Cross Me Off Your List

by Nikki Godwin

  “All the fans are so quick to label us, and that just pisses me the fuck off,” Noah says. “Don’t get me wrong. I love our fans. They’re the best, and I wouldn’t be where I am now if we didn’t have them, but they don’t know me. I see all this bullshit about how I’m such a bad boy wannabe because of my tattoos, but I’m so sweet and such a great friend. What the ever-loving fuck? I’m not friends with any of those people.”

  The metal seat rocks in the air. I’m not sure this is exactly the safest place for us to be while we’re spilling our souls about ex-friends and band mates we dislike. But then again, we may not have found the courage to say these things on solid ground.

  “It just pisses me off,” Noah says again. “Milo’s the mature one. Benji’s the face of the band. Tate’s the prankster. Jules is the bad boy, and I’m just whatever they want to say I am, but I’m so sick of being called the cute BFF type. It’s not like I’ve sat down in interviews saying I like having slumber parties or something.”

  The very thought of Noah at a slumber party sends me straight into hysterical laughter. The girls in the seat below us look up, but I can’t stop laughing even if I wanted to.

  “I’m glad you’re humored by this,” Noah says. He cracks a bit of a smile. Then he shakes his head. “You know, there are so many days where I sit back and I’m like, this isn’t what I signed up for.”

  “What? Sitting on a ferris wheel with a girl laughing at you because she’s imagining you at a slumber party?” I ask.

  Noah laughs. “Actually, if I could’ve signed up for sitting on a ferris wheel with you, I would’ve been the first name on that list.”

  Nothing else is said once the ferris wheel begins moving. The afternoon sun glistens on the ocean’s surface in the distance. Palm trees sway along the outskirts of the festival. The mermaid parade is setting up in the distance, a few blocks over.

  Noah tightens his arm around me. “You can’t let Hilary win like that,” he says.

  “Well, the competition is over, and she definitely made the contacts she needed to get in the door of the fashion world,” I say.

  “But you quit because of her. You backed down. You let her intimidate you and take away your dream. You need to fight back – but not in a snarky Taylor Swift kind of way. I hate that innocence bullshit. You need to be like, I don’t know, Katy Perry,” he says. “You need to roar.”

  Back on the ground, I silently curse Noah for getting Katy Perry songs stuck in my head. I wonder if I should give Noah the speech about needing to roar in return. I’m not quite sure who he’s angry with, though – the fans or Jules or maybe both.

  “So do you and Jules just avoid each other or what?” I ask, hoping he’ll shine a little light on the answer for me.

  He shrugs. “We can get along,” he says. “It’s just, we’re so different. We have different dreams in life. We want different things out of this band. We’re both labeled incorrectly, but he doesn’t seem to mind that part. When I fight with anyone, it’s usually him.”

  “Like fist fight or argue fight?” I question.

  We walk toward the route of the mermaid parade to stake out a decent spot. I have no idea what a mermaid parade is, but I’m excited for it.

  “Both,” Noah says. “We’ve had a few shoving matches, but I only punched him that one time during lockdown. I’m quick to fight. It’s one of my not-so-cute flaws.”

  “And you dared to leave Big Tony at the hotel today?” I ask. “I guess you weren’t very concerned for my safety.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I don’t hit girls,” he says. “Unless you attack my brother and then all bets are off. He’s the reason I’ve always fought. He wouldn’t stand up for himself, and he wouldn’t tone down the flamboyant queerness, so someone had to fight off the assholes.”

  “Good thing I adore Nat, huh?” I elbow Noah in the ribs, and he quickly wraps his arms around me, pulling me to him.

  While we wait for the parade to begin, Noah talks quietly about how amazing it is to be out in the open without everyone attacking him. A few girls have done double-takes today, but they brush it off as a look-alike or maybe their imaginations. I guess without the other guys and a security team, Noah can blend into the crowd. Or maybe it’s just the Oakley sunglasses.

  “I think they’re getting started,” he says, nodding toward the street. “Take notes. Maybe you can prepare a line of mermaid clothing someday.”

  For the next hour, I’m engulfed in the costumes of sea creatures, the girls sitting in gigantic clam shells, and all the dresses and jewelry that the Sunrise Valley Mermaid Festival has to offer. I wonder if I can just purchase the entire wardrobe. The formal gowns shimmer in hues of silver, turquoise, and every blue the ocean could offer. The girls wear crowns of rhinestones, seashells, and pearls. The bikini tops range from tattered to spectacular, from dark mermaid to mermaid royalty, and I wish Noah hadn’t joked about mermaid clothing because I want to make it all.

  “This is incredible,” I say, not turning toward him even though I know he’s watching me. “I can literally see the blue eyeshadow from here.”

  “And the blue hair,” Noah adds. “Isn’t that on your list? Something about a crazy hair color?”

  I nod. It’s item number seventeen – crazy color in your hair. “Remind me to get some kind of hair dye from one of those vendors,” I say. “I’ll have to bleach part of my hair first. There’s no way those colors will show up on this.”

  That’s the thing about having a dad of Hispanic descent. His traits are more dominant than anything that floats around in Mom’s English DNA. I never had a chance of having her white-blonde hair. It would’ve been more convenient for experimenting. When your hair is darker than tree bark, you’re limited.

  After the parade, Noah waits patiently while I raid the vendor booths for jewelry, jars of sea glass, and a seashell crown. He doesn’t intervene until I get a bit too excited over the silicone mermaid tails. So we buy a few bottles of hair dye – because I can’t decide on a color – and slowly make our way back to the car.

  “Why the rush?” I ask. “Not much of a shopper? We should’ve brought Nat with us.”

  Noah smiles and opens my car door. “Believe me, I can shop. Nat Winters is my brother,” he says. “But I have reservations for us tonight, and we can’t be late.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sign of Café Jezza is black gloss trimmed in gold. It’s super sleek and modern, and I memorize the scheme as we walk through the door because it’d look amazing on a party dress. I sort of wish I’d worn black tonight. I could’ve borrowed that little black dress before Aralie sends it back to the thrift shop.

  I glance down at the bright blue halter dress on my body. It flows like a waterfall down my skin. It’s the same color as the eyeshadow I saw girls wearing at the Mermaid Festival in Sunrise Valley earlier today. I guess part of me is still under the sea. Somewhere in the back of my memory, I hear my cousin Evie singing “Part of Your World” and dancing around our grandmother’s house, determined to dance her way into becoming Ariel. Oh, those high notes could rival a shrieking cat. Maybe mermaid life isn’t for me. I definitely should’ve worn black.

  “This way,” a hostess says, leading us to a back room with dim lighting and private tables. “Your server will be here shortly, but can I get you something to drink?”

  She places the menu on the table. Noah orders sweet tea, and I ask for lemon water.

  “Lemon water,” Noah repeats. “You sure you haven’t been hanging around Benji when you’re not with me? He’s all about lemon anything.”

  I flash him a smile before studying the menu. When Noah told me he was able to get reservations here, I was highly impressed. The locals say it’s the best Italian food in the state of California. We don’t have anything other than chain restaurants and a few burger joints where I live, so I don’t mind that he used his status to get us in.

  “How did you manage to get us in here?” I ask, lowering the menu to the t
able. “Did you just call and say, ‘Hey, this is Noah Winters from Spaceships Around Saturn, and I need a reservation,’ and bam – you’re on the list?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not that easy or anyone could do it,” he says. “I had the management team call for me. We usually have to go through the official channels to prove we’re really us and not someone pretending. But it just takes a few phone calls and it’s a done deal every time.”

  Every time? How often does he have his management team arrange things for him?

  “You do this often?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer as the hostess brings our drinks. He takes a sip of his tea and then shrugs once we’re alone again.

  “What’s the point of having fame and power if you don’t use it every once in a while?” he asks, like it’s no big deal. “We all do it at some point, even Milo. He won’t admit it, but he’s scored plenty of movie premiere invites for himself and Chloe using the same tactics I did for tonight.”

  After our waiter takes our orders and leaves us with a basket of garlic bread, Noah wastes no time getting to our mission.

  “So what’s next on the list?” he asks.

  I reach into my tiny purse and pull out the pink piece of paper. “Your brother has to help me dye my hair later – or some of it anyway – to cross off that item,” I say. “We still have a lot left, though.”

  I pass the list across the table so he can see. “Well, I can help with a few of these,” Noah says, folding the paper and handing it back. “Getting a tattoo is easy. Riding in a limo? Done. We can do it again so you can document it, though. And I’m totally up for disturbing the peace.”

  “And is the incredibly-inked Noah Winters planning to get tatted with me?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows for extra effect.

  “If you’re lucky,” he says. He leans across the table, keeping his voice low. “I might even get it somewhere sacred and only let you see it.”

  Mmm. This boy definitely likes to tease. I wonder if he really plans on letting me see his mermaid tattoo. God, Marisol. What the hell am I thinking? I haven’t even kissed the guy yet. I don’t even know if he wants to kiss me. He may just be looking for a fun time during a week’s vacation, and once I’m back home, I’ll be all alone with candy wrappers, a good story to tell, and a pink piece of paper with a sparkly owl on it.

  “What are you thinking?” Noah asks, dipping his head to study my face.

  Well. I can’t exactly tell him that I’m trying to decipher what he wants from me or if he wants anything at all. I glance past him for something to intervene, and I see my ticket out.

  “Those lights,” I say, pointing across the room.

  A black backdrop hangs down the wall, lit up with running lights that look like shooting stars. I want it in my bedroom, my own little galaxy with constant shooting stars offering up all the wishes in the universe.

  “Shooting stars?” Noah asks, glancing back at me.

  “It’s on the list,” I remind him. “I’m not really sure what it was supposed to mean, but I think it can mean anything we want it to mean.”

  “I guess you can cross it off your list,” Noah says. “And while you’re at it, make a wish.”

  The silence in the car is a bit awkward, and I think this is the first time we’ve had a speechless moment between us. Dinner was incredible. The flirting was even better. I’m slightly sad that I can’t blast social media with the adorable picture of Noah and me by the shooting stars wall. I asked the waiter to take it for me, and it’s possibly my favorite picture of all time.

  Now I’m not quite sure I’m ready to go back to the hotel. Fortunately, I don’t think Noah is either.

  He leans back in the driver’s seat and rests his head back. “You want to go for a walk on the beach or something?” he asks. “I’m hoping if I stay out late enough, everyone will be asleep when we get back.”

  “The beach is perfect,” I say, glancing over from the passenger seat.

  Noah pulls out of the parking lot and drives in the opposite direction of the hotel. He doesn’t say anything, but he shoots a smile my way, and I can’t help wondering if he’ll kiss me tonight. I’m officially living that damn “Call Me Maybe” song because I did just meet him and this is crazy, but he’s a celebrity, and…I have no idea where I’m going with this.

  Moments like this are why you don’t need to be on non-speaking terms with the girl who was once your best friend. I don’t think Hilary – or anyone else I know – could give me sound advice in this situation. It’s not every day that you’re in the passenger seat of a car with Noah Winters of Spaceships Around Saturn at the wheel, driving you to the beach at night.

  I’m the girl who always changed the station before the chorus of their song even had a chance to spill from the speakers. I’ve known him for a total of what, four days now, and I’m flirting about the mermaid on his ass and hoping he’ll kiss me.

  Actually, I know exactly what Hilary would say right now. “Marisol, this makes you a grade-A slut. Please don’t upgrade to whore.” And then she’d snatch him out from under me, you know, as a favor to keep me from going over the edge.

  “You’re quiet over there,” Noah says. He reaches across the armrest for my hand. “What’s going through your mind?”

  “What Hilary would say if she knew where I was right now,” I answer, not exactly lying.

  “And what would the unoriginal bitch say about this situation?” he asks. He shoots me a smirk before glancing back at the dead street.

  “She’d ask if you were a good kisser,” I say, dropping the bait.

  The car slows to a stop. Noah parks in the center of the street and looks at me in the glow of the streetlamps. Shadows move across his face, slowly and beautifully like a phantom ballerina dancing along his jaw line.

  “And you’d tell her what?” he asks.

  “That I wouldn’t know because I haven’t kissed you,” I say. My heart quivers in my chest, sort of like the whole butterflies in your stomach feeling, but much more intense.

  He leans closer. “Well, maybe you need to fix that, eh?”

  I swallow my nerves and meet him halfway across the armrest between us. His hand clasps my cheek, tilting my face at just the right angle. I close my eyes and sink into the warmth of his mouth against mine. His fingers move along my face and twist into my hair. A chill runs from my neck down my body.

  And a horn blows. Noah pulls away as quickly as I do and squints at the headlights behind us, beaming through the back glass.

  “Damn it,” he mumbles, reaching to put the car back into drive. “Way to kill the moment.”

  I sort of want to skip the beach and head straight back to the hotel. Room 413 sounds like a very welcoming place right now. I’m certain we can pawn Nat off on Benji for the night. Hell, I’d pay Benji to take Nat for a night if it meant an all-nighter with Nat’s brother.

  “Whoa,” Noah says, pulling me away from my hormones and the overhead streetlamps. “What is that place?”

  I lean forward and peer through the windshield at what looks like an old carnival ground. Every intention I had of making out with Noah on the shoreline with salt water rushing over our legs and sand getting in our hair dissolves into the night air when Noah pulls into the parking area next to the carnival. It’s grown up with grass and sand, like the caretaker abandoned it when all the joy left this place.

  “I don’t know if we should be here,” I tell him. “It doesn’t look very safe. It’s so…”

  “Haunted? Abandoned? Tragically beautiful?” Noah suggests.

  “All of the above,” I say, leaning back in the passenger seat.

  The car dings and the interior lights flash on when Noah opens his door. “I’m going to check it out,” he says. “C’mon. It won’t hurt anything. Isn’t there something on the list that this can count for?”

  Last I checked, visiting a creepy old carnival and awakening the ghosts of clowns wasn’t something even Hilary would add to th
e list – even if she thought she could scare the living hell out of me.

  “Let’s go.” Noah groans and cocks his head to the side. Then he places his hand on his hip, and I swear, if it wasn’t for the ink on his arm, I’d think he was Nat.

  “Now I see where your brother gets his sass from,” I say, popping the handle on my door.

  I slip my phone into my pocket, just in case something really does go down and I have to make an SOS call to 911. Noah meets me at the hood of the car, slips his arm around me, and pulls me close to him while we enter the grounds.

  A wooden sign sways over the entranceway, squeaking loudly enough to let us know it’s watching us. It’s not even breezy out, which makes it all the more creepy. I convince myself it’s just the wind off the ocean in the distance. It has to be, simply because I refuse to believe otherwise.

  It’s such a vast difference from the Mermaid Festival. It was vibrant with colors and laughter, families and friends, life and happiness. This place is a testament of past happiness, a place that once roared with life before time and weather brought it from a wildflower to a decaying rose.

  “Makes you wonder,” Noah says. He steps away from me and spins in a circle, taking in the entire atmosphere. “What happened to make them just shut down and leave? Why didn’t they pack up and head to a new city or sell the land to a beach resort?”

  Maybe it wasn’t their choice to make. Maybe the carnie life is all they knew. Maybe they just bellied up and scattered in the wind like pieces of confetti, traveling to a new land of joy where they could sparkle a little longer.

  But then I see it in big red letters on what used to be the door to a house of mirrors. RIP Lickety Split.

  “I don’t know who or what a Lickety Split is, but I’m pretty sure whatever it is wouldn’t want us to be here,” I say, pointing to the writing. “Maybe that’s why they shut down. Or why no one else wants this place. And it makes perfect sense why no one in their right minds would come out here after dark.”