by M. F. Lorson
“You would be correct.”
“You’re very predictable, Lane Crawford.”
“Or,” I replied taking a sip of my coffee. “Are you naturally very intuitive when it comes to matters of the heart?”
“The first one,” laughed Andie.
“The thing is,” I said, scanning the room to make sure no one I didn’t want hearing my next words was around. “I may have done a stupid thing, and I need your advice.”
“Go on.”
“Mackey kinda sorta tried to kiss me.” I said, drumming my fingertips on the table in front of me.
“Tried?”
“Like he leaned in, I leaned in, birds chirped, hearts palpitated and then-”
“Then???”
“I leaned back. Birds died all around us.”
Andie laughed so hard she snorted. “Surely it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was!” I cried, “And now he isn’t talking to me.”
Andie sighed, “Why didn’t you kiss him back?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
She raised one eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. I chickened out. Because it would have been the first time.”
“First time what? Oh! Oh!” cried Andie.
“Keep it down,” I whispered, mortified that everyone in Perky’s knew what we were talking about.
“Sorry,” she whispered back, “Seriously though, never?”
“Never. You’ve seen how mono spreads around here. I can’t just go kissing every boy I see!”
Andie shook her head in bewilderment. “Does Mackey know?”
“Of course not. Who tells someone they like that?”
Andie rolled her eyes, “Lane you kinda don’t tell anyone anything.”
“About that,” I answered “Maybe you could tell him. Like last time. Just throw it out there next time he comes over to practice with Ryan.”
Andie shook her head, “Sorry. No can do. This is different. You’ve got to handle this one on your own.”
“I had a bad feeling you were going to say that,” I pouted. “I just don’t exactly know how to tell him, or what to tell him for that matter.”
“That’s the hard part,” answered Andie.
“I always thought it would be Elliot. At the Holiday party. It's easy to picture right? Years of pent up frustration and tension all poured into one magical kiss. You know, Hallmark style.”
Andie spoke in a soothing tone, “That’s just the thing Lane. You want to plan these things but you can’t. The kiss will be magical whether you have mistletoe and holiday music or not. The person is what makes it. Not the circumstance.”
I knew all of that of course, but it didn’t make it any easier. With a plan, I didn’t have to worry I’d do it wrong. With a plan, I didn’t run the risk of flipping out and ruining everything.
Andie took a deep breath, closing her eyes, “There is something I need to talk to you about too.” Judging by the worried look on her face I wasn’t going to like what came out next.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about finding my story. I don’t want to write about what schools the seniors should consider or which teachers failed math in high school.” That last one had to have been a Veronica suggestion.
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I want to write about something that matters to the students at Rosemark. And to do a good job, it needs to be something I know about. Something I can speak to.” I didn’t like where this was going.
Andie’s eyes darted up to my face. “I want to write an article about Jillie. It’s been almost a year now.”
That wall we’d broken through to become friends, shot back up again.
“You want to write about what?” I asked. The hot coffee I’d just swallowed felt like it had turned to sawdust in my throat. This was that critical thing Elliot needed my help with? All that babble about how much progress Andie was making with me as a mentor was about this? I felt like one of the cows in that Temple Grandin documentary. Here I was calmly plodding along, completely unaware I’d been taking the long ramp to the slaughterhouse.
“I know it sounds bad, but it’s something people want to know about. Cancer is something people want to know about. If we don’t write it, they go on glamorizing her death. Elliot said she was kind of a loner, well, that you two were kind of loners actually, that people would get a chance to know her this way.” Andie spoke quietly, “And if we worked together…”
I couldn’t. Not for a second more. Helping Andie be a better journalist was one thing. Giving her this story was another. As far as I was concerned nobody had the right to write this story. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry. I know you want to step up your game and I one hundred percent mean it when I say that you are getting better, but this is too much. Besides, there is no way her parents would cooperate.”
Andie bit the corner of her bottom lip, looking at my ear as if it were totally reasonable to look someone in the ear instead of the eye. “Mrs. Jones said it would be fine that it might even help you. With some closure stuff?”
That was the final straw. “You talked to Mrs. Jones before you talked to me?”
“Elliot said...”
I shook my head in disgust. “I’m beginning to get really sick of what Elliot has to say.” I chugged the last of my drink, the coffee once sweet and inviting now tasted chalky, like choking down Pepto Bismol when you knew it was going to come right back up again. “You can write whatever you want. But don’t expect my help. Not on this one.”
I ignored that kicked puppy look on her face as I threw my bag over my shoulder and hustled out of the coffee shop.
I knew who to blame for this, and it wasn’t Andie. She didn’t know Jillie. She didn’t even live here at the same time as her. This story idea was the brainchild of Veronica with the blessing of Elliot and if they thought they were going to use me to write some overly emotional memorial with Andie’s name on the byline they had officially lost it. I was done helping Elliot Lambert clean up his messes. He could take his dreams of transforming The Gazette with my help and shove them where the sun don’t shine. I was focusing on me from now on.
Chapter Eighteen
I couldn’t email Jillie anymore. Not after what her Mom had told Andie. The thing was, I wasn’t writing to her mother. I wasn’t writing to anyone. It had always just been a way to hold on. Was it so wrong to want to pretend she was in college like the rest of last year’s seniors? I didn’t see how it hurt anyone that I pictured her on the beach in Hawaii instead of buried in Palmer’s Cemetery.
Last period, Friday afternoon, ruined all of that. The second the Rosemark Gazette was distributed the looks I had been avoiding since last spring began again. Andie’s article was a big fat your-best-friend-is-still-dead slap in the face. The fact that it was written by someone I thought was becoming my new friend made it feel twice as bad. Those seven hundred words sure packed a punch in more than one way. Not only was it an emotional blow, my tournament article was all but obliterated in its wake. Nobody cared what the starting five were doing when the great Jillie Wolverton story was finally out there for the whole school to salivate over.
Just reading the byline made me want to puke. Andie Mercantile and Elliot Lambert. Wasn’t it sweet of him to co-author that article after nearly three months of contributing nothing interesting to the Gazette?
I had thought a lot since my meeting with Andie, and the conclusion I had come to was that my long-standing crush on Elliot Lambert was over. He knew what Jillie meant to me, and he cared more about helping a pretty new girl get her fifteen seconds of fame than he did me. I had spent all year planning the perfect kiss with what I thought was the ideal boy, only to pass up on the real deal for someone so incredibly unworthy.
When the night of the newspaper holiday party finally arrived the only thing my lips felt like doing was telling Elliot to keep his hands to himself. I was tired of his knee pats and hair murmurs. Those things were for peop
le who mattered, a category he no longer belonged in. Six months ago I had purchased the perfect outfit for this evening. Now, as I got ready in my bedroom, the sparkly gold skirt and crimson sweater had about as much appeal as liver with a side of rat poison.
I put it on anyway. Instead of wearing it to make Elliot fall in love with me, I would wear it to make him lament all the times he didn’t fall in love with me. Earlier in the week when I filled Mom in, she had strongly suggested I skip the party in favor of a Bachelor marathon. I knew she did not want me to go, but I was lucky to have the kind of Mom who let me make my own decisions good or bad.
This year’s party was at Veronica’s house. Usually, Bianca hosted, but she was still under quarantine. Veronica O’Rourke lived on Mountain Creek Drive.
“Right next to Peter,” said Mom staring at the address on my invitation. “I can drop you off if you like. It’s a cold night for scooting.” I appreciated the offer but hitching a ride from Mom meant having to call her for a ride home as well. Considering my plans for giving Elliot a piece of my mind, standing around waiting for Mom to pick me up afterward was not an option. I couldn’t exactly be like, ‘hey you’re the worst’ and then stand around making small talk over the chip bowl for twenty minutes.
“Some things you gotta do without a maternal escort,” I said, strapping my helmet under my chin. “Good to know you know where Mr. Hunt lives though,” I said with a wink.
“I have no idea what you are implying,” she said with a phoney wide eyed innocence.
“Uh huh,” I said, popping a kiss on her cheek. “You just happen to have all of the residents of Mountain Creek Drive memorized. Totally normal. Not weird at all.”
“Totally,” said Mom, shoving me out the door.
The cold night air cut through my tights as I scooted from my place to Veronica’s. I had no idea how Sammi and Linzie cheered on the sidelines of all those football games wearing nothing but pleated skirts and sleeveless shells. In hindsight, I was glad Andie had shot down my anti cheerleading article. Those girls were there own brand of tough. It wasn’t just the starting five that attended every game. The cheerleaders had seen, celebrated and mourned all the same victories and losses. I should have included them in my season coverage, but it was too late now.
There were only twelve of us on staff yet when I pulled up to Veronica’s address I had to circle the block to find a parking spot. Apparently, the staff party was an excuse to throw a party period. Inside the front door piles of shoes lined the wall. I untied my black suede ankle boots and added them to the mix.
Finding Elliot among the hoards was going to be a lot harder than I had thought. This was like a party-party, like an as seen on TV party. I’d never been to anything like this before, and I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was supposed to do now that I was here. Last year’s Holiday party had been sparkling cider and white elephant gifts. This year there were people crammed in every nook and cranny of the house. I spotted Andie in the corner of the room getting chatty with a guy I recognized from English. She waved at me across the crowd, but I wasn’t ready to make peace. Not just yet. She wasn’t public enemy number one or anything–that spot was reserved for Elliot, but I hadn’t forgiven her for writing that article. Of all of the topics she could have chosen to be passionate about writing, my dead best friend seemed like it should have been further down the list. She could save the my Dad had cancer too sob story for someone else. I wasn’t feeling particularly compassionate tonight.
In the living room, in the most bookishly instagrammable spot in the entire room, stood Elliot Lambert. If it weren’t for all the terrible things, he had done to break my heart this week, seeing him there would have been absolute heaven. He wore his favorite tan corduroy sports jacket — the one with the deep brown suede elbow patches. I knew the coat well. It was the one he wore for everything important. I used to think it made him look smarter than the rest of the guys our age. Tonight it just looked like he was trying too hard. Tucked under his arm was a well worn paperback copy of 100 Years of Solitude. It had probably come off the bookshelf behind him, but I wouldn’t put it past him to carry the thing around just to start conversations. He caught me staring from across the room and his lips quirked up into a smile.
He gave a come hither look that made me want to gag but instead, I slowly made my way in his direction. Veronica watched us from her spot in the kitchen. How was it that she always knew when something gossip-worthy was about to happen?
“You look amazing,” said Elliot, taking in my fancy skirt and deliberately smudged eyeliner. “I’m not sure I’ve seen you wear makeup before. But it changes you. In a good way.” he added, as if telling me makeup made me look better were a compliment.
With only a few feet between us, all of the little details I had never noticed before shifted into focus. The long yellow pencil behind his ear had bite marks all up and down the word Ticonderoga. The patches on his jacket were scuffed from wear, and when you were close, really close like I was right then, you could smell the thrift store emanating from the material. I didn’t like thrift stores — not one bit. I’d never told him that before. He thought it was cool to wear recycled clothes, clothes with real history and character he said. I should have told him. I should have said, you smell like mothballs and not in a good way.
“Thanks,” I replied, wary of his compliment. “I read your story.”
“My story?” asked Elliot, his features not moving even an inch. How had I never noticed how totally machine-like he could be? Come hither eyes, activated. Neutral expression, activated.
“Yeah, your Jillie memorial.”
“Oh,” said Elliot, reaching his free hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t really call it my story.”
“I see,” I said. “Andie must have come up with the idea on her own then. Writing about a girl she never met. A girl who died almost a year before she moved to Marlowe Junction?”
“Veronica and I suggested she write it,” said Elliot.
“I’ll bet you did,” I shot. “And your name just slipped into the byline?”
“I served an advisory role,” said Elliot, taking on a defensive tone. “That is part of being the editor. I’m sure you understand.”
“So that’s why you were lurking her Instagram a few weeks ago. You were just doing your due diligence as an advisor.” I put a balled fist on my hip, my mouth set in a straight line I knew wasn’t flattering. But my days of trying to impress Elliot were long gone.
“I wouldn’t call it lurking.”
“I would,” I said my hands clenching at my sides. “You weren’t friends.”
Elliot let out a deep condescending breath, cocking his head to the side in an attempt to convey sympathy. “I know this is hard for you,” he said, inching closer “but it was best for the paper.”
I laughed. “You haven’t made one decision all year that was best for the paper. You’ve got your best writer covering a subject she knows nothing about, and your newbie writing the important stuff. This party is a colossal example of your failure to run the paper. It’s supposed to be a staff party, but I don’t know half these people.”
Elliot shrugged. “Lighten up, Lane. It’s a party.”
“It’s supposed to be the Gazette party,” I barked. Taking in the staring eyes around us, I suddenly realized how loud I’d been talking. I dropped my hand from my hip and lowered my voice. “It’s supposed to be a tradition. Instead, it’s an excuse for a bunch of people who may or may not have even read the paper to pair off before winter break .”
Elliot held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, this is Veronica’s gig. If you have a problem with the party take it up with her.”
“Take it up with her? Just like you took it up with Andie when you decided to kill her story?” I asked.
Elliot’s expression hardened, and his grip on 100 Years of Solitude tightened. I guess he finally got the hint that I had no intention of letting up.
“If you didn’
t want to tell her you could have told me no. It’s not like I forced you to cover sports or help Andie.”
“You’re right,” I answered, pausing to calm my rising temper. “You didn’t force me to do anything. You just took advantage of the way I felt.”
“The way you felt?” asked Elliot, tilting his head sideways like a sad shelter animal.
“You can drop the surprised act,” I said, blinking back years of rage I refused to let fall in front of him. “I know you know I like you. Liked you,” I said, adding the past tense. “You knew that would make it hard for me to say no. Especially after all the extra stuff you pulled.”
“Extra stuff?” asked Elliot, still playing dumb.
I let out a slow breath, in a feeble attempt to calm my racing heart. Of course, he couldn’t just admit that he had been using me all term. If he needed me to spell it out for him in painful detail than so be it. I had nothing to lose at this point. I didn’t want his friendship, and I certainly didn’t want more.
“Every time you caressed my hair, or put your palm on the small of my back,” I said. “I thought it meant something because it meant something to me.” I had intended to sound firm, angry even, the way I really felt but I could hear my voice cracking as I finished.
“Lane,” said Elliot, his forehead creasing. “I was foolish not to see this sooner. I never meant to lead you on.” He reached both hands up to cup my face in his palms.
Never meant to lead me on, I thought.
He was leading me on right now. All those years of pent up affection boiled over inside of me. How was I supposed to stay angry when he was holding my face just inches from his? What if he was telling the truth? What if he really hadn’t known how I felt until...No, I knew this bit. He used physical touch to break me. I wasn’t going to let him do that anymore. The whole point of tonight was not to let him do that.
I pushed myself away from him, breaking his soft hold on my face. “I don’t want you to touch me anymore.”
Elliot looked stricken, but I knew better. “I thought you wanted…”
