What Happens Now

by Jennifer Castle

  I hung back, but he turned to me and tilted his head again. Come try.

  One foot in front of the other, again and again. If only all clichés could be so true and useful.

  Eventually, my purple feet lined up next to his glossy black combat ones, the toes slightly over the ledge.

  Air. Light. Smells. Sounds. I felt the overwhelming temptation to take a step forward out the window, but also the self-control to not do it. The thrill of that. The power of choosing one over the other.

  The power of knowing my choice might have been different eighteen months ago, but that was not now.

  “My mom put in this window so we could do exactly this. I mean, she practices yoga and meditation here. But I like to just . . . be exposed.” He shook his head. “Camden, why do you keep saying creepy shit? I meant, not in a naked way but in a—”

  “I know what you meant,” I said.

  He sighed with relief and turned back to stare out the window. Or rather, the absence of a window.

  “What’s it like, going to Fitzpatrick?” he asked. “I’ve never been to public school. I’d never been to school at all, before Dashwood.”

  “You were homeschooled?”

  “Yup.”

  “I could ask you what that’s like. Because that seems much more interesting.”

  “But I went first.”

  I shrugged. “It’s high school. There are a lot of rules. Some of them are official, and some aren’t.”

  “And you have to follow them all?”

  “If you want the whole experience to be tolerable, then pretty much yes.”

  Camden nodded, but still looked wistful, as if I’d made it sound like a place worth being. “But don’t you go to football games and everyone cheers for the team?”

  “I’ve never been to a football game.”

  “Oh,” he said softly. “If I went to Fitzpatrick, I’d go to the football games. So I could be part of something.”

  He grew suddenly quiet. I felt like I’d let him down somehow.

  “But I do Mock Trial,” I offered. “Or I did. That’s also a team. An incredibly nerdy one, but still a team.”

  “I would cheer for that. For you.”

  We were silent for a moment. His eyes met mine. The for you seemed visible in the air after he said it, like breath on a cold day.

  “We get to wear costumes,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going, keep myself from freezing up. “Sort of. Lawyer-type suits and whatever clothes your character would wear. Not like actual cosplay. Pretty impressive, by the way.”

  I motioned to his silver jacket. He looked down at my boots.

  “I know, I know,” he said sheepishly. “You’re a fan of the Arrow Original, right? You think the Arrow Reboot was lame and ill-conceived. Something they did to capitalize on the fandom.”

  “I didn’t like what they did to Satina, and the relationship between her and Marr, but some of it was really intelligent.”

  “But you prefer the original.”

  “Do I have to choose one or the other? Can’t I love them both in a complicated way that doesn’t involve nicknames and acronyms?”

  He smiled, and I caught a glimpse of something that looked like respect in his eyes. “Of course. Of course you can.”

  “What about you? Do you have a preference, or is that a stupid question given your choice of outfit?”

  Camden thought about it for a while, blinking those long lashes at the sunset.

  “Sometimes you think you like something because your friends like it,” he finally said. “Because you want to join. You go along. And then, by going along . . . that’s your way in. You discover it for yourself. You own it in a way that’s different from how anyone else owns it. Is that a backward way to fall in love with a thing?”

  He looked expectantly at me, into me, as if my opinion actually mattered.

  The word no had possibly never been so hard or taken me so long to form on my lips. It was almost out, and many more words after that, when a loud cheer came from downstairs. Then a wave of clapping. I heard someone banging on a drum set, rapid and sudden like gunfire.

  “Sounds like the band is about to start,” said Camden. “You don’t want to miss it.” He closed the window and took a few steps away, then stopped and turned back to me.

  “You’re staying the night, right?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The campout. When my mom has a party, it tends not to end. People sleep over, on couches or the floor or they pitch tents in the back. And we don’t have to worry about everyone getting home safely.”

  “Eliza didn’t tell me that. I didn’t bring anything . . .”

  He reached out and took my hand. His skin on mine. Warmer than I ever imagined. In all my fantasizing, I never took body temperature into consideration.

  “Good, because you don’t need anything. You just need to not leave.”

  We looked at each other for two full seconds before his gaze fell to the ground and away. He let my hand go and I let it drop, as if stunned and rendered useless.

  I thought of Mom and Dani and Richard, each in their pajamas and frustration. I thought of the small, small windows of my house and the to-do list on the fridge. Kendall downstairs somewhere; she would not be able to stay, too, but would definitely lie for me.

  And there it was again, no longer a whisper in my ear but now a whoosh.

  The Possible.

  I followed Camden Armstrong close down the spiral stairs and into the rest of his world.

  The house was mostly empty now, and the music from outside was louder. Camden and I stepped through the door to the patio, where most of the party guests had gathered in a dance cluster. Off to one side, there was a band set up. Not some crappy high school band but a real one. With adults. Who I recognized.

  “You hired the Plastic Masks to play at your party?” I yelled to Camden over the bass line.

  “Not hired. They’re friends with my mom.” We watched and listened for a few moments, then Camden added, “Speaking of which, I want you to meet her.”

  He took my hand again—zing!—and led me to where Maeve Armstrong stood near the side of the barn. I didn’t have time to protest, to feel weird about it, to get nervous. Suddenly we were there, in front of this woman who managed to appear removed from the action, but also at the heart of it, simply in the way she leaned against a wall.

  “Mom,” he said, letting go of my hand but putting his fingertips gently on my back (zing! again). “This is Ari. She’s a new friend.”

  Camden’s mother lit up when she saw him, then stayed lit up when her gaze traveled to me. At close range, she looked much more weathered, with streaks of gray in her auburn hair, deep lines around the freckles. She reminded me of what Kendall might look like in twenty-five years. There was even less resemblance between her and her son than between my mom and me, except Maeve and Camden had the same green eyes.

  “Ari,” said Maeve carefully, as if she was tasting my name on her tongue. “I saw you once at the lake with that adorable little girl. You were so good with her.”

  “My sister,” I said, and fought the urge to bow my head or drop to one knee. Why did it feel like I was meeting royalty? “You have a good memory.”

  “For things that strike me as beautiful, yes.”

  Those green eyes searched into me exactly the way her son’s did. I felt revealed.

  “Ari goes to Fitzpatrick,” said Camden after a pause, making it sound like an interesting fact.

  “Fitzpatrick,” Maeve repeated, unsure.

  “The public high school you wouldn’t let me go to?” Camden turned to me then. “I wanted to. She was against school for me, period. Dashwood was a compromise.”

  “Dashwood was the right choice,” said Maeve, reaching out and tucking some of Camden’s hair behind one ear. It seemed like he wanted to shrink away, but forced himself not to. “Not Fitzpatrick. Classes where you have to sit at a desk? Tests? Homework? I couldn’t do that to you
.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insulting to your school.”

  “You can be as insulting as you want,” I said. “It’s nothing special.”

  “See?” said Maeve to her son. “You’re special, Camden March Armstrong. You don’t belong somewhere that’s not special.”

  Maeve was a parent who was against her kid having homework. Maeve casually said things to her son like You’re special. Maeve helped her son throw a party with the Plastic Masks.

  “Are you real?” I blurted out.

  Maeve looked confused for a moment, then threw her head back and laughed. “Yes,” she said. “We do exist, the cool parents.” She glanced at Camden, who was examining his fingernails. “As do the children of the cool parents.”

  Camden raised his head to glare at her for a second, then touched my shoulder and motioned with his head toward the dancing. There was something pleading in his eyes, like Get me away from this. I nodded yes.

  We wove ourselves into the knot of people until we found a little loop of space. He spun toward me and smiled, all dimples and dazzle. As if everything was a private joke between us—the party, the music, the thousand stars in the purple sky. He struck a Saturday Night Fever disco pose, and I laughed, and then it was happening. We were dancing. Together.

  And he was dressed like Atticus Marr.

  I got that feeling you get when you want to enjoy every second of an amazing situation, and you totally would, if the amazingness weren’t completely freaking you out.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. There was Kendall, smiling her old smile for me. It took me a few seconds to realize there was a boy dancing with her. Blond curls, thick glasses. Dorky adorable.

  Kendall leaned in close and said, “James.”

  I just said, “Nice.”

  The four of us danced in a square, and I could feel the awkwardness falling away until we were practically trampling it.

  Suddenly, Eliza appeared between Camden and me, pulling Max along behind her. She turned and wrapped her arms around Max’s—well, not his neck because she couldn’t reach that, but his chest and back—and kept them moving all over. She pressed her body into his and they both had their eyes closed. Satina Galt dancing with Bram, breaking all the rules of the Silver Arrow universe. Not even caring.

  Camden pushed them aside.

  “Get a room, you guys!” he yelled as he moved closer to me. Eliza flashed him a devious glance, and I wondered why she’d done it, placed her bump-and-grind couplehood in between us like that. Was it for Camden’s benefit? Or mine? There was no trace of jealousy on Camden’s face. Only annoyance.

  Camden took my hand and raised it high so I could twirl all the way in one direction, then all the way back. When I was done, I found myself releasing his hand and taking a step back. James had pulled Kendall into a close dance hold, like they were about to do a waltz, and she laughed loud above the music.

  Atticus Marr and Bram and Satina Galt.

  Around us, almost everyone in pairs, most of them close or touching. The air thick with anticipation and meaning. The intensity of it, and the effort it took to pretend I didn’t notice the intensity of it.

  So much like another night, at another party, at another boy’s house. Lukas and I had been dating for three months, and there had been expectation that night, too. When the party started to disperse and I let him lead me down to his basement family room, I’d felt like I was keeping an appointment it would be rude to cancel at the last minute. There was pressure to be part of the program, to go along with the plan.

  So I’d done things I didn’t want to do. They made me feel meek and malleable, a feeling that threatened to knock me off the delicate balance I’d gained at the time. After that night, everything was different between Lukas and me. After that night, I began to push him away.

  This is different, I said to myself. And also, Camden. Camden, Camden.

  Eliza pulled Max’s head down so she could lasso her arms around his neck, then jumped onto him so her legs were wrapped around his waist. They were kissing madly.

  Camden stopped dancing so he could watch them.

  Was this giving him ideas? Was there some drama unfolding here that I was about to get sucked into?

  Before I understood why, before I could overthink it, I leaned into him and said, “I have to run inside for a minute.” He nodded and I pushed my way out of the crowd.

  Back in the kitchen, I was drinking a glass of the long-named iced tea when Kendall appeared.

  “Ari?”

  I slammed the iced tea down on the counter. “Yes. That’s me. The person who was just dancing with Camden Armstrong to the Plastic Masks. At least, I think it was.”

  “I saw you run inside. You okay?”

  “Me? I’m having the time of my life.”

  “And . . . ?”

  I paused, thinking of how it felt to stand with Camden in that open window. Like he was telling me he understood about the Possible, although we had never discussed it.

  “And it’s scaring the crap out of me. You know, Camden asked me to stay over.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, along with a whole bunch of other people. I guess it’s something they do. For safety? So people don’t drive home drunk?”

  “Oh. Well. Still. That’s a little much.” She looked at me more thoroughly. “Are you feeling weird that he asked?”

  “I’m feeling weird about everything,” I said. “A good weird. A great weird. But . . .”

  “A scary weird. I get it.” Kendall paused, glancing out to the patio. “Do you want to leave?”

  “No,” I answered quickly. “Actually, yes. Well . . . no . . .”

  Kendall gave me a look. “If you’re going to make me leave this party, you’d better be sure.”

  “Okay. I want to leave.”

  She nodded grimly. “Then let’s go.”

  “What about James?”

  Kendall smiled at the sound of his name. “We already exchanged email addresses.”

  “Kendall!”

  “He’s into photography and he’s traveled all over England and Ireland.” She turned to stare wistfully outside again.

  “You met a guy and now I’m ruining—”

  “I came for you, Ari,” interrupted Kendall. “I’ll leave for you, too.”

  I hugged her. My friend. My best friend. Maybe not forever, but here and now.

  After a moment, she pulled away and said, “I’ll wait in the car. Why don’t you go say good-bye to your boy, and for God’s sake, give him your number.”

  Back on the patio, the band was still loud and people were still moving frenetically, but I didn’t see Camden. I climbed onto a wooden chair so I could get a better look at the crowd, but that head, that hair, was nowhere. I circled the outside of the barn once, scanning the darkness for shapes and voices, and found nothing.

  I looped back inside. Maeve Armstrong was sitting on some older guy’s lap in the living room, deep in conversation, and didn’t notice me. I went halfway up the spiral stairs but the landing was empty.

  When I came down, I spotted a notepad and pen stuck to the fridge. It was not how I wanted the night to end, but it was better than nothing.

  Camden,

  Wanted to stay, but something came up. I wouldn’t mind more travels with Atticus Marr. Call when you can.

  Ari

  I left the note on the pad, my number scrawled at the bottom. Every step I took toward the door, part of me wanted to turn back. What good is no regrets when there’s an equal chance of regretting it either way?

  “Am I an idiot for leaving?” I asked as I slid into the passenger seat of Kendall’s car.

  “I guess you’ll find out,” said Kendall with a shrug. She paused, examining my face. “This was about that night at Lukas’s, wasn’t it?”

  Couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

  “I knew it,” said Kendall. “I remember how that threw you.”

  Threw you was a new and inter
esting way to describe how much I hated myself for letting things go so far, and for realizing I didn’t love Lukas. Kendall didn’t know about the other parts because I didn’t tell her. The pristine white skin of my right arm, daring me to let out some of this fresh pain. The shoe box with the razors and the cotton balls, hidden at the back of my closet. The urge to see it. Open it. The strength it took to resist.

  Instead, I’d told my therapist about these feelings (but not about the box, because that was one secret I needed to hold on to). My therapist told my doctor, and my doctor tinkered with my dosage.

  “Yes,” I finally said. “It threw me good.”

  We drove home with all four windows down, the breeze deep in my lungs.

  I looked at my hand and wondered where the creases on Camden’s palm had lined up with the ones on mine.

  I’d left my number. It would have felt worse if I hadn’t, but I was sort of at his mercy now.

  Wait, who was I kidding? I’d been at his mercy all along.

  8

  I opened my eyes in the half-light of Kendall’s bedroom, not sure what time it was or whether I had actually slept at all.

  This room was so familiar from our years of sleepovers. The blue shag area rug on the floor next to me, the pile of dirty clothing that was always different but also, somehow, the same. Kendall’s ceiling with the hot-air balloon mobile hanging in the corner, the window with the cracked pane, that poster of the kittens eating cake. Even the air mattress under my sleeping bag was a type of home.

  In this moment, it was easy to feel like the night before had never happened, that none of its strange magic or glorious surprises had, in fact, been real. Maybe we were still twelve, fourteen, sixteen, and we’d made it all up in a story we’d told each other in the dark.

  “Will you help me write an email to James?” said Kendall’s voice suddenly from the bed.

  “You’re awake?”

  “Duh.”

  I laughed with relief.

  “Did you sleep at all?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  I laughed again, then got up, retrieved Kendall’s laptop from her desk, and fell onto the foot of her bed.

  “Move over,” I said.