The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  “We should get nice pizza,” I say, “not slices.”

  “Cool, nice pizza it is.” He nods toward Andrew. “See you later, dude.”

  Andrew raises an arm up to say goodbye. “Yeah, see you later,” he says, giving us a thumbs-up.

  Dean pulls the bike out of the driveway, spraying a cloud of gravel behind us.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE RIDE IS bumpy and fast, and I hold on to Dean for dear life. The wind whips at my face, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes, and I bury my head in his back, against the leather of his jacket. The trees whip by in a blur on either side of the road. At each turn, the bike leans to the side and I scream, laughing and tightening my hold on Dean’s waist. I’m so glad Andrew forced me to wear the helmet—though I’ll never admit that to him.

  When we get to the restaurant Dean pulls the bike up to the sidewalk and hops off. I climb off after him, my legs shaking and unsteady. I feel giddy, adrenaline coursing through me like I’ve just gotten off some amusement park ride. Who knew feeling out of control could actually be so fun? Still, I’m thankful to be back on solid ground again, and I relish the feel of the hard sidewalk beneath my feet. I’m still alive.

  “High five, Prom Date,” Dean says, holding his hand out to me. I hit it with a satisfying smack. “You were a natural at that. You gonna drive us home?”

  “Can I?” I ask, and then laugh in surprise.

  Dean looks surprised too. “Easy, tiger. Maybe just around the parking lot.”

  I feel deflated for a second at the thought that his offer was just a joke. Of course he didn’t think I would actually want to try driving. And the more I think about it, I realize it’s a bad idea anyway. I would probably just kill us both.

  We walk into Giovanni’s, and it’s dim and cozy from the flickering light of candles. Classic Italian music flows through the room, something cheesy with violins and accordions, and I have a flash of Dean and me as the dogs from Lady and the Tramp, our lips sliding together over one long slippery piece of spaghetti. I wonder if that’s actually possible, if anybody in real life has ever tried. It seems like the kind of thing Andrew would find funny, and suddenly I’m thinking about my lips sliding toward Andrew’s, and I push the thought from my head. I’m not supposed to be thinking about Andrew.

  “Welcome to Giovanni’s.” A waitress appears. She looks about our age, and her gaze lingers on Dean just a little too long. It makes me nervous. “We have a corner booth open,” she says. “You want that?”

  “Sure, whatever.” Dean shrugs. We follow her over to the corner.

  “Thanks,” I say, sliding into the booth. Dean slumps down across from me, dropping his helmet and bag down onto the seat next to him.

  He looks at the waitress. “Can we get some wine?”

  She flushes pink and fiddles with her hair. “Oh, um. Are you old enough?”

  “C’mon,” he says, cocking his head to the side.

  Her voice wavers. “I’ll need to see some ID.”

  “Sure.” He pulls out his wallet and fishes through it, handing her his license. She looks at it for a second and then hands it back. Then she turns to me.

  “And you?”

  I freeze. What does he expect me to do?

  “She lost hers on the ride here.” He motions to his helmet on the seat. “We took the bike over and had a little spill. Her purse went everywhere. A bunch of her cards are missing. Gonna have to go back and look for them in the morning when it’s not so dark.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes flicking over to me and then back to Dean.

  “I promise she’s old enough,” he continues. “Just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago.”

  “April second?” I say, making up a date. The words come out as a question. I don’t know how Dean is so good at lying.

  “Okay, I guess that’s all right,” she says, finally relenting. “Just don’t tell my manager. Which bottle do you want?”

  “Red or white?” he asks me.

  “Um,” I say back, brilliantly. I don’t know enough about wine to have a preference. I’ve had a few sips here and there, on holidays, but I’ve never had to order it. Dean seems so experienced, confident about so many things that are new and scary to me. It’s confusing to feel so intimidated by him and so attracted to him at the same time.

  I tell him to order red wine, because for some reason it feels more grown up.

  “Great.” He turns back to the waitress. “Your cheapest red.”

  I guess I can’t fault him—we don’t make very much at the video store and I have no idea how much wine actually costs.

  “You got it,” she says. “I’ll be back with some menus.”

  “That was impressive,” I say, once she’s gone. “How did you come up with that? Do you have a fake ID?”

  “My brother’s old one,” he says. “He’s twenty-three. He reported it missing so I could have it.”

  He says it so casually, like it’s no big deal. I look enough like my cousin Beth I could probably get away with using her ID, but the idea is terrifying.

  The waitress comes back over with the bottle and two wineglasses, pouring a bit into one of the glasses and handing it to Dean.

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah, we’re good,” he says, not bothering to try a sip. She keeps pouring, filling up both of our glasses halfway, and then leaves the bottle on the table. He picks up his glass and I pick up my own. We clink them together.

  “Cheers, Prom Date,” he says, and I smile. I take a sip of the wine. It’s bitter, but sweet, like juice that’s gone bad. I don’t hate it, but I don’t particularly like it either. Still, it’s way better than the whiskey.

  Dean puts down his glass and leans back in the booth, folding his hands casually on the table. “So, I don’t think your friend Andrew likes me very much.”

  I blush, taking another sip of wine. “He’s just protective of me. We’ve known each other our whole lives. I think he doesn’t like seeing me with a guy because he thinks I’m still a little kid.” I feel my cheeks heat the second I’ve said it and take a sip to cover my embarrassment. I cannot believe I just referred to myself as a little kid.

  “I think he has a crush on you,” Dean says, and I choke on my wine.

  “It’s not like that at all. We’re just friends. He’s like my brother.” Those words have always come naturally to me, but now they don’t sit right. I think back to what happened between us last night. Brother isn’t the right word at all.

  Dean sighs. “I don’t think you have a crush on him. I just think he has a crush on you. He might be your brother, but you’re not his sister.” He takes a sip of wine. “I mean, I can’t blame the guy. Look at you.”

  I reach up to smooth my hair behind my ears, feeling self-conscious. I still don’t really understand what makes Dean say things like that, why he’s asked me out at all. I can’t figure out if we’re on a date, or if this is just a part of the game—a big, expensive, complicated version of foreplay. I can’t get my friends’ advice out of my head. A guy like James Dean doesn’t want to date anyone. They would knock any romantic notions out of my head so fast it would spin. We’re probably only here because Dean still hasn’t managed to sleep with me.

  But I want them to be wrong. Maybe the Keely who drinks whiskey is a little bit real after all, and that’s the girl who Dean is drawn to. I like that he brings her out of me. I just hope the little bit of her he sees is enough.

  The waitress sets menus in front of us. Dean hands them back to her without even looking. “Actually, we’re all set. We’ll get a large pizza. Pepperoni and mushroom. And can I get a side of barbecue sauce?”

  “Sure,” she says, taking the unopened menus from him. “Should be out soon.” She smiles and then walks away before I have a chance to say anything. I’m annoyed Dean didn’t ask me what I liked, di
dn’t even let me look at the menu. He doesn’t know I hate mushrooms—their squishy texture always reminds me of slugs.

  “You’re okay with the pizza, right?” he asks, too late to matter. I don’t want to be difficult, so I smile and nod. I can always pick the mushrooms off. Dating is about compromise, right?

  “It must be tough on Lover Boy to see you with me,” Dean says, steering the conversation back to Andrew.

  “I really don’t think he likes me,” I say, trying to explain it to him. “He has like ten different girlfriends a week.”

  Dean chuckles and leans forward in the booth. “Yeah, I know.”

  “What do you mean—you know?” I ask.

  “He’s with one of them right now.” He nods, eyes focused on something behind me.

  “What?” I whip around in my seat. Sure enough, Andrew is standing by the front door, speaking quietly to the hostess. And there’s a girl with him—her hand draped lightly over his arm. I can see her black nail polish from here.

  It’s Danielle.

  I feel my stomach drop, and I begin to cough. Wine sloshes out of my glass onto the tablecloth. What is he doing here? What is he doing with her?

  He scans the room and when he catches my eye, he shrugs and raises an arm up to say hello. At least he has the decency to look a little embarrassed. The hostess waves them toward us, to a table a few feet away from ours. When Danielle notices us, she stops short.

  “Keely?”

  “Well, isn’t this a coincidence,” Dean says, smirking and pouring some more wine into his glass.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Andrew says, bringing a hand up to his hair. “There aren’t enough restaurants in this town. I didn’t want to take Danielle to the questionable Chinese place or the dollar slices. You know.” He shrugs, as if it’s natural he and Danielle are here. Was she who he was texting back at the house?

  “I remember you,” Danielle says to Dean. “James Dean, was it?”

  A pleased grin spreads across his face. “Close enough. You were at that party we had?” He leans toward her. “Were you the one in all the bras?”

  “You’re thinking of Ava.” Danielle smirks. “I only wear one bra at a time. But that’s personal.” She fiddles with the strap of her dress, and my eyes are drawn upward to the gold necklace resting on her collarbone, and then down to the cleavage below.

  “You’re right,” Dean says, smiling and raising his arms in surrender. “I shouldn’t have asked.” He takes a sip of his wine, and Danielle’s eyes narrow.

  She lowers her voice. “Wait, seriously, how did you guys get wine?”

  “You can have some,” Dean says, handing Danielle his glass. She takes a quick sip and hands it back to him so fast that the stain of red lipstick on the rim is the only proof it’s happened at all.

  “Maybe we should sit.” Andrew glances behind him to the podium. The hostess is looking down at her phone, texting away obliviously. “It’d be less obvious.”

  He slides into the booth next to me, his leg brushing against the side of mine. I flinch at the contact and move my leg away. He reaches a hand out to the stem of my wineglass, trying to discreetly pull it toward him.

  “Did I say you could have some?” I ask, swatting his hand away. I’m annoyed with him for coming here, for sitting down at our table and making himself at home.

  And I don’t like him with Danielle.

  “James Dean said I could have some,” Andrew says, taking a sip anyway. Danielle sits down on the other side of the booth.

  “Actually, I have a water bottle in my bag,” Dean says, rummaging through the pack next to him on the booth. “You guys can pour some in under the table and drink out of this. I’ve done it a million times.”

  “You’re the absolute best,” Danielle says. “Keely, hold on to this guy. Seriously.” She reaches over toward the wine bottle and, looking around to make sure no one is watching, pulls it quickly under the table. A few moments later, she brings the bottle back up, placing it innocently on the tablecloth. Just as her hands leave the bottle, our waitress walks over, and Danielle snaps her hand back, bringing it up to examine her fingernails.

  “Hey, two more?” She hands menus to Andrew and Danielle.

  “No,” I say, “they’re sitting at a different—”

  “Yeah, we can just sit here,” Andrew says, taking the menu. “Thanks.”

  “Great!” the waitress says. “You guys drinking?”

  “Not tonight.” Danielle smiles sweetly. “Just water.”

  They order some food, and then when the waitress is gone, Danielle takes a long swig from the water bottle and hands it over to Andrew. He clinks it against her knuckles in a cheers before he drinks, and she smiles. I feel an uncomfortable swoop in my stomach and set down my glass, worried I’m going to drink too much before the food comes.

  There’s a quick buzzing in my purse, and I pull out my phone to see a text from Danielle.

  James Dean on a real date? Nice job. Didn’t think you had it in you

  I look up to see her reaching across the checkered tablecloth toward Andrew. A few unruly strands of honey-blond hair have fallen forward over his brow, and she lightly brushes them back into place. I have a quick flash of running my hands through that same hair last night, and flush with heat. Danielle whispers something close to him, and he laughs.

  It feels like she’s flirting with him just to torture me, just to throw everything in my face. But she doesn’t know anything about what happened. She doesn’t know about the Plan. I’m the one being ridiculous. I’m sitting across the booth from James Dean; I shouldn’t care about hands in Andrew’s hair—hers or mine.

  I narrow my eyes and send her a text back.

  Yup, definitely have it in me

  Then I text Andrew.

  What are you doing?? You don’t even like her

  “So, is this the first time you guys have ever been on a double date together?” Danielle asks, motioning to Andrew and me. “Actually, forget that. I don’t want to know about this guy’s dating history.” She slaps him playfully on the arm. “Sophie’s already told me too much.”

  “You couldn’t handle it,” he says to her.

  “Whatever, Reed. I can handle anything.”

  “Is that a challenge?” he asks.

  “You’ll just have to find out.”

  I don’t even know what they’re talking about anymore. Their flirting feels so dumb and scripted. Party Andrew is out in full force. I bring my wineglass up to my lips and try to take a sip but realize it’s empty.

  ANDREW

  Why do you think I don’t like her?

  ME

  She’s a hand grenade, remember?

  ANDREW

  That’s what makes it exciting

  “Keely, do you want some of my water?” Danielle asks, holding the wine in my direction. I grab it from her gratefully, taking a long swig. It burns the back of my throat.

  “So, what’s the deal with you two?” Dean asks, motioning a toned arm at Danielle and Andrew.

  “Well, I mean, there’s always sort of been a thing,” Danielle says, reaching up to play with her necklace.

  “Always?” I ask, because it’s definitely not true.

  “Remember when you gave me that stupid valentine in sixth grade?” Danielle asks, ignoring my question. She leans forward, eyes sparkling.

  “Um.” Andrew pauses, fiddling with the fork sitting on the folded napkin in front of him. There’s an annoying tap tap tap sound as it hits the table. His cheeks are tinged pink. “I try not to remember that.”

  “It had one of those weird fighting turtles on it,” she says.

  “Ninja Turtles,” Andrew corrects.

  I think about the hours we spent on
the couch in his basement watching reruns of the Ninja Turtles on TV; how we used cardboard paper towel rolls as weapons and ran around the room sparring with each other. I don’t know how sixth-grade Andrew could have ever thought sending a Ninja Turtle–themed valentine to Danielle would be a good idea.

  “Whatever,” she says. “It said: ‘I love you more than pizza.’”

  “I can’t believe you remember that,” Andrew says, running a hand over the back of his neck. He looks a little sweaty, like he’s just come down with a fever.

  “Hard to forget something that embarrassing,” she says. “You were such a nerd.”

  Why didn’t he ask me for advice back then? It seems like something he would have checked in with me about. I could have told him the valentine was a terrible idea; that he should have given her something with glitter. I’m surprised he managed to keep this secret for so many years. What else don’t I know about?

  The waitress comes by with a basket of breadsticks, some butter, and dipping sauce, and puts it down on the table in front of us, leaving with a smile in Dean’s direction. I grab one and rip into it, spraying crumbs over the tabletop.

  “Anyway, you’ve liked me for years,” Danielle says, cocking her head in Andrew’s direction.

  “Pretty confident of you,” Dean says, taking a sip of his wine.

  Danielle shrugs. “I’m a confident person.”

  “So I’ve gathered.” His mouth curls up on one side. She imitates his expression, quirking her mouth into a matching smirk, hers artificial lipstick red. It strikes me suddenly how similar they are. It seems backward that I’m the one with Dean instead of her. But then it hits me—haven’t I been imitating her this whole time? He’s with Danielle and he doesn’t even know it.

  “I just don’t know why it took you so many years to make a move,” she says to Andrew.

  “It wasn’t that many years.” He reaches over for the water bottle and takes a sip. I feel his leg brush against mine again under the table, and I move mine quickly away. It’s getting exhausting trying not to touch him.