Nick gasps. “I just had an idea.”
“What?”
“We should play soccer!”
“Um.”
“Yeah, okay. This is a great idea. We’re totally doing this.” Nick nods eagerly. “Let me get my balls. Ha. My ball.”
Simon catches my eye and shakes his head wordlessly. For a minute, we just sit there, listening to Nick hum as he pokes around his storage closet. Already, he’s working on a third beer. And it’s not like I’ve never seen Nick drunk before, but I’ve never seen him this unhinged.
“Got it,” he announces, emerging triumphantly with a soccer ball. “This is going to be amazing.”
“But it’s raining,” says Simon.
Nick smiles. “Even better.” He slips through the basement door, out into the backyard, and starts kicking the ball gently from one foot to the other. It’s not actually raining, but the air is thick and humid. “Come on,” he says. “Leah, I’m passing to you.”
“Remind me why we’re doing this.”
“Because we are,” he says. Then, with a firm thud, he kicks the ball in my direction. I swing my foot halfheartedly, missing it by a mile.
“Okay, okay. Nice hustle,” Nick says, clapping his hand against his fist.
I circle back to the ball, pick it up, and walk it back toward him.
Nick laughs. “You have to kick it.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He sets the ball down. “Did you know Abby and I used to do this all the time. She’s, like, really good at soccer.” He doesn’t wait for us to react. “She is. She’s really, really good. But guess what?”
Neither of us speaks.
He grins. “She broke up with me!” Then he kicks the ball so hard, it smacks against his neighbor’s fence.
“Nick,” Simon says, taking a step toward him. But Nick pulls away suddenly, jogging after the ball.
Then he dribbles it back. “You know, it’s good, though. It’s all good. Wasn’t going to work, anyway, because long-distance relationships are the fucking worst. Am I right?”
Simon winces. “Right.”
“No they’re not,” I say quickly.
“Yeah they are,” Nick says. He kicks the ball to Simon. “They’re doomed before they even start.”
“Not necessarily.” I look pointedly at Simon. “If you commit to making it work, it can work.”
Simon frowns, staring straight ahead.
“Dude, you’re supposed to kick it back.”
“Oh.” Simon’s eyes cut to the soccer ball, and he gives it a halfhearted nudge with his foot. It rolls two feet and stops. “Have you talked to Abby at all?”
“Nope. Not interested.” Nick grins. “Don’t care enough.”
“You don’t care.” Simon sounds dubious.
“Do you know how many girls there are at Tufts?” Nick asks calmly.
“A lot?”
“Millions. Millions and trillions.” He taps the ball with his toe. “I mean, honestly, Abby did me a favor.”
Simon’s eyes flick toward mine.
“Anyway, I’m already over her,” Nick adds.
Yeah, Nick, you really seem over her. Totally normal, and totally not having an epic fucking meltdown. God. I’m not an idiot, but wow: I’d love to believe him. Because if Nick were really over Abby, then maybe I’m not an asshole for hoping. Not for anything soon, obviously. Just. Maybe down the line—in a month or two—when things aren’t quite so raw. I could kiss her for real.
Nick slams his foot back into the ball, sending it flying toward the house.
Maybe not.
This time Simon runs to fetch it.
“So, Leah, you’re the one with all the romantic intrigue now,” Nick says, and it’s like someone smashing their fist on a piano. My heart sinks into my rib cage and drops out of my chest entirely.
“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out soft.
“Come on.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “You know Garrett has the biggest crush on you ever. But don’t tell him I told you,” he adds suddenly. “I’m not supposed to tell you that.”
“That’s—okay.” My stomach wrenches, and I have this sudden sinking feeling that I might burst into tears. Which is crazy. I should be happy. Or flattered. Or something.
“You guys should hook up at prom. That’s like the ultimate high school achievement, right?”
“You mean the ultimate high school cliché,” I say flatly.
“Well, you should do it,” Nick says.
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to what?” Simon asks, returning with the ball tucked under his arms.
“Guys. How many times do I have to say it? Stop carrying the fucking ball around.”
Simon drops it.
“I don’t want to hook up with Garrett,” I say, louder than I mean to. It comes out like a declaration. And suddenly, I feel so certain about this, it almost takes my breath away. I press a hand to my cheek. “I don’t want to kiss Garrett.”
Simon laughs. “Okay, then don’t.”
Nick kicks, and the ball rolls quietly toward me. My thoughts are quietly rolling, too.
I don’t want to kiss Garrett. I don’t want to kiss anyone.
Except her.
Which would be the wildest, most reckless, worst idea ever. I might as well stomp all over Nick’s heart, and then stomp all over my own. I can’t actually fall for a straight girl. I can’t fall for my best friend’s ex-girlfriend.
I take a breath. And the ball—I crash into it. I kick it like banging a drum. I kick it so hard, it flies halfway to the moon.
27
“SIMON’S ACTING WEIRD,” BRAM SAYS on Thursday, chin in hand. He and Garrett and I have claimed a table in the corner of the library. “It’s like there’s something he’s not telling me.”
“Maybe he’s gay,” Garrett whispers.
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering that.” Bram’s so deadpan when he says it that I can’t help but smile. But God. I can’t believe Simon hasn’t told him. Does he really think the distance between New York and Philadelphia is a dealbreaker? We’re not talking Paris or Tokyo. This is literally an hour and a half on the train.
“I don’t know,” Bram says finally. Garrett looks at me and shrugs. And it hits me, all of a sudden, how strange it is to be spending a morning in the library with these two. Not Simon and Nick, not Morgan and Anna. Just Bram, Garrett, and me. That wouldn’t have happened a year ago. I don’t think it would have happened six months ago.
“Burke, I can’t tell if you’re staring into space or staring at Taylor’s ass.”
“Definitely Taylor’s ass,” I say automatically. I blink, and there she is, a couple of yards away from us. She’s crouched down and appears to be helping a freshman sort through an array of scattered papers. Sometimes I forget what a Girl Scout she is.
“I think she’s into Eisner,” Garrett murmurs.
I nod. “Agreed.”
“But what about Abby?” Bram asks.
Garrett shrugs. “I mean, she dumped him. He’s a free agent.”
“I guess so.” Bram chews on his lip. “Prom’s going to be interesting.”
“Yeah, with Eisner and Suso in the same limo? Guaranteed shitshow.”
“You think it will be bad?”
“For them? Yeah. But we’ll have the best time, Burke, I promise.” He smiles, and there’s this softness in his eyes.
I freeze.
And then the bell rings. Thank God. “I should get to class.” I stand quickly, almost upending my chair.
Because, wow. I can’t do this. I can’t deal with Garrett’s mushy eyes and Nick’s broken heart. And I really can’t be this head over heels for a straight girl. The head and heels need to get back in line.
I need to fucking chill about this Abby situation.
There honestly can’t be an Abby situation.
But I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow afternoon. This my
sterious after-school plan that Abby’s concocting. She hasn’t said a word about it all week, and I’m actually starting to wonder if she’s forgotten about it entirely.
But just as we’re leaving English, she tugs the sleeve of my cardigan. “Hey, are you taking the bus tomorrow?”
My stomach goes haywire.
Like, seriously? Fuck this. Fuck you, butterflies. Stop acting like this is a rom-com moment. Am I taking the bus. That’s seriously a step above discussing the weather. But for some reason, my body’s decided to treat this like a marriage proposal.
I blink and nod and exhale.
“Cool. I can drive you home.” She grins. “I’m excited.”
I can’t even reply. I’m just a giant steaming mess.
The whole bus ride home, I’m like a blender on pulse. In one moment, I think I finally have my shit together, and then the anticipation hits me in one megawatt burst. Tomorrow, I get to be alone with Abby. Which doesn’t mean anything will happen. I’m pretty sure I’m trash for even wanting anything to happen.
But I may actually be losing my mind. I’m in the weirdest mood. I’m this close to flinging my arms out and running up a mountainside, Sound of Music–style.
I feel reckless.
And I want to do something.
I get online as soon as I get home and log into my art Tumblr. Because why shouldn’t I? I don’t even hesitate. I type some words and upload some pictures, and then I hold my breath and click post. Done. I link it to my sidebar.
And probably no one even gives a shit, and I’ll never hear from anyone—but in this moment, I don’t care. I really don’t. Because I did the thing, and I posted it, and now I feel like Bigfoot. Like every step I take leaves an imprint.
It’s right there on my Tumblr: I’m officially open for commissions.
28
BUT THE BIGFOOT FEELING VANISHES as soon as I get to school on Friday. Nick’s at my locker, clearly waiting for me. He perks up as soon as I get there. “Hey, I heard you’re hanging out with Abby today.”
“Um.” I hesitate. “Yeah. Is that okay?”
He nods. “Totally. Of course. I don’t want to get in the way of your friendship.” He does this weird, strained laugh. “It’s so funny, because I didn’t even know you guys were friends. But now you are! But, like, I’m totally cool with it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure. So sure.” He nods like a Muppet. Holy shit.
I mean, he’s falling apart—and this is over the idea of Abby and me as friends. Platonic, hetero, after-school friends. He would die if he knew. He would actually die. So, yeah.
“Hey. So.” He stares at my forehead. “Will you let me know if she mentions me?”
“Sure.”
“Cool. That’s awesome. Oh man. I really appreciate that.”
My stomach twists with guilt.
Of course, it’s the longest day in the history of long days. Time is actually curdling.
Abby finds me at my locker, in the same exact spot where Nick stood this morning. “Are you ready?” she asks, smiling. For a moment, I just look at her.
Her hair is pulled back, and her cheeks are almost glowing. I think she might be wearing eyeliner, but it’s actually hard to know. The eyelash situation is that intense. And she’s wearing a dress—short-sleeved and belted, over tights and ankle boots.
“The boots are from Athens,” she says, catching me staring, and I almost choke on my own spit.
“I know,” I say finally.
“I really like your dress,” she says.
It’s the universe one, and I’m not going to lie. Other than my prom dress, it’s the best thing I own.
“So the weather’s really perfect. I know exactly where I want to take you.”
Wow. Okay. Where she wants to take me? I don’t want to lose my shit or anything, but she’s really making this sound like a date.
“I’m good with whatever,” I manage.
“Since when are you this agreeable?”
“I’m super agreeable. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Suso.”
“Every time you call me Suso, I feel like you’re actually Garrett wearing a Leah mask.”
“Are there Leah masks?”
“There should be,” Abby says. Then she turns down a side hall and down the back stairs. There’s a set of double push doors at the end of the music hallway—and it’s funny, because I’m here all the time, but I’ve never even noticed them. Abby pushes and holds one open with her hip, and I step out into the soft afternoon warmth. We’re in a courtyard behind the school, where a path cuts toward the football stadium.
“Are you making me play football?” I ask. Because that’s all I fucking need. Another weird, tense game of sportsball. Is this the universal post-breakup ritual?
“Obviously. You’re a cornerback, right?”
“Okay. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
I step onto the path, matching her pace. “Are cornerback and quarterback actually two different things?”
“Is that a real question?” She seems amused.
“I figured it might just be lazy pronunciation.”
“Okay. Wow. You are way too cute.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
My cheeks are off-the-charts warm. I could grill steaks on them. I could break thermometers and straighten your hair and give you second-degree burns.
“Seriously, why are you taking me to the football field?”
“Because you’ve clearly never seen one before.”
I bite back a smile. “False. I attended a single game at UGA five years ago.”
“Let me guess—with Morgan?”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes.
“Did I tell you she apologized to me?”
“She did?”
“A few days ago. She seemed really messed up about it.” She veers left, glancing over her shoulder to make sure I’m following. Then she leads me through a gap in the stands, onto the track that surrounds the football field.
“Well, she should be. She fucked up.”
“She did.” Abby nods. “But I’m glad she apologized.”
Suddenly, Abby takes off, jogging to the center of the field and plopping onto the grass. By the time I catch up to her, she’s lying supine, propped up on her elbows.
I settle in beside her. “So, are you cool with her now?”
“I guess so?” She shrugs. “I mean, I’m not going to lie. That comment sucked. It’s just super hurtful. And I get it all the time. So then I get obsessed with the idea of proving people wrong and being, like, unimpeachably perfect, which probably isn’t healthy, and it’s just really exhausting. I hate it.” She sighs. “But I also hate conflict, especially this close to graduation. So I don’t know.”
“Yeah.”
“I guess it’s like, I forgive her, but I don’t really know if I can trust her again. Does that make sense?”
“Definitely.” I nod. “No, that makes perfect sense.”
Abby tilts her head toward me. “But I think it’s cool that you stood up for me.”
“I wasn’t standing up for you. I was standing up for decency.”
“I mean, decency is cool, too,” she says, and the corners of her mouth tug up. I can’t stop staring at her knees—the way the skirt of her dress drapes over them, fanning gently across the grass. “Anyway.” She scrunches her nose at me.
Which makes me scrunch my nose back at her.
“Don’t do that,” she says, covering her eyes.
“Don’t do what?”
“The thing.” She waves her hand. “The thing with the nose and the freckles. Oh my God.”
“I don’t get it.” I tap my finger to my nose.
She shakes her head, hands still over her face. But then she peeks through them. “You’re just cute,” she says softly.
“Oh.”
“And now you’re blushing.”
“No
I’m not.”
“Yes you are,” Abby says. “Which is also cute, so stop it.”
I can’t believe she’s doing this. Either she’s teasing me, which makes her an asshole, or she’s not, which . . . I don’t know.
I lie back on the grass, tucking my knees up into triangles. She looks at me for a moment, and then she scoots closer. Barely an inch of space between us. Just like September of junior year on Morgan’s bedroom floor. There’s a breeze now, cool and soft, and I watch it ruffle her bangs. She’s so beautiful, it makes my stomach hurt. I turn my head away quickly, eyes fixed on the clouds.
“I’m still not getting why you wanted to bring me here,” I say finally.
She laughs. “I know.” Then she inhales. I think she’s actually nervous. “I wanted to punch myself for picking Friday.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been wanting to tell you something since last weekend, and it’s been torture.” I sneak a peek at her face. She’s staring straight at the sky, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“You wanted to tell me something?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I pause expectantly, but she just bites her lip without speaking. I look at her sidelong. “So, are you going to tell me?”
“Give me a second.”
I nod, and my heart thuds wildly.
“Okay. So.” She takes a deep breath. “I came out over the weekend.”
“Came out, like . . . you came out?”
“Not to everyone,” she says quickly. “Not to my parents or anyone here. Just my cousins. The twins.” She turns toward me. “I was really nervous. Isn’t that weird?”
“Why would that be weird?”
“I don’t know. Because they’re like the gayest family ever?” She shrugs. “They took it really well, obviously. They were psyched.”
“That’s awesome.” I catch her eye. “Seriously, congrats.”
She grins and doesn’t reply, and for a moment, we just lie there.
“So, wait,” I say finally. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mmhmm.”
“What did you come out as?”
Abby laughs. “What do you mean?”
“Well, last I heard, you were straight, so.”
“I don’t think I’m straight,” she says, and my heart almost stops.
“I don’t know,” she adds finally. “I guess I’m like lowkey bisexual?”
Leah on the Offbeat Page 17
