So I say it: “Well, maybe I won’t, then.”
I expect Oliver to at least look up after that, but he stares at his guitar, fingers barely making any sound over the strings.
I stand up.
He doesn’t move.
I go upstairs and let myself out.
Getting out of the warm closeness of Oliver’s rec room and into the clean, cold, darkening air is like a physical manifestation of truly making a break. But it also feels sharp and terrible, leaving him that way. I’m not sure, ten yards away from Oliver’s house, that I’ve actually done what I’ve done. I need to say it out loud to make it real. And since Trip is not an option, I call the only person I can think of at this point who I know will answer for sure.
“I quit the band,” I tell Benji as soon as he picks up.
“Which one?”
This makes me laugh. “Oliver’s. Sad Jackal. I quit. I think.”
“You think? Or you know?”
I tell him about telling Oliver I don’t want to do it anymore, how tired I am, doing his bidding with almost zero appreciation.
“You okay?” he asks.
I’m honest. “I’m not sure.”
“You need me to come over? Give you a little . . . comfort?”
“Shut up,” I retort, before I realize this isn’t the old Benji talking. “I mean, I think I’m okay. But that’s sweet of you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says.
“I’m okay, really.” But I think of psych tomorrow and having to be in the same room as Oliver. Of Lish at lunch, pestering me about why I quit. Do I tell people? Or just let them find out? Am I honestly not going back? And how in the world am I going to tell Fabian?
“Listen,” I say with seriousness. “You’ve been so incredible to me. And I appreciate it. I mean, thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
It’s not enough, but it will have to do.
I let myself into the house quietly and tiptoe upstairs to my room. Since I promised I would, I figure I should try to get some more homework done before Dad and Hannah get home. But almost as soon as I shut the door behind me, Darby bursts in.
“Did you hear?” she squeals, ignoring my comment about, you know, knocking. She grabs my hairbrush and starts singing into it like a microphone, popping her hips and pointing a glittery fingernail at me. “You. Are gonna. Be playing at. Winter Formal!”
The blood drops out of my face and into my stomach. “No.”
“Yes! I was just online with Alicia, whose sister is in SGA, and she said at their meeting this afternoon it was unanimous that they want Sad Jackal. Even, like, the director agreed.” She juts her hand over her head in rock star victory. “So, what do you think about that, huh?”
“I think that’s great,” I groan. “That’s really . . . great.”
I don’t tell Darby about my quitting Sad Jackal. Partly because she’d freak, and I don’t want to deal, but also because, thinking about it a little more after dinner and the next morning, I’m not sure I have technically quit. I only said maybe I don’t want to be a part of the band. And Oliver said I didn’t have to be there. Which means, if I want to, I can be. And the idea of Winter Formal makes me think I still might. I mean, Winter Formal is huge. And it will also be fun. But I’m still mad at Oliver. He’ll need to say something to me about it first, and apologize for yesterday. For all of it.
I thought he’d call me last night, actually, to tell me the news. But when he didn’t, I figured he doesn’t know yet. Just because Darby got hot gossip, that doesn’t mean SGA has reached out to Sad Jackal. They’ll probably call him, to be all official. maybe I’m not even supposed to know. I figure I’ll wait Oliver out, see what he does.
It’s hard not to tell Benji about it, though, when I meet him to walk to 20th Cen. He gives me a peck on the lips that’s so quick I hardly know it’s happened, and we walk to class, holding hands. Though I don’t feel very girlfriendy toward him right now, it’s still nice.
It’s nice too when, as soon as Dr. Campbell announces we’ll have another take-home test to pick up at the end of class, Benji turns and winks at me. Probably I don’t need his help anymore, but I like it that this is now our thing. Whether kissing is involved or not.
At lunch I keep waiting for Winter Formal to come up, but it seems the weekend is the main topic of conversation. Benji and I are old news; everybody’s busy talking about the new movie that’s opening, where we’re spending the night, what time we’ll go to the show, et cetera. Not even Lish mentions Sad Jackal, or my new boyfriend.
After lunch I try to focus on my next two classes, but mostly I’m thinking about Oliver. He’s going to be stoked, whenever he finds out, and even though I’m mad at him, it will be great to see his face.
But I meant what I said yesterday and, more than that, I meant what I felt. I won’t go running back to him because he needs me. This isn’t like seventh grade, when all it took was for him to wait long enough after I started giving him the Silent Treatment for me to break down, and we’d go back to normal after a joke before school. Just telling me about Winter Formal and asking about new material—even if he has that really panicked look on his face—isn’t going to be enough. He needs to show me that he really understands, on every level. Because probably to get ready for this gig, I will have to quit singing with Taryn and Sylvia, and the way Oliver’s been acting, working with them is way more fun. Oliver’s going to need to—well, maybe not beg, but definitely do something more than act like nothing happened, like he usually does. Being asked to do the most important formal at school besides prom (and maybe after Winter Formal we will get asked to do prom) doesn’t mean good old reliable Spider will jump in like always, help him make everything work.
So I don’t wait for him outside of psych. When he comes in, my eyes don’t waver from my reading. After Ms. Neff begins her lecture, I face forward the whole time.
When the bell rings at the end of the day, I take my time putting my notebook in my bag. But when I look up, he’s already gone. And he isn’t waiting for me outside, either.
Who is waiting for me, however, talking to Gretchen by the car, is Benji.
“Hey there,” he says when I walk up.
“Hey.”
He leans in, gives me one of those quick kisses again. Gretchen looks away.
“I’ve got practice this afternoon,” I tell him.
“I know.” He smiles up under his bangs. “I thought—” He puts his arm over my shoulder, trying to be casual. He watches the people walking past us, clears his throat. I see Gretchen not-looking at us again. I lean back into his arm, try to make it feel a little more normal. But we aren’t talking, and he doesn’t say anything to Gretchen either. We stand there, waiting for take-forever Darby. Every minute that passes, his arm gets heavier on my shoulder.
“So, then,” he says when my stepsister finally strolls up.
I get myself out from under his arm. “So, tomorrow? After school? For the test?”
“Should I call you later?”
“I’ll probably be at Taryn and Sylvia’s right up until dinner,” I dodge. “And then I have a ton of homework and some songwriting to do probably. So, tomorrow?”
He nods. But I see the trace of a frown on his face.
“I’ll see you in my dreams,” I try to joke, but I sound weird and stiff too.
“Sure thing.” He gives me that crooked salute and strides off toward the upper lot. I realize he must’ve hustled out of last period to make sure to find me down here before I left. It’s pretty perfect boyfriend behavior, to be honest. But not perfect me-andBenji behavior, which is what I’m starting to miss.
Taryn’s supposed to pick me up at three thirty for our practice, but as four o’clock and then four thirty pass, I realize I’m waiting for nothing. I’m stranded at home with no car, and neither Taryn nor Sylvia is responding. After five, Taryn sends a text: SHOOT! WE HAD A MTG 2DAY I 4GOT. MAKE IT UP SAT? XOXOXO.
In my frustration I’m t
empted to call Fabian, but complaining to him about the friends he introduced me to seems uncool, and telling him about my fight with Oliver is unnecessary, since we’ll make up any minute now. I put some bagel pizzas in the toaster oven and email Jilly. I write and write—not knowing I had so much to say. I tell her how enthusiastic Taryn and Sylvia are. How Lish has resurfaced and that I’m looking forward to hanging out this weekend with her and the other girls. That I sort of quit Sad Jackal, but I know Oliver’s going to ask me back, and ultimately this is a good thing for us to go through. I tell her about Benji, too, and in doing so think maybe I should call him, since I’m not at practice. But we left it that we’d talk tomorrow and for some reason that’s what I want to do—think about him, and the rest of it, tomorrow.
I’m at my locker between first and second the next morning when Lish comes crashing into me, throwing her arms around my neck and squealing indecipherably into my hair.
When she steps back her face is lit up like a birthday cake. One with lots of pink roses. “I can’t believe it. I can’t! Winter Formal? Oh my god! You are so cool!”
She’s grinning so hard I could pluck the tendons on her neck and play a song.
So, I guess the word is out.
Now that I know Oliver knows, I’m dying to see him. All he has to do is apologize, really. I mean, he is one of my oldest friends, and this is my band too.
I’m so caught up in thinking about it, I can barely concentrate in 20th Cen. When it’s over, I almost don’t know why Benji’s taking my hand and leading me out the door.
“You still want to do the test this afternoon?” he asks me after a minute.
His uncertain tone catches me off guard enough to pull me out of my mental whirl. “Of course, duh. Why? Don’t you want to?”
“Wasn’t sure if you needed me anymore is all.”
“Of course I need you. You don’t think that?”
“It’s up to you,” he says, not smiling.
I stop, since I’m going out to the parking lot to meet Lish, but he keeps walking. “Hey,” I holler. “After school, yeah? Parking lot? We’re cool, right? I really, really, really need you!”
His hand raises up, but he doesn’t turn around.
I don’t wait for Oliver outside of psych, but I do look up when he comes into class. He doesn’t look at me at all, and it twinges a little, but this is how it usually works with us. I glance over at him a couple of times before the bell, but he’s got his back to me, talking to the kid on his other side. It’s immature, but I can take it. Our friendship and the band are both bigger than this, and so am I.
After Ms. Neff gets us settled into our timed writing, I tear off a corner of notebook paper and write on it, Great news about Winter Formal. I slip it across to him, tucking it under his elbow. For just a second, his head jerks up in my direction, but then he frowns at his paper and writes with more purpose. When I look back, the note’s on the floor. A strange shock rises in me, understanding that he actually pushed it there on purpose. Without even looking at it.
We write for the entirety of class. Half-focused on my essay, I can’t help but sneak looks every now and then at my scrap there on the floor, right by his shoe. Maybe he didn’t see it fall. Maybe he doesn’t even know I slipped it over.
But I know he saw me. I know he lifted his head.
When the bell rings, he moves coldly and quickly away from me. So now I also know that Sad Jackal is going to play Winter Formal without me.
The stun of absolute rejection from Oliver numbs me. I can move—I’m plodding out of class, into the hall, up the ramp, and through the doors, out to the parking lot—but I can’t feel myself doing it. I walk, lifting the corners of my mouth in recognition when other people wave hello. I squint in the cold, bright sunshine. I find Benji’s car, see him resting his forearms and elbows on the roof, watching me through his sunglasses. I know I do this. But I can’t feel how.
“Hey,” I say, closing the gap between us.
I watch myself reach for the door handle, feel my muscles pull it open. I hear his fingers drum against the roof of the car. Hear, “All right, then,” over me as I drop down into the passenger’s seat.
“You okay?” he wants to know, appearing in the seat next to me.
“I’m okay.”
I can’t tell him. Can’t explain, because I can’t fully wrap my head around what’s happened. Also, I’m not sure I can get the words out.
“Good to see you,” he says, leaning across to kiss my cheek.
I don’t even feel it. “Let’s go.”
“Pizza day?” He checks the rearview.
“Uh-huh.”
He touches some buttons on the stereo, and the music explodes around us. For once I am not wishing he would change it. We say nothing on the way to Fellini’s. I am so glad that we drive this short distance instead of walk.
We are out of the car. Walking inside. Benji holds open the door for me. At the counter, words come out of my mouth: a white slice, a Coke. Benji orders something, gives the cashier money. I pay attention to the echo of ice, the harsh hiss of the soda falling into my cup.
We sit across from each other by the window. Benji’s aviator glasses are off. His eyebrows are furrowed.
“So, you gonna tell me, or what?” he says.
Utterly against my will, I start crying.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He half stands up, leaning toward me, like I’ve spilled a soda across the table. It’s awkward for both of us.
His hand is on my wrist. It is warm. And heavy.
“He just won’t even talk to me,” I croak, as though that explains anything. “Usually when I get mad at him he just blows me off a couple of days and then . . . But this time . . . I mean, I tried, and then he just . . .”
“Who? Oliver?”
I nod, still not able to look at him.
Benji’s hand leaves mine. He falls back against the wooden booth.
“Dude,” he says, waiting a second, hoping I’ll look up. When I don’t, he finishes: “That guy is a goob.”
“He’s not a goob,” I say, automatic. I can’t take my hand away from my face to frown at him. I have no idea what I look like. I kind of don’t care.
“He is. I’ve thought so since ninth grade, man. An utter, old-fashioned, emo-boy, no-one-cares-anymore goob. Those sweater-vests and jackets? What is that? And tell me, really—because I know you know—how long does it take for him to get his hair like that? Strand-by-strand sculpting? Or more of a sleep-on-your-face kind of thing?”
In spite of myself, I laugh. I can feel the itchy cloak of my tears still on my cheeks, but I am laughing.
“I can’t reveal his dressing room secrets,” I choke out. “Not even to you.”
He hunches down, leans closer, squinting. “But you know, don’t you? You do know.”
“There are secret formulas I may be privy to,” I concede. My voice is thick, but I finally lift my face.
“So why you want to hang with a homey like that, yo?” He makes some stupid gang sign, squeaking his voice.
“I’ve known him since fifth grade,” I eke out. “We’ve always been together. He’s a jerk sometimes, but I understand him. It’s the way it works.”
“Unless it doesn’t work,” he says gently.
My eyes connect with his. We don’t say anything. I know I’m a mess. But that I’ve made such a surprising friend like Benji fills my heart with gratitude. Simultaneously, knowing how I’ve used him fills the rest of me with shame. I understand, very clearly now, that my feelings for Benji don’t go beyond friendship. And it’s time for me to tell him.
“I don’t think this whole dating thing is really . . . going to work,” I say.
He looks away, says quietly, “Well, that’s not the response I was looking for.”
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
“I know. And I’m sorry. And I honestly thought it was going to work for a while. I mean, I wanted it to.”
He doesn’t say anything for a min
ute. I feel horrible.
“I guess I’m not very good at relationships.” He finally looks at me.
“No, that’s not it.” I grab his hand. “You do everything great. I’m too stupid to appreciate you that way, is all.”
“Huh. Well, that’s mature-sounding of you.”
God. He’s really hurt. Ugh. “Benji, I so don’t want to lose you as a friend.”
He shakes his head. “Oh, you won’t.” His voice is bitter. “It just puts me in an awkward position for a little while, but . . . I’ll get over it. It’s what I do.”
It’s selfish of me, but I’m relieved. And am also trying not to laugh.
“You said ‘position.’” I leer at him from across the table.
His hand goes up, maybe a little irritated, but slowly he smiles. “Well.”
I clear my throat, looking at him. “I used you, kinda.” It’s uncomfortable to say.
He shrugs. “I let you. And, you know . . .” He leans closer, making it hard to see anything but the pointy gleam of his longer-than-the-other canine tooth. “I liked it. At first.”
Perfect timing for the server to come with paper plates bending under the greasy weight of our pizza slices. We thank him, sip our drinks, clear our throats, try again.
“Which section do you want to tackle first?” He reaches for his 20th Cen. textbook and the test tucked inside.
“How ’bout you take front page, I take back page?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“And hey, Benji, thanks.”
His eyes are still sad-looking, but he bops me on the head with his pencil and gives me a wink. “Just goin’ with the tide, Coastal.”
I know my breakup with Benji has the potential to disintegrate quickly from fine to horrible, so I’m nervous all night and the next day, when I meet him before third period, as I’ve been doing. We don’t hold hands, and there’s notably no kiss, but we get through it okay. It actually makes me think maybe Oliver and I can still fix things, eventually, if given the opportunity. But then the idea of fixing things makes me picture Trip, and when I do, I’m not sure whether I could be as forgiving as Benji in his case. Or if he would care.
Being Friends with Boys Page 20
