by Anne Dayton
I take a sip of the sparkling cider Zoe’s parents gave us, but it’s flat and dull.
At least with Ana’s chattering, no one seems to notice my funk. I study the bottle’s gold label with long, lilting silver writing and a picture of an apple tree. For a moment, I imagine a New Year’s Eve in Manhattan. Andrew would look so dashing, the black of his tuxedo setting off silky, honey-colored hair. We’d dance to orchestra music, and at midnight there would be champagne and a kiss.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and punch the side button to see the time. 10:21. He’s not going to call. It’s too late to call. Well, really it was too late to call when the sun set yesterday, and yet I still held out foolish hope, but finally now, at the very edge of a brand-new year, I know that he’s really and truly not going to call.
I hop off the edge of the hot tub and shimmy out of my shorts numbly. Behind me the girls laugh and sip their cider while tears sting my eyes. I don’t get it. How could he not call after the concert? It felt so real that night. He kissed my forehead as we left the opera house. He held my hand.
I had some vague idea that I might get their take on the situation tonight, but without Riley, it just feels weird. She’s the one who knows all about guys. Ana has only gone out with Dave, which is the weirdest pseudorelationship I’ve ever seen, and the day I take dating advice from Zoe is the day I retire from dating. Better to just keep it to myself.
I pull my shirt over my head and blot my eyes secretly so that Ana and Zoe won’t notice I’m crying. I know it’s horrible, but I wish I hadn’t come at all. Being here is twice as depressing. I want to be with him. Or I want to go back to happier times when we were all here, laughing and hanging out, no one talking about their boyfriends, or their grades, or their other friends. A chill runs through me. It’s bad luck to greet a new year like this.
I look up at the dark sky, festooned with tiny sparkling lights, looking for help, but the heavens don’t answer.
***
We’ve just finished pouring the last of the sparkling cider when Zoe gasps.
“What was that? Did you guys hear that?” She stands up in the hot tub and stares into the dark December night. Zoe’s back yard basically fronts acres and acres of old-growth forest, and it’s like being in the middle of the woods. We can’t see anything past the deck railing.
“Do you think it’s an ax murderer?” I grab one of Zoe’s feet under the water and make her jump.
“Ah! Don’t do that!” She makes a face at me. “These woods are freaky at night.”
I was shocked tonight when she stripped down to a tankini. A year ago she would have been wearing a one-piece suit with one of those flowery skirts. She dips back into the water, shivering.
“Hey, Christine,” Ana screams at the top of her lungs. Ana has spent most of the last hour submerged in the hot water with just her face poking out. This means she can’t hear, so she’s really loud, even louder than normal. “Go get your phone. See what time it is again.”
I pull her shoulders up until her ears are out of the water. “You’re going to wake up Dreamy and Ed.”
She nods and then goes back under.
I reach for my phone resting on the edge of the hot tub and try to keep it from slipping into the bubbling water.
“There!” Zoe points at something in the yard. “You must have heard that.”
Zoe and I peer into the backyard. Beyond the deck is miles and miles of dark black nothingness. Ana is still hovering under the water with only her face poking out.
I pull her back up. “There’s only one minute left in this year. Why don’t you enjoy it above the surface? You’re making me feel like I’m hanging out with my goldfish.”
“Fine,” Ana says, reaching for her glass on the side of the hot tub.
“Okay, I’ll tell you when it changes to midnight.” I pick my phone up, and the light from the screen is the only light except the stars. I hold it up in the air and then bring it down. “It’s not exactly the ball dropping, is it?”
Ana goes under but keeps her hand with the glass flute in the air. She comes up sputtering. I press the side button of my phone and it glows blue again. Wow. If you just sit there waiting on it, a minute takes a long time to pass.
“Okay.” I wave my phone, and Zoe begins to clap. “It’s midnight! Happy New Year!”
Then I hear it. It sounds like someone is walking through the yard near the deck.
I twist so my body is facing the railing. “What the—”
“AAAH!” Zoe shrieks and scrunches as low as she can in the water.
“Wait! Listen. It’s that old song.” Ana stands up and turns her head toward the sound. She looks at us, then leans toward the yard. I move toward the railing and squint to see what she’s looking at. There are people playing shiny instruments in the yard and they’re coming toward us.
“What in the world?” Why is there a marching band coming through the forest in the middle of the night? I judge the distance from here to the door. If we run now, we can probably make it. Zoe stands up slowly and leans toward the railing too. She watches silently as the flashes of brass meld into real instruments.
“It’s that New Year’s song,” Ana says, her eyes wide. “The one they always play in sappy romance movies. Old Lang something or other.”
I grab for my phone. “What—”
“Oh no.” Zoe’s jaw hangs open. “Marcus?”
The shadows give way as the players keep advancing toward us through the trees. Soon it’s easy to tell that it’s Marcus and three other guys. Two of the guys are playing trumpets, a skinny freshman I recognize from math class is playing the French horn, and Marcus keeps squeaking notes on his trombone. They look oddly grim, coming out of the darkness like that, playing this out-of-tune song.
“Marcus? What are you doing?” Zoe slips back under the water. Poor Zoe. I don’t think she wants Marcus to see her in her swimsuit.
The guys stop, and Marcus marches up the wooden stairs toward us. Zoe’s cheeks are bright red by the time he makes it to the edge of the hot tub. “Happy New Year, Zoe.” He tosses a handful of confetti in the air, and it rains down on us. Then he leans forward, his mouth puckered up like a fish, and shuts his eyes. Zoe stares at him in horror.
Marcus opens his eyes and smiles, undeterred. I glance at Ana, who looks as stunned as I feel. Did Marcus really organize this whole crazy stunt for Zoe?
“You look beautiful.” He smiles at her hopefully, but she shakes her head and sinks her shoulders under the bubbles, her eyes wide.
Marcus sighs, gives a slow wave, and turns back toward the stairs. Zoe watches him go, her cheeks pink. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, the ragtag band starts playing again and marches off.
“You guys, that was so embarrassing,” Zoe squeals, but I’d swear there’s a hint of delight in her voice.
Ana and I stay silent as they disappear into the woods. The last few notes vanish into the night, and I can’t help but wonder if Zoe knows more about guys than I give her credit for.
32
The fact that I don’t see Andrew until my final class on Mondays is proof that God enjoys watching us suffer. Not only have I not heard from him since we went to the concert together—I still have to wait the entire day to find out what the deal is. The only upside is that this long, excruciating day gives me time to form a plan.
I pull open the door to Mr. Dumas’s classroom and relax a little when I see that I’m the first one here.
“Well, well, well,” Mr. Dumas says, not even looking up from a stack of papers on his desk. How does he do that? “Someone is punctual today. Looking forward to art class, I assume?” The way he says “art class” I know he means “Andrew Cutchins.” He’s relishing watching our relationship, or whatever this is, unfold.
I ignore him and slide into my usual seat. Normally I wouldn’t ignore a teacher, but Mr. Dumas is not normal. I sling my backpack up on the table into the space next to me and pretend to dig for somethin
g deep in the bottom, something I can’t quite find. People begin to file in, laughing and talking, filling the awkward silence in the room.
I have to know that I didn’t make this whole relationship thing up. When you write down all the facts on a piece of paper, it doesn’t amount to much, and I don’t want to be flirting and hanging all over a guy who doesn’t like me back, so I realized that the only way to handle this Andrew situation is to throw the ball back in his court, to use a basketball metaphor. He has to choose where he’s sitting today. If he sits by me, well then, it’s open season on flirting. I’ll make sure he knows how much I like him, and if he doesn’t respond . . . I’ll have my answer. But at lunch today it occurred to me that there was another possible scenario. Someone could sit next to me before Andrew arrives and then my data will be inconclusive, so I decided that I would have to make it look like I was holding it for him . . . or maybe I lost my pencil in the bottom of my bag. And so far, my plan is working.
Finally almost everyone has arrived. I find my phone in the bottom of my bag and check the screen for the time. He has one more minute. Oh no! What if he’s not even in school today? That’s a scenario I hadn’t even thought of. My heart races. He has to be in school today. I can’t stand waiting even thirty more seconds.
And then, like an apparition, he appears in the doorway. It’s been so long since I’ve seen his gorgeous face that I’m stunned. This is who I thought would call me? Get real, Christine. He looks like a model.
Andrew’s eyes sweep the room, and I smile and try to look inviting. Ever since that first day he sat by me, he’s always taken the chair next to me, but the seats aren’t assigned in Mr. Dumas’s class, and there are more than enough spots to go around. He could sit anywhere.
He avoids my eye as he weaves his way down the first row, and I realize I’m not breathing as I watch him step over Susan Cahn’s giant backpack to get to the empty seat by her. It’s not even a matter of plopping down in the first seat he saw. He had to work to get to that seat. I hear a few people bustle.
“Mr. Cutchins. Welcome back.” Mr. Dumas says, but even he seems shocked. Instead of his usual sarcastic tone, his voice is faltering. Andrew shrugs, and Mr. Dumas shakes his head a little. “Right. Well, today I’m going to bore you with my lofty intellect and rapier wit. . . .” Everyone but me groans. The best days in art class are the ones where we get to create, but occasionally Mr. Dumas lectures us on certain movements, techniques, or famous artists.
Mr. Dumas clicks on the ancient slide projector and points it toward the screen at the front. He begins to drone on about chiaroscuro, some Italian word that means light and dark. I try to listen, but only snippets of his lecture seep through my brain.
Light is Andrew’s hair. Dark is mine. Light is how he used to make me feel; now my heart is pumping thick, black oil through my veins. Maybe he’s forgotten me. Maybe there never was a “we.” Maybe I misread the shadows and shadings of our relationship. Was it a friendship? Am I nothing more than some needy girl who made it all up? Can he not see all the ways he has shed light on my dark little life?
For what feels like an eternity, Mr. Dumas snaps one slide after another of the freakiest art you’ve ever seen. There’s an angel that looks like it might devour people, a manger scene that is oddly menacing, a woman smiling like a joker. I almost feel dizzy at the parade of paintings, but finally after a feverish hour of hand-wringing and fretting, the bell rings. I’ve never been so happy to hear it.
Andrew begins to pack up his bag. He’s joking with Susan Cahn, seemingly unaware of the spell he’s put me under. He’s going to stroll right out of here, and nothing will get resolved. At the thought of spending another evening torturing myself, I force myself to act.
“Andrew,” I say, springing to my feet. “Wait up.”
He turns around and grins at me.
I keep my face stony and calm. His smile disappears, but he stops packing up his bag and his shoulders slump a little.
I put my notepad in my backpack. I didn’t take a single note while Mr. Dumas was talking, but I can’t worry about that now. What should I say to Andrew? I stall, pretending yet again that I can’t find something at the bottom of my bag, letting everyone else leave. Even Mr. Dumas steps down the hall for a moment, chasing after another teacher, and suddenly, we’re all alone.
I clear my throat. “So, um, where have you been?”
Andrew shrugs. “Went to see my grandmother on Christmas day.” He slings his bag onto his back. “Other than that, I just hung around the house driving my mom crazy.”
I know I’m supposed to laugh at this, so I don’t. “Why didn’t you call me?” I walk toward the front of the classroom. “Your phone lines were all down due to a freak storm that only hit your house, and the dog ate your cell phone?”
Andrew guffaws as if he’s in on the joke. “Just busy.” He pulls on a strand of my hair and winks at me. “Why didn’t you call me?”
I glare at him. He’s going to make this hard. I’d at least hoped he would own up to liking me, even if he had to admit that his feelings had changed. Instead he’s acting like nothing happened.
“You said you would call me.”
Andrew runs his fingers through his hair. “Listen, Christine . . .”
I wait.
His mood seems to turn. “Look.” He purses his lips. “I like hanging out with you.” He shakes his head dramatically, as if he pities me. “But I have a lot of friends.” He looks into my eyes like I do with Emma sometimes. “I like being . . . friendly. I didn’t realize that you—,” he glances at the floor, “were taking it so seriously.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I manage to make some kind of squeak before I turn on my heel. The door slams shut behind me, and as my footsteps echo in the breezeway, I try to convince myself that I didn’t make this up. He led me on. He made me believe he liked me. He made me feel like the only girl, and he did it on purpose.
I nearly run into Mr. Dumas as I storm down the hallway. He cocks his eyebrow.
“Hell hath no fury like a painter scorned.”
I open my mouth, but just walk away.
33
“So it’s been ten days, and I’m officially giving up hope.” Riley sounds defeated over the phone line. I hold my cell phone with my left hand and steer the car toward my house with my right, even though I swore I would never do this. Talking on the phone while driving is dangerous and illegal and really stupid, especially on such a gray, misty day, but when I saw it was Riley calling me, the allure of a friendly voice was too appealing to pass up.
“He still hasn’t called?” I push the brake pedal down slowly, even though the red light is almost a full block ahead. I’m driving really slowly anyway to make up for the phone thing, and it takes about a second to bring the car to a stop.
“No.” I hear metal banging on her end of the line.
“Has anyone heard from him? Maybe he’s hurt or something.”
“I called his house yesterday.” She sighs. “His mom answered. Talk about mortifying. They got a postcard he sent a few days ago.”
“So he’s alive and kicking.” I pull the car to a slow stop about a mile behind the car ahead of me. I thought I’d get more comfortable behind the wheel, but so far, it hasn’t happened.
“So it would seem. Which basically means he’s over me.” There’s another clang right by Riley’s phone.
“Where are you?”
“The locker room. Practice starts in a few minutes.” She sighs. “I’m not exactly in the mood to cheer.”
“Sounds like someone needs a nice long drink of the Kool-Aid.”
“Shut up.” She laughs a little. “Look, I have to run, but I was calling to see if you wanted to hang out Friday night. You know, just us. It’ll be like a single girls’ night out.”
Ugh. Single girls. My least favorite phrase. Two normal words that when combined produce horrific, pathetic results. No matter how much fun you try to make it sound, be
ing a single girl isn’t something to celebrate.
“Zoe’s technically not dating Marcus.” The light turns green, and I look around to make sure the intersection is totally clear before I press my foot on the accelerator cautiously.
“But she might as well be. And it doesn’t matter anyway. He adores her. She can’t be in on our pity party when she has someone dying to be with her. So what about Friday?”
“Friday night? I have to check my busy schedule. Let’s see. I guess I could fit it in between stewing about Andrew and plotting revenge on Andrew.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you at six.” A shrill whistle blows from Riley’s end of the line. “We’ll be two single girls out on the town.”
“Look out, Half Moon Bay.” I shake my head. Riley’s always fun, so even if the occasion is pathetic, we’ll still have a good time. “Here we come.”
***
The driveway is empty when I pull up in front of the house. Candace teaches Yogilates today, and Emma went over to Sylvie’s house after school to plan some kind of Sadie Hawkins Dance with the rest of the student government, so no one will be back for hours. I head straight to my room, slam the door, and instinctively stay on what’s now my side.
I flop onto my bed and slip my headphones into my ears. Closing my eyes, I try to lose myself in the music, but I can’t stop thinking about what Andrew said. How could he say we were never more than friends? Did it really all mean nothing to him? A tear works its way out of my eye and slides down the side of my cheek. I turn the music up and try to banish him from my head. Let’s see. I’ll think about Friday night instead. There are a few movies out I want to see, or maybe we’ll drive down to the beach. Lots of people hang out there. Heck, maybe we’ll even meet some new guys, guys who have brains and actually care about us.
But as I picture the scene, the only guy I can envision is Andrew.
