Leah on the Offbeat

by Becky Albertalli

Now I just have to get Simon to the music room. I could ask him to watch me drum. Is that weird? I don’t think he’d suspect anything, but what if he’s just like nah? Then it’s basically game over, unless I want to seem pushy and obsessed. But I can’t let Bram down, so—

  “I have to go the bathroom. Here.” Nora shoves her guitar case at Simon, and hurries into school.

  “Diarrhea,” Simon says, nodding sagely. He glances down at the guitar case. “What do I do with this?”

  Nora, you fucking hero.

  “We could drop it off in the music room,” I say with the most casual shrug I can muster.

  The entire music room is lit up with Christmas lights. In March. And Simon doesn’t even notice.

  “Someone left your drum kit out,” he remarks, setting Nora’s guitar beside it.

  “It’s not actually my drum kit.” I glance at the storage closet before turning back to Simon. “Anyone can use it.”

  “Really?” His whole face lights up.

  “Totally.” I nod. “You should try it.”

  Simon settles onto the stool, looking like a toddler about to fly an airplane. I bring him some drumsticks and he peers up at me, beaming. “I’ve seriously always wanted to do this.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “So, do I just . . . ?”

  I glance at the storage closet again, biting back a giggle. “Just go for it. Bang it.”

  As soon as he does, I hit record on my phone. There’s a loud rustle from the storage closet, followed by a soft chime of music.

  “What was that?” asks Simon.

  Someone cranks up the volume, and the storage closet bursts open, revealing Bram, holding a hairbrush.

  “Ohhhh I . . . don’t want a lot for Christmas . . .”

  I step hurriedly back to catch the reaction shot. Simon’s perched on the drum stool, hands over his mouth, eyes saucer-wide. The music speeds up, and Bram takes a step closer—and then Garrett, Nick, and Abby rush up behind him.

  And it’s a revelation. Abby and the guys wag their fingers and throw their arms up, letting them shimmy down slowly—while Bram flawlessly lip-synchs into the hairbrush, a single word centered boldly on his chest in black stick-on letters.

  Joaquin.

  Meanwhile, Simon’s at the drum kit, quietly losing his shit.

  I don’t even know where to look. It’s too goddamn wonderful. Simon’s fanfiction dream come to life. I can’t believe Bram thought of this. I can’t believe they’re pulling it off.

  Of course, Abby’s the real professional, hitting every cue and grinning like she’s on Broadway. Nick plays it tongue in cheek, smiling self-consciously. It’s funny—they seem totally normal with each other. Watching them, you’d think they’d never fought in their lives.

  Garrett, though. Total hot mess. Limbs everywhere, hopping sideways on one foot. He’s definitely almost fallen over twice.

  When the song ends, Bram points straight at Simon, smiling breathlessly. “Simon Spier, will you go to prom with me?”

  Simon nods and jumps up to hug him, laughing so hard he can barely speak. “I hate you so much. Oh my God. Yes,” he says, cupping Bram’s face. Then he gives him a giant swoony movie kiss.

  Garrett whoops, and Simon flips him off over Bram’s shoulder.

  “I can’t believe you guys,” Simon says when he resurfaces. He pokes Bram in the chest, grinning. “Joaquin.”

  Bram smiles.

  “Like, how did you even find that?”

  “It was a team effort,” Bram says.

  “I hate all of you so much.”

  Abby appears beside me, out of nowhere. “That was so epic,” she murmurs.

  “I can’t even handle it.”

  She smiles faintly. “I know.”

  And then my mouth disconnects from my brain. It’s the only explanation. Because I’m saying it. I’m just going for it. “So you’ve probably made other plans or whatever, but . . .” It dies in my throat. Why the hell is this so hard?

  “Are you asking me to prom, Leah Burke?”

  “Yes,” I say flatly. “We’re literally standing five feet away from your boyfriend, and I’m asking you to prom.”

  She raises her eyebrows, like she can’t decide if I’m kidding. So that’s a twelve out of ten on the awkward scale. Do I really have to clarify that I’m not asking Abby to prom?

  “I’m not asking you to prom, Abby.”

  “Oh well.”

  My cheeks flush. For a minute, neither of us speaks.

  “Okay, but seriously,” I say finally. “This road trip thing . . .”

  Abby gasps. “Are you saying you want to road trip to Athens?”

  I shrug. “I mean, if you’re still up for it.”

  “AM I UP FOR IT?” she yells, flinging her arms around me. And I feel it in my stomach, like a tiny buzzing cell phone.

  12

  SO, PROM FEVER IS A thing.

  Literally all Simon wants to do now is watch the promposal video, over and over. He even texted it to his mom. And Nick and Abby are back to their obnoxiously happy normal, holding hands in English class and discussing corsages over lunch. It’s like a looming apocalypse, but with formal wear.

  And then there’s Garrett, who keeps watching me with this weird, twinkly expression. I catch Bram at his locker on Thursday and make him tell it to me straight. “Is Garrett going to prompose to me?”

  “Um,” says Bram.

  “Please tell me he’s not planning something public.”

  God, I’ll die. I just can’t. It’s not like I have issues with Garrett. Honestly, I wouldn’t even mind going to prom with him. But public promposals are my actual worst nightmare. This stuff is awkward enough without the audience. “Seriously, I need to know.”

  “Well . . .” Bram bites his lip.

  “Got it.” I grimace. “So, like . . . when is this happening?”

  “Lunch,” he says. “Um. Do you want me to . . .”

  I pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll handle it.”

  I mean, yeah. I’ll go to prom with Garrett. I don’t care. We’ll go as friends. As buds. As bros. It will be fun. We’ll take some god-awful staircase pictures, and hopefully I won’t stab him with a corsage pin. Accidentally, probably.

  I find him camped out in the library. “Hey, can we talk?”

  He peers up at me in surprise. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Privately.” He follows me over to the magazine racks, and I don’t even hesitate. “Okay, here’s the thing. I know what you’re planning.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

  “Listen. I’ll go to prom with you, okay?”

  His jaw drops.

  I blush. “If you want. I mean. We don’t—”

  “Yeah—Burke. Yeah, I want to,” he says slowly. “Let’s—but, uh, you’re kind of stealing my thunder here.”

  “Yes.” I roll my eyes. “That’s kind of the point.”

  “You don’t want my thunder?”

  “Literally not even a little bit.”

  “But.” He rubs his forehead, face breaking into a smile. “You’ll go to prom with me? For real?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dude.” He beams. Then he wraps me in a bear hug, and it’s actually sort of sweet. This kid. This blue-eyed boy who calls me by my last name and never shuts up. My prom date. That actually happened. I just asked a boy out. Or he asked me. I guess we asked each other.

  Anyway, it’s done, and I did it, and I guess I’m going to prom. With a date. I’m an actual high school cliché. A part of me feels like I should announce this. In fact, people do announce this shit on the creeksecrets Tumblr. There’s even a list of prom couples, kept up to date in the notes section. I guess it’s to save people from those excruciating Harry-asking-Cho-to-the-Yule-Ball situations. Though, let’s be real: if Katie Leung sweetly rejecting Daniel Radcliffe in a Scottish accent wasn’t your sexual awakening, I don’t even want to know you.

  I just wish I knew how to fe
el about Garrett. This shouldn’t be so complicated. It has to be easier for people with penises. Does this person get you hard? Yes? Done. I used to think boners literally pointed in the direction of the person you’re attracted to, like a compass. That would be helpful. Mortifying as fuck, but at least it would clarify things.

  I’m home before Mom—there’s a note on the fridge that says to call her at work when I get there. And out of nowhere, I remember a thing Abby told me right after she moved here. Her dad was still in DC at the time, and I guess he thought Shady Creek was some drug-fueled bacchanalia fuckland, because he didn’t want Abby to go anywhere after dark. He used to call her on the house phone to make sure she was really there. Foolproof dad-maneuver, except for the part where Abby forwarded all her landline calls to her cell. Not that I’m randomly thinking of Abby Suso again.

  I sink onto the couch and dial Mom’s office number. She picks up on the first ring.

  “How come you didn’t tell me there was a promposal video?”

  I grin. “Who told you?”

  “Alice Spier shared it from Simon’s Facebook.”

  God, you have to love how my mom isn’t friends with my friends’ parents. She’s friends with their siblings.

  “I need details,” Mom says.

  So, I tell her everything. Or I try to. I’m not sure it’s possible to put into words what it looks like when Garrett dances.

  And—okay. I guess I should tell her about Garrett asking me to prom. I’m almost scared of how happy it will make her. She has a thing about school dances. She went to all of them, even as a freshman—even junior prom, when she was four and a half months pregnant. She has this theory that every teen movie should end in a prom scene.

  “I think every teen movie does end in a prom scene,” I’d told her.

  She thinks it’s romantic. She explained it to me once. “It’s this night where all the usual drama gets suspended. Everyone looks different. And everyone’s a little more generous with each other.” I remember she paused after she said that, and for one horrible moment, I thought that might be a euphemism. But then Mom added softly, “I remember the feeling like it was okay to care. To not be so blasé. There’s something really earnest about school dances.”

  I’ve never known how to respond to that. Cool, Mom. Glad that worked out for you. I don’t know. Maybe some of us like being blasé.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, already dreading this. “So I asked Garrett to prom.”

  My mom gasps. “Leah.”

  “And it’s not a big deal, okay? It’s just Garrett. It’s not a thing. We’re just going as friends.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says. I can actually hear her smiling.

  “Mom.”

  “I’m just wondering. Does Garrett know you’re going as friends?”

  “Mom. Yes.”

  Except—shit. I don’t know. I mean, I think we’re going as friends. No one said it was a romantic thing. But maybe prom is romantic by default. Is this a thing I have to specify? Can ambiguous social situations kindly go fuck themselves?

  Of course, as soon as I hang up, there’s a text waiting for me from Garrett. So I’ll talk to Greenfeld and we can figure out limo and dinner and everything! Prom’s going to be so baller this year, I can’t wait

  Garrett saying baller. Now my mind can’t un-hear it.

  By Friday, Creekwood High School’s collective prom fever has morphed into college fever. I swear to God, there’s nothing more toxic than a suburban high school in March. The halls look like a screenshot from college Jeopardy!—humblebrag T-shirts hitting you from every direction. It’s like the entire school turned into Taylor overnight.

  Anna got into Duke. Morgan got into Georgia Southern. Simon and Nick both got into Wesleyan and Haverford, and both got rejected from the University of Virginia. Abby had looked at them incredulously when she heard that. “Are you literally the same person?”

  “They just know we’re a package deal,” Simon said.

  “That’s super weird,” said Abby.

  Also, our lunch table is a war zone—but it’s the silent kind of war zone. Morgan and I stake out opposite ends of the table, communicating only in glares. But it’s not just us. Abby and Nick are lowkey fighting again, too. And then there’s Simon in the middle, glancing back and forth like we’re a street he has to cross. I don’t think I’ve ever met a person so nervously attuned to conflict.

  Garrett, on the other hand, is perfectly oblivious. He sinks into the chair across from me, next to Abby, and grins. “Okay, ladies, I need your help.” He gestures around the table. “I’m in charge of making the dinner reservation for all of these beautiful people on prom night. So now I’m taking requests.”

  “Maybe something near the venue?” Abby says distantly.

  “Something cheap,” I add.

  Garrett beams at me. “Well, that is not something for you to worry about, Burke. I believe your meal is covered.”

  “Okay.” I blush. “Thanks.”

  Abby turns to face me, suddenly. “Wait, are you guys going to prom together?”

  “Yup,” Garrett says. I nod, looking down.

  “Are you serious? How did I not know this?”

  Garrett pretends to gasp. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Abby says. She’s still looking at me.

  I mean, was I supposed to call her? Did I somehow miss the moment when that became an expectation? I don’t get her. I don’t. Everyone thinks Abby’s so fun and sweet and bubbly, but she’s actually the most confusing girl in the universe.

  I glance up at her, and she looks right in my eyes. I can’t read her expression. “Anyway,” she says, “we should figure out spring break.”

  “What’s happening over spring break?” Garrett asks.

  Abby’s eyes flick sideways. “Oh, nothing. Only the greatest road trip in the history of road trips.” It’s weird. Her voice is perfectly calm. But something sparks in her eyes like she’s issuing a challenge.

  To Garrett. Or me. I have no earthly idea.

  “I’m pretty flexible,” I say slowly.

  “Good, me too. God, I’m so ready for this. I’m so ready for college.”

  “Oh, you guys are visiting UGA?” asks Garrett.

  “Yup,” Abby says, sliding her hand across the table, palm up, like she wants me to high-five it. So I do.

  And she threads our fingers together.

  Right here at the lunch table. I don’t even know what’s happening.

  “You know what they say,” Abby murmurs, glancing sideways at Garrett. “What happens in Athens stays in Athens.”

  Garrett raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Say no more.”

  And suddenly, I’m pissed. No, actually, I’m furious. I tug my hand away from Abby’s and scoot my chair out abruptly.

  “Wait, what just happened?” Simon asks.

  When I’m mad, I escape. It’s what I do. I stalk out of rooms and storm down hallways and disappear into bathroom stalls. Because if I stay, I’ll lose my shit at someone. I will. I swear to God. I don’t even know who I’m more pissed at. Abby, for teasing me. Garrett, for making it about him every fucking time. Because that’s why bi girls exist, Garrett. For your masturbatory fantasies. I want to scream in his face. Dude, if you like me—if you actually like me—then be jealous. Be worried. Be something. If this were Nick flirting with me, Garrett would think whoa: competition. But because it’s Abby, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like it doesn’t count.

  Not that Abby was flirting with me. She probably wasn’t.

  Definitely wasn’t. And I definitely don’t care.

  13

  I feel like you’re mad at me, Garrett texts me after school. About the Abby thing. I’m sorry Burke, I was honestly joking, but I’ll stop for real. I’m sorry.

  I stare at the screen. I don’t know where to begin. I mean, how do I call him out if he doesn’t even know I’m bi?

  I sink into the couch, feeling suddenly exhaust
ed. It’s fine. Just promise me you’ll stop being a dick, okay?

  I promise! he responds immediately, smiley face and all. So, we’re cool?

  We’re cool.

  Except I’m the opposite of cool. All weekend, I’m uneasy. Because Garrett actually apologized, but Abby didn’t. Not that she would. I just don’t get her. I don’t get what she’s doing. And it’s not even the what happens in Athens comment. That could mean anything. It could mean frat boys and keg stands and hetero trash for days.

  But the look on Abby’s face when I said I was going to prom with Garrett. How surprised she seemed that I hadn’t told her. But why would I tell her? She has a boyfriend. So what if they’re fighting? She. Has. A. Boyfriend. Therefore, none of this matters, and prom can go fuck itself.

  Of course, my mom is totally high on prom hype. She takes two hours of leave time on Wednesday to pick me up right after school. “Hop in. We’re going dress shopping.”

  I look at her. “Do we have to?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Because you’re going to pro-om.” She gives it a solid two syllables. “I’m so excited right now.”

  It’s like we’re from two different planets. Every once in a while, it hits me: if I knew my mom in high school, I don’t think we’d have been friends. It’s not like she was an asshole in high school. She was kind of like Abby. In every play, at every party, perfect grades. She always had a boyfriend—usually a soccer player with really defined abs. But sometimes she dated nerdy guys, or musicians, like my dad, who apparently used to smoke a lot of pot. I guess it didn’t lower his sperm count.

  “You know, the last time we went prom dress shopping together, you were on the inside.”

  “Haha.”

  “My little prom fetus.”

  “Gross.”

  “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” She pulls into the mall parking deck and finds a spot near the elevator. My mom has charmed luck with parking spaces. It’s essentially her superpower. “And you have a date!”

  “Yeah, with Garrett.”

  “Garrett’s so adorable, though.” She pauses to grin at me. “Okay, so here we are. Where’s formal wear?”

  Department stores are like diners. No focus. Too many options. I feel overwhelmed just being here. Mom pauses by an escalator, examining the store map.