The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  My cheeks heated. “My middle name’s not Clementine.” He nodded somberly. “It should be. Now come on, let’s eat. Rumor has it they’re handing out study guides in sciences and math today. I don’t know about you, but I need to start carbing up.”

  I hadn’t heard that rumor, but I had looked up my averages last night. If we needed study guides three weeks before midterms, I was dead meat. I had to do well on today’s math retest and get at least a B on the exam to bring my average above passing. Ugh, Ms. Gregoire might have been right about there being different types of smart—but they weren’t all equally helpful in high school.

  16

  I refused to have a birthday party. I rejected the idea of a birthday dinner at a restaurant because I knew my family would coerce the waiters into singing. No thank you. I was celebrating my fifteenth birthday in a much less tortuous way—wearing my favorite ratty sweatshirt and leggings, holed up in my room surrounded by sketch pads and paints. I’d completed my second Saturday detention the week before, and this was my first free weekend—I wanted to spend it submerged in art. But despite my insistence and resistance, when Mom called me down to the kitchen Sunday afternoon, she snapped a paper party hat on my head and yelled, “Surprise!”

  The room was semi-full of all the people I knew at Hero High. “We tried calling your friends from your old school, but it’s homecoming weekend,” Mom explained. “They all said to wish you happy birthday.”

  Wow. I hadn’t thought of them in weeks. Which had to make us truly awful friends, but I was also secretly relieved they weren’t here. It was strange enough looking from Merri to Fielding to Huck to Toby to my mom and dad, plus Gatsby and Byron sniffing hopefully at everyone’s feet, tails flailing.

  “That sweet Clara is coming later,” Mom told me.

  Great. Hopefully by then we wouldn’t be standing in an awkward silent circle admiring Mom’s taste in decorative dish towels and the dogs’ ability to lap water out of their bowls.

  The doorbell rang and everyone watched me answer it. Merri’s dog came with me to bark at and lick the new arrival. “Stay, Gatsby,” I ordered as I opened the door. Byron from art class stood on the other side.

  “Um, hi?” I said.

  “Happy birthday. Your sister invited me—is it weird I said yes? I felt cornered.” His eyes darted from me to the pathetic party over my shoulder. I bet he was regretting that decision.

  “It’s weird she asked you.” I’d mentioned him a whopping one time to Merri, but in her mind that meant we were best friends, because in her world she was on birthday-party-invite status with people she’d just met. “You might as well come in.”

  “Thanks?” He handed me an envelope. “It’s a gift card. I didn’t know what to get you.”

  Why would he? We’d talked only a few times. The main thing I knew about him was he hadn’t been a bully in art.

  “This is Boy Byron?” asked Mom. She offered him a plate and pointed to the snacks. I wanted to die. “Have you met your namesake? Oh no, he didn’t pee on you, did he? Byron has a bad habit of peeing when he meets new people.”

  “He does?” Clara asked with a laugh from the open doorway. She joined the group and poked him in the chest. “Well, learn something new every day. I’m glad I’ve known you since we were little. I’m not a fan of being peed on.”

  “No, she didn’t mean Boy Byron, she meant this one.” Merri knelt and whistled, and my parents’ Pomeranian came scampering from under the dining room table where he’d been hiding from the doorbell. Let’s be honest, he’d likely peed under there too. Merri waved one of his paws. “Byron, meet Boy Byron.”

  The dog took one look at all the strangers in the foyer and barked furiously while retreating into his tablecloth lair.

  Clara shoved a gift at me and squealed, “And where’s my favorite doggo? Gatsby!” He came running and laid down at her feet, belly up. She gave him a hasty scratch, then turned and ran out the door, calling, “Be back—need to grab my meds before my mom leaves. Allergic!” I wondered if she’d actually come back, or if I could convince the other guests to use that excuse and leave.

  “Why does he get to be Byron and I’m ‘Boy Byron’?” He didn’t look offended, just bewildered. He’d curled the paper plate in his hand so it looked like a taco.

  “We can’t call him ‘Dog Byron’—that sounds ridiculous.” Merri said this like it was completely logical, adding, “Plus I’ve known him longer.”

  Boy Byron—ugh, now she had me doing it—laughed. “If you say so.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize how much a height difference there is between you two. How often do people think Merri’s the little sister instead of the other way around?”

  Because shorter and cuter must make her younger, and that totally didn’t make me feel like a gangly troll in comparison? Especially when Fielding and Toby both stepped closer to Merri in reaction to the insult on her behalf. Fielding was holding her hand and Toby’s was twitching at his side, like he was trying to stop himself from reaching for her too. Instead he glared daggers at Boy Byron. At least that meant he wasn’t glowering at Fielding? Progress, maybe?

  I wanted to glare too. But all eyes were on me since I was the involuntary host of this disaster. I gritted my teeth. “Well, she is my little sister. Older, but littler.”

  Merri scoffed. “Just wait. I’m one good growth spurt from catching up. Plus, since I eat meat and dairy, I’m the one getting all those growth hormones and chemicals Ms. Vegan is always talking about avoiding. They’ve got to be good for something.”

  I’d never, ever been that type of vegan—the one who lectures other people on what they eat. I didn’t even tell people I ate a plant-based diet unless I had to. I’d eat around sour cream on fajitas or pull cheese off pizza. It wasn’t my job to police what anyone put in their mouth, and yet all Merri had to do was use the v-word and I was the bad guy.

  I wasn’t sure what my face looked like, but now mine was the hand getting a squeeze. Huck had come to stand beside me. And Toby—he didn’t move from Merri’s side, but he frowned. “I’ve never heard Rory say anything like that.”

  Huck squeezed my hand again, a subtle warning that Toby’s weak defense was not a reason for me to beam like the sun shone down on me alone.

  “Oh, girls, stop fussing at each other for five seconds.” Mom bustled through the clump of us and set a tray of vegetables on the table. “It’s my fault Merrilee is such a munchkin.”

  “How?” asked Merri. “You’re taller than Dad.”

  “My gorgeous Amazonian.” Dad pressed a loud kiss on her cheek as he followed behind her with a bowl of red pepper hummus. It was a bowl I’d made, which meant it was lopsided. I hoped Huck wouldn’t notice.

  “I didn’t get to nurse Merri as long as you two.” Mom pointed from me to Lilly, who had just come down the stairs. She had a purse over her shoulder and was clearly on her way out but stopped short when she saw the crowd and heard Mom’s words. “The doctors strongly suggested I stop when they put me on bed rest for the birthday girl. Didn’t help though. Six weeks later, Aurora made her impatient debut, two months early.”

  “You were a preemie and you’re still taller? Maybe I should go vegan.”

  Merri and I exchanged eye rolls—way to hit us both in sore spots, Boy Byron.

  Mom shook her head. “I really think it has less to do with what Rory eats now than it does with what she ate back then. I swore that girl was never going to wean—”

  “And that’s enough of that topic,” Merri interrupted Mom. Her cheeks were light pink, mine felt blazing. I turned and hid my face in Huck’s shoulder. He patted my back.

  “What?” I could picture Mom blinking innocently. “Eliza was just saying the other night that we should normalize topics like breastfeeding and—”

  “Okay!” Lilly clapped her hands before Mom could dig in deeper. “How about we have a new conversation before Rory gives a live enactment of ‘It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.’ Al
so, on a completely unrelated note: Mom, I’m going to need to see a script of your toast before the wedding. And maybe don’t consult Eliza while writing it.”

  “I’m just saying there might be a connection between height and breastfeeding. I bet Eliza would know that.”

  Huck raised the hand not patting my back. “I’ve only met Eliza once—but she left a pretty strong impression. I’m fairly certain she’d object to any conversation that shamed mothers for their feeding choices.”

  “Oh, true. Hmmm. I take it back. Well, eat up.” Mom paused to pinch Huck’s cheek. “This one’s a keeper, Rory!”

  Dad chimed in with “Hear, hear!”

  I pushed away from Huck’s shoulder and waited for him to correct them. He didn’t. Right. The plan. I’d forgotten because there hadn’t been any need or opportunity to parade around as a fake couple in the past few weeks. He traced a lazy line along my back with his thumb and grinned at me like we had an inside joke. Which I guess we did—if the punch line was the zero chemistry between us and my pathetic feelings about Toby.

  Toby, who was currently glowering at Huck instead of Byron.

  Clearly one area where Gatsby and I were not alike was in the ability to throw a party. We both managed to collect an array of interesting and talented people in the same room—but his guests had fun and mine had staring contests.

  “Hey! I’m back. Sorry, I had to chase her down the block. I swear my mom is oblivious when she drives.” Clara popped into the room, the silver ribbons in her hair sparkling in the overhead lighting and glittering as bright as her smile. “Happy birthday, Rory!” She crashed me out of Huck’s hug and into her own. “Ohh, is that hummus? I’m starving.”

  Within thirty seconds she’d rearranged the energy in the room, creating conversations and pairings that left Huck and me with some breathing space. “Think I can pull a Gatsby and sneak off from my own party?” I leaned into his shoulder while my traitorous eyes tracked Toby across the room. Merri was sitting on the edge of the dining room table, and he was standing in front of her, smiling at whatever story was making her lips move a mile a minute and her gestures grow enthusiastic enough that he moved his water glass out of range.

  “Lovesick and pining isn’t a good look on anyone,” Huck whispered. “So avert your eyes and wipe your drool.”

  I elbowed him in the stomach and he laughed, drawing the eyes of everyone else. Toby’s lingered the longest, confusion and curiosity in their angles.

  Huck pivoted so his back was to the room and he was fully facing me. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Your boy’s been asking about me.”

  “Don’t call him that, and what do you mean?”

  “He went to Curtis and Lance and asked them about me. ‘Grilled them’ was actually Curtis’s choice of words. He found it hilarious.”

  “It’s got to be a big brother protective type thing,” I said. “Right?”

  Huck opened his mouth, but before he could answer there was a new shoulder pressed against mine, nudging me a step away from Huck and expanding our huddle to accommodate another person. The same person we’d been whispering about. Toby asked, “What’s the birthday girl doing hiding in the corner?”

  I snorted. “This birthday girl is happiest in the corner and has been trying to get out of birthday parties since she turned six.”

  “Oh, right.” Toby stole a carrot off the plate Mom had filled for me. “The year we discovered you’re scared of clowns.”

  “Yes, thank you for the reminder.” I turned toward where Huck had been standing to explain how that party had flipped from frolic to nightmare as soon as the performer stepped out of her van, balloon animals at the ready. But Huck was gone. Toby and I were alone and he was giving me that smile that made the rest of the room disappear.

  “Fifteen. How do you like it so far?”

  I laughed. “Did you turn into my great aunt Aida? Because that sounds like something she’d say.”

  “It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?” Toby leaned against the wall beside me, his shoulders blocking my view of the rest of the room. If everyone else decided to leave us alone, well, then they could take the cake and keep their presents and I’d still be the happiest birthday girl ever. His smile dimmed. “Huck seems okay.”

  “He’s not bad,” I said. “I hear you’ve been checking up on him.”

  Toby’s ears turned red. “Curtis has the biggest mouth, I swear.”

  Before I could follow up with a question that lead toward the why of this, a dog came shooting in from the dining room with something in his mouth. He dove between my legs and knocked me off balance. “Whoa there, birthday girl.” Toby steadied me with an arm around my waist, which, let’s be honest, only made me dizzier. “Your sister wants me to join a band.”

  “What?” I was disoriented by his touch and the topic change.

  “Lance is forming an indie rock band. Do you know Lynnie? She’s Byron’s twin and dating Clara’s brother? She’s in it too. Merri wants me to try out. She’s worried I’m bored.”

  “But . . .” A band might mean no more rides home, no time for tutoring. More important, “That’s not the type of music you play.”

  “Exactly!” He beamed and squeezed my waist before letting go to raise both hands to his hair. “See? You get it. Is it that hard to tell the difference between what you’d hear on the radio versus what plays in the background of a movie?”

  “Um, no?” Was that a rhetorical question?

  “Thank you.” He laughed. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one who gets me”—my heart surged!—“music-wise, at least. It must be the artist thing.”

  Was this the time to argue that maybe it was a Me plus him thing? That our compatibility went way beyond the arts?

  “Toby!” Merri called from across the room. “Come tell Fielding about that time with the frog and the toothpaste.”

  He went—of course—but at least he was talking to Fielding again? It was hard to be excited about that when I was left alone with a dog who had a mouthful of napkin. Happy birthday to me. I lifted the corner of the tablecloth and commanded, “Drop it, Byron!”

  There was a clatter across the room and I looked up to see my art classmate let go of a carrot stick. It bounced to the floor where Gatsby was waiting to swallow it whole. His face was wide-eyed and What’d-I-do? He put his hands up as he backed away from the platter. “I thought those were fair game. My bad.”

  “No.” I tried not to laugh. “Not you, Boy Byron. Him, Byron.” I pointed under the table to where my parents’ dog was calmly ignoring me and shredding the paper napkin into drool-darkened strips of red confetti.

  “I’ve got to change my name.” He reached for another carrot, pausing with his hand above the tray and looking at me for permission.

  I laughed and nodded as my dad hit the kitchen lights and my mom came around the corner with the blazing cake, already beginning the birthday song. Luckily everyone joined in quickly, because Mom was many wonderful things, but musical was not one of them. Toby was right over her shoulder, his face glowing in the candlelight, his smile brighter than the flames.

  “Make a wish, my baby girl,” said Dad once the song ended and the cake was set in front of me. Across the room, Huck met my eyes and tilted his head toward the guy I’d wished for on my last five cakes.

  None of those had worked, so I watched the candles sputter and drip as I tried to think of something new. Finally, I took a deep breath and blew: I wish I was enough.

  17

  “Hey, Roar!” Toby called across the parking lot on Monday morning a week after my party. He started to jog toward me but only managed a few strides before he looked down at his knee brace and slowed to a walk. His jaw was tight when he reached me. “I forgot to ask in the car. Math date?”

  I blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You. Me. Your textbook. Some calculations going down. Sound good?”

  Was it wrong that I was still hung up on his use of the wor
d “date” and how cruel it was to combine that with “math”? Especially immediately after a car ride where he’d practically made moony eyes at my sister while Eliza gagged in the back seat and I tried not to bang my head against the window. “You don’t have to tutor me every day.” Because if I didn’t have to work and he wasn’t busy with piano lessons, we’d been filling our time by meeting over pencils and protractors.

  “I asked you, remember? Come on, I need you. You’re the only thing saving me from cereal for dinner—again—and moping around my house. Plus, you’ve got exams next week.”

  “Next Friday.” The cynical part of me focused on the fact that he was bored, but my stupid, stubborn heart only heard that he needed me, that I could save him. What could I possibly do but open my mouth and say, “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at five?”

  “Aren’t we meeting in your kitchen?” I’d started to get used to the place—though I still mentally redecorated whenever one of his explanations got long-winded.

  “Nah, I need to get out. Plus, there’s this restaurant I’ve been dying to take you to in Galwyn. You haven’t been to Mockingburger yet, have you?”

  I shook my head but bit the inside of my lip. New restaurants were always tricky. I hated asking the waiter or waitress which menu items were meat-, dairy-, and egg-free. Maybe I could search their menu online?

  “Relax, Roar.” Toby gave my arm a squeeze, which meant he was touching me, which was the opposite of relaxing. “It’s a vegan restaurant. Get it? Mocking-burger? Their fake burger is supposed to taste just like real meat. I’m psyched you haven’t been yet. I’ve been meaning to tell you for weeks.”

  Even the cynical part of me didn’t have a retort for that. It was a lovely distraction to think about while I spent the first hour of my day in an art studio that was still super silent, super awkward. The only real noise in the past weeks had been when Mrs. Mundhenk made the class apologize to me one at a time. I’d never played soccer, but I’d watched Lilly’s team a few times—and at the end of the game, the two sides worked their way down the opposite team’s line, shaking hands and saying, “Good game. Good game. Good game.”