Special. What a mediocre word for what happened last night.
Brooke leans against the shelf beside me and smiles. “You know, it’s nice to see you happy.”
I send her a look. “It’s not like I’ve been distraught in the past.”
She shrugs. “Not far from it.”
I sit down on the low shelf and mess around with a stack of vinyl. “Getting kicked out sucked, but at least now I don’t have to pretend anymore. I feel … free.”
Brooke sighs and sits next to me, throwing her arm around my shoulders. “Welcome to the adult world, Oliver. We’re happy to have you. The only question now is, where do you go from here?”
My hand freezes, and my eyes slide over to her, and she must know, from the way her mouth is tilted in an uncertain expression, that she’s asked me a question I don’t know the answer to.
AMY
AFTER CLASS ON Wednesday, I decide to go past the admin office, and I’m a nervous wreck. My weekly trips to check on my rank quickly dissolved when I found out about the tie, mostly because I’m completely terrified to know. Like Schrödinger’s Cat, if I never stop by to ask, I can be first in class as easily as I can be second.
“Amaría Richardson,” Mrs. Grimes calls out to me through her open door. Like always, I take a seat across the desk from her, but I’ve never been this nervous before. For so long, I’ve been confident about my rank, and now I’m terrified.
She doesn’t say a word. She knows why I’m here, and she immediately starts clicking around on her computer almost as soon as I’ve sat down.
She squints at the screen, her eyebrows furrowing deeply and her mouth pulled down into a frown. Then she writes the number down and slides it across the desk to me.
I’ve always known there was a chance that Petra was going to creep up on me. But I haven’t dropped below the number one spot since halfway through junior year.
Today, the sticky note says 2, and my stomach plummets into my shoes.
I just stare down at it, nodding, like my physical agreement with this particular event unfolding can make it hurt less. “Okay,” I finally say, my fist closing around the sticky note. “Okay.”
Mrs. Grimes looks at me with pity in her eyes, but she doesn’t offer her sympathies, which I’m perfectly fine with. It isn’t like she can say she’s sorry. She can’t be sorry to see some other student succeeding. And I guess I can’t be sorry, either. Petra worked for it, and so will I.
“Have a nice day,” Mrs. Grimes says quietly as I turn and walk out of her office.
I walk straight to the nearest girl’s bathroom and lock myself in the very last stall.
Second. I’m second. I can’t be the salutatorian. I have to be valedictorian or I’m not eligible for the Keller Scholarship.
I press myself against the wall, cover my face with my hands, and try not to cry. I will not cry over this. But I can feel the ache in my throat. I’ve worked so hard.
But I’ve been distracted.
Distracted by Spirits. Distracted by Oliver. Distracted by all of it.
Something has to change.
AMY
AT WORK, I smile up at Oli as best as I can, let him kiss me when no one’s looking, and then beg Brooke to put me in the back room when it’s time for my assignment. I don’t normally like the back room. I much prefer to work with customers. But today, I want to sit in the quiet, not have to look anyone in the eye, especially Oli.
Because I already know what I’m going to do, even though just thinking it makes my stomach twist so tight that I feel like I can’t breathe.
The hours fly by, and when the door opens behind me, I know it’s because the shop has closed. I don’t turn around, and apparently, I don’t need to.
“Something’s wrong,” Oliver says. “I can tell.”
I don’t know how he can tell, but isn’t that always how it is with Oliver? I feel the hot tears run down my face before I even realize I’m going to cry, and I finally turn to look at him. He has his back pressed to the door, his entire body slumped like there’s something heavy sitting on his shoulders.
“I slipped. Petra took top rank. I don’t think I’m going to make val.”
Oliver stares at me for a long time, and I can see the sadness in his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t understand the merit behind making valedictorian, but he understands what it means to me. That much is obvious. That alone should make this easier. He should understand why I can’t go on like this.
But then he’s coming closer to me, putting his arms around me, and I feel the tears start all over again. “You still have time,” he says quietly. “The school year isn’t over yet. You still have to take finals.”
I have to push him away, put distance between his body and mine, in order to think about what I have to say next. “It’s not that easy, Oli,” I say. And then I brace myself, looking away from him. “I think maybe it was a mistake to start seeing you.”
That isn’t what I meant to say, and I’m pretty sure immediately that it came out the wrong way, but there’s no taking it back now, that much is clear from the look on Oliver’s face. He looks like I just hit him.
“What?”
The tears are starting to well up again, and I have to cough them away before I can speak. “I’m in over my head, and I can’t let anything come between me and making val. I can’t lose this scholarship, Oliver. I’ve already gotten into Stanford.”
A crease has appeared between his eyebrows, a distinctly confounded and possibly angry expression. “So, what, I’m just getting in the way?”
I sigh. “It sounds awful when you say it like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it, Amy? I thought you were in this with me.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, trying to remember why I’m doing this. It’s not about love or emotion. It’s about Stanford. It’s about my future.
“You’re a distraction.”
At that, he steps away from me, backing up until his back hits the door. “That’s all I am?”
I want to scream. I feel like something is clawing at my throat. “Of course not.”
“But you were able to date Jackson, and you were gunning for valedictorian then, too.”
I have to catch my breath when he says it, because he’s right. Sure, Jackson took up my study time, he made my life lose a little of its focus, but not the way Oliver has. Oliver consumes all my thoughts. He’s all I can think about now that we’re together, and it’s started to turn everything else in my life into a haze.
“It’s different” is all I can say. It’s a sorry excuse.
“Right,” he says, and I hate the way his voice sounds, cold and defeated. “Because you loved him.”
I scowl. “Wait. What? No. Oliver that’s not—”
“I get it,” he says, and he’s already started to open the door. “You have your perfect future planned out, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to ruin it for you.”
Panic starts to rise inside me, but I clamp it down because isn’t this what I wanted? To end things? But I didn’t want it to happen like this. But before I can say anything, try to stop him, he’s left, closing the door behind him.
AMY
IT’S A LONG time before I can bring myself to step foot out of the back room, a long time before I can muster the courage to knock on Brooke’s office door while also trying not to look at where Oliver is ringing someone up at the register, a long time before I gather the courage to tell Brooke that I quit, and that I’m not coming back.
OLIVER
I’M THANKFUL THAT I’m closing with Brooke tonight and not with Amy. I’m thankful when Amy finally comes out of the back room, her purse in her hand, and leaves the shop.
Her eyes are red, her face blotchy, and I feel like I’m going to die. What the fuck just happened?
Yesterday, I was standing in that stockroom, thinking about how amazing it was to spend the night with Amy. How did we just break up in it? God, I say break up like that’s reall
y it. Amy was never mine. That much is clear now. No matter how I try, no matter how much of myself I give her, I’ll never have all of her. I never wanted her to give up her chance at making it to Stanford, I just wanted her. But she wasn’t willing to give me that.
It feels like needles in my skin and fire in my throat. I claw at my cast. When I look down and see her handwriting, I want to take a saw to it myself. I set my head against the counter.
I don’t hear Brooke come up behind me. I don’t hear her move over to me, don’t know she’s there until her arms are wrapped around me. I press my head against my arm, trying to hide as much as I can, but I don’t push her off me.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says, and I don’t know if she’s saying it because she actually knows what happened or she’s just guessing. Or maybe she has no clue at all. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t believe it anyway.
I suck in a deep breath and straighten, looking down at her. “I’m fine.” I clear away the lump in my throat.
“Oli, it’s okay to—”
“Brooke, I’m sorry, but I quit.”
Brooke looks stricken, but I don’t try to explain myself to her. I just leave.
AMY
I SPEND ALL weekend in bed. I don’t do homework, and I don’t get up to eat and I don’t do anything but stay in bed and listen to Oliver’s CDs. I still have so many of them. I’ll have to return them eventually. But every time I think about doing that, I start to cry again because Oliver, rightfully, doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.
On Sunday evening, I hear the doorbell and I know that I’ve forgotten about family dinner. I feel a stomachache coming on. I can’t deal with anything right now, much less my entire family.
“Amy?” Mama says, and I roll over in bed so she won’t be able to see that I’ve been crying.
“No,” I say by way of an answer. I know it’s, like, a cardinal sin in this house to miss family dinner, but I’m not doing it tonight. There’s no way.
Mama opens my door anyway. “Amy, sweetie, you can’t stay in here all weekend.”
“Yes, I can,” I groan and pull the covers over my head.
She sighs. “Honey, I don’t know what happened, but you should put on some clothes and come say hello to your tía y tío.” She doesn’t say anything else, because she doesn’t have to. I won’t defy my mother, never have before, and she knows I’m going to get up and get dressed.
I put on sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. She might get my presence, but that’s all she’s getting.
“Oh, Amaría,” Abuela says when I’m standing in front of her. “Mija, are you sick?”
Heartsick, I think. But I just shake my head and load up a plate with rice and chilaquiles before cramming into a spot at the table. It’s impossible not to notice that my entire family is looking at me with an amount of pity reserved for cheating spouses and dead pets.
“What?” I bark at them, my mouth full of rice, and they all look away.
But Mama doesn’t look away. She takes a deep breath and then she says, “Everyone, Amaría got into Stanford.”
I whip around to look at her, shocked, and I fully expect a commotion. I expect everyone to start talking all at once, the way they always do, the way I’ve become so used to. But instead, the entire table goes quiet. More than one person is looking at me with wide eyes, but nobody says a word.
And then finally, Abuela says, “You really are going to California?”
She says it so sincerely, with genuine curiosity, that I almost laugh. “Yes, Abuela. I’m really going.”
She looks at me for a long time, her face completely expressionless, until, at the head of the table, Mama says, “Carlos and I are very proud, and she’s going to be first in her class and get a good scholarship.” She says it with such certainty in her voice that I can almost believe her, but even though she’s clearly trying to make an effort, it’s wasted now.
“Mama, I might not make valedictorian,” I say, and the smile that Mama has plastered on her face slips.
“What?”
I shrug, and even though I have about twenty people staring at me right now in fascination, I speak only to her. “I lost the top spot. Petra might be valedictorian, and I won’t be able to go to Stanford, because we can’t afford it. They won’t consider me for the Keller Scholarship without val.”
Mama scowls. “That doesn’t mean anything. There are other scholarships. There are loans—”
“Mama, Stanford is over seventy thousand dollars a year.”
At the other end of the table, one of my cousins chokes on her food.
But Mama holds my gaze. “Amaría, you’re going to Stanford. I don’t know how we’re going to get you there, but we will. I promise.”
OLIVER
“SO WHY ARE you interested in working here at Charlie’s?”
I’m trying to decide on the most respectful way to say, I really need the money or my dad is going to kick me to the curb, but I figure there’s not a good way to go about that. So, instead, I say, “I’m really looking for a comfortable atmosphere and a place where I can get some good business experience.” I don’t add that I, in fact, already have a shit ton of business experience as I worked at Spirits for three and a half years.
The guy across the booth from me nods and jots something down on the tablet in front of him. He’s short and round and has sweat stains on his blue button-up, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to give me a job.
He smiles at me, his round cheeks pushing his glasses up when he shows his teeth. “Well, Mr. York. Everything looks great. We’ve been looking for a hardworking young person to help us bring some spirit to the team, and I really think you’ve got what we’re looking for.”
I nod and try not to feel like I’m being eaten alive from the inside.
AMY
IT’S THE WEEK before prom, and everyone on the prom planning committee is supposed to be prepping decorations. When I walk in, I’m so anxious, my fingers are trembling. My entire life feels like chaos right now, and I feel like everyone is watching my every step, waiting to see what I’ll do next. In reality, chances are good that not a single person in the room gives a shit about me, unless they’re looking for juicy gossip, of course.
I set up a station for making the table centerpieces, my back to the rest of the room so that I don’t have to witness it when Petra finally shows up. But I know the second she gets there. I feel the way the tension stretches to cover all of us, and I can’t resist glancing over my shoulder.
She walks into the room, her purse slung inside her elbow, her head held high, and an iced coffee in her hand. If I’m being completely honest, she looks incredible. Her face is completely made up, her outfit on point, and I can’t take my eyes off her as she strides into the room, stopping to check in with people, moving around the room to oversee everyone. My heart races when I hear her heels clicking in my direction.
“How’s it going, Amy?” she asks, and I’m surprised at how civil the question sounds coming out of her mouth. There’s not an ounce of smugness in her voice, even though I know she knows about her rank. She’s almost more obsessive about checking than I am.
“Great,” I say, my voice shaking. I clear my throat. “I just have to finish wrapping ribbon around the candleholders.”
She nods, her eyes on the centerpiece instead of me. “And did you ask the hotel about using real candles?”
My mouth goes dry when her eyes finally land on me. “Yeah. They said no fire. So I got the fake ones.” I scramble around on the table until I find one of the plastic tea lights I bought at the store, but by the time I find one to show her, she’s already clicked away from my table. And I find myself sitting there, watching her with a plastic candle in one hand and a swatch of ribbon in the other.
I turn to go back to what I was doing, but I can still hear what’s going on behind me, despite the music that someone has turned on that echoes through the room. I try to just focus on my work, hot glu
ing the ribbons with a single dot of glue around the candleholders.
And then people are filtering out, everyone excited to go home for the weekend and before I know it, I’m alone with Petra, and as much as I hate being here, I hate being home more. Every inch of my house reminds me of Oliver. Not to mention how weird Mama has been since family dinner. So I’d rather be here, placing a single battery-operated tea light into every candleholder.
But then Petra leans against my table, holding something out to me. I glance down at her hand. Two prom tickets. I can’t bring myself to take them.
Petra wiggles them in my direction. “You reserved two, right? I figured I’d bring them to you so you don’t have to deal with the lines this week.” When I still don’t take them, Petra sets them on the table in front of me. “Are you still going with Jackson?”
The thought seems so preposterous right now that I snort. “Absolutely not. Jackson and I…” I don’t even know how to explain it. We’re not together, and we’re not friends anymore, not after what he did. Just lab partners, I guess. “We’re not going to prom together.”
Petra leans back on her hands and looks straight ahead at the open doorway. “Looks like you have an extra ticket then. Who’re you going to take?”
“Um. I probably won’t go, I guess.” I don’t even have a dress. Prom has been the last thing on my mind.
Petra looks down at me, her eyebrows crooked in confusion. “Are you kidding? It’s senior prom. You can’t just not go.”
I can’t help but wonder why Petra cares anyway, but instead I say, “You’re the one who said I should eliminate anything getting in the way of school. That includes prom.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d really go through with it.”
That makes me scowl harder. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. Anyway, thanks for the tickets, but honestly, you might as well just throw them in the trash.”
All Our Worst Ideas Page 22
