The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Trent looked at the bouquet in his arms. “Is it too much? It’s the anniversary of our first kiss, and she’s closing at the store, then doing something with Merri, and I have dinner at my aunt’s—I wanted her to know I was thinking of her.”

  I was glad he hadn’t handed me the vase yet, because it might’ve melted through my arms at the sweetness of his words, or maybe I’d have dropped it out of bitterness for those plans my sisters apparently had that didn’t include me. Most likely it’d have slipped from my startled grasp when a voice behind me said, “It’s perfect. I’ll carry them in for you.”

  Trent passed the vase to Toby and the two exchanged Thanks, man, No problem, dude head nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Thanksgiving, Rory,” Trent said before getting in his shiny car and backing out of the driveway.

  I hadn’t seen Toby since our Knight Light meeting Tuesday morning. The freshman and sophomore classes had worked in their pairs to pack food-drive boxes for the local pantry to distribute—Toby and I had been in charge of adding a bag of potatoes and a can of cranberry to each box—but only the sophomore Knight Lights were allowed to miss the second half of the school day to deliver them to the food pantry. The adoptees spent the afternoon in classes as usual.

  It had been only thirty-six hours since that super-awkward moment when Toby had clinked a can of cranberry against the one I was holding and said, “It’s times like this that make me realize just how super lucky we are.”

  And I’d responded with a breathless “Yeah,” only to realize—when Lance added, “Seriously, we should be doing more service projects”—that Toby hadn’t been talking about being super lucky to spend time with me.

  My cheeks burned just thinking about it as I unlocked the house and followed Toby inside and up the stairs. “I’m going to give these to you here,” he said at Lilly’s door. “I don’t feel right going in Lil’s room without her permission. Meet you in the kitchen?”

  “Sure.” I braced myself for the weight of the vase and tried not to stagger or splash as I crossed Lilly’s pristine room and hefted the flowers onto her dresser. I spent a minute arranging the blooms to frame the card tucked inside. And to take pictures for future still-life drawing purposes. See? I did use my phone—just not to check my messages.

  Then I hurried down to the boy waiting in my kitchen. He was standing near the sink, a twist tie held between his teeth as he spun the bread bag shut. There was a peanut butter sandwich cut in crooked triangles and a glass of milk on the counter beside him. I grabbed a spoon and stuck it in the open jar. “Dad made cookies.” I pointed with my now-heaping spoon at the bulldog cookie jar on our counter. “Oatmeal raisin, I think.”

  “Oh, cool.” Toby helped himself to a handful and then carried his plate and cup to the table. I filled a glass with water and joined him as he asked, “Where is everyone?”

  “Lilly, Merri, and Mom are at Haute Dog. Dad and I opened—so now I’m home and he’s at the grocery store stocking up for Thanksgiving.” I’d given a hard pass to going with him and dealing with crowded aisles and dodging carts to grab stuffing mix. Thank goodness Trent had stopped by to see Lilly and agreed to shuttle me home.

  Toby nodded and took a sip of milk, but he was overly focused on his plate. On his place mat. On fiddling with the metal pug-shaped salt and pepper shakers—which I couldn’t imagine he needed for a PB sandwich or cookies.

  “You okay, chef?” I asked before popping my spoon in my mouth.

  “Are you busy tonight?” he asked in a rush. “There’s this thing—forget it . . .”

  I put a hand on his arm and held up one finger. Why had I shoved my mouth full of peanut butter? How had my older sisters never warned me about this potential flirting-food fail? But then again, Lilly’s dating advice had been: When you find the right person, you just know. And Merri’s always came in the form of four hundred pages between two covers.

  Toby was practically vibrating the table with his tapping foot, and his knuckles were white around the salt-shaker and a cookie. There was no attractive way to get out of this situation—pull out the saliva-slimed spoon with a gob still on it? Not in this lifetime. Instead I desperately tried to work up enough spit to swallow without choking. I stood and dropped the spoon in the sink and chugged half of my water so that I could degum my mouth enough to answer.

  “Is ‘Forget it’ the name of the thing? Or did you decide I wasn’t cool enough midsentence?” I’d had a ridiculous amount of time to come up with something to say, and yet that was the best I could do. I paired the words with a smile, but was that peanut butter on my lips? Dangit. I was a mess. Covered in dog fur and kibble dust, wearing a wrinkled store uniform and now peanut butter.

  “No, it’s just . . . You’ll probably think it’s boring.”

  “Try me.” I blushed at the earnestness of my words, because I meant them so deeply. Just give me a try, just a little one. I promise I won’t disappoint you if you could just see me that way.

  “It’s a concert. But not like a radio concert.”

  “What kind is it?” The more he desperately undersold it, the more I wanted to go; but I was already shrinking down a little, my shoulders coming up. I’d only been to one concert. A Top 40 earworm-attack that Merri had dragged me to after Lillian got food poisoning and had to give up her ticket. Merri had pushed and charmed her way to the front, and I’d tried so hard to follow her, but her fingers slipped from my wrist and I’d been left in a crowd of strangers dancing and bumping into me as they jumped and screamed lyrics at the top of their lungs.

  By the time Merri had backtracked to rescue me, the claustrophobia was so intense I could barely breathe.

  “Instrumental. It’s a visiting orchestra playing the score from the first Harry Potter movie. It’ll be long and—”

  “Chairs?” I asked, my voice a little too hopeful. “We’d have them, right?”

  “Yeah . . .” He gave me a strange look. “You’d consider it? I wasn’t sure if you had plans with Huck or—”

  “Huck’s on his way to Ohio for Thanksgiving, but—” I paused and tried to figure out how to phrase my next question; Merri was a huge Harry Potter fan. She and Toby had read the whole series together, sometimes sharing a single book, her chiding him to Hurry up so I can turn the page and him responding Stop talking so I can read. “Am I taking someone’s ticket?”

  His smile fell off his face at the same speed my stomach plummeted. I’d never realized “emotional roller coaster” referred to how feelings could make you want to vomit. “It was more of the hope of taking someone.”

  I stayed quiet. What more was there to say? I was the backup Campbell; had I really expected anything different? He’d probably planned out their cosplay and prechosen a crescendo to build to a kiss . . .

  “When I bought the tickets, I really thought my dad might manage to get home early the day before Thanksgiving and come with me. But he’s got a dinner thing.”

  “Now you’ve got me,” I answered softly, resting my hand on top of the saltshaker in his fist for half a second. “And unlike him, I promise not to make any passive-aggressive comments about the arts being for other people.”

  “Well, that makes you a huge upgrade.” He chugged the rest of his milk, then stacked the remaining quarter of his sandwich and his last cookie on a napkin before putting his dishes in the dishwasher and booking it for our door like if he lingered I might change my mind. “Thanks, Roar. I’ll pick you up at six.”

  The concert was held at the college where Huck’s parents taught. Toby had spent the drive gushing about the genius of the composer, John Williams, and listing all the other films he’d . . . scored? Was that the word? Regardless, it was a lot: the Star Wars and Jurassic Park movies, and on and on and on. Toby’s enthusiasm was so infectious that I was still grinning long after he’d gone over my head with technical details. I had no clue what “non-diegetic” meant, but I was glad it made him so happy.

  A few seconds into the concert, when the first
lilting notes began to dance from their instruments, Toby grabbed my arm. Not in an I’m trying to scare you or Don’t run away way. This was My feelings are so big. I can’t believe this is happening. Let me anchor myself on your forearm. Selfish or not, I was glad his dad had blown him off so that I could be the one to see his joy.

  I spent the ten minutes after worrying that he could feel my pulse racing through my skin and debating whether I could place my other hand on top of his or slide his fingers down to mingle with mine.

  And then I forgot. Because even without the wizards and owls and magic and old castle, this music was powerful. Maybe more powerful without the film. I was a visual person. My art depended on my eyes, but Toby’s didn’t. So I shut mine, leaning my head back against my seat as the music flowed around and over me.

  There were moments when the composition made my blood race with secondhand suspense. Moments it slowed in sympathy for whatever sadness was being conveyed. And a moment where the music matched my own happiness—I was here, experiencing this with Toby—and in that instant, it was instinct or inspiration, or let’s just blame it on the instruments, because I reached over and squeezed his hand.

  He responded by pulling away. And I couldn’t reconcile my reaction—my extreme personal disappointment paired with a triumphant musical arrangement—until he dropped his arm across the back of my chair, fingers grazing my shoulder. My heart exploded right along with the notes in the song.

  When the music ended, I peeled my eyes open to find Toby looking at me. Around us people were standing and applauding and I knew we should join them, but Toby’s face was just eight inches from mine and he was studying me the way I studied a person I’d be drawing. No, not impersonal like that. There was nothing analytical about his scrutiny.

  “For half a minute at the beginning, I thought you were asleep.”

  I shook my head. “I was absorbing. That was amazing.”

  He smiled and at the same time we said, “Thank you for—”

  I finished with “inviting me” as he said, “coming with me.”

  He was studying me again, staring at my mouth. We were a cocoon of privacy in the middle of a standing ovation, applause that felt like it could be happening for us, for the fact that we’d finally gotten here. Toby put a hand softly on my shoulder, and it felt like now or never, so when I saw him begin to move closer, I shut my eyes and leaned in—

  And collided with something a lot less forgiving than his lips.

  Toby grunted, and I blinked to see I’d managed to head-butt him in the stomach. At least I didn’t wear lipstick? Because if so, there would’ve been a clear pucker pressed against the white shirt over his abs. He hadn’t been leaning in to kiss me; he’d been standing to applaud. That hand on my shoulder hadn’t been a romantic caress, he’d used it to help himself stand up—because, knee brace.

  And now he was looking down at me with concern and confusion. “You okay, Roar? Maybe keep your eyes open until the car, but if you want to sleep on the drive home, that’s cool.”

  Could the conductor maybe come stab me with his baton? Or could one of the cellists strangle me with their bow? That had to be less painful than drowning in embarrassment.

  I nodded and threw myself into clapping—my hands much louder than the fading applause around us. I couldn’t even clap correctly, let alone kiss.

  I let Toby lead the conversation and the way to the car. He recounted all his favorite concert moments while I replayed my behavior and cringed. As we waited in the line of traffic to exit the parking lot, I huddled against the passenger window and he hummed and tapped rhythms on the steering wheel, pausing to say, “I hope Huck didn’t mind that you came here with me tonight.”

  “Why would he?” I blinked, then remembered. It could’ve been the perfect time to clarify that Huck and I weren’t dating—had never been dating—but how could I explain the truth without exposing the stupid plan and the reasons behind it? Just the thought of it amplified all my raw mortification from trying to make out with Toby’s shirt.

  “Right. Why would he?” Toby parroted my words, but his voice had gone darker, deeper.

  My eyebrows drew in at his tone. Was I even screwing up fake dating? Was there a different answer or explanation I was supposed to give? “Huck doesn’t care if I hang out with friends.”

  “Right.” Toby’s response came out on a sigh and I unglued my eyes from the windshields of other cars, where I’d been trying to analyze the body language of other concert-leaving duos to see if they were currently trapped in conversations that required maps.

  I’d done or said something wrong, because Toby was frowning at all the brake lights, and just a few minutes ago he’d been euphoric. “I spend more time with you than anyone. Everyone in my life knows that. Tonight, I hadn’t even told Dad where I was going yet, and he said, ‘Say hi to Toby for me’ when I got my coat.”

  Some part of this ramble had been the right words, because his eyes lightened and his cheek was twitching from trying hard to keep his grin in check. He leaned over and bumped his shoulder against mine, totally unaware of the shock waves that even casual touch sent through my system. “So what you’re saying is, you’re going to miss me horribly tomorrow when I’m in New York eating some stupid-expensive catered turkey dinner.”

  “I’ll cry into my cranberry sauce,” I joked, because neither of us wanted to hear my honest answer: Yes. Yes, I will.

  32

  I dragged my feet and rolled my eyes on Small Business Saturday, but it was for show. I didn’t mind working at the store on the nights when Merri and Lilly were there too. When it was Mom and Dad, there were too many sighs over invoices and rising vendor prices for me to feel anything but anxious, but on nights with my sisters—

  “Girl talk.” Merri said it like a demand, like a threat. And it sort of felt that way, like confessions were going to be removed with a dental drill or pulled out with my fingernails. The crowds had fallen off around five, the shoppers and my parents heading home for leftover turkey sandwiches. Merri was way too eager to fill that void.

  “I’ll go first,” she continued. “I want to know about kisses.”

  I grimaced; my non-kiss at the concert was too recent for this to be a safe topic. “Does Fielding have bad breath or something? I knew he was too perfect.”

  “Ha.” Merri snorted into her cream soda. “No. There are no problems there. We belong in spots one through ten of the top kisses of all time. In fact, Lills, if you want any inspiration for your church kiss with Trent, I’ve made Fielding practice and I’m pretty sure we perfected it.”

  “Noted,” said Lilly. “But we’re set.”

  “Fine, but you’re missing out.”

  “Okay, exhibitionist,” I teased.

  “What about you?” asked Merri with a sudden focused gleam in her eye that made me wonder if this was the point of the conversation. “Have you ever kissed a guy?”

  “Or girl,” added Lilly.

  “I’m assuming sandbox kisses don’t count?” I asked. Even though that was the one that counted most in my book. Because my first kiss—or at least the first one I remembered—was a wet, licorice-tasting smack of triumph after Toby and I had scraped the bottom of the sandbox to build what we’d called “Mount Everest.” I’d been so surprised that I’d buttplanted right into the mountain, causing a sand avalanche and ruining the celebration.

  “No,” said Merri, leaning forward with eager eyes. “Only after thirteen. Also, on an unrelated note—where are you in Little Women?”

  “Still page ten,” I answered. “And, yes. I had a Voldemort of a first kiss at art camp last summer. It will not be appearing on anyone’s top ten. It’s not even on mine and it’s the only one I have to list.” Lilly and Merri looked at each other with wide eyes and raised brows, and frankly I was insulted. “It’s that surprising I’ve been kissed? It wasn’t my fault it was bad. He had egg salad for lunch and there were braces involved.”

  “No, it’s not that,�
� said Lilly.

  “You know Voldemort?” gaped Merri.

  “Dangit, I can read—and I’ve seen the movies. And he-who-must-not-be-kissed definitely earned that name. He made the rest of camp torture for me once he realized I was not down for a repeat encounter.” I was stupid to have brought up Harry Potter, because now all I could think of was my second failed kiss . . . and all the advice I couldn’t ask for. Not about him. Not from them.

  “Who is the brace-faced brat? Where does he live? Can I kick his butt? I’m scrappy, and my boyfriend’s got swords.”

  “And my future mother-in-law is a senator. I’ll get her to legislate his idiot butt.”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure that’s how it works; shouldn’t you know this, Miss Pre-Law?” I turned to Merri. “Let’s keep you away from all things sharp and pointy.”

  She shrugged. “Fair enough . . . But what about now? Fall Ball. Are you going?”

  “No. Huck and I are planning to not-go together.”

  “Huck?” Merri frowned. “So you guys—”

  “We’re friends. Period.” It was a relief to say something honest, even if I couldn’t reveal the whole truth or the why behind the lies. “The dance thing isn’t my scene. I get why other people like it, but it’s like a birthday party on steroids. When Clara helped me paint the photo backdrop, she was talking about dresses and shoes and limos and pre- and post-parties . . . She made Byron and I vote on like ten different hair options. Lilly, I can’t even imagine what it’s like to plan a wedding.”

  Her smile grew tight and she opened the drawer beneath the register and began to organize the pens and elastic band jumble inside. “Yeah, it’s . . . a lot.”

  “But it’ll be worth it. Trent’s going to either cry or wet his pants when he sees you in that dress walking down the aisle.” Merri was so busy being starry-eyed that she didn’t notice Lilly had gone pale.