“I know I said you changed, but it’s not just you.”
“Right, your parents—”
“No—not just my parents. Us. You and me. We’ve changed.” She takes a shaky breath. “This year, the whole year, completely sucked. I’m not blaming you. I know it wasn’t your fault you moved to Berlin. I’m not trying to guilt-trip you. I’m just trying to figure out how to tell you about how I feel without you getting defensive or telling me I should have talked to you about it sooner because I know I should have talked to you about it sooner. We both should have done a lot of things differently. Because it kept getting worse. It’s like you were on a dock and I was in a boat and you pushed me out onto the water and each time I didn’t talk to you or tell you something or call you, I could see you getting smaller and smaller on the dock—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “In this random boat metaphor, I pushed you?”
Her gaze cuts over my shoulder. “Maybe it’s a bad metaphor, but it’s what it felt like.”
“Like I pushed you? In a boat.”
Exasperated, she says, “Don’t get hung up on the boat, okay? I’m just trying to explain how I felt last year. How I still feel. I don’t really know how else to say it, and maybe I’m saying it wrong. Which is probably why I don’t say things in the first place because I say the wrong thing and then you focus on the wrong thing and not what I’m trying to tell you. Forget the boat.” Her voice has been rising in pitch, but she quiets it. “What I’m trying to say is, it felt like I spent every day just losing you more and more. And then everything happened with my parents, and I already felt too far from you.”
I gape at her. Abby doesn’t use this many sentences unless she’s discussing something that has an official brass plaque attached to it because it’s been buried under a pile of rubble for thousands of years. “You framed your dog.”
She stares at her shoes. “I know.” She’s already putting her Abby Armor back on, I can see it. I need to keep her talking before she seals herself back inside it.
“That’s messed up, Abby.” I watch a tear trace the curve of her cheek. “Why did you feel like you had to do that? We tell each other everything.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. Not anymore. The realization settles over me like fog. I pull her to a stone fountain ringed with a cement bench, and we sit, the water splashing softly behind us. “Tell me what happened with Thanksgiving. Please. And be honest.”
She pulls her knees to her chest. “Remember when I went to Fall Formal?”
She’d sent me a picture. In it, she wore a hunter-green dress, almost Roman style. Super cute. “I loved your dress. You went with Amanda and Sydney, right?”
She nods. “Yeah. I even wore makeup.” I exaggerate a gasp at this information, and she smiles through her tears. “I know, right? Me and eye shadow.” She fakes a shudder. “I even used a curling iron.”
“Well, that’s where you went wrong. Curling irons are for your hair.”
“That hairstyle was cute, right? There were bobby pins in play.”
“You looked amazing.”
She swallows. “But I didn’t tell you what happened at the dance.”
When I’d texted to ask her how it went, she’d replied: typical school dance, blah, blah, blah.
typical abby, I’d written back. She’d never been big on school spirit. “What happened at the dance?”
A faint stain of red colors her cheeks. “Okay, so I was at the dance and it was all the usual suspects, acting all the expected ways—”
“Of course.”
“And I started dancing.”
“In public?! Abby Byrd! I’m totally taking you to a club in Berlin.”
She grimaces. “Careful, you haven’t heard the rest of the story yet. So, we’re dancing and I go to get some punch and, well, end up standing next to Derek Ayala by the snack table.”
I widen my eyes at her. Abby has been crushing on Derek Ayala since sixth grade, even if she never admits it to anyone but me. “Um, is this about to be a love-over-the-cookie-platter story?”
“You forget this story is about me and not about you.” Her face definitely doesn’t have a ride-off-into-the-sunset hue to it. More of an I-might-puke-thinking-about-it shade. I motion for her to keep going. “So, Derek and I start talking,” she says. “Turns out, we both love history movies. For him, he mostly loves spies and war, but he’s a total sucker for ancient Rome and hidden treasure and secret societies.”
“Just like you!” I can’t help but still be hopeful, even knowing this doesn’t have a happy ending.
“He’s a total closet history geek! His favorite author is Steve Berry.”
“You love Steve Berry.”
“I do.” She nods sadly, staring at the tops of her knees. “We ended up sitting at one of those round plastic tables in the outdoor cafeteria until the dance was over. At one point, it got really cold, and he gave me his suit jacket.”
“And?” My voice squeaks.
She drops her face into her hands. “It was horrible,” she mumbles through her fingers. “I kissed him.”
“The kiss was horrible?”
She peers at me through her fingers. “At first it was fine. Even sort of great, but then he got really weird and stood up and told me he was planning on going out with Tori Hollister. Not that he was going out with her. He was planning on going out with her. And then he asked for his jacket back and left. Seriously, he set some sort of track record getting out of there, and I just sat there, in that empty outdoor cafeteria, with water dripping somewhere, echoing like I was the next victim in a horror movie. So I texted Sydney and Amanda and told them I was coming down with the flu and going home and couldn’t sleep over at Sydney’s house. Then my dad picked me up by the football field parking lot.”
“Oh, Abby.” She’s been into Derek as long as I can remember. In the whole time we’ve been friends, she’s kissed three other boys. Sixth grade she kissed Mike LaFont at a birthday party as part of a dare and said it was gross. Eighth grade she kissed Joe Colley after the graduation dance because they’d been flirty all year and she thought why the heck not, it’s graduation and Joe Colley is the sweetest boy on earth. And sophomore year she kissed her chemistry lab partner, Kevin Bryant, on and off for about three months, but it had seemed more scientific than romantic, so when he started dating Becka Mackley, Abby had seemed mostly relieved.
Derek Ayala was another thing entirely.
And she hadn’t told me.
“And this has what to do with gravy?” My skin feels cold in the early light of the park.
Abby sighs, straightening her legs out in front of her. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s when I began to not tell you things. That’s what I meant about the boat. That push away from you. I went home that night and crawled under the covers and stayed there until two the next day. When I got up, all I could think about was how that kiss was the most embarrassing and disappointing thing that had ever happened to me and Riya isn’t here. And then the next week, I went to school and there were Derek and Tori making out by her locker, and all I could think was, Riya isn’t here. I couldn’t nudge you and say, Ugh, get a reality TV show, but you would know it felt like someone had just kicked me. You would have known my brave face was a fake face. You would have made me my favorite red mango curry and bought Americone Dream ice cream and watched National Treasure and we would have rolled our eyes about stupid Derek and Tori. But we didn’t because you weren’t there.” Her voice crumbles.
“That’s not fair. You didn’t even let me try. You went silent. You made up fake gravy. You pushed the boat, Abby. Not me.”
She starts to cry again, tears spilling down her cheeks. I know I should do something, say something, maybe put my arm around her, but I can’t. So I sit, staring out at the park, listening to the fountain splashing behind us, until her tears stop coming. “We should probably head back to Will’s,” I say, standing.
As we walk silently ba
ck toward Will’s flat, my head spins with conflicting thoughts. In some ways, she’s right; I wasn’t there. It wasn’t my fault, but I wasn’t there. Still, she didn’t even let me try to help her. And she wasn’t there for me, either. For the last few months, she completely shut me out. I keep taking deep breaths, attempting to soothe the competing feelings of anger and guilt fizzing inside me in the cool air of Switzerland. Finally, pausing before the closed door of Will’s flat, I blurt out, “I didn’t push the boat.”
Her shoulders slump. “Just stop with the boat, okay?”
Will sees Abby’s face when we walk into the kitchen, where he and Neel are leaning against the counter drinking coffee. “Oh—what?” But I just shake my head at him and he does what the Swiss do so well—strategize solutions—and thirty minutes later we find ourselves in Bärenland, a gummy candy store in Old Town Zurich. Around us, we find cakes made entirely of gummies, a whole shelf of gummy pizzas, platters of shrink-wrapped gummies, gummy frog princes and unicorns and trolley cars and hearts and roses. We fill our bags, and Neel buys one of the gleaming platters to send home with Abby. I try to ignore my sour gut at the smile she gives him, try to blame it on too many gummies on an empty stomach.
Outside, we walk the cobbled streets. There is something delightfully disturbing about biting the tiny heads off gummy creatures, and I see it begin to work its magic on Abby, her face softening into a laugh at something Neel’s saying to her about the Grossmünster Church we’re strolling past, but I’m not listening to Neel. My brain’s still sifting through the shredded pieces of our fight, and I can’t seem to shake her stupid boat metaphor.
Maybe because I know she has a point.
How did I miss the push?
Abby has always been comfortable with being alone. More often than not, on Friday or Saturday nights, Abby would bow out of a party to watch a documentary on the History Channel or take extra shifts at the Blue Market, encouraging me to go without her. “Go on, butterfly,” she’d tease. “Get your social on.” Sometimes, I even skipped out early from those nights and went to her house, crawled onto her bed, and listened to music with her, telling her about all the people acting like idiots that night. She’d have a foot on her desk, painting her toenails, always listening, nodding, and smiling knowingly at the antics of our Yuba Ridge classmates. One of the best things about Abby was that she never felt even remotely guilty about not having to be a part of all that. She never apologized or doubted herself.
At least that’s what I’ve always thought.
Will hands me my suitcase as I prepare to board the night train for Berlin. Neel and Abby have said their good-byes and already disappeared inside the train, but I take a last look up at Will. He smiles at me, hands in the pockets of his jeans, slouching in a way that makes him just the tiniest bit shorter. Before I can chicken out, I stand on my tiptoes, pull him close by the back of his neck, and kiss him, not too quickly but not too long, on the mouth.
“Oh!” His eyes go wide with shock behind his lenses.
Still close to his face, every nerve alive with the kiss, I whisper, “Now I can tell my friends I kissed the cutest boy in Switzerland. Not many girls can say that.”
“Happy to help.” Grinning, he attempts to smooth his tousled hair. As I step into the doorway of the train, he calls to me, “Maybe I’ll see you when you visit Neel at uni?”
I wave through the glass of the train window, watching with a familiar pang as his long body turns and moves away through the swarm of people in the Zurich station. I know some people think this side of me is one of my more shallow parts. I’ve had people say things like, “Don’t be one of those boy-crazy girls.” But they’re wrong. It’s not shallow. I know that now.
In one of my favorite acting classes last spring, my teacher, an old British man named Niles, with holes worn in his jeans from actual use and not for fashion, told us that actors must absorb both the best and worst of people around us. As students of human behavior, we must try to see everyone for their flaws and unique talents and quirks. It is in this exploration that we can discover the source of each of our characters. Sitting there in the front-row chairs of the darkened black box theater, his words sent a warm rush of recognition through me. I’ve always done this, studied people this way. Even more, I often fall for people, instantly, for all the small ways they are strange or beautiful or interesting. Not just boys, but all sorts of people. I fall for someone’s gait or the way they wash a dish or the edges of their smile. With Will, it’s the way his gaze seems like he is automatically on the side of whoever needs him most. Of course, this instant crushing (romantic or otherwise) has gotten me in trouble before. Especially with boys. It can get mistaken for something else: interest or obsession or love. But I was never able to explain it until Niles said those words. Up until then, I’d just let people call me boy-crazy or flighty or melodramatic. It’s been easier than trying to defend it, because, ironically, maybe they are too shallow to understand that if it isn’t love, it’s a version of it.
I find Abby waiting in our narrow train cabin. She motions to the bunk beds. “So, we fall asleep here and wake up in Berlin? I love this idea.” She smiles at me, and it feels like a genuine Abby smile, free of ghosts, and I think maybe this trip is helping her. This is the smile of our childhood nights spent curled together in bunk beds in California or huddled together in sleeping bags on the floor of the family room, letting the flickering light of the TV lull us to sleep.
This is the smile I’ve been missing.
She peers at me with amused eyes. “I take it you had a good send-off with Will?”
“Does it show?” I shoot her a mischievous look.
“You’re glowing.”
“I kissed him.”
“Of course you did. Top five?”
“The very top.”
But she must see something genuine in my glow, because she adds sincerely, “He’s great, Rye.”
It’s one of the reasons we’re friends. Abby crushes on history and ideas and experiences the way I do on people. She gets it. But she also gets when something is special. Excitement for the night ahead floods me. We won’t sleep. We’ll stay up talking all night, filling in the rest of the cracks from the year behind us until it’s smooth so we can tuck it away behind us.
Neel brushes by me in the doorway. “I’ll take this one.” He tosses his suitcase on the bottom bunk. Shrugging, he adds, “Heights.”
It’s only now I notice there are three bunks stacked on top of each other. Wait. Neel is not sleeping in here with us. “Why don’t you have your own room?”
He unzips his bag and starts rooting around for something. “And pay for a whole other cabin when we’re just going to be sleeping for one night?” He reads the disappointment on my face. “Ah, come on. It’ll be brilliant.” He holds up a trashy gossip magazine someone must have left on the train. “I can tell you about whatever celebrity is currently in rehab while you dish about boys and paint each other’s nails.”
“Wow, sexist and condescending in one obnoxious package.”
He feigns innocence, his gaze slipping from me to Abby. “No takers?”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a celebrity gossip sort of guy.” Abby sets her bag on the second bunk, her smile turning coy. “You could also start by telling us about British microeconomic theory, and we’ll be out like a light in no time.” She snaps her fingers. “Instant sleeping pill.”
“You put on a good cover, Ms. Byrd.” Neel rolls up the magazine and points it at her. “But you know you find me irresistibly fascinating. I can see it in your enamored expression.”
“That’s indigestion,” she tosses back. “Does anyone have a Pepcid or something?”
I narrow my eyes at the way he looks at her, at the slight tilt of his head, the smile at the corners of his mouth, his enjoyment of this verbal sparring game of theirs. He’s an idiot if he thinks I can’t see it. “Weren’t you supposed to call Moira an hour ago?”
His face m
orphs to panic. “Oh, right—bloody forgot.” He darts from the room.
Abby turns around, her hands across her stomach. “Seriously, Tums, anything?” She crawls up the ladder and onto her bunk. “Can you die from gummy overdose?” She curls into a ball. “I’m so glad you made me leave Dan’s Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in Zurich. I never want to see sugar again.”
That night, Abby and Neel fall asleep to the shifting and sway of the train. Their breathing, steady and deep beneath me, rumbles through the cabin like a couple of Darth Vader impersonators. Even with the erratic sleep we got the night before, I lie awake in the narrow top bunk, hyperaware of the night sounds of the train. I realize I forgot to brush my teeth. Gross. But I don’t want to climb down, dig through my bag, and turn on the light in the wedge of bathroom. I’ll just brush them twice in the morning.
An hour slips by with no hint of sleep, the kiss with Will playing over and over in my mind. I’ll never get to sleep if I keep this up. Trying to clear my head, I think about arriving in Berlin tomorrow morning. My parents will pick us up at the Hauptbahnhof, and I’ll finally be able to show Berlin to Abby. I’ve rewritten our itinerary about a thousand times in my head, adding and crossing off dozens of possibilities. We only have three days, but I know she’ll have her mind blown by Berlin’s intense and massive history. She’ll geek out in the way only a history nut can. But I want to leave enough time for her to meet the friends who helped Berlin grab me by the shoulders and shake me.
In three days. Even if we don’t sleep, it’s a tall order. I squeeze my eyes shut. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. No deal. Neel and Abby have officially entered into a dreamland snoring contest. It’s a tie, I want to shout. You both win, now shut up so I can sleep!
My phone glows with a text. I pull the duvet over my head to mute the light.
Kiara: home yet? abby with you? did you tell her about the show?
I text: no, yes, and no.
Kiara: !!!!!?
Me: night train, berlin tomorrow.
Kiara: did you tell her about london?
The Wonder of Us Page 9
