by Benway,Robin
He tapped his fist against the car door a few times, then looked at me. “I’m glad you never moved.”
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.
“Well, I’m glad you finally came back,” I said, and when we finally drove away, he never moved from under the streetlight, his image growing smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see him anymore.
But I knew he was still there.
Back at Caro’s, her brother David was playing Mortal Kombat and didn’t even acknowledge us as Caro and I came in through the front door and started up the stairs
“Sshh, my parents are sleeping,” she whispered, but we all knew that Caro’s parents slept like the dead. (To be fair, they had six kids. They were probably exhausted.) My parents, on the other hand, slept like nervous birds. I once got up to use the bathroom and came out to find both of them in the hallway, my mom behind my dad, each of them clutching one of my mom’s high heels.
“What are you doing?” I cried.
“We thought you were an intruder!” my mom yelled as my dad flipped on the light.
“An intruder who breaks into the house and then stops to use the bathroom?”
That was just one example of why sneaking into or out of my house was not an option. I don’t want to get impaled with an Easy Spirit pump. I don’t know how I plan on dying, but it’s not going to be like that.
Caro and I took turns in the bathroom and she loaned me some clean pajamas. “You’re like a paper doll,” she giggled as I came into the bedroom. Heather’s side was still empty. Either that, or she was just asleep under the clothing explosion and it was impossible to see her through the debris.
“I’m like a what?” I said.
“You keep borrowing my clothes.”
“Well, yours are all nice and clean. Scoot over.”
Caro turned off the light as I climbed into her bed. Sleeping over at Caro’s always meant a foot kicking me in the arm or a hand draped over my face. Back when Caro had her cat, Mr. Pickles, he used to sleep on top of my head, only he’d eventually slide down so that I’d wake up and find myself being smothered by a ten-year-old cat who had no interest in moving.
I don’t really miss Mr. Pickles. Don’t tell Caro.
She was asleep within minutes, but I lay awake, listening to the crickets. It’s funny how, even though Caro doesn’t live in my neighborhood, it still sounds the same outside, bugs and distant cars and a silence so loud that it can wake you up, or worse, keep you from falling asleep.
Caro rolled over next to me and slung her arm over my shoulders. Mr. Pickles 2.0. “Caro?” I whispered.
Nothing.
“Caro, get off.” I gave her a shove and she just snuggled down against my arm. I sighed. The things I do for our friendship. “Caro?” I whispered again. “Are you awake?”
She wasn’t, of course, which made it easier to confide her. “He kissed me,” I murmured. “Outside at the party.”
Caro just snuffled.
“Well, congrats for you,” came a sleepy voice in the direction of Heather’s bed. “Now will you shut up, please?”
“Sweet dreams, Heather,” I said, hoping that my sarcasm was able to reach her through her dirty sheets and probably bedbug-ridden pillows.
“Whatever.”
I rolled over, away from Caro so that I was on the very edge of the bed, my arm pressed against the mattress seam. “But he did,” I whispered, this time to myself, and it was there, dangling on the precipice between awake and asleep, that I finally tumbled over the edge.
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“Guess who’s invited us over for dinner next week!” my mom said the second I walked in through the back door on Saturday. It was lunchtime, at least I thought it was. We had all—me, Caro, Heather, Heather’s bedbugs—slept late the next morning, then Caro’s oldest brother, Michael, made blueberry pancakes, which we ate while watching cartoons. The fact that we were hungover went unsaid, but the pancakes and coffee had helped.
A little.
“Who?” I said, wincing at her too-perky tone. “The queen? Do I get to wear a tiara?”
“You’re always so cranky after you sleep over at Caro’s,” my mom replied. “What time did you go to bed last night?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. Two?”
“That is WAY too late,” she said. “Caro’s parents are okay with that?”
I shrugged again as my dad strolled into the room. “What’s too late?” he asked.
“She stays up way too late when she goes over to Caroline’s house,” my mom informed him.
“All we did was watch movies,” I said. “It’s like sleeping with your eyes open. And it’s rude to talk about someone like they’re not there.” I reached for a banana out of the fruit bowl. “Manners matter.”
Both of my parents gave me a Look. “What, exactly, are you learning at school?” my dad said, shaking his head. “My tax dollars at work, I swear.”
“Our tax dollars,” my mom corrected him. “Promise me you’ll take a nap later today, okay?”
“Twist my arm,” I replied, not bothering to mention that taking a nap was already on my Short List of Priorities that day.
And so was talking to Oliver.
I had checked my phone the minute I woke up, waiting to see a text or missed call or something from him, but I just had junk emails from SAT prep programs and a few “Don’t you want to apply HERE?” colleges. (Those colleges were like clingy boyfriends or girlfriends. No one wants to go to school there when they’re so desperate to get people to do just that. They needed to start playing hard to get, I thought, or no one was going to ask them to prom.)
I had deleted everything, but Heather caught me checking my phone three separate times at breakfast. “No word from Lover Boy?” she asked around a mouthful of syrup and blueberries, which was exactly as attractive as it sounds.
Caro, however, dropped her fork. “Who?” she asked me. “Who’s she talking about?”
Michael flipped another pancake at the stove, the sudden sizzling sound reminding me of an old torture technique. “Can we, um . . . ?” I nodded my head in the direction of Caro’s siblings.
Caro didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed our plates, napkins, and silverware. “Get the syrup!” she called to me as she ran upstairs, and since I happen to love both syrup and Caro, I obeyed.
“Are we seriously going to eat in your room?” I asked as I ran up the stairs after her.
“What? No! Are you insane?” She beckoned me into the bathroom, then shut the door behind us.
I looked around. “You want me to eat breakfast in the bathroom?”
“I don’t care if you eat breakfast in here or not. I just want you to talk and this is the most private place in the house. What am I hearing? You told Heather something important, but not me?” She punched me twice in the shoulder. “Slugbug Betrayal!”
“I don’t think that’s how the game works,” I said, reaching for my pancakes. “And I thought I was telling you, but you were already asleep. Heather happened to be awake and I didn’t even know she was in the room at first.”
“Ugh, she’s the worst. So, anyway. Lover Boy.” Caro narrowed her eyes at me and managed to look intimidating even with a drop of syrup on her chin and pancake batter in her hair. “Did you . . . kiss Oliver?”
I nodded, no longer interested in eating. “Outside. Last night, when we were sitting in the gazebo.”
“You kissed him in the gazebo? Oh my God, what kind of weirdo romantic are you?” But Caro was grinning from ear to ear. “Was it good? Is he a good kisser?”
I guess my hesitation and smile told Caro everything. “Get OUT!” she cried. “Do you think he remembers it? How drunk were you?”
“He better remember it!” I said. “We were just talking and then . . .” I brought my hands together. “It just happened. I
t wasn’t like we were planning it.”
“Yeah, you just lured him into a gazebo at a mansion.” Caro wiggled her eyebrows at me. “Well played, Emmy, well played.”
I pretended to curtsey, which is hard to do when you’re holding a plate full of pancakes and your borrowed pajama pants are too big. “Thank you, thank you,” I said. “But I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“Well, it’s not like you live next door to each other or anything—OH, WAIT.”
I checked my phone again. “What if he doesn’t remember it?”
Caro shrugged. “Then Drew and I will burn his house down.”
“You’re very loyal.”
“Make sure to say nice things about me when they arraign me for arson.”
“Emmy.” My mom’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Are you listening?”
Nope.
“Yeah, totally,” I said, then hopped up on the island countertop. “Down,” my mom said, pointing at the floor, and I hopped back off. I had forgotten that I wasn’t at Caro’s anymore. “So who’s dinner with?”
My mom raised an eyebrow that told me that’s what I just missed. “Maureen invited us over for next Monday night,” she said. “You and me and Dad and then her and Rick and the girls and Oliver. Isn’t that nice?”
It sounded like a nightmare. “Awesome,” I said. “But the girls have a million food allergies. What are we eating? Tofu?”
My dad made retching sounds.
“I think they’re grilling,” my mom said, ignoring him. “But we’re supposed to bring the salad, which means that I have to find that recipe. . . .” She fluttered off to her laptop, where she organized recipes by food group, holiday, event, and season. It’s an Excel spreadsheet straight from foodie heaven. “Are you in the mood for feta?” she called to me as she disappeared.
“Possibly!” I called back. I had finished eating that banana in record time. “Can I go hang out with Drew today?”
“Ask your father,” came the reply, so I turned to look at my dad. “Can I?”
“You and Drew have been spending a lot of time together,” my dad said in a non-nonchalant (or perhaps, chalant? is that even a word?) way.
“Dad, Drew’s gay,” I told him, just as my mom yelled, “Drew’s gay!” from her office. I swear, she’s installed hidden microphones in every room in the house.
“I know,” my dad said, then tapped me on the head with the newspaper as he walked past. “Your old dad may know a little more than you think he does.”
“What?” I said, but he just waved the newspaper at me and went out to the garage, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
“So is that a yes?” I called to no one in particular, and when no answer came, I decided it was definitely a yes, and went to call Drew.
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Drew picked me up in his van an hour later, barely stopping at the curb before I was already opening the door and swinging myself in. “Hello, hello,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “The Drew Express has arrived safely and on time. Please feel free to give our fledgling business five stars on Yelp.”
“I’ll tell all my friends,” I said, fastening my seat belt. I couldn’t help but notice that Oliver’s driveway was empty and that the blinds in the front window were pulled shut. Where had they gone?
“Where’s your board?” Drew asked me.
“Parents,” I replied, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “They’re both home right now, watching my every move.”
“Just as well. The waves are super flat today.” Drew hit the gas harder and I made a mental note to prepare for my mother’s eventual discussion about how it’s a “safe neighborhood” and Drew needed to be “more cautious.” (Talking to her is like playing Mad Libs sometimes. You just insert the appropriate phrase into its proper slot.)
“So!” Drew said, grabbing my knee for emphasis. “Guess what we are doing today?”
“Surprise me.” His smile was so wide that it made me smile, too.
“We”—he squeezed my knee again—“are going to Starbucks.”
I just stared at him. “Wow,” I finally said. “Because those are really rare and we never go to them. I’m so glad we’re hanging out today.”
“Could you please stop dripping your sarcasm all over my car’s interior? And I could give a shit about Starbucks. I like the place next door better, you know that. But Starbucks has the best employees.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.
The pieces clicked together.
“Kevin works at Starbucks?” I guessed, and Drew nodded. “So I get to go to Starbucks and watch you flirt with the barista?”
“Feel free to live tweet the experience!”
“Drew!” I banged my head against the headrest. “This is going to be so boring! And aren’t you supposed to play hard to get? This is definitely not playing hard to get.”
“Okay, first, thank you for being an amazing, supportive friend. I’ll totally buy you something that involves whipped cream and I’ll love you forever.”
“And?”
“And the time for playing hard to get is over because I have been gotten.” Drew looked so pleased that the tips of his ears were turning red. “Kevin stayed over after the party last night.”
“You had sex with Kevin?!” I dove for my phone, ready to text Caro.
“No, no, not that. God, calm down. I just . . . we kissed and . . . you know, we actually cuddled.”
“You do like to snuggle.”
“I am a first-class snuggler, let’s be real. And so is Kevin.” Drew held up his hand, made a V with his index and middle fingers, then brought them together. “Compatible.”
“Is he a good kisser?”
He signaled to turn left out into the main intersection. “Do you think I’d be this excited if it was like making out with a mackerel? He was amazing. He is amazing. And he”—Drew honked at the person in front of him to move—“said he likes me back. What is the holdup here?” He honked again.
“You literally look like you’re starring in a romantic comedy right now,” I said. “You’re almost glowing. I need sunglasses to look at you.”
Drew handed me his and I put them on. “Do I look stupid?” I flipped down the car’s visor to look in the mirror, but there wasn’t one.
He glanced at me. “No, you’re adorable.” He honked again. “I mean, seriously. How hard is it to press a gas pedal?”
“You know Caro and I still have to vet Kevin, though. He needs to be group-approved for our official seal of approval.”
“Caro already gave him the thumbs-up last night, even though she was so drunk, she couldn’t even spell her name. Which is more than I can say for you and your disappearing act. Why are we just sitting here?” Apparently, Drew had no problem keeping two conversations going at the same time, one with me and one with the traffic jam.
“Well, I was a little busy last night,” I said, suddenly feeling my ears turn as red as Drew’s.
But he was too distracted by the traffic jam to notice. “Are you kidding me?” he cried, sticking his head out the window. “The sign says STOP!” he yelled. “Not GIVE UP!”
“I thought making out with someone was supposed to lower your blood pressure,” I mention as he settled back in the driver’s seat.
“You know I have road rage,” Drew replied, like it was the simplest answer imaginable. “Now, sorry. What?”
“What what?”
“You were saying?”
“Oh, just that I was busy last night.” I tucked my hair behind my ear.
“Nervous tic!” Drew cried. “Tell me everything. Especially because we’re not going anywhere anytime soon.” He glared at the traffic jam.
“So, um, me and Oliver sort of made out last night.”
“Shut up!” Drew slapped the steering wheel in delight. “You did not!”
“Oh, but I d
id.”
“Okay, can I just say? Oliver is way cuter than the last guy you kissed.”
“Ethan was totally fine, dude, I—”
“Rabbit teeth. There, I said it.”
“He was going to get orthodontia eventually,” I protested. “But I don’t want to talk about Ethan.”
“Yes, okay. Redirecting back. Thank you!” he suddenly screamed at the cars in front of us as they began to crawl forward. “I was starting to worry that I should have packed a snack and a canteen just so I could drive three miles to Starbucks. So where did you make out?”
“The gazebo, of course.”
“Naturally. Did you initiate?”
I hesitated just long enough for Drew to say, “It’s totally fine if you did, you know. You have to be a take-charge woman, Emmy. No one likes a doormat.”
“No, I’m just trying to remember,” I told him. “I think . . . I did? Or maybe it was . . . ?” I frowned and tilted my head, like it would dislodge the stuck memories and send the correct one to its rightful place in my brain. “I think we sort of just met in the middle.” I brought my hands together. “Like this. But, you know, better.”
“And he’s a good kisser?”
I nodded, blushing again. “He’s no mackerel.”
Drew gave my shoulder a gentle shake. “You’re so cute!” he said. “You and your childhood love, back together. Someone needs to call Oprah. Or Ellen. Whoever has a daytime talk show that will get you a movie deal.”
“He’s not my ‘childhood love,’” I told him, making air quotes around the last two words. “He’s Oliver. He’s just a dude—”
“—that you made out with last night. You’re welcome, by the way, for throwing that party.”
“Thank you, Drew,” I intoned. “Best friend ever. You’re the best.”
He nodded approvingly. “I think you and I should stick together more often,” he said. “We can make out with half of California if we play our cards right.”
I just laughed and moved my hair again so it would stop blowing in my face. Drew’s car was amazing, but it had no air conditioning, and all the windows were down. “He still hasn’t texted me,” I said.
