This Girl Isn't Shy, She's Spectacular

by Nina Beck

  “How about a reality check?” Riley asked.

  “Sure, hit me.”

  “She likes you.”

  “I know that,” D said. “Apparently she likes Justin too.”

  “She likes you more.”

  The two walked down the street together. Riley hooked her arm through D’s and the two walked slowly, letting even the women pushing their carriages home from the market pass them.

  “We are walking ridiculously slow,” D said, after a woman weighed down with two bags, a dog, and a double stroller passed them, giving D and Riley a dirty look for taking up so much sidewalk when she was in a rush.

  “We are enjoying each other’s company.”

  “That we are,” D said, and then after a pause, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “No, I want you to talk.”

  “About?”

  “About why you can’t like her and do all the other stuff at the same time.”

  D thought about it for a while, a long while, as they walked. They walked past the entrance to the park and then started walking down Broadway. “It just feels like everything I do is to avoid doing the stuff I need to do, you know? I want to know that when I’m interested in her, it’s because of her and not because I’m avoiding my life.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to like her,” he said slowly. “It’s just that I don’t want to like her.”

  “OK,” Riley said, as if what he said made any sense at all.

  “I’m used to girls liking me. I’m used to them pursuing me. I’m not used to doing the pursuing. What if I pursue her and she decides she doesn’t like me anymore?”

  “Then I assume you will break up or whatever,” Riley said.

  “Exactly, and if I like her—”

  “It’ll suck.”

  “Exactly.”

  Riley thought for a minute and then looked D square in the eye, pulled his hands toward her, and held them there. “It sucks right now, D.”

  D nodded slowly, Riley matching his nods, as he thought about that. It sucked now. It would suck if Samantha didn’t like him, but it would suck either way. That, of course, would suck a lot more, and he said as much.

  #12 FALL IN LOVE

  Samantha was out on her second date with Justin and she was having fun. They went to Chelsea Piers and bowled (well, Justin bowled, Samantha gutter-bowled), so they sat in an awesome darkened bowling alley while Samantha wished she hadn’t worn a skirt (but Justin was smart and thought to bring an extra pair of socks).

  Justin had been really cute and had been trying really hard, so he had packed tons of food, in little baggies—and if Samantha had thought it would be fancy food, she was doomed to disappointment.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Justin had said, pulling out sandwiches. “I wanted to make everything myself.” Samantha smiled. “Except all I know how to make is PB and J, so, um, that’s what we’ve got here.” Samantha laughed and Justin started laughing with her, only to calm down and start up again after they pulled two really sad-looking sandwiches out of their plastic baggies.

  “I could only find prune spread; we were out of grape jelly…” he offered by way of explanation when she bit into her sandwich and looked up at him questioningly.

  It was a good date. It was a simple date, but Justin was being overwhelmingly kind and Samantha could almost forget about D as she looked at Justin. Justin looked at her like he could be in love with her.

  “I hear you do that,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Look at girls like you are in love with them,” Samantha said.

  “Ah, yes,” Justin said. “But I’m not.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m not in love with you,” he said slowly.

  “I know that,” Samantha said, just as slowly, and found it oddly reassuring that the sentiment didn’t even sting.

  “But I like you,” he said. “I like how you talk and I like what you say. I like the way you wear your hair.” Samantha patted down her hair self-consciously. “I like how unaware of how pretty you are, you are.” He laughed again. “That sounded weird.”

  “No, no,” she said, “I understand.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you and get to know you.”

  “Well, we’re talking now.”

  “And it’s good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m new at this, Sam,” he said. “So, take it easy on me.”

  “New at what?”

  “Liking a girl,” he said with a cautious smile. Then he offered her a cookie that was completely burned to a crisp and she laughed again, but ate it and asked for another. He looked shocked and said something about not wanting to poison her on their second date.

  And then he walked her home from the subway.

  “Good night, Samantha,” Justin said, holding her hands and standing close.

  “Good night, Justin,” she said, and then Justin raised his hand to her cheek and turned her head slightly, and kissed her gently, close to her mouth but not on it. And for a second Sam was disappointed.

  Until he asked to see her phone, plugged his number in, and called it.

  “Now I have your number and you’ll never be rid of me,” he said. Sam smiled up at him and then watched him as he left, walking down the street with his hands in the front pockets of his khaki pants. He got halfway down the street before turning to smile and wave. She waved back and then went inside, feeling happy.

  Moments later, she received a text, and flipping her phone open—thinking it might be an early text from Justin—saw Riley’s number and the message:

  D showed up late. Not happy. How was date?

  Samantha thought about the date… It wasn’t horrible. In fact, it was just the opposite. She thought about how Justin put his arm behind her—his hand at the base of her back—in a way that felt comfortable and mature. Sam couldn’t quite explain it, but she felt excited by that intimacy and wondered if he was going to kiss her.

  The minute she thought that, she felt sad. She didn’t really like Justin. Or she liked him, but she liked him like she liked a good friend—he was an exciting boy, and very good-looking, but there was something missing.

  That said, she felt like maybe it was just in her head, maybe D was making her mind loopy. But the feelings she had for D—that automatic rush, the anticipation, the jumpiness—they just weren’t there with Justin. Instead Justin made her feel comfortable, like they had known each other for weeks. And yet there was a little buzz of something, which Sam couldn’t quite make out, but figured it might have to do with Justin’s extreme good looks and charm. She’d wait it out, she figured, wait it out and see what happened.

  When Justin called her that night, he asked her to the Spring Fling.

  “I don’t know,” Sam said.

  “Is this still about Hammond?” Samantha could hear the frustration in his voice, and wanted it to be different. She wanted to like Justin as much as she liked D. At least that would make sense; she knew Justin liked her. She didn’t even know what D was up to!

  “It is,” Sam admitted.

  “I should never have told you that play-hard-to-get crap. Now I’ll never know if you’re going out with me just to get him or what.”

  “I went out with you because I liked you, and we had fun,” Sam said.

  “Well, I think we’d have fun at the dance.”

  Sam didn’t say anything.

  “Look, worse comes to worst, we go as friends and have a good time.”

  “Can we go as friends? Really?”

  “Probably not, but I’m willing to try if you are.”

  Sam laughed. “That sounds like a plan, then.”

  D RESOLVES TO FALL IN LUST, OR DEEP-LIKE, OR HAVE A CRUSH (ON SOMEONE NOT DUMB) (AND NOT DRUNK)

  It was two nights before the dance and D was going to see his father. He had called his father’s secretary earlier that day and she had let him know that he would be home that evening, so D was added to
his father’s schedule.

  Sometimes D hated the way his family was. Sometimes he loved it and couldn’t imagine it any other way. This was one of the latter times.

  D was supposed to be at the house at eight, so he arrived several minutes earlier because, as his father put it, “Early is on time, on time is late, late is inexcusable.” There had been times when he had shown up a couple of minutes late only to be turned away because, as his father explained, he had too much to take care of to rearrange his schedule for a child who couldn’t get his act together.

  D was admitted to the house by the butler, who asked after him and said he was glad to see him. D chatted a little before asking if his father was at home—of course he was, he was always at home for dinner.

  He was in the study, doing work, when D knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” called a gruff voice, and D walked in. His father, looking small behind the great large oak desk, was at the other end of the narrow room. This had been D’s favorite room as a child, when he had come to the States to visit his father. Most of his time was spent in London with his mother, but when she got sick and couldn’t care for him any longer, he remembered his first night here—still in his coat, sitting on the leather chair facing his father’s desk while his father lectured him on the duties and responsibilities he would have if he was going to live here.

  If, as if it hadn’t already been decided, as if D had anywhere else to go.

  Ever since then, being in this room had given D the simultaneous feelings of childhood joy and teenage angst. He hated it here; he loved it here. He hated his father; he loved him.

  D never quite knew how to reconcile those two emotions, but now wasn’t the night for that. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen that night, but he knew he wouldn’t fix his entire relationship with his father that evening.

  “What happened?” his father asked, looking up from his paperwork that was spread out across his desk.

  “What happened?” D asked, turning around and looking behind him, then back at his father. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Uh…”

  “If you are, tell me—we can fix it, but you have to own up to it.”

  “I’m not in any trouble,” D said, feeling both wretched that his father always thought so ill of him—albeit, he hadn’t given him many reasons to think otherwise—and slightly comforted by the fact that he was so quick to offer his help. Even when it was completely unnecessary.

  “Then…”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” D said. “Without it being a lecture.”

  “Ha,” D’s father said, leaning back in the chair. “Then take a seat and tell me what you’d like to talk about.”

  “Actually…”

  “Is this about a girl?” D’s father said.

  “I didn’t get anyone pregnant,” D responded.

  “Who said you did?”

  “I figured that was your next question.”

  “Absolutely not,” D’s father huffed. “I know you’re not a complete idiot. I just think that you’re here. You never come here, definitely not to talk to me. You haven’t been here voluntarily since you were eleven.”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten, then. So, it must be a big deal. And if you’re not about to be jailed or if you didn’t join the army—you didn’t, did you?—then it’s about a girl.”

  “How do you know it’s about a girl?”

  “Because I did the same thing with my father when I met your mother,” D’s father said, his booming voice trailing off at the end. “A man tells his father when he meets a woman he’s serious about.”

  “Well, that provides a bad precedent, doesn’t it?” D said, awkwardly rearranging himself in the leather chair. He used to love these chairs when he was younger. Would think of them as great big ships where he had to hop from one to the other, lest he fall in the deep sea between them. Now they were just two chairs in front of a large oak desk, on a solid oak floor. No more ships.

  “Not necessarily,” D’s father said, sounding as if he felt awkward. D always wondered why his mother and father split up so many years ago. He barely remembered them together. Just a few times when his mother was in New York, they sat in this office while his father was away and she played with him here, and let him draw at his father’s desk. But more of his memories were of his father in London. Walking in the park, between his parents. Watching them watch movies. The three of them had barely been together, even before his parents split up, and then when his mother got sick—never again. But prior to then there were a few good memories that made D question what happened between his parents. He never knew when to ask or what to ask. Somehow “Why did you fall out of love with my mother?” didn’t seem like a good opener.

  “Well, either way.”

  “Yes.”

  “I met a girl.”

  D’s father nodded solemnly. “Who is she?” he asked.

  “She has to be somebody?” D asked, his voice raised slightly. “Is she not good enough for us already?”

  “Calm down, Michael. I’m just asking after who she is.”

  D took a deep breath and realized that he was overreacting. He just was so tightly wound, sitting here, seeking his father’s approval when all he wanted was to not need it. But he needed it. For more than just college tuition. He wanted it.

  “Her name is Samantha Owens. Her mother is a producer of a food TV show; her father writes a column for the Times.”

  “The Times is a good paper.”

  “Yeah,” D said.

  “And?”

  “And?”

  “What’s she like?”

  D thought about Samantha—how to describe her—and smiled. She was a mix of different words that D couldn’t begin to explain. Perhaps he should tell his father about the way they met? D smiled.

  “Ah, it’s like that, is it?”

  “Like what?” D asked defensively.

  “You love her.”

  “I—”

  “Love her?” D’s father added helpfully.

  “I don’t know,” D answered honestly.

  D’s father nodded. “That’s a good start. There is still a question. Let the question stand until you are sure of the answer. Until then, I hope to meet her soon—she sounds delightful.”

  D stared at his father incredulously. “You haven’t heard anything about her.”

  “I can see how you feel about her. I know you’ve never come here to tell me about a girl before. I know that you are a good boy who doesn’t need to waste his time with trashy people, and I know that deep down you know the difference. Look how loyal you and the Swain girl are to each other.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” D’s father said, nodding.

  “You hate Riley,” D accused.

  “Nothing of the sort!” D’s father said. “I hardly know the girl. I think she’s a bit brash and perhaps a bit too…colorful for my taste. But anyone who remembers to send a birthday and holiday card each year, anyone who is a loyal, good friend to my son…”

  “Riley sends you a birthday card each year?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  D scoffed, “What I don’t know about what Riley Swain does could fill rooms of books.”

  D’s father nodded. “She sent a beautiful letter after your mother died.”

  D looked shocked, so his father continued, “She said you were hurting very badly and wished you had been there with her.”

  “I—”

  “I asked if you wanted to go back,” D’s father said, “but you didn’t want to go. And I felt…”

  D felt his eyes begin to swell, and his nose began to hurt, and if he wasn’t careful he’d cry—right here in this old study—and he might hate himself. “Yes, well, she is loud and brash.”

  D’s father waited a moment, then nodded. “But a nice girl.”

  “Samantha is a good friend of hers,” D said.

&nb
sp; D’s father nodded.

  “I’d like you to meet her,” D said. “And…” D took a deep breath.

  “And,” he continued, “I need to tell you. I’m not going to your college. I’m going to college, but I’m applying other places. I’d like to study music and I’d like your support.”

  “Music?”

  “I’ve been practicing and I made some appointments for auditions for the spring semester. I have one at Juilliard in two weeks.”

  “And you want to do this all on your own?”

  “I need to,” D said, hoping his father would understand.

  “I respect that,” D’s dad said. “How about dinner next week?”

  “I’ll call your secretary,” D said, “to make the arrangements.”

  D felt buoyant. This had gone better than he could have planned.

  “Michael—” D’s father said as D began to stand, ready to leave the room as quickly as he came in.

  “Yes, sir?” D asked.

  “Nothing,” D’s father said. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

  “Yes,” D said, feeling as if the formality of his good-bye was the only thing that would keep him from bursting into tears like an absolute child. He nodded once to his father before closing the door behind him, then walked out of the house—saying good-bye to his father’s butler—and down the street, wondering what Samantha was doing.

  #13 DRESS FOR SUCCESS

  The afternoon before the dance, Samantha opted to dump the writing for the day and work on finding the most amazing dress ever. Earlier, Riley had sent her a picture of the dress she’d be wearing to the dance. Followed by seven texts and two e-mails from Riley asking if Sam thought she needed to remind Eric about proper attire and about a corsage and about…and then three e-mails and a harried voice mail from Eric about how Riley was driving him crazy and could Samantha please talk some sense into her before he arrived.

  “I need to go shopping!” Samantha yelled down the hallway of her family’s home, but nobody was home, or nobody was responding, so Sam called her mother, who told her to take her credit card and buy something as long as it “wasn’t too outrageously priced.”