Gavin and I look at her then each other. Because the rest of my body’s coursing with wicked adrenaline and lust and I don’t know what, I do the thing I know how to do best: take a deep long breath through my nose. Blow it out, slow, through my mouth. Back to the discipline. Whatever it is that’s happening right now, it isn’t the boss of me. Besides, Grier needs to get home, pronto.
Without much protest from her, we get Grier inside and clean her up, both of us holding her over the bathroom sink while I wipe her face and her chest with a cool wet cloth. Gavin keeps looking at me, wanting to say something or maybe even kiss me again, but I frown in concentration over Grier.
There isn’t any discussion of whether or not we’re staying.
“You okay to drive?” Gavin asks me.
I nod, serious. The cup of beer I’d only sipped at is spilled somewhere in the grass by the lake, and I’m fine to drive. I haven’t felt more alert all day, in fact: strung tight to every little thing. I hope my face tells him not to ask me anything else as we steer Grier to the driveway. She manages to walk with us out to her car but crawls into the backseat and lies down immediately.
Because of me, because of Grier, because of whatever, we’re silent in the car. Gavin checks back on Grier, mostly to make sure her head’s turned to the side so that if she pukes again, she doesn’t choke. She’s not going to be sick again, I want to tell him, but his attention on her is better than on me right now. Because if he looks at me again like that, I might just stop the car and kiss him.
It’s when we pull into Grier’s palm-lined circular drive that he breaks the steely silence: “Man, that was intense.”
I check the backseat. Grier is definitely passed out, but still.
“Get out of the car, at least.”
While we do, I picture him grabbing my arm and pulling me to him, but he doesn’t. I go around to the front of the car and lean against it, crossing my arms and staring into the lush greenery that is Grier’s well-landscaped front yard.
Gavin stands beside me. Not close enough to touch.
“Now do you see?” he says, quiet.
“Do I see what?” Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“What I said last night.”
The automatic mode the breathing helps me get into, plus the time spent dealing with Grier and the drive, has made me steady again. I snort.
“Do I see that you’re playing two friends against each other? Sure, I see that. Pretty good convo for the boys back at school, I’m sure.”
“Goddamn.” He shakes his head.
“What? It’s not like that’s not what’s going on.”
A sigh from him. “I’m not playing you. That was all Grier back there.”
“Oh, and I’m sure it was so hard for you.”
Again the laugh, the shaking head. “You’re too much.”
“For you? Probably.”
“You know, I really don’t get you. What do you want, for me to stop hanging out with her? Because it doesn’t really seem like you do.”
I shrug. “Do what you want. I’m not in the habit of snatching up my friend’s sloppy seconds, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“So I might as well just keep on fucking her is what you’re saying.” His voice is trying to be as mean as mine.
“She seems to enjoy it.”
“Oh, believe me, she does.” As if that’s supposed to make me jealous. I smile a little in the dark.
“Great, then.”
“I just don’t see why we can’t—” He leans in, bumps his shoulder against mine. “I mean, it’s not like she and I said we wouldn’t hang with other people.”
I smile.
“I’d like to point out to you that Grier is my friend. Besides, like Grier says, I don’t like you that much.”
He growls and comes at me with that deliciously full mouth of his, but now I’m expecting it and I dodge out of the way, laughing at him. He grabs for me, but I run around to the other side of the car, giggling.
“Come on.” I open the back passenger door. “Let’s get her inside and into bed.”
When I start pulling on Grier’s ankles, she groans and flaps at me with one hand.
Gavin moves me out of the way to lift her all the way out. She flings her arm around him and snuggles into his chest.
“Okay,” he says, like there’s been no pause in the conversation. “Obviously, I’m just going to have to win you over so bad, you’re willing to break some rules.”
I laugh again, low, reaching for Grier’s purse in order to hide the look of victory that I can feel on my face.
“Yeah, well”—I blow out a long, slow breath—“good luck with that.”
19
MONDAY MORNING, FOR A MINUTE after the alarm, my legs don’t want to move at all, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to get out of bed. It freaks me out so bad, I push myself up forcibly onto my elbows and shake my head a few hard times. Finally my feet slip from under the sheets and onto the floor. It still takes me another thirty seconds, forty-five, before I stand up to go pee. When I’m done I sit back down on my bed and stare at the floor for probably five minutes, thinking about nothing. Well, not nothing. About Gavin texting me thirty times yesterday after Mom picked me up from Grier’s. I’d crashed in one of her guest rooms while the two of them curled up together. They were still asleep when I left.
I didn’t realize he’d been messaging me at all until we got home from the cemetery, when I already had about sixteen of them. They kept coming all day, even when I was at Charlie’s for a while before dinner:
i like camping.
i know how to make a good quesadilla.
i can type with my eyes closed. sort of.
my roommate calls me vinny.
really, he does. & im not italian.
Stupid things like that—things I don’t get why he thinks would make him likeable. I didn’t respond. Well, except after that first one, to find out how he got my number.
g still passed out. i found her phone.
And then:
where did u go?
we cd make pancakes. if u know how.
u don’t seem lk the cooking type tho.
The idea of him looking through her phone—at her contacts, her photos, maybe even her e-mails—felt strange and weird, and the torrent of texts get a little annoying after a while, but I didn’t mind that he woke up and wanted to find me. The last text came in at 12:46 a.m.: ok good night see you at the pool.
Now I just drop my phone in my bag, pull on shorts, and shove sneakers on my feet. Mom and I washed all my suits yesterday, so my gear is ready to go. Downstairs, Louis waits with his coffee and a protein bar for me. I pull a ball cap on, low.
“Let’s go,” I say to Louis.
Routine.
• • •
It’s halfway through first period when my breakfast finally hits my bloodstream and my brain wakes up more. Kate, I think. Kate and her date. My sluggish body straightens up a little. I blink to attention. I wonder how it went.
First, though, there’s Charlie to deal with. He’d texted me while I was at the cemetery yesterday too, in the midst of Gavin’s bombardment. It was weird seeing his number there in the middle of so many from Gavin: still want to study?
So I went over. We hung out. I halfheartedly listened while he explained some of the major points in the last article we were supposed to have read for Conflicts, and then halfheartedly made out with him after that. It wasn’t because I was thinking of Gavin, really, or wishing Charlie was him. Instead I wondered if Charlie could somehow tell I’d kissed another person. If Gavin had left any kind of mark on me. Charlie and I haven’t talked about not seeing other people, but with a guy like Charlie, you just know. Surely he’s assumed the same thing about me. And I haven’t given him any reason to think I’m not, so far.
I left early. I couldn’t even stand him unbuttoning my shirt much. He was perplexed, of course, but said he’d see me tomorrow. Hoped I’d get enough rest. He s
miled when he kissed me good-bye. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Now, headed to our lunch table, I have to arrange my face for him again for a different reason. Because it isn’t just Charlie at our table—it’s Ethan, and I think his girlfriend, whatshername. Another girl from the school swim team too, maybe named Nala? Nora? I’m not sure.
“Hey,” Charlie says, all cheerful and proud, showing me his friends.
“Hey.” I bend down and kiss him quick, since that’s what he wants me to do. For his friends to see.
“So, you remember Ethan. And Maria.”
Ethan nods. Maria nods. I nod back.
“And, hey, we know each other already. On the team? You’re Brynn, right?”
The N girl has stood up to shake my hand, all bright and preppy and nervous. Brown ponytail. Brown eyes. White T-shirt with light brown stripes. She doesn’t say her name, which is annoying because why would I remember some random girl on the suck team? Luckily, when she starts taking apart this complicated bento box with her lunch in it, I see her name written on the bottom of one of the compartments: Nora. There’s a little pop of satisfaction in me that I was right.
The rest of us get up to get our food: me and Charlie to the salad bar, and Ethan and Maria to the sub and sandwich line.
“So, what’s that about?” I try to say it light.
“What do you mean?”
“We just haven’t had lunch with your friends before.”
He raises one shoulder, quick. “I wanted you to myself at first. But now that I really know how awesome you are, I want to share you with my friends.” I can’t see his face, but I can hear how happy he is. I drop a pile of shredded beets on top of the other stuff on my plate and don’t say anything.
“Is that okay?”
I think. It isn’t okay, though I can’t really say why not. Only that, before Charlie, I didn’t do lunch with other people. It was too distracting, all their boring stories and gossip and dumb jokes and playing with their food, cracking one another up over nothing. I’d go to the library. To sleep, mainly, but also to look at back issues of Entertainment Weekly to keep me up on all the movies and TV shows I’m too tired to watch. Sophomore year I used to hang out with some other girls in my English class, but they kept inviting me to sleepovers, shopping trips—stuff I couldn’t do with them because of club practice. So last year I found myself a new drill. And then, a month ago, I guess, I found Charlie, which apparently now means more than just him.
“It’s fine,” I finally say.
I’ve reached the end of the salad bar. But I don’t want to go forward.
“Look,” he says, balancing his plate in one hand so he can turn me to him. “I know you think the guys on the school team are cheese, but I promise, going through puberty really has chilled a few of them out.” He’s trying to make a joke, but I don’t bite, so he switches gears. “Polo, Ethan is my best friend. I can’t not hang out with him just because I want to be with you, too. I thought this way we could—”
“I know.”
“So, what?”
I look at him. At his earnest face. It really is sweet, the way he wants me to be in his life. And something about it, about him, makes me think I could tell him the real truth: that I know none of this is going to last. That I don’t want either of us getting too tangled in each other, because when someone leaves—and I am going to leave—there’s a big freaking hole in your life that you can never, ever get over, even if someone else steps in to fill it. When your dad is gone—no matter how many conversations you’ve had about how dangerous his job is—he’s gone, and when your mom flips out because of it, you can’t get her back either. Friends don’t stay friends when you have to change schools. Eventually everyone disappears. So it’s better to depend on yourself and your system, because if you don’t have something to keep you afloat, you’re going to find yourself at the bottom of a dark sea pretty darn quick.
I’ve never said this to anybody, but the look on Charlie’s face—that’s what I want to tell him right now.
But it would be too much. For both of us. So instead I tweak my mouth into what I hope looks like a small smile.
“Maybe I just wanted to relish you by myself a little longer, is all.”
20
I SURVIVE LUNCH. CHARLIE’S RIGHT that Ethan is funny, and watching the two of them riff off each other for half of lunch makes me see both of them in a different way. More sparkly or something. Warm. Maria’s got tears going down her face, she’s laughing so hard. I don’t know; it’s fun. When the bell rings, Nora leaps up and gives me a girly little hug, and Ethan, predictably, says maybe we should all do something this weekend. Charlie’s happy. I’m fine. I kiss him quick on the cheek and say I’ll text him after practice.
Then there’s Spanish to plod through and finally Enviro and Kate. I speed walk to class, getting there early and looking up every time someone comes in, wanting to see her expression: not just about the date but about what it was like in Stats with him this morning too. Kate’s face broadcasts every tiny emotion, often several at once, so as soon as she comes in and I get a glance—
“It was great, wasn’t it?” I say.
She’s flushing, smiling, eyebrows up in this-is-crazy doubt and maybe a little surprise. I clap my hands.
“And class today? What happened?”
“He said hey to me.”
Nails up in her mouth. I’ll tell her to quit next time.
“And?”
“And I said hey to him.”
“And?”
“He asked me how the rest of my weekend was, and I said fine.”
“Oh my god, Kate, you’re killing me!”
She smiles, baffled. “What do you want me to say? You’re the expert. I don’t know anything about all this.”
“Well, did he ask you out again?”
“He texted me Saturday. Said he wondered if I’d want to go see anyone else playing there sometime.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Today he asked me what lunch period I’m in.”
I brighten. “That’s very good!”
“But we don’t have the same, so . . .”
“That’s okay. This way he can miss you, wonder what you’re doing.”
“Oh yeah, because going to a PETA meeting is so mysterious.”
“He doesn’t know it isn’t!” My voice is so squeaky, Chu glances up from her desk. I lean in closer, my hand on Kate’s arm. “He wants to see you, that’s for sure. And I’m assuming you like him, right? Golf shirts and all?”
“Oh, I almost cracked up when I walked into the coffeehouse. Because he really had on one of those plaid cowboy shirts. I am not kidding.”
“So he didn’t pick you up?”
She shakes her head. “My parents insisted Mom drop me off. But he did get to bring me home.”
Which means maybe they kissed, but I can’t ask because the bell rings and Chu moves over to the board. After class, as we move down the hall though, I grill her about the entire date, and how they left it.
“The thing is, I don’t know when we’re going out again, or if,” she says as we take our seats in Conflicts. “He didn’t say anything that meant this weekend for sure, but since I already said yes I’d like to go sometime, does that mean he assumes I’m saying yes to this weekend? I know you’d tell me not to ask him, but in class today I was so distracted, not being able to figure it out.”
“You have to wait.”
“I know, but what if he was just being nice and he didn’t mean it, and here I am waiting and waiting. . . .”
“So you don’t wait.”
She doesn’t buy it. “Right, I don’t wait. I already checked my phone at lunch, which I never do, in case he’d somehow texted me.”
I think of Gavin’s slew of texts over the weekend. How I wanted to sneak in the bathroom and turn on my phone after lunch today too, but Charlie’s friends had thrown me off, so I had to run to my locker between fourth and
fifth instead. Plus, it would’ve been stupid.
I shake my head, resolute for us both. “He talked to you in class. That’s enough. He needed to see how you’d react today, whether you were still interested. Believe me, he’ll text you. I bet as soon as school is out.”
“But what if he doesn’t?”
“There could be a couple of reasons. You don’t have any way of knowing what they are. The key is, you cannot initiate anything. This is like a game of Chicken or a staring contest. You cannot be the one who flinches, because then you’ll both know you broke first.”
“If I really had a good time, though, and truly want to go hear some music with him again, can’t I—”
Woodham stands up. Time for class. I shake my head firmly at Kate before she turns around to pay attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special announcement for you all today.” He leans over his rickety wooden podium, looking over his trendy glasses at all of us. “After seventeen years of teaching, I’ve decided to try something a little different. Though grading your essay exams is truly the light of my life, it’s become plain to me, after reading your last papers, that there is more work to do before I send you off to your more advanced classes next year, not to mention college.”
My shoulders sink. Paper. That was one of my Ds. With lots and lots of Xs from Woodham’s green pen.
“So in lieu of an essay exam, this year your entire exam grade will be determined by your final research paper, which will be our primary focus—save this last section on the Arab Spring and current events that are the result of it—for the remainder of our time together. Now—”
He goes to the Smart Board and projects a list of paper requirements. Everyone takes out their notes, including me. Fuck fuck fuck paper fuck. I cannot do this. He knows I cannot do this. Not just because I don’t have time, but also because I really can’t. I can talk a good game, but writing isn’t one of my strengths. Five nondigital sources. Correct works cited. Critical analysis. Compelling conclusion. I take a deep breath and try to slow my heart, but even I know the breathing doesn’t always work when you are officially freaking out.
In Deep Page 7
