“I’m so sorry,” he says, and I know without seeing his face that it is crimson and grimacing, like mine, but worse. That floating, giggling feeling I had a few minutes ago has tempered, too. It’s still there, but only in the back of my head, and I can’t crawl inside it. It feels like I got suddenly shoved outside of that warm, silly, cloud-insulated place and back into the cold November air. I wish I had a jacket and some headphones.
Cate is silent.
“We’ll open back up in a few hours, okay?” Paul says. There’s a pause, and I think I can hear Cate’s words biting the air. “Or tomorrow,” he corrects himself because of whatever Cate said. “We’ll be open again tomorrow.”
I could sneak away, obviously. There’s no electric fence or Great Wall of Tea Cozy keeping me locked into the café’s overgrown little backyard. But there’s nowhere to go. I pissed Elise off, weirded Devon out, and my house is too far away to walk to. I’d like to talk to Joe, and see if he likes Stoner Tabby. If we are even more connected now that I’ve done This Thing. But I don’t want him to hear my parents screaming at each other in the background.
“We can put the rest of your hot chocolate in a to-go cup,” I hear Paul saying. Cate must be throwing things around, or at least clanging them together, in the kitchen, because there’s a metal-against-metal symphony rocking the little cottage that is Tea Cozy. “. . . I’ll throw that cake in a doggy bag,” Paul continues. A little bit of the giggly high sneaks back in, and I have to cover my mouth so as not to let out a big belly-laugh at this one. On any normal night, Paul, Cate, and I would eat burgers at home and imitate the cranky old lady who won’t leave the café even when the owners are openly brawling.
I know this won’t be a normal evening.
The reindeer bells attached to Tea Cozy’s front door jangle, and then it’s just Paul and Cate inside, and me, forgotten, outside.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul starts. “I wasn’t thinking. Obviously. And you have every right to be mad—”
“You never think!” Cate screams. “When’s the last time you thought? A gatrillion hundred years ago? We said this would be different! We said we’d be adults! Parents! Real ones! You promised!”
I wonder if I should go in and join the fight. If I’m taking the power out of the Assignment by hiding out here. I try to access that part of me that surges with pride when I complete an Assignment. The part of me that is brave and strong and taking control. It’s there, but it does not like hearing Cate and Paul yell at each other.
Paul must be cowering in the corner, because I can’t hear a response from him even though I can hear Cate’s heavy post-outburst breathing. Music starts pumping through the speakers, and it’s loud and clear from out here: Whitney Houston, which Cate only ever resorts to when she needs some serious strength. She sings along at the top of her lungs, and after a few verses, the bells on the door jangle again, meaning Paul’s left without me.
I listen to Cate sing the entirety of Whitney: The Greatest Hits. Sometimes her voice breaks halfway through a song and she cries in that angry, openmouthed way. I have heard her cry that way when her sister refused to have her over for Christmas, when she thought she might have to close Tea Cozy because a customer reported them to the IRS, and, most recently, when she found me curled up in the fetal position, crying after the dance where Jemma told me I wasn’t worthy of being her friend anymore.
But I have never, ever heard her cry that way about Paul.
When the album’s over, the front door bells ring their Christmas cheer again, and I’m just a forgotten girl in the backyard without a coat. But at least it’s safe to reenter.
Back inside, my laptop’s right where I left it, but the rest of the café is sparkling clean and tidy. They remembered everything but me. Or the other (even worse?) possibility: they remembered me, and chose to leave me be.
Joe has chatted me a bunch of times.
5:17: Let’s talk.
5:23: You at the Cozy?
5:32: Okay if I come by?
5:51: What is going ON in there?
5:52: Uh, people are on the sidewalk listening to your parents rip each other apart. . . .
5:53: Hope you’re okay.
5:55: Please let me know you’re okay.
6:10: I assume everything’s okay. Other stuff happening. Gotta run.
For a second, I think I had him. The drama of my parents screaming at each other, the anxiety created by him not being able to get in touch with me, the idea, maybe, that he could help. But then, I assume, Sasha got in touch and he had to take care of her. Because in the battle between my issues and her issues, hers still win. “Other stuff” always, always means Sasha. It’s like the world’s worst code name.
At first it’s only a theory, but she’s got a status up, just Joe’s name and a heart, and a bunch of my ex-friends have “liked” it. Joe saves Sasha, again.
When Tea Cozy is empty, I think it’s almost louder than when it’s full. The building is old and creaks, settling in on itself. I’m rarely here by myself, so I want to enjoy it. I lean back in one of the paisley armchairs, slip off my shoes, and try to find something wonderful in the solitude. When I was little, I’d sneak to the Cozy: steal my parents’ key rings, hop on my bike, and let myself in at odd hours. I want it to feel like that again.
It doesn’t.
ΩThere’s a knock at the window. I want it to be Joe so badly that I take a few seconds before looking up to see who it is. I just want a few moments where I can believe that it’s him, that he’ll be out there in his red North Face and wind-whipped cheeks waiting to rescue me, or maybe fool around in the empty café.
So there’s an even bigger shock when it’s Devon’s face I see in the window. Big blue eyes and long lashes, a wiry frame, an oversize striped scarf, a furry hat that must be from Russia. And that face: the only word for it is pretty. His face is a perfect, slender oval, and there’s something to love about his super-straight nose and freckled cheeks. Not love, but you know, find pretty cute.
He waves. He’s more than a year older than me, but the way he moves is more like a little kid. I let him in.
“Hey there,” I say. It doesn’t sound like me. It especially doesn’t sound like me in the state I’m in right now. I’m sad and stressed and scared, but he has a look on his face like he wants me to smile at him, so I do.
I could do more. I could be the girl Zed is pushing me to be. I could do all my Assignments, go further that I ever imagined. Maybe I could kiss Devon, and Joe could walk by and see us lips-to-lips in the window, and then Joe would burst in and wrestle me from Devon’s arms so he can have me for himself.
Or something like that.
But I feel bad that my impulse is to use Devon. He’s so cute all bundled up and unsure of how I’m going to respond to him.
“I needed a friendly face,” I say. My nerves are under control, compared to earlier. Or maybe I’m high.
“I came by to apologize,” Devon says, oblivious to the intricate fantasy happening in my head right now. “I mean, that’s why I was here earlier too, before you got sort of . . . nervous. Do I make you nervous?”
“Yeah. I mean no,” I try. I sort of shake my head and twirl a strand of hair and shrug at my own silliness. “I’m always nervous lately. So it’s not you.”
“Anyway. I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t laugh at how incredibly not smart I sound.
“Why? What’d you do?” I say.
“I guess, I want to apologize for Jemma,” he says. “It’s partly my fault, I think.” He stares at the tips of his shoes, so I do too. “I kept teasing Jemma about how hot you’d gotten, and I think it sort of freaked her out, you know?” He isn’t blushing red like me, but he is sort of shifting from side to side, so he’s got to be at least a little nervous.
“Teasing her,” I repeat. I don’t want to talk about Jemma. I don’t want to ignite the pocket of sadness and nostalgia and confusion I feel when I think too much about what it means that we’re not fr
iends anymore. “I don’t think it’s your fault,” I say. I mean to dismiss the conversation, but because being around him makes me smile, it comes across flirtatious. Like, it’s not his fault that I’m so supercute. How could he help himself?
“Jemma seems younger than you, you know? I mean, she doesn’t think so. Jemma thinks she’s about forty. But in some ways, she’s a kid and maybe in some ways . . . you’re not?” He steps closer to me. My heart pounds. Good pounds. But maybe it’s the weed.
“I’m not really a kid,” I say. I let myself take a step closer to him. So close my shoulder is an inch away from pressing against his chest. So close it would take nothing more than a little breeze for us to be hugging.
Or kissing.
I wonder what would happen if I leaned into his lips. How would my life change if I completed another terrifying Assignment? If I did something I’d never do without Zed’s or LBC’s urging?
Mostly I think of Joe and how badly I want him to want me, and I stay put. I stay close to him.
“Are you okay?” he says. He touches my shoulder, but I can’t decide if it’s sweet or pitying. “You’re going to hate this, but I sort of . . . heard everything.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, but the second it’s out of my mouth I obviously do know what he means. He heard Cate and Paul and the screaming.
“I sort of stayed. You seemed . . . off. And I was worried. Apparently I’m worrying about you a lot.” Devon shrugs. “If I’m being weird, tell me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I can’t decipher what the hell I feel. I went to a therapist once, with Cate and Paul when they were in a phase where they thought everyone should always be in therapy. There was a chart of cartoon people making different faces. They were labeled with emotions. This is what angry looks like; this is what surprised looks like; this is what happy looks like.
I try to think through the faces and see if any of them match.
There is no corresponding face for the way I’m feeling. It is unrecognizable and jumbled. It is maybe all the faces combined.
“It’s nice. To have you . . . thinking about me,” I say at last. Because I can’t figure out how I feel.
I can feel drops of sweat prickling to the surface, one bead for each vertebra on my spine. It’s a slow build at first, but then just a wash of humiliating wet all up and down my back. I ignore it so that I can stay sexy.
This is what scared looks like.
“Want tea?” I say. I touch my phone in my pocket. They’re all here with me, pushing me along, helping me. Star, @sshole, Roxie, Zed, Agnes.
“I love tea,” Devon says. It’s a lie. No teenage boys love tea. “You know, I really am sorry,” he says when I’m walking away from him to get started on the tea. People always say the big things when your back is turned to them. It’s easier to say stuff when you can’t see the other person’s reaction.
“I hate your sister,” I say, which isn’t in any way an acceptance of the apology, but it’s the truth, and I’m getting really, really good at telling the truth.
“That’s cool,” he says.
“Green tea okay?” I say from the back.
“Sounds disgusting.”
“It kind of is.” I smile, putting the tea bag in, letting it steep before I go back to Devon.
“You’re gonna hate this,” I say, and hand the steaming mug to him. It smells like hot seaweed and cut grass, and his nose wrinkles but he chokes down a sip anyway.
“So, what are we reading?” he says. I make a gesture like he should look through the bag of books from my bookstore outing earlier, but he goes right for The Secret Garden, which I’d left on the table. Not one of the new-old copies I bought today, but the copy. The red pen one.
“I like your thoughts on this,” he says, tapping the page. He’s going to do great at college—he’s a natural at academic-looking frowns. I’m eyeing my laptop, wondering if I can log in, type out some updates about Devon and Joe, and log back out before he sees anything.
“Oh, those aren’t my thoughts,” I say. I don’t say more and he doesn’t ask more, but I don’t pull the book away from him either. It makes me nervous, it’s very much mine, but I like that he likes it. I watch him read for a moment, then focus on my computer. Pull up LBC.
I know I shouldn’t, in front of him, but I can’t help myself. I feel too untethered to be here alone with Devon.
“You’re a mystery, Lady Tabitha,” Devon says. He moves his hand, like it might touch my face or my back or close my computer so that I focus more wholly on him. His hand lingers in the air, undecided. I watch it until it drops to his side, and he takes a step back, as if to give me and my computer some space.
There’s only one new comment for me.
ZED: What’s next?
Next.
Because I only have a week in which to post another secret, complete another Assignment.
Next time. Something bigger, badder, scarier.
Next. Time.
“What’s that?” Devon’s voice interrupts the loop of next next next spiraling in my head. He has snuck around behind me. His elbows are on the back of the armchair, and he is bent over so far that I can feel his breath as it hits the top of my head. It’s warm and blows around the little stray hairs that have escaped from my ponytail.
“Hey!” I say, the noise popping out, the sound version of a jack-in-the-box. I close the computer and hug it to my chest, but when I turn around, the look on his face says he’s seen too much.
“Who are those people?” he says, drawing his words out slowly. I don’t say anything, because I don’t really know. “Assignment completed?” he keeps going.
“Could I get a ride home?” I say.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure no one is reporting my parents to the police for, like, a domestic disturbance,” I try to joke. He doesn’t laugh.
“No, what was that site?”
“Is this what having a sibling is like? Spying and butting in and stuff?” There’s a shake in my voice that I have to hope he misses.
Devon clears his throat, puts his hands up to surrender, doesn’t say anything else.
Outside the window, it starts to snow.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Seventeen.
Devon holds my hand to walk me to his car. Because of the ice, he says. We both have mittens on, so the grasp is soft and clumsy and reminds me mostly of being a little kid. Devon in general reminds me of when I was a little kid. So does snow.
We don’t speak on the ride to my house, except when Devon asks me if I’m sure I don’t want to grab a pizza, and I shake my head really fast back and forth. Zed will be disappointed when I share this part. I should say yes. To everything, I think.
As I’m getting out of the car, Devon tilts his head. He can’t see my mouth or my forehead—I’m all wrapped up in a scarf and an oversize winter hat. Safe from scrutiny.
“Call me if you need another ride,” he says.
“It was nice of you to come,” I say. He has to ask me to repeat myself, the sound is so muffled by my thick fleece scarf. “Or stay. It was nice of you to stay and make sure I didn’t, like, implode or whatever.”
It looks like there’s more he wants to say, but the snow’s coming down harder now, so I pretend it’s urgent that I get out of the car this instant.
“I like hanging out with you,” I say after a big breath.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he says. It’s a funny response. I expected him to say he liked hanging out with me too, or even that he is into me or wants to take me out next weekend or something. But he sounds certain, when he says it will all work out, and for a moment I don’t feel the snow somehow (always) finding its way under my scarf or blurring my vision when it sticks to my lashes. I feel only his sureness and the flipping in my stomach that is differ
ent from the pounding that comes when I am near Joe. But it’s something.
I nod and wave and kick snow up, walking to my front door, and Devon doesn’t drive away until I am all the way inside the (very quiet) house.
“Hello?” I call out.
There aren’t calls back or feet scuffling or showers running. There is no one waiting for me by the kitchen counter with pamphlets on teen drug use or stern talkings-to. “Hello?” I try again, louder and faker, a sound that doesn’t expect a response. I wander from room to room, some part of me thinking maybe Paul is passed out, but he snores and I would have heard the buzzing breath of his sleep if he were conked out on a sofa somewhere.
I don’t mind the house all emptied out like this, except that I think it’s intended as a punishment in this circumstance. I am supposed to think about what I have done. They didn’t need to leave the house empty for me to do that. It’s all I can think of anyway.
I get online and look for Joe. He pops up immediately, and I think maybe I can distract myself with him.
Long day, I type in. I’ve only turned on one weak lamp in Cate’s office, and it’s mostly lit by winter moonlight reflecting off the thin layer of snow gathering outside the window. It’s cozy and warm and pretty as fuck.
What happened? he asks.
Pregnancy made Cate crazy, I say. Smiley face. LOL. Anything to lighten the mood. If Sasha Cotton is the troubled, fragile sex kitten, the least I can be is bubbly and peppy and fun.
Sounds like it. Joe isn’t talkative tonight. It happens from time to time, but I hate that it’s happening now, when I need to give my heart something sweet to spin around. I’m busy, talk later?
Busy means Sasha is there. Or on the phone. Or on his mind. I hover my fingers over the keys, trying to think of something to type that will keep him chatting for even another second. But before I can get any words out, he logs off, his name vanishing from the computer screen and leaving me alone. I listen to the nothingness for all of three seconds before it’s too much to handle. Where the hell are my parents? I choose Indie Dance on Pandora and turn the speakers all the way up. Keyboards, echoing percussion, and feminine male singers fill the room with sound, and I sing along at the top of my lungs. Dance a little in my chair. Tell my heart to stop leaping in every direction: love, fear, nostalgia, boredom, interest, thrill, loneliness.
Life by Committee Page 15
