The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  If only he weren’t so stupidly tall. Him bending down so his mouth was in range of mine took a lifetime and I couldn’t decide if I was supposed to shut my eyes or keep them open. Instead I blinked a lot, giving his movements a strobe effect. When his lips neared mine, they paused and the corners flicked upward. Mine did too and the air rushed out of my stomach in a giggle. One he matched and escalated until everyone around us had turned to look.

  “Well, it was worth a try,” I said, wiping laugh-tears from my eyes.

  “You have very bad ideas. Remind me not to listen to you anymore.” He bumped his shoulder against mine and kept bumping it, steering us into the small coffee shop that looked out over Central Park. It was my job to hold down the table while he came back with coffee (him) and tea (me). Once we were both seated, he flattened his palms on the table. “Now spill, Clementine. What was that about? You don’t want to kiss me any more than I want to kiss you.”

  So I spilled. First I spilled a pile of sugar from a packet onto the tabletop, so I could use my finger to draw in it like a Zen garden. Then I spilled the truth—the feelings about Toby I’d suppressed, the kiss I’d rejected . . . and all the texts he’d been pouring into my phone since the train station that I’d been ignoring. Something else spilled too, hot and wet down my cheek. Huck stood. My breath caught because he picked up his coat and scarf from the bench beside me and I thought he was leaving. Fed up and over it.

  Instead he tossed them onto the table and took the seat beside me, putting his arm around my shoulder. I blinked up at him through swollen, wet eyes.

  “What?” he asked, one dimple flickering in his cheek. “Did you think you had to do this alone or something? I’m hurt, Campbell. Now give me your phone. I want to see these texts before we make a plan.”

  52

  You busy?

  I stared at the words on my phone screen. They’d arrived hours ago. Right after Huck had hugged me goodbye to meet up with his brother and head back home. It was Toby’s latest attempt at getting me to respond—and he deserved a reply. Part of me wanted to play it cool and act like I had plans. But I’d never pretended to be cool before, and if I’d wanted plans, I would’ve joined the group going to the Empire State Building. Or headed back to the studio with Marie and Trinity. With Toby I wanted to be me. Even if that wasn’t someone he was interested in as more than a friend. Even if we had to have an uncomfortable conversation about that kiss and agree to put it behind us.

  The plan Huck had proposed was simple. “You take a deep breath,” he instructed me, “and then ask yourself, What does Rory want to do? That’s it. No more pretending or protecting other people. Ask yourself what you want, and do it.”

  What did I want? I wanted to talk to him.

  I keyed in Nope.

  I saw your iLive post at the Met with Huck. Have fun?

  What did I want? To shut down any further conversation about Hury or Rock—since that was clearly never happening. Yeah. He’s a good friend.

  This time Toby’s pause was longer. Long enough that I brushed my teeth and washed my face before he replied with an unsatisfying Good.

  I changed the subject: How’s CA? Tell your mom I say hi.

  The weather is great. We’ve talked about you a lot, actually. She’d say hi back. My stomach somersaulted with those words—if he enjoyed California too much, would he want to stay? And would it be selfish of me to not want him to? I gritted my teeth, then switched out of that messenger window and into the group family text. I hadn’t sent a picture in a few hours and they’d be getting anxious. Proof of life my parents called them—demanding I send visual evidence that I was still alive and intact several times a day. I posed in front of statues and my dorm and with my easel. They each responded to every post—so after making a goofy face beside my bed, I had to wait for four different versions of Sweet dreams, Good night, ’Nite, and Dream big, little one before I tapped back over to Toby and said, Have you tried the knee out on any beach runs?

  A short one. Sand running is no joke.

  I took my phone with me to bed, plugging it in and setting my alarm, then trying to find a comfortable position where it could charge and I could type. Toby and I went back and forth. Back and forth. Until I forgot to be uncomfortable and slid back into our familiar patterns. He’d typed I should let you get some sleep at least five times. Each time I agreed, but then one of us asked another question and we’d begin a new conversation. I fell asleep in the middle of one and awoke to Toby’s messages stacked like a tower of tippy blocks.

  It was strange not having you next door. I didn’t like it.

  Is that weird to say?

  It’s stranger having you across the country.

  Did you fall asleep?

  Roar?

  Roar?

  Sweet dreams.

  Also—good morning (for when you wake up).

  When Merri—Miss Imagination, Nightmare Queen—was little, Dad used to say, “Everything looks different in the dark, but all you need to do is turn on the light.”

  Everything looked different post-kiss, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for it to be illuminated. Sure, it was terrifying living in a place of limbo and expectation, of uselessly telling my heart not to grow more hopeful with every beat and text.

  But.

  I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know if he regretted it. And maybe I didn’t need to ask, because his texts didn’t stop. He didn’t seem to mind if it was hours before I responded. Like prayers, they became a part of my pre-meal and pre-bedtime routines.

  Ran on the beach at sunrise today—thanks, jet lag. Thought about how you’d draw it. I tried to take a picture, but it didn’t do it justice.

  There are so many vegan restaurants in CA. Bet they’re not as good as our Mockingburger . . .

  When Marie dragged me to the famous wax museum after a day of drawing—“They’re sculptures . . . that’s art”—I sent him a selfie captioned Look who I met. Marie laughed at my poses and continued her running commentary of trying to decipher why some of the figures just didn’t look right. “His jaw is too wide. Look at this picture—do you see it?”

  I’d added a second figure to my drawing today and had spent eight hours staring at photos and trying to replicate features. The last thing I wanted to do was more of that.

  Wait. Isn’t that—you met Meghan Markle????

  Instead of answering, I sent him another picture.

  And the Pope?

  I giggled and sent him one more, with the message: Thanks for the math help, but I’ve found a new tutor.

  Einstein?

  Oh, you’re at that museum. I was so confused. I hate you.

  Marie was laughing at my giggles as she analyzed the ratios of another statue, holding up her brown hands with ink-stained nails to form a frame as she deconstructed the pieces. I bit down on my lip and responded No you don’t.

  His response was instantaneous and settled like a glow beneath my ribs. No, you’re right. I absolutely don’t.

  I slid my phone back in my pocket. Each text was like being blindfolded and spun around before a game of pin the tail on the donkey. It was disorientation. Vertigo. It was that feeling you get when walking upstairs in the dark and you expect there to be one more step. You’re thrown off balance and feel like you’re going to fall. It’s only inches—seconds—before your foot finds the floor, but it lasts forever, long enough for your lungs to flatten and your heart to pound.

  My phone buzzed one more time: It’s strange to be around someone else all the time. I’m used to being mostly with you.

  I needed some time to think of a reply to that one—so I turned to Marie instead. She was twirling the end of one of her braids while she tilted her head and frowned at a blond statue. I cleared my throat. “My stomach is about fifteen minutes from some monster-style growling. If I promise to do five full-attention critiques with you, can we go get some food?”

  She grinned. “Sure. I already know which to start with—can
you figure out why this looks nothing like Jennifer Aniston?”

  Marie had been so right that first night when she’d said being here was like finally finding people who spoke your language. Maybe things at Hero High would never be this easy, but knowing there were others like me out there gave me hope.

  53

  If math worked the way I wanted it to, I’d be able to hoard my bored and lonely hours—the ones where I couldn’t sleep or that I spent waiting in checkout lines, or for my turn in the shower—and smush them onto days when I wanted time to slow down. My last day of workshop had raced toward me like a sunrise, at first seeming like it was far away, then peeking over the horizon, then all of a sudden it was here.

  And among the good-morning texts on my phone was the latest from Toby: I head home tomorrow and it’s strange how relieved I am. You still won’t be back from New York, but at least I’ll be closer.

  I didn’t know how to respond. But, yeah, I was relieved he’d be back on the East Coast too. Having an entire continent between us unsettled me in ways I didn’t know how to express. I typed, deleted. Typed, deleted. I put my phone away and set up my easel, rotating it to catch the morning light and prepping for my last full day of work. I needed my head to be in the game. I needed to soak up every speck of Andrea’s advice and memorize every nuance of her feedback.

  I’d made so much progress this week. My hands no longer shook when Andrea stood behind my shoulder. I no longer held my breath while she spoke—even though I still couldn’t accept her compliments or critique without turning bright red. I’d even managed to ask questions without stumbling over my words.

  “The way you’ve framed this scene—it’s exquisite,” she’d said, pointing to the easel in front of me. I was one of those who’d worked on a single piece all week. With just hours remaining until our last night of the workshop, I was almost finished. I’d put the watercolors to the side and was going back in with ink to pull out some of the finer details.

  Andrea tapped on the sticky note where she’d written my goal. “The energy and emotionality of this piece radiate off the paper—it would be impossible to look at this painting and not experience the love there. Take a step back and take it in—how do you feel about how this has turned out?”

  I obeyed, setting down my pen and joining her six, then eight feet back from my easel where it was easier to observe the piece as a whole, instead of fixating on the parts. There were two photographs clipped to the corners of my easel, but I’d played with the angles and spacing and combined them into a single composition. I was at the center—a spot I was learning I was allowed to occupy—and my sisters were on either side of me. I was seated on a stack of dog beds, leaning back against the checkout counter, my head tilted up, a sketch pad in my lap. Lilly was on my left, looking back over her shoulder with a smile while her hands were busy stocking the shelf in front of her from a half-full box of dog food cans at her feet. Merri was to my right, holding court from her seat on the checkout counter, leaning forward to peek over my shoulder at the drawing in my lap, her hands gesturing, her crossed ankles swinging.

  Andrea squeezed my shoulder. “Do you see it?”

  I nodded, because it was true. There was love in each one of the lines on that page. These were my sisters, and no one was more important to me. I might need to join Merri in boycotting Lilly’s faraway law school choices, because even going this whole week without them had felt too long.

  “This is quite well done,” said Andrea. “Where do you go to school again?”

  “Hero High—Reginald Hero Prep.” There was a middle initial too, but it had disappeared from my head in the vacuum created by her praise.

  “I want you to stay in touch,” she insisted. “I’ve got your contact information on your application, but if I don’t reach out within the next week, you should email me.” She placed a business card on my easel. “Don’t lose that.”

  I nodded and immediately thought of how Merri would lose it—then end up on some rom-com adventure to find it or get her mentor’s contact information in some other roundabout way. I took out my phone to take a picture of the card, just in case. But the screen looked blurry through my welling eyes. I missed my sisters.

  Andrea had turned to the next workshopper, and I was going to be useless at my easel right then, so I wiped at my eyes and went outside. I bypassed all the other texts in my inbox and pulled up a new blank message. I knew Merri had plans with Fielding today—a fencing tournament—but I also knew that her attention span wasn’t that great. After ten minutes of watching people in suits jump around with swords and buzzers, she’d be thrilled for the distraction. Especially if I mentioned the one thing she wouldn’t be able to resist: books.

  Is it just me, or is Professor Bhaer stodgy & boring?

  I clapped when the three dots appeared on the screen almost instantly. There was such satisfaction in knowing I knew my sister.

  It’s not just you. Everyone thinks that. Literally everyone.

  I laughed out loud and contemplated whether I should tell her I’d been mentally inserting her and Fielding into the spots of Jo and the professor. Better not. But come on, Fielding was a bit stodgy—granted he wasn’t old or fatherly; he was illegally hot and played with swords—but still, he did stodgy. I’d even looked the word up to confirm the meaning.

  Good to know I’m not alone.

  But are you FINISHED YET????

  I laughed at her shouty capitals. Imagining her mouthing the words aloud while sitting between Fielding’s sister, Sera, and his father. At least Headmaster Williams couldn’t be too miffed that she was texting to encourage her younger sister to complete school assignments.

  Almost. I’ve got to get back to work. Talk soon.

  Because I’d be home soon. Tomorrow. And then Merri, Lilly, and I would spend New Year’s Eve like we always did, in pajamas with tubs of ice cream (nondairy for me), playing board games until it was the New Year. This time I’d call them out on inside jokes. This time I’d work to create some of my own. And when it was time for team games, I wouldn’t preemptively choose Mom or Dad or volunteer to be scorekeeper—just to avoid not being picked by either of them. Besides, now that Trent was pretty much permanent, that evened things out.

  Hurry! Merri had texted. I want to hear your thoughts on the ending. Gregoire’s a genius book-life puppet master, right?

  I didn’t know whether to scoff, laugh, roll my eyes, or agree. I’d gotten way more out of the book than I’d intended. Though last night’s chapters . . . they were the sort that made me want to blow out my breath slowly and reread to make sure I wasn’t miscomprehending. First, Amy goes A-plus lecture mode about whether Laurie intends to make something of himself, sorta how I talked to Toby about his music on the way to the train station. He listens and leaves and all I wanted to do was skim the pages until he reappeared. Sure, Beth died in the intervening chapter, but there’d been such a long buildup to that moment, it was almost a relief to be like Okay, I’m going to cry for this event—one last time—and then we can finally move on. But Laurie . . . he falls out of love with Jo. I read those pages with my mouth hanging open.

  And I bet, unlike my unromantic encounter with Huck, Amy and Fred Vaughn were not going to be buddies after she turned down his proposal. But whatever, Amy’s too busy to care because she’s being pen pals with Laurie. Much like my own endless back-and-forths with Toby. If Amy had had texting, she totally would’ve been all over it.

  And then Laurie comes to her! Even standing on a slushy street corner replaying it in my mind made me beam—which earned me a creepy wink from a guy passing by. Ew. As soon as Laurie hears about Beth’s death, he comes to Amy in Switzerland. My heart was beating so hard my chest ached when I turned that page. I’d kept looking from my book to the door, like somehow Laurie’s declaration of love and his proposal meant my own were about to happen.

  But I was a modern girl—I had texts and all sorts of feminist progress on my side. Maybe I’d be the one do
ing the declaring? Maybe. Someday, way in the distant future.

  But first—boats! Why was it that both Nick Carraway and Laurie were into the whole boat thing? Unlike Fitzgerald and his bummer ending, the boat Laurie asks Amy to help him row is uplifting. They were going forward—together—not endlessly beating against the past or whatever. Laurie wasn’t going to win any Most Romantic Proposal awards with “I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?”—but maybe he didn’t need to. They knew each other; they trusted their love. The idea of something big and flashy for them repelled me as much as the idea of anything big and flashy for myself.

  I turned to reenter the studio, but my phone buzzed in my hands.

  I miss you. Toby’s three-word text worked better than any pair of gloves for heating up my frozen fingers.

  I’d been averaging hours to respond, so it was perfectly safe to do what I’d been doing for days: typing up my truth, then deleting it. Ms. Gregoire would be so proud—not necessarily about the deleting part—but that I was taking her advice and writing my feelings. It was a real-time response journal to my life. Only, with no actual record, unless Huck was right and the government really was monitoring our phones and everything we did on them.

  I miss the way we used to be when all my energy didn’t go into not wanting you.

  A group of schoolboys playing tag shoved their way down the sidewalk, jostling me as they made a last-minute maneuver to avoid an oncoming stroller. My hand slipped on my phone, almost dropping it onto the slush-covered sidewalk. But when I looked at the screen I realized that might have been the better outcome.

  I’d hit send.

  54

  I didn’t have time for a proper meltdown. Not with a painting to finish, goodbyes to say, and a dorm room to pack before we had to be out by eleven the next morning.

  I took a deep breath and curbed my impulse to chuck my phone down the nearest sewer. Instead I powered it down and shoved it deep in my pocket. I was not going to think about that. Not at all. Cell phones? What were those? Never heard of them. Maybe Amy had had the better end of the deal with her pen pal letters.