“It’s complicated.”
“Actually, it’s not,” he said. “It’s actually shocking how simple all this is.”
“I’ll be ready soon.”
“You said that before homecoming. Almost two months ago!”
“Then why are you still dating me, if it’s been such a bad two months?”
“Because I love you. And I want to make love to you.”
“In that order?”
“Come on, babe.”
“ ‘Come on, babe,’ what?”
“Come on, babe . . . I love you. I really love you. I always will.”
He leaned in and kissed me on the neck. He stroked the side of my face. He called me beautiful like always, and he brought his big hand toward me, and I thought he was going to touch me—oh God, not my chest, please not again, so I flinched without thinking.
But he didn’t do that. He touched my thigh. He gave it a light rub. And I’m sure it was harmless. But it felt wrong, somehow like trespassing. It made me feel violated—
“NO.”
“Hey, I was just—”
“Not there.”
“But what about—”
“Not there, either.”
“Well, where am I supposed to touch you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, you’re a virgin. And that’s fine. I understand that. But damn, Nik, why you gotta be such a prude?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you still freaking out over Brian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you ever gonna get over it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you gonna say ‘I don’t know’ to every friggin’ thing I say?!”
“I don’t know.”
DeSean exhaled, long and deep.
“Shit, Nikki. Maybe you’re right. . . . What are we still doing together?”
I studied my boyfriend, sitting there in the driver’s seat. I really took him in.
His red and gold college jacket with his name already stitched on. His smooth, sweet skin. His enormous hands. His chiseled jawline. His chiseled arm muscles. His chiseled everything. His deep brown eyes, which wanted so badly to understand.
“I don’t know.”
5. ALLEGRA REY
My evening was, as all my evenings tend to be, chaotic. I was home and finishing my outline for a twenty-page AP Lit paper on Moby-Dick, while also making sure to carve out forty-five minutes for flute practice, while also sending out an e-mail rescheduling this week’s Philanthropy Friday now that Cole has suddenly abdicated his position as copresident of Interact, while also triple-checking the packing list for my upcoming Stanford early-admitted students’ reception.
Simultaneously, my brothers were squabbling over which book they wanted me to read them before bed. Concurrently, my dad was asking if I’d seen the article he’d printed out and left on my pillow. On top of all of this, Mama needed me to make her some tea.
“Wait! Allie! No!” Augusto hollered, bouncing on his bed. “I hate Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants! Do Wrath of the Wicked Wedgie Woman!”
“No!” Alejandro wailed, trying to sumo wrestle Augusto into the wall. “We did Gusto’s book last time! Do Professor Poopypants or else you don’t love me!”
“Wedgie Woman!”
“Poopypants!”
“Wedgie Woman!”
“Ow, my body!”
“Allegra,” my dad said, ducking his head in the doorway. “Have you read the article yet? The New York Times said Stanford had its most selective early admissions ever. Under five percent!”
“Allegra,” my abuela said, poking her head in underneath Dad’s. “Where are my Goldfish crackers? Do you know who’s taken my Goldfish crackers?”
“Allegra!” my mom called from her bedroom. “I am so sorry, but have you started my tea? Gracias, mija!”
At that exact moment, amid all the pandemonium, I heard the doorbell ring. It was clear and loud and it cut through the noise.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
I walked to the door, breathing a temporary sigh of relief. Thank goodness for neighbors. When Mama was first diagnosed back in October, the families next door came to our house bearing meals with incredible frequency. While they haven’t been visiting as regularly in recent weeks, a few friends do stop by periodically with provisions, often enough so I’m not completely overloaded having to get groceries every other day. As I opened the door, I hoped the neighbor on the other side had brought a bag of Goldfish. I’ve been so addicted to those lately.
But when I saw who it was, I felt the opposite of hungry. My stomach dropped, like at the start of a roller coaster. I could have thrown up, right there on the spot.
I know Wiley’s been trying his best. I don’t blame him for his intentions, which I’m sure are noble. That said, he and I clearly haven’t been on the same page these past few weeks. We’ve barely occupied the same solar system.
He obviously doesn’t want me to attend Stanford. He forces a smile every time I talk about the admit reception, or choosing a major, but I can tell he’s wishing for a miracle. I know he prays I’ll stay.
He doesn’t want me to have to deal with my family issues, either. He seems to pretend like my mom’s cancer just doesn’t exist. All he wants is for the two of us to stay our goofy, carefree selves, no matter how serious life becomes. And never was this clearer to me than during his bizarre behavior the night of the homecoming game.
I still don’t know what to make of that night. We haven’t discussed it since. Not once. Secretly, I’d been hoping we could put it off forever.
But now here he was, standing at my front door.
“What are you doing here?”
Wiley looked bewildered, all jittery and flushed. Within a second, though, he relaxed his expression. He chuckled and held up his hands.
“I don’t know. I guess just visiting my best friend. You know, like a normal person. Can I come in for a sec?”
I took a beat. “Let’s talk out here.”
“Well, would you at least close the door?”
“I have a pot of tea.”
Wiley shifted back and forth on his feet. “Okay.”
His face appeared to slip into panic mode again, but he refreshed it with a quasi-grin.
“I haven’t seen you much lately,” he said. “Not as many walks home, no after-homework movies. And when we’ve talked, we haven’t truly talked. Does that make sense?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Things have been crazy.”
“And obviously there was the game, which we seem to have left on a weird note.”
“Right,” I said. “The game.”
Wiley smiled. He wouldn’t stop smiling. It was borderline unsettling.
I folded my arms. “You’re making me nervous, okay? Tell me. What are you doing here?”
He nodded, more to himself than to anything I’d just said. It was as if there were some sort of cryptic beat he was following, a piece of music only he could hear.
Then he looked at me. Straight at me.
“I came here to celebrate,” he said, smiling. His teeth were faintly yellow, in a post-Fanta kind of way. “It’s almost my birthday, you know.”
His backpack was on the ground next to him. He hunched over to unzip it. He reached in and pulled something out. Something red.
“I felt pretty messed up about homecoming, how everything between us shook down. And I punished myself for it, you know, by spending less time around you. I assumed you’d rejected me.
“But then I realized . . . that wasn’t what happened at all.
“The thing is, I just wasn’t clear enough about my intentions.
“As someone very wise once told me . . . I need to give you a reason to want me back.”
Wiley placed the red baseball cap on his head. There was an “S” in the center, with a green tree superimposed over it.
&nb
sp; “Happy birthday to me,” he said. “Look what I got myself.”
“What . . . ,” I said. “What is that?”
“Stanford, of course,” Wiley said, shaking his head like I was the densest girl alive. “It’s your future, Allie, and mine.”
“What . . . do you mean?”
Wiley cleared his throat.
“I love you, Allegra Rey. I freaking love you. I have for the past ten years, and I will for the next twenty, the next fifty, and beyond. But I don’t want my love to block any opportunities for you.
“So how does this sound: Next year, I go to Stanford with you. Not the college, of course. I could never get in there, or any college, really. But I could live up north with you. I could go to community college there, or get a job. Work on my filmmaking, even, like I’ve always wanted. And I could get my own apartment, or I could live with you, in the dorms. I could tend to your needs.
“There you have it. That’s my pitch, my birthday wish. Whaddya think, Allie? Whaddya say?”
My head began spinning, like I literally felt dizzy, like I might fall right to the ground. These words he was saying, on the one hand I could have never imagined them, and yet, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I’ve been anticipating them for years. I’ve been dreading them. The word “love,” it jostled my skull. The words “up north,” they nearly made me gag.
And as awful as I felt, Wiley looked worse.
His eyes were bloodshot. His face was moist. His chest was heaving. His hands were spastic.
Worst of all, he was still—somehow—smiling.
Just then I heard it.
Reeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
“You know,” I said. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”
“It’s never a good time,” he said. “Unless it’s the perfect time.”
Reeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
“I’ve got tea.”
“Someone else can get it.”
Reeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
“But my mom.”
“Someone else can help her.”
Reeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
“Wiley,” I said. “You’re not hearing me.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I totally get it. I know this is kinda weird, kinda daring, maybe even a little dangerous if we’re thinking about it in terms of, you know, like Luke Skywalker, like Indiana Jones, like my hero’s journey, but just hear me out, okay? Let some light into your life. Just let yourself have this one extraordinary thing—”
Reeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
“I don’t like you!”
Wiley didn’t move. As soon as I blurted the truth, he became an absolute statue. The only sign that the entire universe hadn’t completely short-circuited on me was the cacophony of the teakettle’s incessant whine.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I took a step forward and attempted to hug, or at least touch him. He did not budge.
“I love having you as a friend. My best friend, in fact. Really, my only friend. I think you’re perfectly suited for that. I am so sorry. If I sent any of the wrong signals—”
Wiley took his hat and threw it at the ground. It landed at my feet.
“Wiley,” I said.
“Get your tea,” he said, still not responding in any tangible way.
“I am so sorry,” I said. “I feel somehow responsible—”
“Go get your tea, you fucking cunt.”
• • •
The rest of the evening passed without incident. I read both books to my brothers, cover to cover. I pinned the admissions article to my bulletin board and told my father how grateful I felt to have him thinking about me. I binged on Goldfish well after my abuela went to bed.
When I served my mother her tea, she asked who had been at the door. I said a Jehovah’s Witness. I then told her that I’ve made the decision not to attend the admitted students’ reception at Stanford this weekend. She pushed back on that, but I insisted that I could always visit campus any other time, or learn about Stanford online, and that I have all the way until May to send in my acceptance, but that I simply have too many other things on my plate right now, particularly family obligations. I don’t want to leave anyone behind, I told her. I reminded her to get a good sleep, what with her appointment early the next morning. She hugged me close and told me not to worry.
I spent the remainder of the night in my room, completing my homework. From time to time, my mind turned to Wiley. How I could have dealt with him differently, what I could have said to let him down more kindly, how it could have been better between us, what might have been had he never used that vile, vulgar, friendship-ending word.
Every time those thoughts crept up, I pushed them from my mind. I turned to the next page.
I miss my neighbor. I miss him already. But I refuse to cry over him.
That’s just the way things go sometimes.
ROAD ONE
* * *
WINTER
* * *
6. BRIAN MACK
* * *
I’m sorry,” she said to me, back on that fateful day. “But are you okay?”
I wasn’t, really. It was almost evening, the first Sunday of winter break. Things hadn’t been going so hot at home. My mom had been making me my favorite dinner, which she’s been doing a bunch lately to try to boost me up. Only it never helps, because eating beef stroganoff makes me feel like a plump Russian troll. That’s when my pops and Kyle rolled into the kitchen to give me shit for quitting football, like a pussy, and joining theater, like a pansy. I got hella pissed at them and straight up peaced without saying a word. I walked half a mile to the one place where I knew no one would find me over break, the Dos Caminos campus. I was chilling there solo, sitting on the front lawn, plucking some grass, whistling this song I need to learn for the musical, “Alone in the Universe”—
When that car randomly drove up.
When that pretty girl with the curly hair pulled suddenly into my life.
“Brian,” she said, leaning out the driver’s window. “Are you okay?”
“What?” I said. “Who are you?”
“I’m—”
She was a quieter girl, so I had to get up and take a few steps to hear her better.
“What?”
“Allegra Rey. I’m your year. I’m fairly certain we had health together, back in ninth grade. I play flute at all of your games, and—”
She dropped her head. She shook it all fast, like she was trying to get dandruff out of her bangs, or water out of her ear.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have brought that up. Football, I mean. Beyond rude of me.”
She looked down at her hands. She picked at a cuticle on her finger.
“You seemed lonely is all, sitting there. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. I wanted to make sure everything was fine with you. That’s it, I promise. I can leave now, if that’s what you want.”
I shook my head. “That’s funny,” I said.
“What’s funny?”
“That you were worried about me.”
“Why is that funny?”
I shrugged. I thought it was pretty obvious.
“Because you’re the one who looks like you’ve been crying.”
The second I said that, and without a moment’s hesitation, Allegra covered her eyes. She rolled her car window all the way up. She pulled away from the curb, into the street, away from me.
So much for the pretty girl.
Five seconds later, the car’s brake lights turned on, followed by the reverse lights. In a flash, quick as a virgin’s load, she was exactly where she’d just been, at the curb two feet in front of me.
“I’m sorry, Brian,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I’m being capricious.”
I stepped forward, up to the car. I put my hands on the roof. I leaned into the open passenger window.
“Okay,” I said. “Number one, I bombed the SAT, so I have no idea what that word means.”
As I said it, I saw the corner of her mouth t
witch up, just the tiniest bit.
“And number two, why do you keep saying sorry for stuff? You’re apologizing more times than, like, a crappy butler.”
At this Allegra actually smiled. She made a soft sound, like, “hmm.”
That’s when she looked at me, square in the eyes, for the very first time.
And . . . yeah.
Something changed in me. Something shifted when I saw them.
They’re not the most beautiful eyes. Kinda tiny and gray. You could even say beady. You wouldn’t sing a song about these eyes. You wouldn’t write a love poem.
But they know something. Something you don’t. Something sad. And scary. It’s like the frozen look a rabbit gives you when you’re in the car and it’s in the middle of the road. It knows exactly what’s coming, but it can’t do a thing to protect itself. And you want to stop and save the poor thing’s life, but you might just smush it into roadkill.
Allegra’s eyes blinked at me. I blinked back.
“Would you like a ride home?” she said
“Hell yeah,” I said.
• • •
We didn’t talk for the first half of the drive. Sure, it’s a short ride from DCHS to my house, maybe eight blocks if that, but still, it was awkward as old-people sex, taking that first big step together at the sidewalk, then just as quickly taking two steps back. And I mean, I got what was going on. I knew we were both facing struggles of different sorts, what with how, ever since I quit the team, the entire world has treated me like a van-driving toddler stealer who makes skin suits out of his victims and sells them on Craigslist, and Allegra with her . . . Wait, what was her deal? Why the dead bunny eyes? And who the hell was this chick, anyway? She seemed so familiar.
“Hold up,” I said. “Aren’t you that girl who got into Harvard or whatever?”
Her face changed, just barely. She continued to stare at the road ahead.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose I am ‘that girl.’ Stanford.”
“You’re BFFs with Nutter Butters, yeah? The wolf kid, with the pube ’stache. Wiley.”
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