by Emma Mills
I feel like an idiot.
It’s not like I thought the seats would be particularly good. Like obviously not on the ground level or anything. But I didn’t expect them to be this terribly bad, and I’m very certain that the seats Iris originally had were probably way, way better.
Iris just stands there, looking at the stadium below, her expression unreadable. Finally she turns to me.
“We can see everything from up here,” she says, and if the smile that breaks her face isn’t genuine, it’s the best lie she’s ever delivered in the whole of our acquaintance. “The rainbow-light fan project is going to look so good.”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re right at the front of our section. So maybe if they shoot up here, Kenji will see us.”
“Maybe,” I say.
She just smiles at me and heads down the stairs toward our seats.
thirty-six
“My name is Kenji Ko, you’re Chicago, and we are This Is Our Now.”
I have never heard such earsplitting screams in my life.
“Thank you for joining me and the boys here tonight.” A camera tracks Kenji as he makes his way down the catwalk extending from the stage out into the audience. The other boys are trailing somewhat behind him, Josh and Lucas pausing to wave to people here and there, Kai stopping Tristan to point out a sign in the audience. Iris has her phone out, and even though they’re tiny-sized from here, she takes a picture every time Kenji appears on the jumbotron.
“I can see all of your beautiful faces here in the front,” Kenji continues, and a massive cheer erupts, “and on the sides, and in the back, way up there, way up, way up!” Our section joins the cheering, Iris letting out an incredible whoop. “Well, I can’t see your faces up there, exactly, but I know you’re there, I know you’re beautiful, and I love you.” As the rest of the boys catch up, getting into place and slipping their mics on to their stands, Kenji grins, bright and devastating. Iris snaps another picture.
“This is ‘Scandal Season.’”
* * *
The show is incredible.
We jump around to the fast songs, we sway to the slow ones. During “If Only,” a sweet ballad, the boys sit onstage, backed only by acoustic guitar. Phone screens dot the stadium like a mass of constellations, like the night sky reflected.
But it’s during an upbeat song—“Carry Me,” one of my favorites on their second album and what my mom would refer to as “a total bop”—that I look over and see that Iris is crying.
“Are you okay?”
She looks at me, surprised almost, like she had forgotten I was there, and then nods. “I’m happy,” she says, and gives a watery smile. “I’m just really happy.”
* * *
We meet my dad after the concert is over and head back home. It’s mostly quiet on the ride, but whenever Iris or I say something, we speak way too loudly. Dad doesn’t seem to mind.
I feel tired in the best way possible.
Dad doesn’t comment when Iris directs him down the drive leading her to mansion. He just pulls up to the front of the house and puts the car in park.
“Thanks for driving us, Mr. Wallace,” Iris says, unclipping her seat belt and getting out of the car. “And thank you,” she says, ducking her head back in and looking at me, eyes bright. “For everything.”
“No problem.”
She goes to close the door.
“Wait,” I say, and she pauses. “Your scarf.” I go to pull it out of my hair.
“You should keep it,” she replies, and then shuts the door.
My dad waits for Iris to get inside, ducking his head to get a better view of the house. “This place is something else,” he says.
In the hierarchy of praise from my dad, something else ranks among the highest. Ironically, it can also rank lowest, depending on context. A truly annoying coworker might be something else. But usually it’s something wonderful, or impressive, or unique—something apart from everything else, singular and rare.
“Nice to see you with a new friend,” Dad says as he pulls away from the house.
For some reason, I don’t protest that I had friends before. Or really, that I have all the friends I need in Zoe. I just nod. “Yeah.”
thirty-seven
The “viewing party” for Lena’s commercial is held the Friday after the TION concert, in a private room at Brunati Notte. It’s the upscale version of Brunati’s Pizza (which offers fast casual Italian dining, family-style pizza from our ovens to your table, at least according to the commercials).
Lena’s commercial for the Ideker Automotive Group is airing during an episode of some network crime procedural. There’s a projector set up, ready to stream the show on the wall of the dining room, and the place is near packed to bursting with Lena’s nearest and dearest (and me).
Del is here, to my surprise, and of course dressed better than most everyone else, in a stunning red jumpsuit. “What?” she says when I cock an eyebrow at her. I kind of thought she hated Lena. “Have you eaten here? The food is worth the cost of admission.”
“What’s the cost of admission?”
“An evening with Lena,” she whispers loudly, eyes gleaming, and then her gaze shifts to somewhere over my shoulder. I turn and see Gideon and Noah waving us over from a table across the room. The place isn’t huge, but a number of tables have been crammed in. A big buffet is set up along one wall, and the waitstaff are currently bringing out chafing dishes.
“So what’s the plan?” I say after we greet Gideon and Noah and take seats at their table. “Do we really have to watch the show?”
“Are you kidding?” Gideon says. “This is my favorite show. I’m here exclusively to watch this show.”
“What’s it called?”
“I don’t know, something about murder. Or doctors. Doctors who murder? The lawyers who defend them?”
We get food—which really is incredible, Del is right—and when the Doctors Who Murder show comes on, Lena’s father informs the room that the commercial will be aired at 8:27.
At 8:25 the room hushes, during an ad for toilet bowl cleaner.
And then suddenly Lena appears on-screen, wearing a skintight satin minidress and posing awkwardly next to a BMW.
“Come to Ideker Automotive for all your car needs,” she says.
It cuts to a shot of her walking stiffly in front of a row of Volkswagens. “We’ve got everything on your must-have list. Luxury. Reliability. Affordable.” She gestures and pivots. “Industry standard.”
I glance over at Gideon and find he’s looking at me. His gaze darts back to the screen, but there’s a small smile on his lips.
When the commercial ends, the room bursts into applause. Lena stands and hugs her parents like she’s just graduated medical school. When she finally pulls away, they all look a little teary-eyed.
“This is such a huge moment,” her mother says to the room at large. “And the start of something big for our Lena.”
“We’re so proud of you, Cookie,” Mr. Ideker says, pulling Lena back into a hug.
My phone vibrates in my purse. I try to check it discreetly.
You look like your eyes are screaming.
I sputter a laugh. I look up at Gideon, and he beams.
Can you blame me? I reply. What was that?
It had everything on my must-have list, he says. Informational. Ingenuity. Creative.
I laugh harder.
Shhh, Gideon sends, please don’t distract me, my favorite show in the world is back on and I don’t want to miss it.
Suddenly my phone dings from another number. A group text to me and Gideon.
Will you guys stop? It’s gross and some of us feel left out.
I look up and Noah catches my eye. He makes a face.
“At least let me in on the joke.”
“Gideon’s just being mean,” I say.
“You laughed though!” Gideon replies.
Lena makes her way to our table soon after that—she�
�s been doing the rounds all evening. She sits down in Del’s empty chair, looking at us expectantly. “So. What did you think?”
“You were fantastic,” Gideon says, and it sounds so authentic that I wonder if some part of Gideon actually believes she was fantastic.
Noah just nods. “What he said.”
Lena looks at me. “Great,” I say, bobbing my head, and I can’t physically refrain from it: “Watchable. Excellence.”
Gideon lets out a strangled laugh that turns into a cough.
“Jesus, G,” Lena says, handing him a glass of water. “What’s gotten into you?”
He takes the glass and drinks, shakes his head, chokes out: “Sorry. Sorry about that.”
Lena smiles, then reaches out to adjust the collar of Gideon’s shirt.
“What would you do without me?” she says. Then she looks across the table at me. “You know what, I would kill for a Shirley Temple. Claudia, do you want one?”
“Um, sure.”
“Great, will you grab me one, too?” she says, and after a pause, lets out a laugh, slapping her palm against the tabletop. “Oh my God, you should see your face right now. I’m kidding, oh my God, can you imagine?” She stands. “We can go together.”
I stand, too, just as Del returns to our table with another plate of food.
“Do you want something to drink, Del?” I ask.
“She’s fine,” Lena says, taking my arm in hers and leading me away.
She is wearing a satin minidress that’s very similar to the one she wore in the commercial, though this one is black and perilously low-cut. We go up to the bar in the dining room, and she smiles at the bartender.
“Hi, she’ll have a Shirley Temple, and I’ll have a Jack and Coke, please.”
The bartender smiles. “Can I see an ID?”
Lena leans in, voice smooth and silky: “Can’t you just take my word for it?”
He evaluates her for a moment and then nods. “Coming right up.”
Is it really that easy? Are some people just living charmed lives? I don’t even want a Jack and Coke, but I’m fairly certain that if I said Can’t you just take my word for it? to some random bartender the answer would be a definitive no.
“Won’t people wonder why your Shirley Temple isn’t pink?” I say as the bartender moves about, preparing our drinks.
“I’m allowed to change my mind, aren’t I?” Lena says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Then she rests her elbows against the bar and considers me for a moment. “So you and Gideon seem pretty close, huh?”
The abrupt change in conversation surprises me. “Uh … yeah. I guess.”
“I don’t mean to make it awkward,” she says, leaning toward me a little just like she had to the bartender. At this close range, I can see the expert precision of her eyeliner, the flecks of light catching off her highlighter. “It’s just something I’ve noticed. You’re sort of his new thing.”
“I’m not anyone’s thing.”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” She waves a hand. “I’ve known him a long time, and I know what he’s like. He gets these … obsessions, you know? Like one day he wants to learn Spanish and run with the bulls and everything’s about that until the next week when he wants to study abroad in Germany. He’s dying to get some shirt he’s seen on TV and then he gets it, wears it once, and forgets about it. Even the whole theater thing—being in the show, it was just a whim. Before theater, it was lacrosse. Before lacrosse, it was jazz band. Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t know how to like something for more than ten minutes.” She turns her eyes briefly to the ceiling, gives a small sigh—the picture of fond exasperation. “Don’t get me wrong, I adore him. We all do. But that’s just how he is. He loves something until he doesn’t, you know?” She gives me what she clearly thinks is a Worldly and Knowing look. “I mean, like, he used to buy albums on vinyl for the aesthetic. I’ve been in his room. He doesn’t even have a record player.”
There are too many things to feel at once: an irrational surge of jealousy (why was she in his room? What were they even doing?); a flush of shame, because even though she’s not saying it, I feel like she’s making fun of me in some way; and somehow, secondhand embarrassment for Gideon, because he sounds ridiculous when she describes him like that. Just … mercurial, and oddly … foolish.
And then I feel guilty for feeling embarrassed. Like I’m betraying Gideon somehow.
The bartender returns with our drinks.
Lena picks up her glass, smiling at me as she goes to take a sip. “Be careful there. Just a word to the wise. We girls gotta look out for each other, right?”
She takes a drink and then makes a face. “This is just Coke,” she says to the bartender. “There’s no alcohol in here.”
“Oh, there is,” he replies. “You just have to take my word for it.”
thirty-eight
I return to the private room with Lena, clutching a Shirley Temple that I don’t even want. There’s a table set out now with an array of desserts on it—cannoli and cakes and little tiramisus—and Noah and Gideon have joined the group lining up to get some.
I set the drink down at our table, grab my purse, and leave.
My stomach is churning. The food was too heavy, is what I tell myself as I fumble with my coat check ticket. I ate too much, too fast.
I riffle through my wallet for money to give the coat check guy—I’ve seen my parents do it, on the rare occasion we’ve had a fancy dinner out; I know that you are supposed to tip the coat check guy—but I can’t find money, and my hands start shaking for some reason. I’m scrounging around in the bottom of my purse and the guy is just looking at me, amused, until someone steps up beside me.
I glance over. The jumpsuit, the slicked-back hair, the eyebrows that could kill a man. Del.
She holds a bill in the guy’s direction, mutters “Thanks so much,” and takes my jacket from him.
I put it on as I move toward the exit. I get past the hostess stand, but Del stops me in the vestibule out front.
“Hey.”
“Thanks for that,” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”
“What is it?” Del replies.
I shake my head, and I know my mouth is doing that thing, that barely contained waver that only tells of tears.
“Come here.” She takes my arm, leads me to the side, by an ornate bench and a ficus in a gold-rimmed pot. Then she closes me in a hug.
I’m embarrassed. I should fight it. But it’s too nice, too warm, too comforting, so I just turn into her and hug back.
“Shut up,” she says, but I haven’t said anything.
Finally she pulls back, keeps her hands on my arms, looking at me like my mom would, and there’s the question that she doesn’t even have to ask.
“Lena said—”
“I fucking knew it,” Del says. “I knew she was trying to get her hooks in you.”
“No, look.” I shake my head. She already has murder in her eyes. “It’s not—she just—it’s not because of what she said, I’m not … it’s just…”
“What?”
I can’t answer, though, because I see Gideon spot us from inside the dining room, and then he’s headed our way.
“Hey, dessert’s out,” he says when he reaches us. “I was … What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, but that’s not good enough for him, I know that. “I don’t feel well. I think … maybe the food, or maybe I’m … just tired, I don’t know. I’m gonna go.”
He frowns. “I’ll drive you home.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll drive your car, and someone can come pick me up.”
“No, just … stay here and have fun.”
“I won’t have fun if I’m worrying about you. Let me take you home.”
“I don’t want you to,” I say, and it comes out sharp.
“Dude,” Del says, looking at me.
Gideon just blinks once, twice, a wrinkle appearing between his brows.
“I don’t want you to,” I say again, quieter. “It’s okay, I’m okay.” And I go.
thirty-nine
Zoe is there when I get home, gaming with Alex.
“You have to tell me literally everything,” she says. “You promised.”
I shake my head. “Tomorrow. I feel gross now.”
“Was it the food, or was the commercial really that bad?” she says with a wry smile, but I just wrap an arm around my stomach.
I was mean to Gideon for no reason. I was mean and even still, he texted me a few minutes ago—Did you get home ok?—and I haven’t responded.
“Let’s just play,” I say, and we meet up in Aradana, but not before I bite the bullet and text back a yeah. Gideon doesn’t reply after that.
Julia and Mark are online, too, so we clear some dungeons until we start making careless mistakes, Zoe probably because she’s tired, and me because my mind is too full of other things.
So we go to bed, and after Zoe mumbles g’night I think that there’s no way I’ll ever get to sleep, but somehow I drop off right away.
When I wake up a couple hours later and stumble out of bed to hit the bathroom, I realize that Zoe’s not there.
I stick my head out into the hall, but the bathroom door is open, the light off.
I step out, and I realize that the door to Alex’s room is cracked just a bit. I can hear sounds.
Smacking sounds. A wet pop. A small … sigh …
Ew is my very first thought. Jesus. I don’t need to hear Alex … doing whatever Alex does.
But then.
Two sighs. Two voices.
It doesn’t … compute. Yet at the same time, all at once I know exactly what’s going on.
I rewind through it in my mind at hyper speed—Tell Zoe she should come over and Is your brother around? All those times coming home and she’s already here, but Zoe being here has never been unusual. She’s like the School Days portraits on the kitchen wall, the curtains in the living room my mom sewed when we were little, a feature of our house, something that belongs. Zoe has always belonged—one of those intrinsic facts you know about yourself—and when I come home and Zoe’s already here, it’s because she’s waiting for me. I thought she was waiting for me.
