the age of ten, not to mention having parents who would let you throw a rager multiple times a year. The closest we get to ragers in our house is family dinner.

  Even though I’m basically invisibl
e among the throngs in the house, I still do my best not to stand out. I hug the walls and duck around groups of people playing beer pong and making out and doing shots. I don’t want to approach Jackson too quickly. Now that I’m here, amidst the chaos of something that has always made me nervous and now makes me downright panicked, my plan seems like a terrible one.

  Not that I even really have a plan. My only plan is to make Jackson miss me. To make him want me. To make him realize what a mistake he made.

  But when I round a corner and spot Jackson’s throne pressed against the bottom of the staircase, I start to sweat. I’ve never been good at seduction, or even flirting. Jackson is the one who asked me out a year ago; the one who held my hand, leaned in for the first kiss, asked me in a breathy voice if I was ready to give him all of me. It was never me.

  Well, tonight it could be me.

  But I need a second to breathe first. I slip into the kitchen through the swinging door, glad when it’s completely silent. There’s nothing but the thumping of the bass still coming from the living room, making the empty beer bottles on the counter vibrate.

  “Amy?” I spin around to find Bryce standing in the open pantry door, two bags of chips in either hand. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I try to play it cool, like I’m supposed to be here. “Oh, you know. Friday night. It’s the night to party.”

  Bryce’s eyes narrow. “You never go out on Friday night.”

  Damn. I decide to shift focus in hopes that he’ll let it drop. “I heard you guys won the basketball game last week. Everyone said it was a good game. I bet you played really well.”

  Bryce tosses the chips on the counter and rushes toward me. He immediately latches onto my elbow and turns me in the direction of the back door. “Amy, you can’t be here. I know Jackson told you not to come, and I don’t need your drama fucking up my party.”

  I dig my heels in. “Wait, wait, wait. Bryce, come on. No drama. I promise. I just need to tell Jackson happy birthday, okay?” I pry his fingers off my arm and am surprised when he lets me. Bryce is almost twice my size and is on the basketball team and the football team. There’s no way I could get him to let go unless it was his idea.

  “Why didn’t you tell him at school?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t see him.” And by that I mean that Jackson has been avoiding me all week.

  Bryce’s eyes shoot to the kitchen door.

  I put up my hands. “I have an economics test to study for anyway. Just let me stay long enough to tell Jackson happy birthday, and then I’ll leave. Promise.”

  Bryce chews on the inside of his cheek. He finally sighs and says, “Okay, fine. But I didn’t see you, and for God’s sake, don’t do anything stupid. Let Jackson enjoy his birthday.”

  I give him the brightest smile I can muster. “Thanks, Bryce.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’m only doing this because Jackson has been all bummed out since he dumped you.”

  I wince at the words “dumped you.” Bryce scoops up the bags of chips he abandoned, and I’m alone in the kitchen again.

  It takes a second for Jackson to notice me when I emerge from the kitchen. His eyes flit over me as he takes in everyone around him, and then they snap back like elastic. Pride and something hotter stirs in my stomach.

  I have to wait before I can approach him. The entire basketball team is draped across the stairs, laughing and screwing around. But they have to leave sometime.

  One of them claps Jackson on the shoulder, and he looks away from me to join the conversation. The guy points, and then the entire team disperses, like a flock of birds. Amazing.

  I step up to the throne as soon as they’re gone and curtsy. “Your Highness.”

  Jackson’s eyebrows crinkle, and his mouth pops open. “Amy.”

  “I couldn’t miss your birthday.”

  He just stares at me, so long my pulse starts to race. “You shouldn’t be here. We broke up.”

  I tap my finger on the armrest of the dining room chair, right next to his hand. “Aren’t we still friends? Can’t I still wish you a happy birthday?”

  His face goes blank, but I don’t wait for him to answer. I’m afraid that he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear, and I’m not going to give him the chance. Instead, I lean forward and plant my mouth on his.

  For half a second, his mouth is still under mine. But like a switch someone flips on, he reaches up, buries his hands in my hair, and kisses me back. His response is so sudden, so unexpected, that I lose my footing, and next thing I know, I’m sitting on his lap, letting him put his tongue in my mouth.

  I pull away with a sigh, and for a second, Jackson’s eyes meet mine, deep and intense, and I know I’ve reminded him of how good we can be together.

  But still, when he finally speaks, he says, “Dammit, Amy.” He pushes me off him gently, until I’m standing in front of his throne, feeling suddenly naked in this room of prying eyes.

  A few people have already noticed that something is going on, but for the most part, everyone is too busy partying. I feel my face flush when I turn back to Jackson and see him wipe his mouth, like he just did something shameful.

  “I’m sorry. I just … it’s your birthday. I just wanted to—”

  “I told you not to come,” Jackson says, looking everywhere but in my direction. “I told you I need space.”

  I feel tears threaten, but I bite them back. “I don’t want to be on a break. I just want to be with you.”

  He sighs, his jaw going hard, and when I glance around, I realize more people are looking. “Ames, you should go home.”

  “Could we maybe go somewhere and talk?” I’m ashamed at the way it sounds like I’m pleading with him.

  And I’m even more ashamed when his eyes settle on me, hard, and he says, “No, Amy. This is my party, and you’re not supposed to be here.”

  I have to look away from him when his voice rises. Jackson doesn’t get mad easily, doesn’t argue unless he feels like he has to. But he’s mad now, and I regret everything. I had this perfect image in my head of how this night would go: I would kiss Jackson, and he would whisk me off to someplace private where we would remind each other how in love we are until the party was completely forgotten about.

  No, this is definitely not how I imagined it.

  The room has gone quiet now, and I don’t notice until it’s too late, until everyone is listening, watching us like we’re a TV show, their eyes springing back and forth between us. Only now, they’re all on me as I struggle to choke back tears. I will not cry in front of all these people.

  “You’re really breaking up with me, aren’t you?”

  His jaw moves as he looks down at the floor and then up at me from under his eyelashes. “Yeah. I am. I’m sorry, Amy.”

  Something inside me cracks, and I am ashamed and embarrassed that so many people are witnessing my utter destruction.

  I’m trying to regain the feeling in my legs to walk out of here, away from Jackson, but then I feel something tug at the pocket of my jeans, and I turn to find Bryce with my car keys dangling from his fingers. He tosses the keys to one of his friends, another guy on the basketball team, and then the keys are being tossed from person to person, eventually out of sight. I sigh and turn back to Bryce.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “Get my keys back.”

  He just shakes his head and crosses his arms, and I can hear the start of laughter moving through the room. I glance around, hoping I can catch a glimpse of whoever has them. I look at Bryce, ready to make another plea, but he’s taken a step toward me, his voice low when he speaks. “I said no drama. You should figure out a ride home.” He turns away, disappearing into the throng of people that’s gathered around us now.

  “Bryce!” I shout. My whole body is shaking. He has to be kidding. He isn’t going to make me walk home. It’s freezing outside, literally, and my house is miles from here. “You can’t just take my keys.”

  Bryce spins around an
d leans against the doorjamb beside him. “Yes, I can. You’re on my property. Shouldn’t have come around, Amy.” And then he’s gone, and so are my keys. That’s not even my car. It’s my parents’ car, and they’re going to kill me when I tell them about this.

  My first reaction is to turn back to Jackson. I wait for him to tell his best friend to give me my keys back. I wait for him to offer me a ride. I wait for him to do something.

  He stands there, looking at me. “Bryce,” he says, his eyes flickering over to where Bryce has disappeared in the crowd, but his voice is so quiet, his plea so pathetic, that he might as well have not spoken at all.

  I turn and rush through the crowd, pushing against anyone that gets in my way until I can throw open the front door. I rush down the steps, but on the last one, I slip. Ice coats everything now, and I scrape across it, landing in a heap on the snowy front lawn.

  OLIVER

  “READ ’EM AND weep, fellas,” I say, laying the cards in my hand down flat on the table between me, Brooke, and Marshal.

  Marshal rolls his eyes. “Dear Lord, what cliché poker film did you just walk out of?”

  Brooke snickers, but I just ignore them. They can laugh all they want, but I just won an old Cat Stevens record off Marshal and a Rolling Stones vinyl off Brooke. Overall, a good night.

  “You have the best poker face of anyone I’ve ever met,” Marshal says.

  Brooke scoffs. “You have no idea, man. Oliver could convince the Pope that God wasn’t real. Straight fucking face the whole time. Best bluffer I’ve ever met.”

  I scowl at her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  She shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

  “I’m great at bullshitting? That’s a compliment?”

  She shrugs at me again, and I don’t miss the glance she shares with Marshal.

  I roll my eyes and put my albums down. “Whose deal is it?”

  “Yours.” Brooke tosses the deck at me, and I groan when the cards scatter.

  “Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”