I can feel it coming before it does, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up even as Rosa, across the table, finds my eyes. “How are things with the hottie, Amaría?”
My eyes sweep over the table to Mama. She’s the only one who knows Jackson and I broke up.
It’s now that Carlos looks around the table, like he’s just now realizing that Jackson isn’t here. “Where is Jackson?” he asks, his voice booming over everyone else’s.
“We broke up,” I say, because it’s not like they’re not all going to find out anyway, and the table erupts into noise. I sit back in my chair and let them talk over one another until finally, Mama yells, “Okay, okay, okay! It’s done, it’s over, let it go!” She sends me an apologetic glance, but I just look away from her.
Into the silence, Rosa says, “Well, that was probably for the best. I mean, it wasn’t like he was going to follow you to California, right?” My stomach knots when she says this, and maybe it’s true and maybe it’s not, I guess either way it doesn’t matter, but the fact that she said it at all hurts anyway.
Until Mama says something worse.
Quietly, like she thinks I won’t hear her, as if she can’t help herself, she says, “If she goes to California.”
It’s not a new comment. It’s not something she hasn’t said a thousand times in a thousand different ways and tones and languages. But when she says it now, in front of our entire family, something inside me snaps.
I push away from the table loudly, and everyone watches me as I stalk past Mama. But I can’t let it go that easily. I can’t let her get away with that.
So I spin around, pin her surprised eyes with a glare, and say, “Would it kill you to believe in me?”
She doesn’t say anything, and for the first time that I can remember, neither does anyone else.
OLIVER
“I ALWAYS THOUGHT it was pretty awesome that Lauren owns a record store and is going to law school,” Morgan says. “I mean, how intense is that? I couldn’t even handle two majors. I had to drop one of them.”
“Yeah,” I say, taking a sip of the orange soda and champagne in my cup. It isn’t exactly the classiest of drinks, but it’s better than tequila shots. “Lauren is doing a pretty good job with the shop. What were you majoring in?” I hold in a cringe because if there was an award for being the worst at small talk, I’d finally have trophies in my room like Mom always dreamed about.
Morgan, tall with a dark pixie cut, sips at her own drink. “I was majoring in psychology and literature, but I dropped lit. It’s just been rough trying to juggle school and work and my band.”
She says it in a way that makes it obvious she wants me to ask her about her band. I didn’t know Morgan was in a band. Maybe she’s never mentioned it before, but chances are better that she has and I wasn’t paying attention.
“What do you play?” I almost care, too. I’ve always liked Morgan. She’s pretty and music savvy and has a nice way of talking. But there’s just no feeling there.
“I play guitar, drums, and piano. Not all at the same time.” She lets out a nervous laugh. Huh. She’s nervous. Who knew?
Over Morgan’s head, the front door opens, but I ignore it. People have been filtering in all night, but I don’t know any of them, so I’ve stopped glancing over every time someone comes in.
But out of the corner of my eye, I can just make out the shape of the person standing in the doorway—someone very short, with long dark hair—and when I look over, Amy is standing in the doorway in a little black dress, her curly hair flowing around her face, and fuck, I suddenly understand all those awful, cheesy, predictable love songs. Because if I was the kind of person to write awful, cheesy, predictable love songs, I would write one about her right now.
And then, like she knows I’m on the verge of writing ballads, Amy’s eyes scan every face in the apartment, and when she finds mine, she smiles so big I think I might die because she was actually looking for me, and I can’t even believe that.
I don’t realize I’ve walked away from Morgan until I’m standing in front of Amy. She’s closed the door behind her, but she’s still taking off her coat.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say, helping her pull her arm out of her coat sleeve.
“Long story,” she says, and I can’t tell from her tone whether she would prefer I ask her about it or just leave it alone.
“You, um…” I point at her. And she looks down at her dress, which I meant to tell her looks amazing on her, but what I say instead is: “You wore a dress.”
“Was I not supposed to dress up?” she asks, looking around. And then she looks at me. I’m wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old South Park shirt. “Let me guess, you are dressed up.”
“Funny,” I say. “Why don’t I go grab us some—”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Amy says, her fingers clasping my arm so tight I think she might bruise me. I’m not sure I’d complain if she did. “You are not allowed to leave me alone. I don’t know anyone here.”
“The whole staff is here. You know them.” I motion around at Marshal and at Morgan, who’s still standing in the living room, where I left her, watching us.
Amy bites her lip and looks around, and I’m afraid she’s already regretting being here. “I’m just not, you know…”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think I do know.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m really friends with anyone but you.”
Friends. It’s the first time either one of us has acknowledged it. We’re friends. “Why didn’t you bring a date?” I regret the words as soon as I say them. I know why she didn’t bring a date. Because she just broke up with her boyfriend and probably is still in love with him. My stomach turns.
She finally lets go of my arm, and I hate that I made her look sad. But one thing I’ve noticed about Amy: She’s good at hiding it. It only takes a second for her expression to change from tragic to devious. “Did you?” she asks, the corners of her mouth tilting up.
“No,” I say simply, and then Morgan sidles up to us.
“Hi, Amy,” she says, her eyes flitting between the two of us. She’s not quite as good at hiding things.
“Hey, Morgan,” Amy says. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” she all but shouts.
Morgan flinches. “Right. Happy Cupid Likes to Fuck Up Our Lives Day.”
Amy giggles nervously, and Morgan sort of looks at her like she’s not really sure what she’s made of.
“Did you know Morgan plays guitar, drums, and piano in her band?” I blurt, because I don’t like the way Morgan is looking at Amy. Or at me.
Beside me, Amy says, “That is so cool. I played piccolo in band when I was a freshman.”
Morgan looks mildly disgusted, but I smile down at Amy. “Piccolo?”
She grins up at me. “It’s a hard job, but somebody’s got to do it.” Her eyes meet something over my shoulder. “Hey, I should go say hi to Brooke. I’ll be back.” She pats me on the arm, and just like that, she’s gone.
I watch her wander into the kitchen to join Brooke, ignoring the commotion behind me as something begins in the living room. Morgan yanks on my shirtsleeve and says in my ear, “It’s Spin the Bottle, come on!” She drags me toward the circle forming on the carpet.
“Spin the Bottle?” I ask, incredulous. They’re kidding, right? “What is this, middle school?”
Lauren, arranging everyone on the carpet, looks at me. “I had just figured out I was a fucking lesbian in middle school, so I didn’t get to play any of these games. Sue me, okay?”
And even as Morgan tugs me to the ground beside her, my eyes search for Amy.
AMY
“AMY!” Brooke, elbow deep in a cookie tray of egg rolls, beams at me. “I thought you weren’t coming!” She shoves the pan into the oven, and my eyes are caught by something hanging on the wall behind her.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Brooke glances over her shoulder and then smiles. “It’s a Kiss Wall!”
I step around her and approach the large board on the wall. It’s bright pink and has little strips of paper all over it, multicolored and folded in various formations. “What’s a Kiss Wall?”
Brooke comes up beside me and taps a stack of paper strips on the counter. “It’s like a Wish Wall, but you write the name of a person you want to kiss instead.”
“What if there’s no one that you want to kiss?”
She glances sideways at me. “Are you saying there isn’t?”
Just then, there’s a cheer from the living room, and I look over just in time to see Morgan lean over and plant a kiss on Oliver. I wait, a heartbeat, two, but they don’t pull apart. She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, opens her mouth over his, and the cheering gets louder.
I look away, back at the board, my palms starting to sweat. I reach forward and pick up a slip of paper that’s pastel green, but then I just hold it in my hand, trying to ignore what’s going on in the living room.
“Hey, Brooke?”
She’s already turned away from me to pour someone a drink. “Hmm?”
I’ve been debating whether or not to do this, and now that I’m standing here in Brooke’s kitchen, I know I want to do it, but I’m not so sure it’s the best time.
“So, I’m applying for this scholarship, and I sort of need a letter of recommendation from someone who’s not a teacher, and I was hoping that maybe you would write it. I know we’ve only worked together for a month and a half, but, I don’t know…”
Brooke still has a bottle of tequila in her hand, and I realize that she’s lining up shots along her counter. But she sets the bottle down and smiles at me. “Of course I will.” She reaches out and squeezes my elbow, and I feel a weird peace spread over me, a sense of belonging that flashes quickly. And then Brooke turns away from me, resuming her pouring.
I turn back to the board, tapping the tip of my pen against the counter. And then, without thinking about it, telling myself it’s just a board and means absolutely nothing, I write Jackson’s name on my slip of paper, fold it in half, and pin it to the board.
“You put something on the Kiss Wall?”
Oliver is standing beside me, and I feel a little uncomfortable with the fact that I didn’t hear him approach. He has a strange look on his face, his eyes glued to the slip of paper I just pinned to the wall.
“You have lip gloss on your mouth,” I say. I meant for my comment to be a joke, but when I say it, my voice is quiet, and for some reason I have to look away when he reaches up to wipe his mouth.
“What’s going on?” I ask Brooke, who puts a shot glass in my hand before tugging me over to the kitchen table. “What’s this?”
“We’re playing Drunk Truth, so you better buckle up,” she says. I glance over my shoulder in time to see Oliver pinning a folded slip of paper to the Kiss Wall. He wanders through the kitchen and pours himself a shot, throws it back, and then pours another.
“I don’t think that’s how you play the game,” I tell him when he’s joined us around the table.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What’s Drunk Truth?” Morgan asks from Oliver’s other side. She loops her arm through his.
Brooke is still passing around shots, and she smiles at Morgan like she’s a child. “Confessing your sins. Getting fucking wasted and telling everyone your deepest, darkest secrets.”
I don’t like the sound of this.
“I get to ask a question. Everyone at the table answers or they do a shot. Your choice. You answer a question, you’re out of the game. Everyone else, you do shots until you answer one. Let the games begin.”
A few people snicker, but I feel mild panic begin low in my stomach.
“Question One: Who was your first love?”
Everyone scoffs. Apparently, that’s an easy one. All I can think about is Jackson, the fact that I gave him my virginity, all the things he said to me when we broke up, that I can’t even decide if I still love him or if I hate him.
And then I realize that Brooke is staring at me, her eyebrows raised. Because I’m the first one, and I have to tell the truth or I have to drink. I pick up the shot in front of me and drink.
Everyone cheers, and when I look over at Brooke, prepared to gloat, she isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are glued to Oliver, and when I turn, his eyes are glued to me. I can’t read the expression on his face, but it’s an expression I’ve never seen on him before.
He picks up his shot glass and drinks. Everyone cheers.
Morgan blinks out at the table. “What if I’ve never been in love?”
Brooke blinks back at her. She obviously wasn’t expecting that. “Drink,” she says after a second of deliberation, and everyone cheers as Morgan obeys.
Stories go around the table, more than half telling a story about a girl or boy they were in love with as a child or one of their high school sweethearts. From what I can tell, I’m the only person here who’s actually still in high school.
“Question two!” Brooke shouts when there are only ten of us left at the table. “Tell us about your last bad breakup.”
“That’s not a question,” Oliver says beside me, maybe a little slower than usual, and I think maybe those shots are getting to him.
“Just answer it, York.”
Oliver points at me. “Her first.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He already knows about my bad breakup. Well, he knows part of it, at least. I’m not rehashing that for these people. I do the shot.
Oliver snorts and then he throws back his shot, too.
Morgan sighs and wrings her hands. “My last boyfriend dumped me because he said he’d rather fuck my sister.” And then, even though she isn’t expected to, she throws back her shot.
Around the table, three people do shots and the others tell their stories: stories of cheating significant others, weird sex fetishes, and one long-distance relationship gone sour.
“Question three!” Brooke shouts, even though she doesn’t have to this time. No one is cheering. Everyone is watching our game with rapt attention. “Tell us the story of how you lost your virginity.”
Nope. Absolutely not. Not happening. My fingertips are starting to tingle, and my stomach is warm, but I throw back my shot anyway. I’m not telling anyone about my first time with Jackson, the only person I’ve been with.
Again, Oliver hesitates. I wonder what kind of story he has to tell, probably some awkward, fumbling, back-seat prom sex story. I can’t keep my eyes from going to Morgan, from thinking about her tongue in his mouth in the living room. My palms start to sweat again, but I’m pretty sure it’s the tequila.
Whatever Oliver’s story is, he isn’t planning to share it. He does his shot, and I have to say, I’m surprised. Don’t guys love talking about that kind of thing?
As if to confirm my suspicion, the three remaining boys at the table tell their stories and bow out, leaving two girls, both of which do their shots.
“Question four!” I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hold out any longer. I’m going to have to spill some kind of hideous story about Jackson and me or I’m going to fall over.
“Who did you put on the Kiss Wall?” Brooke is grinning. She’s having too much fun with this. I guess this one isn’t so bad. The only person who knows anything about Jackson is Oliver, and at the rate he’s going, he isn’t going to remember tonight anyway.
“Jackson. My ex.”
Brooke’s smile fades slowly, and I watch her as I step back from the table, stumbling a little against someone who’s standing behind me. Brooke’s eyes, full of panic now for some reason, move to Oliver, and when I look up, he’s looking at me again, and his eyes stay glued to me as he tilts his head and lets the shot of tequila slide down his throat.
OLIVER
MY HEAD IS spinning, and I can’t decide what I want to do more: strangle Brooke for what she obviously thought was a well-concealed plan to get me to confess my feelings to Amy (it wasn’t) or kiss Amy so ha
rd and so long that she’ll forget about her ex.
By the time I decide which I want more (kill Brooke), she’s asking me to tell the table a tragic story about my parents, so I tell them about how my parents didn’t love each other enough to stay together, and that seems to be good enough.
I’m set free.
But looking around, I don’t see Amy anymore, and honestly, compared to everyone else, most half tipsy and ready for more, Amy is really the only person I’m interested in hanging out with tonight.
I’m starting to feel the tequila in the tips of my fingers, and I move down the short hallway to the bathroom, thinking maybe some cold water on my face will help, when I hear something from Brooke and Lauren’s bedroom.
Sniffling.
Crying.
“Amy?” I push the door open slowly, noting that the lights are off. The light from the hallway rushes in, and I see her there, sitting on the floor, her back against the end of the bed, wiping at her face. “What’s going on?”
She gestures for me to close the door, and I do, stepping in and shutting out the light.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know you probably regret even inviting me to this thing now.”
My heart is pounding. I want her to stop apologizing. I feel her eyes on me, and I stand with my back to the door before sitting down beside her.
“It’s okay,” I finally say. “This whole thing is juvenile anyway.”
I hear Amy laugh. I can’t see her whole face, only the portion from the tip of her nose to her hairline. Her eyes, her cheekbones, all striped with light coming from the moonlight through the open blinds.
“I was thinking the same thing. I thought these people were in college. Shouldn’t they be hooking up in the bathroom or something?”
“Pretty much. How you feeling?” What I mean is, how drunk is she? I can feel the alcohol in the numbness of my fingers and the warmth in my stomach, but I can hold my liquor pretty well. Amy, on the other hand, is half my size. I want to ask her why she was in here crying, if it was because of her ex, but I’m not good at being pushy, or at comforting people, or at generally being an acceptable human being.
All Our Worst Ideas Page 12
