What I Like About You

by Marisa Kanter

  How does he do this?

  I’m sitting at the bar with Sawyer, far enough away from the music that we can speak without screaming over each other. Sawyer is the easiest to talk to of everyone in Le Crew because we can go into cupcake mode. I pour myself a glass of water and fill a paper plate with veggies. Individually dip each stick into the ranch dressing because that takes time. One, two, three, celery sticks. Four, five, six, baby carrots.

  “You know, we thought you wouldn’t show,” Sawyer says.

  I swallow celery and my face starts to burn. “Oh. Sorry to disappoint.”

  He looks confused. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Hey, Halle.” Autumn appears on my other side with a plate of apple wedges and honey. She’s traded her black skinny jeans and graphic tee for a black and purple striped skater dress matched with bedazzled combat boots.

  “Hi,” I manage.

  “Nice win, Sawyer,” Autumn says, mid-chew. “Molly and Sawyer made a bet on whether or not you’d show.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Yup,” Sawyer says. “And I just won twenty bucks and a Kung Fu Panda marathon.”

  “Molly hates Kung Fu Panda,” Autumn says.

  “Oh,” I say, because what do you say when every anxious thought you’ve had around Le Crew is validated? Also, I have zero Kung Fu Panda opinions.

  Across the room, Molly turns on the giant flat-screen TV. She’s in a blue floral-print dress, her hair curled in soft waves and bangs swept to the side. She puts the controller down and smiles, waving over to Autumn and Sawyer.

  “Hey, Halle!”

  And me, I guess. I’m somehow included in the group Molly is waving to?

  We move through the crowds, toward the actual media side of the media room. Molly uncoils microphones, while Sawyer plugs his phone into the speakers and queues up a playlist. Molly tosses a mic to Nash, who is now sitting at the end of the navy-blue sectional, feet up. I swallow. Every time I look at Nash, even for a second, it feels like too long, so I take a seat on the ottoman in front of the couch with my back to him. Great plan. Yes.

  Until he taps my shoulder.

  I twist slowly to face him. Music is blasting in my ears and it’s loud, so loud. Nash leans forward in his seat so I can hear him, his forearms resting on his knees. He’s so close and I’m grateful for the music because without it, Nash would hear my hammering heart. I’m sure of it.

  “Hey,” he says over the music. “I need food before the singing commences and all the good drinks are upstairs. Do you want anything?”

  I consider saying no thanks, but a drink would be great and I’m afraid if I go upstairs, I’ll never come back down.

  “Ginger ale, please?” I ask.

  Nash stands and his eyebrows raise, surprised. He smiles, almost to himself, as though this is progress. He’ll definitely message Kels about this. “One ginger ale, coming right up.”

  Nash leaves and I move into his corner spot on the now-empty couch, claiming my space, and I can finally scroll through my phone in relative peace. There is even more Alanna LaForest drama in my Twitter feed and I’ve definitely missed something in the last half hour. I click one of the dozens of articles that have taken over my timeline.

  Eva Louise @EvaReports 23min

  FIREFLIES & YOU author @AlannaLaForest slams creative team behind the film adaption. Says it’s “not just a teen movie.” Full story here: https://bit.ly/2KZOzpw

  [550 comments] [1.1k ] [4k ]

  |

  Elle Carter @ellewriteswords 17min

  but you’ll profit off teens like @OneTruePastry’s free labor lol ok @AlannaLaForest

  [979 comments] [10k ] [25k ]

  I click the link and put my hand over my mouth to stifle the groan that escapes. Seriously, Alanna? You are not making this easy. There are too many messages in my group chat with my friends to scroll through, and if I start responding I won’t be able to step away, so I’ll catch up later. First the EW article, now this? Now you’re going to target your own movie? Do I not have to sign a boycott, since she seems to be boycotting it herself? And would that now make it somehow okay to see the movie? I’m not sure.

  All I know is my mentions are worse than ever.

  Breathe.

  “I didn’t peg you as a Fireflies and You fan, Upstate.”

  I drop my phone facedown on my lap, flipping the switch from vibrate to silent. Nash hands me my ginger ale and laughs, taking a seat next to me. There isn’t even a cushion of space between us.

  I need to be way more careful with my phone in public. Thank God it was another EW article and not the OTP Twitter feed.

  “Fan is a strong word right now,” I say, taking a sip of my soda.

  “I know,” he says. “It’s hard to admit fandom when the creator turns out to be trash. Miriam would be so pissed.”

  I blink. “You knew my grandmother?”

  It’s shocking, hearing her name come out of Nash’s mouth so casually. Kels’s Nash is—was—on a first-name basis with Grams? I swallow the lump in my throat and fight the pressure that builds behind my eyes. How is it possible that she never told me this? Did the last name throw her off too or did she know the whole time? I’ll never get to ask her.

  Nash nods. “Yeah. She saw me reading during an oneg one time. I think I was, like, nine. The next week, she gave me an advance copy of the sequel. It was the best day ever.”

  Grams knew Nash. “What book?” I ask.

  “Ridley Myers Had a Bad Day.”

  I nod. “Grams loved working on those. Good choice.”

  I’m so desperate to have a normal conversation about Grams, to talk about her, I ignore the fact that talking about books with Nash is not a good idea. Still, I’m grateful when we’re cut off by Molly announcing that karaoke is finally set up. Le Crew surrounds us with plates of food and laughter and Autumn says scooch and plops down between Nash and me. I’m grateful there’s a person separating us and the subject is changing, but then my phone lights up against my thigh.

  Nash Stevens

  Omg the Alanna drama? Shit is going DOWN.

  8:17 PM

  I peek out of the corner of my eye to confirm he’s not paying attention before I answer.

  yeah. it’s SO bad

  8:18 PM

  i don’t know what to do

  8:18 PM

  You don’t have to do anything?

  8:19 PM

  everyone is waiting for me to say something. Like I’m just supposed to not love F&Y anymore. alanna is SO wrong and her takes are so bad that I want to stick up for my people, but i still think i want to see the movie. does that make me terrible?

  8:20 PM

  I don’t think you owe anyone an explanation. Plus, the people who are making the movie probably aren’t big fans of Alanna right now either.…

  8:22 PM

  It’s not their fault or yours that she’s isolating her audience in the name of some backwards idea of Literary Merit, or whatever.

  8:23 PM

  I frown at my phone, confused because this is so different from Nash’s reaction IRL. To Halle, Alanna is trash and it’s hard to admit fandom. To Kels, he says it’s okay to still love the book. Is it me, Halle, who gets the truth? Is he just telling Kels what he thinks she wants to hear?

  do you think so?

  8:24 PM

  huh, i actually kind of feel better about it all. thanks.

  8:25 PM

  I’ll see the movie with you.

  8:26 PM

  Well, not, like, WITH you. Obviously. But we could go opening night and debrief after?

  8:27 PM

  let’s do it

  8:28 PM

  We sit like this on Molly’s couch, together as Nash and Halle, but talking as Nash and Kels. And I can’t help but think it’s funny, the way you can be literally so close to someone, but somehow closer with words and social media accounts and pixels in between.

  Nash to Kels, at the party


  Also quick Halle update: There has been Progress! We had a conversation that didn’t end in awkward silence!

  8:45 PM

  And honestly, it’s all thanks to the F&Y mess?

  8:46 PM

  [typing]

  8:47 PM

  [bubbles disappear]

  8:48 PM

  NINE

  Karaoke is terrible.

  By terrible, I mean amazing. One dude, Adam, stages a dramatic reading of “Achy Breaky Heart.” Two girls named Louisa and Rebecca belt an off-key rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Turns out, being surrounded by so many strangers isn’t as anxiety-provoking once everyone starts singing off-key.

  I’m hanging by the air hockey table with Autumn and Nash, away from the main karaoke action. Molly appears in the space between us, her previously perfect curls loosened to soft waves in the humidity of the crowded basement.

  “It’s so great you’re here,” she says to me.

  “She knows about the bet,” Autumn says.

  “Autumn.” Molly’s eyebrows pinch with concern when she turns to face me. “I really thought you wouldn’t come. But that doesn’t mean I’m not glad you’re here.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, looking down.

  “No, but seriously,” Molly says. “You know we want you around, right? Sometimes I think you don’t know that.”

  When it comes to my anxious brain, it’s less about knowing and more about believing.

  “I’m not Le Crew,” I say.

  “You’re not,” Autumn says. “You could be, though.”

  It’s surprising, the words coming from Autumn. There have never been any one-on-one opportunities to get to know her—I don’t work with her and she’s not Jewish, so I pretty much only see her at school. She has no reason to assure me I could be a part of their friend group.

  So for the first time, I consider believing it.

  Before I can answer, I see Autumn has a contemplative look on her face and pulls out her memo pad. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her write down our exchange in dialogue.

  “Seriously?” Molly asks, looking at Autumn.

  “What? This is as organic as it gets,” Autumn says before taking a long sip of her soda and turning to me. “I need to write a scene. I’m not a writer—I’m a DP. I’m applying to film school, but most creative portfolios need a writing sample in addition to a short film. In other words, I’m screwed.”

  “DP?” Sawyer asks, appearing behind Molly and wrapping his arms around her.

  “Director of photography,” Autumn and I say at the same time.

  Autumn’s head snaps up, her eyes meeting mine. “Wait, you’re into film too?”

  That’s when I get my first real smile from Autumn Williams.

  I shake my head. Swallow. “My parents. They’re a directing team—”

  Autumn cuts me off. “Levitt—oh my God. Madeline and Ari Levitt? They’re your parents?”

  “Yeah, that’s them,” I say, kind of shocked she knows them by name.

  “Oh my God! I mean, I thought maybe, for, like, half a second. I almost asked, but that’s like asking if you’re related to Joseph Gordon-Levitt.”

  “To be clear—you’re not, are you?” Molly asks.

  I laugh. “I wish.”

  Molly sighs. “Damn.”

  “I loved Gentrify, U.S., like, so much,” Autumn continues, ignoring Molly’s disappointment re: JGL. “Your parents got screwed.”

  “They’ll appreciate that,” I say. “Do you want to go into doc?”

  “Maybe,” Autumn says. “I just know I need to be behind a camera, telling underrepresented stories. Whether that’s through narrative or documentary, I’m not sure yet.”

  “That’s what college is for,” I say.

  Autumn smiles at me. “Exactly—which is why my writing sample needs to be perfect. But my dialogue is trash, Halle. Trash.”

  “It’s true,” Nash says.

  Autumn flips Nash off. “And I don’t have Sophie to rewrite it for me anymore. She was brilliant.” She sighs. “So I’ve been writing down lines I think would make good dialogue. For inspiration.”

  “Let’s remember that you broke up with her,” Nash says.

  Autumn swivels in the bar stool to look at Nash. “Shut up.” Then she turns forward to face me. “Soph is a freshman at the Savannah College of Art and Design. We were never going to work long term.”

  “I can help. If you want.”

  Autumn lights up. “Really? That would be amaze. Did your parents let you on location?”

  I nod. “I kind of grew up on location.”

  Autumn hangs on my every word as I fill her in on what life is like as Mad and Ari Levitt’s daughter. I can feel Nash listening, but thankfully this part of my life is safe, solely Halle’s, so I try to focus on Autumn’s enthusiasm. Most teens don’t care about doc, so it’s super cool meeting someone who does. I almost forget what an important part of my identity it is until I start talking about it, and I kind of fall in love with it all over again.

  My chest pangs and I make a mental note to send a l’shanah tovah text to my parents tomorrow. I’ve been so wrapped up in the Nash-Gramps-Alanna drama, I’ve barely read Mom’s updates.

  “What about you?” Autumn asks.

  I blink. “Me?”

  “College?”

  “Oh.” I pause. “NYU is my top choice.”

  “Dude, same,” Nash says. “NYU is everything, but I’ll probably end up at Wesleyan or UConn or some other in-state school.”

  “Why?” I ask, even though Kels was just talking to Nash about his overbearing parents.

  Nash starts mouthing words to me but I can’t hear them over the opening notes of “Islands in the Stream,” coming from the karaoke machine. The chords leave me breathless. My necklace feels like a weight on my chest and I can’t breathe.

  I haven’t listened to this song since Grams died.

  “Sorry,” I say, standing up in the middle of Nash’s sentence.

  Ollie. I scan the room for his eyes, but he’s not here anymore.

  I can’t even imagine listening to two strangers sing it, so I bolt.

  I’m halfway up the stairs before I realize that Nash is following me.

  “Are you okay?” Nash asks. “Halle.”

  “I need air.”

  “Okay.”

  Nash laces his fingers through mine. The fingers that type the words and hit send on the thousands of messages he’s sent to me, Kels. It’s the first time he’s ever touched me, Halle, and it must be the panic overtaking me because I don’t think to flinch. Not even for a moment.

  I follow Nash up the stairs and out the back door and thank God hands can’t talk because if they could, my sweaty palm would be screaming the truth.

  * * *

  Nash sits with me on the swings until I catch my breath.

  I bend my knees and let the wind sway me back and forth. Breathe with the wind until my pulse steadies to a normal pace. Nash doesn’t say anything. He just swings in sync with me. He looks ridiculous, this tall body on a tiny swing. Every time he tries to straighten his knees and propel his body forward, his feet scuff against the mulch and the chips fly forward. Adjusting his strategy, Nash leans back in the swing to give his legs more space.

  Spoiler alert: They’re still too long.

  In the attempt, he almost falls backward out of the swing. He catches himself at the last second, but for a moment he looks scared. Like he’s going to fall a full fourteen inches to his death.

  I cannot stop laughing. I’m used to laughing at Nash via banter, but this kind of laughter? It’s totally new. He sits up and plants his feet on the ground, the swing still beneath him. I focus my eyes forward and keep swinging. This is the part where Nash asks what happened or are you okay or any other variation of an attempt to acknowledge that I heard a Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers duet and lost my shit.

  “We don’t have to talk about it,” Nash says.

 
This surprises me. It also kind of makes me want to talk about it.

  “It’s a stupid song,” I say. “Every Thanksgiving, Grams and Gramps would blast ‘Islands in the Stream’ and bust out in this epic drunk duet.”

  Nash laughs. “Really?”

  “Gramps only sings when tipsy,” I say. “And they were awful, but watching them, it was like, this is what love is, you know? And I miss her. Most days, I’m okay. But then Dolly Parton slaps me in the face and it feels like I’m just being told all over again.”

  “I know what you mean,” Nash says softly. “Memories tend to mess with us like that, don’t they?”

  I nod, wiping my cheeks. “But also I didn’t know losing her would mean losing both of them. Missing her is hard enough. I wasn’t prepared to miss him, too. That’s the worst part. Gramps isn’t Gramps anymore.”

  Nash’s forehead wrinkles. “That’s really hard. It sucks so bad, losing the people who are supposed to still be here.”

  He breaks eye contact, his voice fading with the wind. The way Nash says this, the emotion in his voice, it’s so genuine and I don’t think we’re talking about my grandparents anymore. I have no clue what he means. These aren’t the conversations he and Kels have.

  I know Nash worries his parents won’t let him go to NYU. He knows Kels has a complicated relationship with the word home. But it occurs to me, here on this swing—we don’t let ourselves get sad around each other. We thrive on sarcasm, banter, and angst.

  After Grams died, talking to Nash was an escape because he didn’t know.

  Maybe Kels is Nash’s escape too.

  Who has Nash lost? How can I even ask?

  His phone buzzes and he pulls it out to check the message.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “They must be—”

  He shoves his phone into his pocket. “I’m good here.”

  Me too. It’s honestly a revelation, how comfortable I am in this moment.

  “You know,” he says, “this is the first conversation we’ve had where you don’t have The Look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  He scuffs the toe of his Chucks against the mulch. “I don’t know. You always look at me like you’d rather eat broccoli or something than engage in a conversation.”