The listening booth feels more claustrophobic the more I think about Zach.
I leave the booth and put the album back in its proper location. Terry Fredericks, the owner of Black and Read, is very particular about organizing records correctly, in case of a music emergency, he reasons. In a moment of helplessness, no one wants to dig for relief in a messy record bin. But the records are the only thing organized about Terry.
The store’s front door chimes as a new customer enters, and I realize that I’m due at Sam’s house. He and Ellis should be done shopping by now, and there’s no bailing on tonight. Not after I already disappointed Ellis. She’s become more sentimental now that we’re seniors, declaring some events “mandatory” under the pretense that next year “we all scatter to the wind” and “we’ll never get to do this again.” Ellis and Sam may scatter, but I’m not going anywhere.
I turn to go. I stop short at the sight of Jamison.
Neither of us moves.
“The books are in the back,” I say finally. Vinyl isn’t Jamison’s thing. Books are, and always have been. He doesn’t go anywhere without one. Right now, I know he has at least one in his backpack or tucked into the back pocket of his jeans—jeans that fit perfectly, I realize. Since he was little, he’s been a good dresser. Nothing flashy or over the top, but clean. Classic. Jeans and sneakers. Even his T-shirts look ironed. You won’t find a stain on anything he owns. Jamison takes care of his appearance. Whereas I’m presently dusted in flour and wearing an old pair of ratty overalls. My hair is pulled into a messy bun, held back by a purple bandana. I look sloppy and disheveled next to Jamison.
“I thought you were shopping with Ellis today,” he says.
“Change of plans. I decided to work an extra shift instead. Marnie needed the help. And actually, I’m running late.”
“Where to now?”
“My friend Sam’s house.” I move toward the door.
But Jamison stops me. “Sam? Does Mack know about Sam?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, Zach knows Sam.”
“Are you avoiding me?”
“No.”
“Really?” Jamison asks.
“Really.” It’s a lie, and by the disappointed look he gives me, I’m pretty sure Jamison knows it.
Terry walks out of the back of the store then. I step aside to put some space between me and Jamison. Terry eyes Jamison, and I wonder if Terry can feel the tension between us.
“Welcome to Black and Read,” Terry says to Jamison. “Can I help you find something?” He walks up behind me, almost protectively, which is a joke considering Terry has lived on cereal and weed for the past forty years. He’s skinnier than me.
Jamison gives me this expression that seems to say, Are you going to tell him, or should I? But tell him what? That we’re friends? That Jamison’s living next door? That I spent a month of every summer throughout my childhood at Jamison’s house in Kansas City? That when we left, I’d cry nearly the whole way home?
“You visiting for the weekend?” Terry says, still acting overly protective. “I hate to break it to you, but I probably don’t have what you’re looking for. I don’t carry any of that rap music or whatever it is kids listen to nowadays.”
Jamison nods. “Right. I must be looking for rap music.”
I should introduce Jamison and correct Terry. Tell him that while Jamison might listen to rap, like we all do, he’s here for the books. He’s a bona fide book nerd. He might become Terry’s best customer.
“Have fun at Sam’s house, Amoris,” Jamison says, but as he turns to leave, Terry stops him.
“Whatcha got there in your backpack?” he asks.
“A book and a laptop,” Jamison says. As I suspected.
“Can I see your book?”
Jamison pulls it out and shows Terry the cover. I don’t recognize it, but that’s not saying much. I’ve never been a big reader. “Have you read Colson Whitehead?” Jamison asks.
“Can’t say I have,” Terry says.
The exchange feels tense, awkward. Jamison shoves the book back into his pack. “I’ll be going now. See you later, Amoris.”
He exits, the bell ringing in his wake.
“You know him?” Terry asks, more relaxed.
“I used to.”
4
THE PRETTY LIES
Ellis’s clothing bags are strewn around Sam’s bedroom. She is nothing if not goal oriented. There isn’t an AP class she can’t ace or a wardrobe she can’t overhaul, and by the looks of it, she has bought herself a closet’s worth of new clothes.
Tucker lies on Sam’s bed, tossing a tennis ball at the ceiling rhythmically. Thud. Pause. Thud. Pause. Thud. The bedroom smells like a mix of Aspercreme and lavender, not a pleasant combination. I open one of Sam’s windows to let in the cool night air.
We’re being subjected to Ellis’s personal fashion show, all the new items she’s purchased today. She’s currently in the closet, changing. Not because she is modest, but because she likes a dramatic entrance.
Sam is nestled in a chair in the corner of his room, observing one moment, drawing the next. Sam likes to say he has busy hands. He’s the kid in elementary school who drew all over his folders and scribbled on papers and doodled in his notebook, who couldn’t sit still for the life of him, who was constantly behind on the task at hand, who missed homework assignments and often seemed lost in another world. Sam was pegged as a failure and troublemaker in elementary school. Then he was diagnosed with ADHD and put on meds. “It’s a classic cautionary tale of the dangers of labeling,” he said once, explaining why he rejects labels now. “There’s always more to the story.”
“Tucker, look at me,” Sam says now.
The repetitive sound of the tennis ball stops, and Tucker turns his face toward Sam. “What?”
“Just checking.” Sam smiles and goes back to drawing. They’re opposites in so many ways—Tucker has strawberry-blond hair, blue-green eyes, and a stocky, athletic build. He looks like he comes from a long line of ranchers—Carhartts and all—which he does. But Sam is lean. He can pull off skinny jeans better than I can. And his looks favor his Chinese mom over his White American dad. She’s petite with straight black hair, just like Sam. And they both have softness in their nature. You just want to be around Sam. He’s one of the most comforting people I know. Almost as much as Rayne.
“You’re so weird,” Tucker says.
“And proud of it. We’re all weird.” Sam scribbles, smiling at Tucker over the top of his sketchbook. “And may I remind you that you like this weirdo.”
“Maybe I do . . .” Tucker admits, before throwing the tennis ball at the ceiling again.
They met on Instagram. Tucker lives in Eaton Falls, a small ranching town about twenty miles from Alder Creek, though the two places couldn’t be more different. Unlike Alder Creek, Eaton Falls isn’t so friendly to kids who are out. Tucker only ever comes here to be with Sam, but Sam has never been to Tucker’s house. Which is to say, Tucker isn’t out. He’s so far from out, he’s in, hanging with the popular crowd at his school, playing sports, commenting on hot girls, and hitting on cheerleaders. It’s like a bad episode of Friday Night Lights, which happens to be Tucker’s favorite show.
I asked Sam if it bothered him, knowing that Tucker lives a completely different life in Eaton Falls. But he said no. That barely anyone shows outwardly who they are on the inside. That high school is survival of the best façade, and he would rather have Tucker alive than have him come out and lose him forever.
Ellis dramatically emerges from the closet, startling us.
“At least one of us is coming out of the closet tonight,” Sam says.
“Ha. Ha,” Tucker mocks. “Very funny.”
“Give me your honest opinion,” Ellis says, twirling, demonstrating just how built for high school and its clichés she really is. Football games, pep rallies, Senior Skip Day, prom—Ellis eats it up. They’re all events where she can be on display.
“Honestly?” Tucker says, perking up on the bed. “I hate it when you call me a hick.”
“Honestly?” Ellis counters. “Then stop acting and dressing like one, hick.”
“You do own multiple pairs of cowboy boots,” Sam says.
“That’s because I work with cows. My family owns a ranch, for fuck’s sake.” Tucker resumes throwing the ball at the ceiling. Sam intercepts a toss, crawling onto the bed with him.
“I’m not complaining,” Sam says. “The look is very Tim Riggins.”
“Don’t butter me up with Friday Night Lights,” Tucker says. “You know that show is my weakness.”
“We can watch it tonight if you want,” Sam says, nuzzling into Tucker.
Ellis examines her butt in Sam’s mirror. Her long dark-brown hair reaches down her back. She has her mom’s curves and her dad’s height, a lethal combination. When she’s satisfied with the view, Ellis plops down onto the floor next to me, a devious expression on her face.
“What?” I ask.
“I know how you’re going to pay me back for today.”
“How?”
“I’m throwing you a party,” she says. “A back-to-school party. My house. Next weekend. Matt’s going out of town to some bullshit woo-woo silent retreat in Joshua Tree, so I have the house all to myself. Invite anyone you want.” Ellis takes lavender oil from her pocket. She inhales deeply and dabs some on her wrists.
“Your dad’s leaving again?” I ask.
“Whatever. Fuck him. We can use this to our advantage. I haven’t thrown a party all summer. It’s perfect.”
“Can I come?” Tucker chimes in.
“Only if you leave the bro-tanks at home and actually wear a shirt with sleeves,” Ellis says.
“I can’t help it if my biceps need to breathe,” Tucker says, flexing his muscles.
“Personally, I prefer your biceps exposed,” Sam says, grabbing Tucker’s arms and gently squeezing.
“Personally, I prefer not seeing your gross, deodorant-flecked armpit hair all the time,” Ellis says. “If modern beauty demands that women make themselves practically hairless, why not men, too?”
“Elle, you know this country doesn’t like women making their own rules about their own bodies,” Sam says. “If we give you control of your bodies, what’s next?”
“God, men are such cowards,” she says.
“Powerful cowards,” Tucker adds. The men telling women to be hairless are the same men telling Tucker not to be gay.
“This conversation is utterly depressing,” Ellis says. She turns to me. “Back to happier topics. It’s our senior year. This might be the last party I ever throw.”
“Not likely,” Sam says.
“OK, that’s probably true,” Ellis amends. “So, are you in?”
“There’s more to this party,” I say. “Spill it, Elle.”
“Remember, Amoris. We made a deal.”
“What is it?” I ask, more emphatically.
“You have to agree to kiss someone by the end of the night. That’s your payment for missing today.”
“I have a boyfriend!”
“Whatever,” Ellis states. “A boyfriend at college. That so doesn’t count.”
“I’m pretty sure Zach would see it as counting.”
“Look, I’m doing this for you. I don’t want you wasting your senior year pining over some guy who’s probably banging half of Columbia University. College guys never stay faithful to their high school girlfriends.”
“I’m not pining,” I say.
“You know what I mean. I can see it in your face.” Ellis points at me. “It’s been too long since you’ve been single. You need to be reminded of how good it feels. How much fun it is. You need to make out with new lips. Boy, girl, I don’t care. You have years to be locked in a boring marriage with one penis for the rest of your life. But not this year.”
“I’m not single, Elle. Zach and I are still together.”
“Stop acting like I’m asking you to go to the gynecologist,” she says. “This isn’t stirrups and speculums. It’s a party.”
“Some days I’m so glad I’m a man,” Tucker says.
“Men would never survive the gynecologist,” Sam adds. “We’re too weak.”
“Let’s face it,” Ellis says, staring directly at me. “How together can you really be if Zach’s all the way on the East Coast, and you’re here?”
It’s a good question. I thought I knew the answer, until last night. Spatially, Ellis is right. Zach and I are not together. We’re farther apart than we’ve ever been. I thought the distance would be no big deal, but I wasn’t expecting Jamison, who was far away, to move in next door. Jamison’s proximity makes Zach’s distance feel like an untraversable abyss.
“It’s just an innocent kiss,” Ellis says. “It won’t mean anything. You don’t even need to tell Zach. It’s only cheating when it actually means something.”
“Is that true?” Sam asks.
“I’ve kissed a lot of girls in the name of survival,” Tucker says.
“Have you kissed any girls lately?” Sam asks, a slight panic to his voice.
“No,” Tucker says.
Sam relaxes, and no one presses the topic further. Ellis takes her new clothes off and changes into pajamas. We turn on Friday Night Lights and all cram into Sam’s bed to watch. But I don’t pay attention. I’m fixated on the question: Is any kiss ever innocent?
From my experience, the answer is no. There are always repercussions, even when we think no one is looking. This I know for a fact.
Sam and Tucker are asleep in the bed, Tucker curled around Sam like a spoon. Ling and Pat, Sam’s parents, are OK with Tucker sleeping over as long as Ellis and I are here, too. We’re on a blow-up mattress tonight. I stare at the ceiling, wide awake and yet exhausted.
I can’t stop replaying my encounter with Jamison this afternoon. It was awful and awkward. I can’t believe this is the state of our relationship. How can he feel like barely an acquaintance, when I know that he’s had poison ivy? That he has a scar on his knee from a bad rug burn? That he fell off his bike and broke a toe? That his house smells like fresh air, chlorine, and flowers in the summer? Kaydene used to hang our bathing suits out to dry on the back porch, letting the hot and humid Midwestern sunshine do its work. Our month-long visits, planned by Rayne, were meant to be spent having quality time with my grandparents, who live next door to the Rushes. But they turned into sleepovers and campouts and long days at the local pool with Jamison. Every night I had to spend at my grandparents’ was torture. Rayne eventually gave up and just let me stay next door most nights. My grandparents would rather play golf than play with me and River anyway. The month at their house was more symbolic of family ties than any actual bonding. Chris said it was better than listening to Grandma Westmore complain about never seeing us, though he always seemed to have an art show pop up during that month, calling him off on an adventure and leaving us to weather his parents without him. Not that it mattered to me. I had Jamison.
We would sit on the couch after an afternoon at the pool, Jamison’s nose in a book and me pestering him to stop reading, my blond hair a mass of frizz. I constantly annoyed him at the good parts, pestering him about sleeping outside or roasting marshmallows. But I could tell when he wasn’t listening. One time, I grabbed his book—Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—and complained that reading was boring.
“It’s not boring.” He tried to take it back.
“Well, I hate this stupid book.” I tossed it across the room carelessly. Looking back and knowing how much he loved that series, I’m appalled at my actions. Jamison would never do that to one of my records. But he calmly collected it from the floor.
“You haven’t even read it,” he said.
“So? I’ve heard about it and it sounds dumb.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you try reading it?” He handed me the book.
“No.”
/> “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t read it, OK? I’m a terrible reader.”
“No, you’re not,” he said.
“Yes, I am. I’m stupid.”
“Who told you that?”
“My teacher.”
“Really?”
“No . . .” I admitted. “But I can just tell.”
“Well, both of my parents are teachers, and they don’t think you’re stupid,” he said. “In fact, they don’t think anyone’s stupid. They just say you need to try, do your best, and work really hard for what you want.”
All I wanted was to be around Jamison.
“Maybe you could read it to me,” I said. And without hesitation Jamison turned to the first page and started reading.
At one point, he stopped. “You know what else my parents told me?”
“What?” I asked.
“That some teachers are going to believe in you, and some are only going to believe in what they see, so you can’t always trust their judgment. I’m telling you, Amoris, you’re not stupid.”
I believed him, because back then there was no one I trusted more than Jamison. “Do you like reading more than you like me?”
And Jamison said, “I don’t like anything more than I like you.”
“OK, continue, please.”
And he did.
Of all my summer memories from Jamison’s house, my favorites are from when we were squished next to each other on his couch, him reading aloud to me. Space didn’t matter back then. We could get as close as we wanted. But now . . .
Ellis shifts in bed, pulling me from the memory. “Amoris? Are you awake?”
“Yeah.”
Ellis rolls onto her side. “You OK?”
I know the moment I lost faith in what Jamison and I had. The moment I stopped believing in us, and how he felt about me. It all withered away when I saw Jamison’s lips on hers. The memory of my two best friends kissing still hurts, like a burn that stings long after the skin begins to heal. Neither of them knows I saw. And neither of them ever confessed it. I don’t know what hurts more—the kiss, or the secret they still share.
Only the Pretty Lies Page 4
