I started to sweat. I could actually feel wetness pooling in my armpits. Gross, but true.
“It’s just a playlist I was thinking about,” I said. “For, um, STEVE!”
I shouted the name of my camp boyfriend loudly, and it sounded weird, probably because I’d just thought of it as it came out of my mouth.
“Steve?” asked Amanda, tilting her head to the left. “Sailingcamp Steve?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You haven’t talked about him since two summers ago,” she said.
“He messaged me the other day, so we’ve been back in touch.” I walked over to the bulletin board and took down the song list. “He’s gotten hotter,” I said, adding a detail that I thought made my story sound more authentic.
Note to self: look up Steve again and make him a playlist. It’s not a lie if you make it true after the fact, right?
Amanda sat down on my bed and stretched out her legs, leaning back against the wall. “Wasn’t he the one who was really into metal?” she asked. “Didn’t you say that was part of the reason you guys couldn’t last through fall?”
She was smiling and amused, but I felt myself being pulled deeper and deeper into deception-land.
“Yeah, I’m hoping to expand his musical tastes and give it another shot,” I said. My story didn’t sound remotely believable.
“Doesn’t he live in, like, Kentucky?”
How was her memory so good?
“It could work,” I said, joining her on the bed and looking into the mirror across the wall.
Her reflection eyed mine in the glass. “Clem, you’re so busted.”
“Huh?”
“Just tell me who you like!” she said. “Really.”
Her smile was open and wide, ready to listen to a good crush story, ready to go over tiny little details—like what this amazing guy said to me in the hallways or how he looked at me across a classroom.
“Noah Knight,” I said, naming the first hot-but-not-in-our-universe guy who came to mind. He was a skater, and I’d probably exchanged two words with him during our entire school career, but he seemed plausible because he’d suddenly gotten drop-dead over the summer.
Amanda put her hand to her heart. “He’s a total dream,” she said, her eyes shining. “Okay, I’m in. Let me know what I can do to help.”
I smiled at her in the mirror, and there in the reflection it looked like a real BFF smile. But I was glad she wasn’t looking at my actual face.
chapter sixteen
Dear Amanda,
I didn’t mean to lie to you. I tried to stop
it, you know. I talked to Ethan one day
after school, and …
“Are you working at Razzy’s today?” asked Ethan as we walked out of history together.
“Yeah, four to eight,” I said. “Are you going to the mall?”
“Now that I know you’re working I am,” he said.
I felt a tightness in my chest—like excitement and guilt combined. More and more, our interactions felt like flirting. Not the harmless variety, but the actual prelude-to-a-relationship kind.
“I’ll look for you,” I said.
“I’ll be there.” He gave me a small wave as he turned left down the math hallway to meet Amanda by her locker.
What exactly was my problem?
Sometimes I thought I had this weird crush on Ethan because I had only had that one boyfriend—Steve from sailing camp. Although it was a really sweet summer romance—and we even got to sneakily spend the night together in the craft cabin—it didn’t really count in terms of school. Because camp boyfriends? They sound made up.
Until this year, I couldn’t find anyone to date at Bishop Heights High. It was like no guys really got me. But Ethan did.
Why did it have to be Ethan?
At work that afternoon, I busied myself by restocking the candy—pouring peppermints and gumdrops into big glass jars and sticking long-stemmed lollipops into their display stands. But after twenty minutes, there was nothing to do but hang out in between customers. My weekday shifts were solo because it was never that busy, which was good for doing homework, and one reason why Mom and Dad let me keep this job during the school year.
I wasn’t doing homework that day, though. I had torn up my list of songs for Ethan’s playlist, and I brought my journal because I wrote down a promise to myself:
If Ethan stops by tonight with Amanda, it’s all good. We’re friends, he knows that. If he shows up by himself, just to see me, I will tell him that I think we should stop hanging out. That it’s not okay. That Amanda wouldn’t like it.
There it was, in black and white. Somehow it felt like an official order to myself, since I wrote it down. But I couldn’t figure out the wording I wanted to use if I did have to bring things up with Ethan, and I was still kind of unclear on what to say.
I was turning all of this over in my head, lost in my own world, when Ethan’s smile hit me like a fastball.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi!” I stood up, greeting him too brightly, like he was a customer I wanted to impress. “Can I get you something?”
Now I was really acting like he was a customer.
“Aha,” said Ethan. “So this can be an official candy-counter visit and not just a drop-by-to-see-Clem thing?”
He did come just to see me. Heart fluttered, heart sank.
“Is Amanda coming?” I asked, hoping, really hoping, she was.
“She tutors after school on Wednesdays,” he said.
And I knew that, of course I knew that. I’d only been her friend for, like, a hundred years.
I glanced back down at the black ink in my journal to give me strength.
“So I made you something,” said Ethan. “That’s why I wanted to stop by, I mean.”
“Oh,” I said. “Uh, thanks.”
“Wait to thank me—you haven’t seen it yet.” He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a CD. “I burned your playlist. I know it’s kind of old school, but this way you have a hard copy, and I got to work on the cover and stuff.”
I turned the plastic case over in my hand. In very messy, classic boy scrawl, I saw the names of some of the songs Ethan had chosen for me: “Beautiful Girl,” “Zebra,” “So Much Closer.” Around the edges he’d doodled vines—ivy?—and the title said, “For Clementine, From Ethan.” It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love, but I still felt a stone in the pit of my stomach.
“I can’t take this,” I said, pushing it back across the counter toward him.
He looked surprised, maybe even hurt.
“Why not?”
“You know,” I said. Not the most eloquent expression of what I wanted to say.
“What do I know?” asked Ethan.
I sighed in frustration.
“It’s too much,” I said. Again I was Queen Vague. I looked down at my journal, but it didn’t have a script for me.
“Clem,” said Ethan, leaning on the counter and spinning one of the rainbow lollipops with his fingers. “It really isn’t a big deal. Amanda doesn’t like the same music I do, and I love making mixes. I used to do it for all my friends back in Ohio.”
“You did?”
“Yup.” He let go of the lollipop and smiled at me. “Even the girls. My friends. My friends who were girls.”
“Oh,” I said again, still unsure.
“Guys and girls can be friends,” said Ethan. “Like you and Aaron, right? Or you and Henry.”
I looked down at the counter, my face reddening a little. Was I just overreacting? Reading too much into this? Making myself look like a fool for thinking that Ethan was flirting with me when really he was just being my friend?
“Cool,” I said, finally, reaching out and taking the CD again. Part of me really wanted to hear the songs he chose. “Sorry for being … um …”
“It’s okay,” said Ethan.
And then he stayed. He stayed for another hour of my shift, stepping aside whenever a customer ca
me and making me laugh in between.
“Serious question: Could a Sour Patch Kid take a Gummy Bear in a fight?”
I was getting zero homework done.
“Definitely,” I said. “I’ve actually contemplated this matchup before. Sour Patch kids have sharp, scratchy skin, and they’re kind of like the bad kids on the block—total bullies. Gummy Bears are just soft and sweet.”
“But they’re bears,” said Ethan.
“Kid-sized bears, not big scary ones.”
“I’m not convinced.” Ethan turned his back to me and leaned on the counter.
I took out a red Sour Patch Kid and a green Gummy Bear to show Ethan how soft and gooey the Bears were compared to the Kids. He eventually relented.
And this is how our evening went. From serious to silly, from awkward to so comfortable.
When he left I had this big smile on my face. Things were okay. He’d made it clear that we were friends. That was all. Isn’t that what I’d wanted to set straight? Mission accomplished.
I put the CD on the corner of my desk when I got home. I didn’t need to hear it right away, I told myself.
Seven minutes later, I downloaded it to an iPod playlist.
I’d listened straight through twice by the time I fell asleep.
chapter seventeen
I’ve already finished the three books I was allowed to bring in hardcopy form, so I approach my mom about giving up her e-reader for the afternoon. I downloaded fifteen more titles there because, let’s be real, I knew I’d have some downtime out on the water this summer. Getting Mom to let me take the e-reader out in the dinghy, on the other hand, is less of a sure thing.
“I’ll keep it in this plastic bag and I’ll be so, so careful,” I promise her. “Please, I just need some … quiet time.” I glance at my little sister, who’s happily stripping a string cheese down to its last string while she hums a Lady Gaga song.
Mom looks at me sternly, but I can tell she’s cracking.
“Do not splash, put it back in the bag if a big wake is coming, and under no circumstances are you to stand up or shift your weight while you’re reading—just stay still and hold it far away from the water.”
“No problem!” I nod enthusiastically and she hands it over. We’re docked for the day, but even just floating in the dinghy while it’s twenty feet from the boat is a relief. It feels like my own personal island.
I stretch out in the Sea Ya for an hour with a life jacket behind my head as a pillow and lose myself in a story about sisters, one of whom may or may not have magical powers. When I feel my eyelids getting heavy, I sink a little deeper into the life jacket and doze off.
Rocking waves wake me up, and I stretch and yawn—it feels like I’ve been out for just five minutes, but the sun has moved, so it was probably at least an hour. I should get back. I sit up and make sure the plastic bag is sealed around Mom’s e-reader. Then I look around. I don’t see The Possibility.
I realize that I’ve come untied from the boat (note to self: make Olive study Dad’s copy of The Complete Book of Knots a little more closely). No big deal—I’m just across the inlet where the marina is, and I have a small engine.
I’m about to start it up when I hear a choked cry behind me. I turn around, and about twenty feet away, floating in his dinghy by an old fallen tree trunk, is Mr. Townsend. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s looking down at the water. He has a fishing pole by his side, but he’s not actively casting.
I’m about to call out to him, but then I see his back begin to shake, almost like he’s … crying? I hear another big gulp from his direction, and it confirms that he’s definitely in the middle of a weep session.
It’s weird—he seems so big and strong, so boisterous and joyful. What is it that makes a guy like Mr. Townsend, a dad, go off to cry?
I bite my lip. Should I start up the engine now? He’ll probably know I’ve seen him. I slink back down to my below-sightlines position in the boat and stay quiet. I stare at my thighs and see that the sun’s been on them—they’re getting warm and red. That reminds me of another night I wish I didn’t remember. I don’t want to let my thoughts spiral into a bad place; I have to get back to the boat.
Maybe I’m crazy, but I don’t want to embarrass Mr. Townsend, so I recreate the whole scene again where I’m just waking up. From my invisible position, I make a big production of stretching and yawning superloudly, rocking the boat and banging up against the side before I raise my head and look around.
When I pop up again, he’s looking my way with a big smile on his face. He’s also holding his rod and getting ready to cast.
“Mr. Townsend!” I say, acting surprised.
“Hiya, Clem,” he shouts. “Looks like you drifted a little bit far from home.”
“I did,” I say, marveling at how quickly he’s turned from tears to this happy grin. “I guess Olive needs a little more knot practice.”
He chuckles. “Send her over to James anytime—he’s the expert.”
“Will do,” I say, saluting him. Something about being on the water makes you say things like “Will do” and make saluting gestures.
I crank up the engine and motor back to The Possibility, feeling good about helping Mr. Townsend avoid embarrassment. I know all about hiding things.
chapter eighteen
Dear Amanda,
Nothing ever really happened between me
and Ethan. It wasn’t a big deal. We just–
You always seemed so secure. Remember, you even told us to go to the movies together. It was almost easier for me to justify because you acted so nonchalant …
After that day at Razzy’s, I half convinced myself that Ethan and I were safely on the friendship track and not moving in any inappropriate directions. That way, I didn’t have to feel guilty spending hours messaging him or listening to his mix. I know, it made no sense. He sometimes texted me when I knew he was out with Amanda. So even though we didn’t have another “date” where it was just the two of us, we were still aboard the Titanic, heading for the iceberg. But it was worse than that—it was like we could see the looming disaster, or at least I could, but I still wouldn’t turn the ship around.
“Corner!” I shouted as I ran downstairs to the big U-shaped couch in Amanda’s basement.
She quickly slid into the other side. We always grabbed the corners because they’re the best spots. We shared a smile as we got our seats, and then our other friends settled in around us. Ethan sat right between me and Amanda. They held hands. I looked straight ahead at the TV.
Henry chose the movie, so it was an old Spike Lee one—his film studies thing means he’s got to see all the classics. I pretended to mind, but really I didn’t, because a lot of them are classics for a reason, and Do the Right Thing is no exception.
But I had trouble concentrating.
“Pass the blanket?” I asked.
I’m always getting cold in other people’s houses. Amanda even had a blue-and-white knit blanket on hand that I thought of as “my blanket” because I used it so much.
She let go of Ethan’s hand, reaching over to the side chair where it hung, and tossed it to me.
“Thanks.” I spread it over my legs. It’s a big blanket so some fell across Ethan.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay, I get cold too.”
Spike Lee was arriving at work at the pizza place, and suddenly I felt Ethan’s hand resting on the side of my leg. It wasn’t like that was insanely weird—I had jeans on!—but it was definitely not a friendly resting-my-hand-by-your-leg situation. It was a romantic resting-my-hand-by-your-leg situation.
Plus, there was the blanket, so it was also a no-one-else-can-see situation. I sat very still for the next half hour. So did he.
His light touch started to feel really comfortable, almost soothing. I relaxed. This was okay. Maybe he didn’t even know where his hand was. Maybe he thought he was touching a couch cushion.
But then his hand slid up to my t
high. Like, on top of my thigh.
I was so surprised, I wasn’t sure what to do. I just stared straight ahead; I could see peripherally that he was doing that, too, pretending like nothing was happening, while I felt this tingling run through me as his hand started to caress my thigh, and it felt like everything was happening. But invisibly.
These really loud New York characters were talking. And Henry was laughing. And Amanda was offering people drinks and snacks. And Renee was getting up to go to the bathroom. And Aaron was talking about how Rosie Perez used to be hot. And all this time, Ethan was touching my thigh.
Everyone settled down again and focused on the movie, so I tried to move Ethan’s hand away with my hand—I wasn’t so delusional that I didn’t know what we were doing was totally weird and wrong. But when I gently pushed his hand off my thigh, he held fast to mine, and we ended up holding hands under the blanket.
We sat that way for the rest of the movie, and every once in a while he would move his fingers a little and stroke my palm.
I know I should have snatched it away; I know his girlfriend—my best friend—was three feet to my left. She even turned to him to smile and laugh at the funny parts with the old guys on the street, and he looked right back at her, grinning. My mind was screaming, We are holding hands!
I gave up on trying to reach over and eat popcorn from the big bowl on the center of the coffee table, because then I would have had to let go of Ethan.
“Did I put too much salt on the popcorn, Clem?” asked Amanda.
“No, I’m just not hungry.”
She gave me a weird look. Normally I can barrel through, like, three large bowls of popcorn by myself. It’s one of those snacks magazines always tell you that you can eat a lot of and it’s still kind of healthy, so I take full advantage.
But that night I hardly ate any at all. I barely moved.
I wrote a journal entry later when I got home:
What am I doing? What is he doing? It’s not
even like we were alone—everyone was right
Unbreak My Heart Page 8
