by Nall, Gail
“Maybe I do,” he says quietly. Then he moves in a little closer, his face just inches from mine, as if we weren’t already talking so low that no one else could hear. “I get it. But comfort is overrated. Maybe you should try something new.”
My breath catches. And, for the first time in history, I’m at a complete loss for words.
“Hey, yo, what’d you think about that monster at the end?” Johnny Grimaldi asks out of nowhere.
Oliver goes red, as if he’s only now figured out exactly what he said. I look away and busy myself with picking minuscule crumbs left from prior customers off the table.
“Sorry, what?” Oliver finally says to Johnny.
“You know, the big one that ate those little kids? Before it smashed the whole city?” He moves his muscled arms back and forth, half drunkenly mimicking a monster smashing a city flat. “Wham! Blam!”
Oliver’s lips curve into that lopsided smile. Then he bursts into laughter. At least until Johnny sends his half-empty ice cream dish sailing across the table.
I push myself backward as far as I can go, trying to avoid the hurtling dish.
Oliver doesn’t react fast enough, and ends up with ice cream dripping down his looks-vintage-but-maybe-it’s-new-and-made-to-look-vintage Beatles shirt. Does he even own any shirts that aren’t band-related? I wonder if he’ll wear a Pixies T-shirt under his tux to prom.
“Aw, man, this one’s my favorite.” He reaches for a napkin and swipes at the fabric. Ice cream still drips from the side of the table, making the effort useless.
He reminds me of a puppy chasing its tail. And then I start laughing. And can’t stop. Johnny Grimaldi pounds me on the back. It kind of hurts.
“Stop, stop!” I swat at Johnny’s arm. “I’m okay, really.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t know no Heimlich,” Johnny says, completely serious.
Oliver’s finally given up on his shirt. Ringo still has ice cream smeared across his face, and a glob of it drops off the shirt onto his jeans. Without thinking, I grab the closest napkin and wipe it off before it can sink into the fabric.
“Um, thanks,” Oliver says as I toss the napkin onto the table.
“What’s going on down there? Casey?” Amanda asks, a little late.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Johnny’s just sharing his ice cream with everyone else. And I almost choked to death. It’s all good.” And I’m cleaning ice cream off Oliver’s leg. No big deal.
Amanda tucks her hair behind her ear. “All right.”
“Are you okay, Casey?” Trevor’s frowning, all his attention on me. Now, of course. Now that I’ve made up my mind that I don’t want him anymore.
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a quick grin, and I realize he’s no longer sitting elbow to elbow with Amanda. She’s somehow gotten Rosalita to scoot down to create more space, and Trevor isn’t filling it up. Maybe he finally got the message.
“Three times you patched things up. Really?” Oliver says to me, that eyebrow raised again.
“Yes, really. It’s not like I could just turn off the feelings.” Until now, anyway.
“Are you talking about the movie again? ’Cause that monster killed them right away. And if you’re dead, you can’t fucking feel, you know,” Johnny Grimaldi says.
Chapter Nineteen
I tap Amanda on the shoulder a couple of minutes before Physics starts on Monday. “So I don’t think Trevor and I are really going to work out. I’ve decided that it’s okay if you want to be with him.” I almost choke when I say that last bit.
“Okay.” Amanda tilts her head as she looks back at me, like she’s trying to read my mind. “Number one, I don’t believe you. Number two, why? Number three, I’m not getting together with Trevor. In fact, I was kind of blunt with him on Friday. I think he finally gets it.”
I smile at her, which I hope doesn’t convey that I’m secretly relieved. “I’m turning my attention to more important stuff. Plus, the whole desperation thing really isn’t me.” I don’t add that it’s super obvious that he wants her, and not me. That hurts a little too much to admit. But I do like feeling as if I’m back in control of this whole situation. I feel powerful. Things might not go back to the way they were, but maybe they can get to something just as good.
Amanda frowns a little, as if she still doesn’t believe me.
“Really, I’m sure about this.” If I say it enough, it’ll become true. I know it will.
Amanda twists her delicate gold necklace. “I hate that the thing on Friday was so . . . weird.”
I wave a hand at her. “No big deal. You tried.”
“If it means anything, I’m glad for you. Because . . . Case, I tried to say this before, but I don’t think you wanted to hear it.”
My heart crawls its way up into my throat as I try to remember what she might’ve tried to tell me. Did they hook up again? Or was this going on before I found out? “What?”
Amanda nibbles on her lip, eyes searching my face as if she’s not really sure she wants to tell me.
“For God’s sake, Amanda, just say it. Class is about to start, and I don’t think we can both get away with faking sick.” I brace myself for some horrible truth.
She twists her hands around the back of her desk chair. “Remember how I said I didn’t want you to get used again?”
The word immediately sets me on edge. Used. Like I had no say in whatever my relationship was with Trevor, never mind that I was the one who decided when we split up and he was always the one who wanted to get back together. “Mmmhmm” is all I can manage to get out.
Ms. Jordan checks the clock on the wall, ticking down the last minute until class starts. I try not to look like the most impatient person in the world as I wait for Amanda to elaborate. She doesn’t.
“And?” I ask.
Amanda almost squirms, she looks so uncomfortable. “That’s it. I feel like he always just kept you around as backup. He has no attention span when it comes to girls, and I think I’m just the newest one.” Her pink-painted nails grip the back of her chair. I get the feeling she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t.
“Right. Okay.” Because I don’t know what else to say. Honestly, she isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, but it still hurts. I need to build a fortress around my bleeding heart, or else I might just lose it completely, right here at my desk in Physics, with some freshman outside the door singing “Defying Gravity” as she runs to class.
The word used keeps playing through my head as class starts. I drown it out by singing one of the Violent Femmes songs in my mind—one that I listened to with Oliver. On the third repeat of the chorus, which is all I know anyway, my phone buzzes in my purse. I quietly pull it out to see a text from Amanda.
Also, u shld know that Johnny Grimaldi is into u.
I about fall off my chair. What?????? I type back.
Was obvs on Fri & Steve-o told me. Don’t think T knows.
I shudder. Then I wonder if it’s true, or if she’s just making something up to help me deal with what she just said.
When Ms. Jordan turns her back, Amanda flips around and makes over-the-top kissy faces at me. I have to practically smash my hand against my mouth to keep from laughing. One thing Amanda’s great at? Getting my mind off my problems. Although if she’s telling the truth about Johnny Grimaldi . . . that’s a whole new problem.
Ms. Jordan launches into questions about our homework, and my phone buzzes again.
JG loves u.
I poke Amanda in the back.
It’s luuuuuuuuuuuuuuvvvvvvvvvv.
I poke her harder.
He wants to smooch u. Mwah!
Now that’s not a pretty sight.
“Miss Reynolds?”
Amanda’s head jerks up from whatever awfulness she’s texting me.
“Did you solve for velocity in number 3A?”
“Um . . . well, maybe, it’s . . .” Amanda trails off. Okay, this isn’t like her at all. She’
s usually completely prepared. I wonder if she’s even looked at these equations. At least I usually make an effort at them, or I did before I got distracted by horseback riding and pottery, anyway.
“Miss Reynolds, musical rehearsal is not the be-all and end-all of your time here. From now on, I expect you to keep up with your work, or I’ll have to inform Ms. Sharp of the problem,” Ms. Jordan says.
Unlike me, Amanda’s learning all her lines from scratch, and she must be spending a lot of time on it. Part of me wants to tell her, Don’t you wish I’d gotten the lead instead? But the other part? Knows how crazy selfish it is to think that. What I should do is offer to help her, because no matter how I feel about the situation, I don’t want her to get up there onstage and fail. Once Ms. Jordan has moved on to questioning someone else, I shoot Amanda a text offering to run lines with her again. She writes back with just a smiley face.
After Physics, I walk with Amanda toward Choral Ensemble. Halfway down the hall, we run into Trevor, who’s headed toward the same class. He and Amanda don’t even look at each other. Instead, he falls into step next to me and asks if we’re supposed to have our parts for the Guys and Dolls medley memorized yet.
Like I told Oliver, feelings don’t just go away. Trying to talk normally to Trevor is too hard, now that I’ve given him up. When Johnny joins us and won’t stop staring at me, I mumble something about my locker and walk away as fast as possible, silently sending Amanda apology vibes for leaving her alone with them.
I am officially on hiatus from boys and all their drama. Except Harrison, who’s jogging up to me now and is blissfully drama-free.
“Casey, hey!” Harrison says, out of breath. “I hate running. So, when are we doing the pilot thing?” He pulls a pair of aviator sunglasses from his pocket, and puts them on after taking off his regular glasses. Never mind that we’re headed to class and that they’re way too big for his face.
I try not to laugh. “All right, Top Gun. I called the airport and registered us for their intro class tomorrow night. But there’s one little, teeny-tiny issue.”
“What’s that?” Harrison nods, all super cool, at some of the stage crew guys.
“Oh, well, it’s . . . um . . . a hundred dollars for the lesson.” I say that last part really fast.
“So, fifty each? That’s not bad.”
“No, apiece. I have thirty-five left from my allowance, but I’d have to borrow the rest from you. How can you even see with those things on?”
“Are you seriously asking me for sixty-five dollars?” Harrison peers at me from over the top of the aviators.
“Yes. Don’t those make it super dark in here? How can you tell where you’re going?”
“You’re really something else, Casey. And I can see just fine, by the way.”
“Does that mean you’ll lend me the money? You know I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure you will.” Harrison trips over someone’s backpack.
“Told you,” I say.
He pulls the sunglasses to the top of his head and puts his regular glasses back on. It’s not his best look. “Why should I give you sixty-five dollars?”
“Because you owe me for standing me up and leaving me alone to make a fool of myself in front of Trevor Friday night.”
Harrison sighs. “Fine. I’ll pay.”
“Can you drive too? It’s about thirty miles away.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you actually want to get there. I mean, we could ride bikes like a couple of losers and be all sweaty and gross—”
“Right, fine. So we just have to get through today and tomorrow, and then it’s flight time!” He pulls the aviators down over his glasses. And runs smack into the wall.
“How many times have they run this song?” Oliver says during rehearsal that afternoon. We’ve been sitting at the end of the row, with Harrison, like normal people who haven’t shared a Moment. Or, more than one Moment, really. Like friends. Meanwhile, half the cast is onstage, singing “The Lonely Goatherd” for the three billionth time. Oliver’s got his forehead resting on the top of the seat in front of him, as if watching yet another run-through of this scene is far, far too much for him to take.
“I think this is number four.” Seriously, if Ms. Sharp calls this scene again, the rest of us might as well go home. Harrison fell asleep two scenes ago. I already had to elbow him once to keep him from snoring. Tim the lighting designer left at four thirty. And I can feel Hannah’s barely contained impatience even back here. Even model-actress Gabby is slouched in her seat a row behind us, her eyes glazed over. I wonder how she feels about Trevor shifting all his attention to Amanda.
“It’s killing me, this song,” Oliver says to the seat.
“Do you think Johnny Grimaldi is . . . into me?” I ask out of nowhere. The whole idea creeps me out, and it’s been bothering me since Amanda first mentioned it, and especially now that Trevor isn’t taking up so much space in my head. It’s something I would’ve asked Harrison, if he’d been awake. Not that he would’ve had an answer for me. And while it’s weird asking Oliver, I figure it’s okay, considering we discussed my so-called relationship with Trevor at the ice cream shop.
Oliver sits up. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I could swear he frowns just a little. I kind of hope it’s because he’s jealous, even if I am going boy-free. Or maybe he frowns because he has the same opinion of Johnny as I do. He reaches down and pulls at a piece of loose rubber on his worn shoes, like he doesn’t want to meet my eyes.
I make a face. “I really, really hope not.”
Harrison snores again, and I give him another elbow to the ribs. It doesn’t even wake him up—just makes him shift away from me.
I lean back in my seat and draw my legs up. “If Amanda would just remember to hold that note until Kelly and Danielle finish their little dance, Ms. Sharp would be happy. She just doesn’t say it because she wants Amanda to figure it out on her own.”
“And then we could end this hell and go home?” Oliver asks.
“Maybe, but I bet she also wants Cole to stop flubbing that line. And Kari to finally end on the right mark.”
“You really do love this, don’t you?” he asks as he watches the stage.
“What, theater?” I chew on my lip and say, “Not really. Not anymore.”
He turns to me and says, “I don’t believe you. Theater’s in your blood. You can’t fall out of love with it that fast.”
It’s almost as if he took the words right out of the hidden part my soul. That thing I’ve been dreading—what if I never find something to replace acting? My dad’s a lighting designer, my grandmother was an actor. What if it is in my blood, and I’m stuck with it forever? A life in the chorus, or as an understudy, or—worse—someone who auditions over and over and over and never gets cast because she went to the wrong college and has somehow deluded herself into thinking she’s actually talented.
I finally shake my head. “I can, and I have. Harrison and I have big plans for tomorrow.”
“Hmm” is all he says. He stops peering into my deepest fears and rests his chin on his hands on top of the seat in front of him. I do the same, and try not to think too hard about what he just said.
After a moment, he elbows my elbow. “I meant to say thank you, by the way.”
“For what?” He hasn’t moved his elbow and it’s still touching mine. I never thought elbows could be sexy, but I’m kind of thinking they might be, especially when they’re attached to dark-haired boys with funny smiles.
“You’re the first person here who talked to me. I mean, really talked to me, beyond ‘Dude, can you get that Hacky Sack?’ and ‘Where’s room 215?’”
“I’ll be honest and say I thought you were weird for not speaking.”
He laughs at that, earning us Ms. Sharp’s best annoyed face. Then he runs his hand across his hair. “I hated it here before I met you,” he whispers.
I don’t know what to say, so I just smile. It feels like a wei
rdly intimate thing for him to admit, and I don’t know how to interpret it. Especially when I remember what he said at the Ice Cream Palace, about trying something new.
Chapter Twenty
“This. Is. Awesome.” Harrison gazes at the plane taking off right in front of us. He’s got a new pair of sunglasses—the kind that fit over his regular glasses. At least he tried to dress the part for a change. I, for one, am in a white button-down, black pants, a cute black jacket I borrowed from Mom’s closet, and a hot-pink scarf. I pretty much look like I just flew a 747 in from Paris. Career as a pilot, here I come.
“Casey Fitzgerald and Gunther Kaelin?” an older man calls from inside the office behind us.
“Gunther.” I nudge Harrison and giggle. Mostly to annoy him.
“Harrison. I’m Harrison Kaelin.” He steps forward to shake the man’s hand.
“Harrison it is,” the man says as he makes a note on his clipboard. “I just need the signed release forms from your parents, all the other paperwork, and your fees.”
Convincing my mom to sign the release was a lot easier than I thought it would be. She just shook her head and asked me to please not crash the plane. I pass over all the forms, and Harrison pulls out his wallet.
The man introduces himself as Lucky Reed. Lucky seems like an oddly appropriate name for someone who defies gravity on a regular basis.
“So the first part of this class is done on the ground,” Lucky says as he leads us into the hangar. “We’ll go over the controls, the preflight check, how to work the radio—” At this, Harrison mouths, 10-4, Roger that to me. “And we’ll take the plane up. I run things a little differently around here, because I believe in trying everything the first time. So if you’re game, you’ll take the plane up and fly it. I’ll be next to you to take over, just in case.”
Harrison’s practically exploding with excitement as we walk toward the plane, and I’m definitely catching it. Our friends are going to be so insanely jealous. Theater looks so dull compared to flying.
“So, what do you major in at college to become a pilot?” I ask Lucky. After finding out whether I’m any good at piloting (which I have to be—I refuse to accept no for an answer), figuring out the right major is step two. Step three is hoping to every god in the known universe that said major actually exists at Holland Community College.
