Being Friends with Boys

by Terra Elan McVoy

  “Yes, it’s fine. I just . . . there’s something . . . with a guy . . . He asked me to—”

  “Who? Benji?” he asks, sharp.

  “What? No. God.” A solution occurs to me. Not a great one—and not one I really want—but one that might smooth things out. “Maybe you want to come? There’s this band at the Masquerade and I don’t know anything about them, but—”

  “Um, no thanks.”

  “Wait. I mean, why not?”

  Behind the gold rims of his glasses, his eyes are steady, flat. “Are you forgetting that tricycles are the only things that function well with three wheels? And I’m a little tall for those now.” His fingers flute out to illustrate his complete height.

  “It’s not like that. I mean—” But, of course, it is. I didn’t really want him to say yes, anyway. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. I can cancel with him. Let me study this crazy awesome list a bit more and—”

  “No, don’t cancel.” He backs away from me, getting ready to head down the hall to his class. “Do your thing. It sounds cool. And you should probably be out hearing new bands, anyway, now that you’re in one.”

  He turns and disappears down the hall before I can say anything; before I can say, for example, Well, tonight’s Friday—what about that? And also before I can tell, really, if he’s being sincere and supportive, or if it’s supposed to sound as mean as it does.

  When Trip isn’t waiting for me later—when he doesn’t show up after about two minutes of my just standing there, looking for him in the hallway—I guess I have my answer. I finally wrote him this long thing about how we could’ve done something tonight if he’d stuck around, how he completely, unfairly overreacted, and how friends are supposed to be glad for each other when they get asked out by people they like, even if it’s complicated, but that makes me stop writing, because, well, there’s the whole not-wanting-to-put-Fabian-in-writing-yet thing.

  I end up ripping up my little rant and tossing it in the trash outside of class. I’m going to try to catch Trip in the parking lot before he takes off after school, ask him about tonight in person. But when I get there he’s nowhere to be seen. Since Benji and I aren’t studying together this week either, I head home with my stepsisters.

  It’s not until eleven o’clock that Trip responds to my Where did you go? text.

  With Chris is all it says.

  I fling my phone down onto a pile of dirty laundry.

  Saturday I can’t worry about Trip anymore, because we have rehearsal. Instead I’m thinking—maybe for the first time—about my clothes. Normally, I’d pull on jeans and a Salvation Army sweater—maybe put my hair in a ponytail, maybe not—and walk over to Oliver’s, start helping Mrs. Drake with the snacks. But this Saturday is different. I want to try at least a little harder today.

  But as I stand in front of my dresser, hating everything I own, it also occurs to me that Fabian’s already asked me out, even though he’s mostly seen me in costumes befitting a stay-at-home dad. Trying too hard today might be obvious, or silly. And anyway, I want to dress up tonight, and for him to notice, so maybe I should wear what I normally wear to rehearsal. I consider calling Darby in for consultation or, better, Gretchen, who’s actually been in a relationship, but then, that’s ridiculous because it’ll just bring even more attention to the whole thing.

  It’s just rehearsal, I tell myself. I put on my favorite jeans for comfort and a black turtleneck for the chic factor, pull my hair back, and throw in some earrings for good measure—call it a compromise.

  Dressing normal for rehearsal doesn’t make me feel any more normal, though. Abe comes in, then Eli arrives, and finally Fabian. You’re always last to rehearsal, I want to say to him in some teasing way. But then it would seem like I was waiting. Which I was, but still. Instead I just smile, try to be aloof, and make sure I walk behind him down the stairs so he doesn’t see my flushed face.

  “I gotta leave at four, man,” Eli says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the stairs. Immense relief and gratitude sweep through me. Darby has some pre-date regimen she wants me to go through, and I’ve accepted mostly because it will help to have someone distracting me from being so nervous. Now we’ll actually have time for it.

  “Let’s go over the new material again, then,” Oliver says. “And then if there’s time, a few of the old hits, just to keep ourselves limber. Spider?”

  “Huh?” I think my mouth is open. “I mean, yes?”

  Oliver’s eyes squinch a little. “You okay? With starting?”

  “Oh, um. Sure? But maybe can we do ‘Foreign Tongue’ first? Since I’m just backup?” I clear my throat. “I haven’t warmed up or anything.”

  Oliver nods. Abe nods. Eli nods. Fabian nods. Why my entire body is swimming with heat, I don’t know. I’ve sung in front of Fabian before. He thinks I’m excellent.

  But that’s what makes it harder to sing now. He thinks I’m so excellent that he wants to spend more time with me. On our own. Together. Tonight. Only about six hours from now, he and I will be driving in his superclean car together to go listen to music that he wants me to hear and—

  But I have to sing now. And I can’t let Oliver suspect a thing, anyway.

  “Listen, listen, sssshhhhhhh . . .” I half murmur behind Oliver’s line.

  Everything comes out properly, though my “sshhhhh” is sloppy: surprised and wet. The next part, “Tell me, tell me, sssshhhhhh,” comes out better. I am not looking at Fabian. Or Oliver. I am trying to sing honest. Excellent. “Tell me. Tell me.”

  The rest of rehearsal, I force myself to focus on the music, to not wonder what we’ll talk about tonight in the car, what the club will be like, if we’ll go out on the floor to dance and if his hand will somehow come in contact with mine when we do. The end of the night—the potential kissing, even though we shouldn’t—makes me press my eyes closed and my thighs together at the same time.

  At four on the dot, Eli slings his bass into his case and splits. Abe looks like he’s going to stick around, maybe play some video games with Oliver awhile, and I can’t tell what Fabian’s in the mood for because I’m trying not to look at him. I jerk my thumb in Eli’s wake, explain I should be heading off too.

  “Oh,” Fabian says, surprised.

  “Yeah.” I pause. Does he want me to stay?“Got some . . . cleaning up . . . I need to do at home. I mean, around the house, before we . . .”

  Is it me? Or are Oliver and Abe suddenly paying careful attention?

  Fabian holds up his hand. A wave? A dismissal? A stop-before-you-say-too-much-because-this-is-a-secret? “I’ll see you then.”

  Um. Okay. “Okay. I’ll see you.”

  I give as normal a good-bye to Oliver and Abe as I can, and then get myself up the stairs and out the door as fast as humanly possible.

  “You’re so late!” Darby hisses when I make it safely to my house. She is halfway down the staircase, holding a plastic tray loaded with nail polish and cotton balls and several small, silver, plucky-looking tools.

  I shut the door, hang up my jacket, and head upstairs, knowing she’ll follow. I’m still jittery from trying to act normal around the guys, and Darby’s pressure doesn’t help. “He’s not going to be here until, like, eight.”

  “Which means we need to hurry. You need to shower and shampoo”—her eyes narrow—“so that your hair can air dry completely before we fix it. And then lotion, and we’ll do your nails, and I guess you’ll have to eat before you get dressed so you don’t spill anything. But you’re not going to be that hungry, right? We could skip dinner. You could do some sit-ups instead.”

  “I am not going out on an empty stomach. And you’re not doing my nails, either.”

  “Gah, Charlotte. I’m trying to help you, you know. You said you wanted.”

  “I know. And I do appreciate it. I do. But I think it’ll be a little suspicious if I look like Powder Puff Princess all of a sudden.”

  “True.” She assesses me. “But you do still need to sho
wer.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Here.” Darby hands me a glittery bottle.

  “What is this?” I try to read the girly cursive label.

  “Exfoliating wash. Scrub it over everywhere, especially your feet, elbows, and knees, before you do your regular soap-up.”

  “This doesn’t smell like baby powder or anything, does it?” I pop open the cap, take a whiff.

  “No, creep. It’s Shalimar shea. You’ll smell like a sexy queen.”

  “Sexy queen, huh?” I reach for my bathrobe, hanging on the back of my door.

  “And don’t forget to shave, for god’s sake!” she screams after me down the hall.

  Seven thirty, and Fabian’s texted twice, letting me know when he’s left his place and when he should arrive at mine. It’s reassuring that he seems as anxious about tonight as I am. Getting ready so early has given me way too much time to think about it, though. For one thing, I’ve realized that going to hear a band at a club isn’t exactly the same intimacy as going to dinner and a movie. It’s not like we’ll be able to talk much. Which makes me think, maybe he doesn’t want to talk much, and instead just wants me along—like Lish used to do sometimes—so he doesn’t have to go somewhere alone. But, then again, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would mind going somewhere alone. He probably has friends he’d meet up with, anyway, right? I mean, he’s been there before, so this isn’t some new experience for him. Maybe he does want my company.

  But this could just be about wanting to get to know the members of the band more, right? So then why didn’t he invite Oliver and Abe, too? I snap back in my head. I almost want to ask Darby about all of this—really, I want to ask Trip, but he’s obviously not interested in discussing my plans this evening. Or anything, for that matter, since he’s neither called nor texted all day. Jerk.

  At 7:54, I’m letting Darby fuss with my hair some more, just to give us both something to look at until Fabian gets here. She won’t let me go downstairs and hang out in front of the TV.

  “You have to come down the stairs, duh. And you have to make him wait a little.”

  “But then Dad will try to—”

  “Risk you have to take,” she says, her eyebrows and lips patronizing as hell. “Besides, if he’s going to be doing this often, he better be comfortable with your dad, right?”

  If he’s going to be doing this often. I am still not even sure if this is really a date. I mean, it has most of the essential first-date ingredients, including my breath-catching interest in him. It’s his interest in me that I’m not so overwhelmingly sure about.

  I look at myself in the mirror. Darby and I went back and forth quite a lot on the outfit. She wanted me to wear tighter-fitting jeans and a purple minidress of hers over them with a big giant belt across my middle, topped off with a yellow-and-white-striped cardigan and these giant dangling sparkly earrings. “See if Gretchen will let you borrow her slouchy boots, too,” she said. But I just glared at her.

  “If I’m wearing boots,” I told her, “it’s my combats.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Flats, at least?”

  We ended up compromising okay. I’m in jeans I haven’t worn since last winter, because I don’t like the way they hug my butt and hips, but Darby insists that’s how jeans are supposed to fit. I passed on the minidress but agreed to a loose, artsy top that she usually wears with leggings. I said no way to the belt.

  Makeup was another fight, because I just don’t wear any, and Darby had this entire kit of waxes and powders and concealers and who knows what else.

  “Mascara and lip gloss and that’s it,” I growled at her.

  But she talked me into some powder. And a tiny bit of bronzer on my cheeks, too.

  The hair, I have to say, is really the best part. I don’t want her to get too big a head, so I’m going to have to ask her carefully, but I really would like to know what she did. It’s just nice and wavy, instead of the heavy, tangled mess it usually is.

  “You look good.” She smiles happily.

  “Thanks.” My own smile at her in the mirror turns quickly to pale horror when the doorbell rings. Instinctively I reach for her hand. She squeezes it back just as hard.

  But I can’t stand waiting upstairs for as long as Darby wants me to, mostly because I don’t want Fabian to have to suffer Dad and all his dumb jokes and questions. Even if Fabian and I are just friends, Dad is a torture I can’t subject anyone to too much.

  When I get to the bottom of the stairs, both their eyebrows go up. Which is when Hannah comes in from the kitchen, where she’s been staying out of the way. She smiles brightly at me, pleased to see Darby’s makeover, but—my stepmom really is cool—she doesn’t say anything.

  “You look nice,” Fabian says. Does he actually think so? Or is it just that I look different, and “nice” is the only polite substitute?

  Dad makes a big deal about hugging me before we leave and making sure I have my phone, plus repeating my eleven thirty baby curfew about five times, which is hugely embarrassing, but Fabian doesn’t seem to mind. He’s polite and patient and even says, “I like your dad,” when we get to the car.

  “He’s a dork, but thank you.”

  “My dad’s a dork, too. It’s okay.”

  His unself-consiousness makes me remember that he asked me to do this. He wants me here. So I don’t have to be any different than I’d be in Oliver’s rec room.

  On the drive to the club, we talk together about the things we haven’t been able to at rehearsal: school, family, college plans, all of that. I don’t feel the slightest bit awkward telling him I’m pretty convinced I’m applying to Georgia Perimeter—maybe Mercer—because I already know I won’t have a very competitive application. By then Dad and Hannah will have three girls in college, anyway, so I don’t think they’ll mind me ending up somewhere cheaper and closer to home.

  “I might not even go at all, really,” I go on. I’ve only ever told Trip this part before, but Fabian’s understanding face makes it feel all right. “I figure it might end up being smarter for me to just, you know, get a job or something. Take some classes. Get to know myself a little more.”

  “That seems reasonable,” Fabian says.

  And it does. Even more so, now that he’s said it. Maybe I should get Fabian to explain it to Jilly and Dad, so that they’ll get off my back about having higher aspirations.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “International relations, probably. I’m looking at Duke.”

  “Wait, not music?”

  He shrugs. “They have that too. But I’m not sure this is a forever thing for me.”

  “But you’re so . . .” Excellent, I want to say. But then we’re at the Masquerade. Seeing it, I realize I’ve driven by it a ton of times without paying attention. It’s a big, dark, almost burned-looking building next to a giant, fenced parking lot that is maybe two football fields of asphalt. We have to walk almost five minutes before we even get to the door, where a puffy-faced, dread-headed girl asks to see our IDs. I want to ask Fabian more about the international relations thing—like how many languages he knows–but finally being here is a little intimidating.

  While I dig out my driver’s license, I grab a ten to pay my cover, but Fabian waves it away, saying, “You might not like the band, after all.”

  More evidence that This Is Actually a Date. Yesss.

  Inside the club, Fabian leans in close to my ear so I can hear him. “There are some people I want you to meet,” he says.

  A twinge hits the back of my mouth. Yes, Fabian’s face is now so close to mine that I can feel the warmth coming off his skin, but him saying there are going to be other people here makes my heart sink with disappointment.

  “Do you want anything before we go dance?” he asks, leading me up a dimly lit staircase to the second floor, where there’s a bar-looking area on the left and another dance floor on the right.

  Part of me wants to suggest we get a Coke and talk a little bit
longer before these mysterious other people horn in, but I know that’s just stalling the inevitable. I shake my head and try to smile. I follow him into the spinning blue glow.

  At the guardrail, he stands quiet, looking down. I watch the dancers on the floor, letting my eyes go from one body to the next. I don’t know who we’re looking for, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want them to materialize, ever. On the stage is one lone DJ and his laptop. He isn’t as cool as the turntable guys Trip has shown me before, but the people on the floor seem to like it.

  Suddenly I’m knocked in the back by some girl. I’m about to say What the hell? when I realize she’s run up to grab Fabian in a squealy hug. I watch as he lifts her off the ground, holding her in tight. Every bit of me knows, without question, that this is no date. My heart folds up somewhere deep inside my chest and shuts out the light. I would very much like to go home now and dissolve. I am, I guess, just too easy to hang out with. Just one of the guys.

  But it’s not like I can leave. Fabian shouts something into the huggy girl’s ear and gestures in my direction. I see there’s a second girl standing farther back, watching us. Now I wish Trip had come with me, or that I’d sounded more sincere asking him along. It would definitely make this part more bearable. I decide I’ll text him when I get a chance, whether he answers back or not.

  “Charlotte, this is Taryn,” Fabian says, close to me again. This time there’s no electric jolt. “And that’s Sylvia.”

  Sylvia raises her hand in greeting, solemn like one of those wooden Indian statues they have outside of hokey country stores. She is short, with pixie-cut black hair. The rest of her is dressed in black, too.

  Taryn is blond and bouncy like a pinup girl—one of the sweet, pink-cheeked ones who always has her knees (and sometimes her underpants) tangled up in some dog’s leash. She is happy and grabby, squeezing both my hands, pulling on Fabian’s arm. She’s adorable. Even though I don’t like that they’re here, I realize, begrudgingly, that I will probably like them both as people.

  “This DJ is awful,” Taryn yells, googling her eyes. She says something else in Fabian’s ear. He nods, and motions for us to walk ahead of him to the neighboring bar. Taryn bounces ahead, pulling me along by the wrist. Guess I’ll get my Coke, after all.