67 DAYS AFTER
Sidney
I flinch every time I walk into my dorm room. And that should be a bad thing, but actually it feels strangely comforting. Like slipping on an old pair of pajamas. The ratty kind that are ugly and worn, but make you feel nostalgic. In the shower, I wish and pray that I’ll be soaked by cherry Kool-Aid. That my slippers will mysteriously be filled with tapioca pudding, or glued to the floor. But day after day, things in my room are uneventful. It’s a week before I realize that Asher isn’t going to retaliate, and two before I admit to myself that I’ve gone about this all wrong.
I can’t go backward with Asher. There’s no re-creating the past with us. We aren’t the same people we were when we were freezing each other’s underwear and sabotaging shampoo. The only thing I can control right now is swimming, so when Ellie gets home from classes we go on a run before dinner. After dinner, we eat our weight in ice cream, and I tell her all about my summer, and Asher. It feels good to get it off my chest, and the next time I get in the pool, I feel a little bit lighter, and a whole lot more like myself.
72 DAYS AFTER
Sidney
Our third meet is at home on a Friday night in mid-October. My first meet wasn’t horrible, and my second was better, but I still wasn’t where I wanted to be. But as I kneel next to the starting block, splashing water on my suit, the water doesn’t look as intimidating as it did a few weeks ago. This pool—and everyone standing around it—is starting to feel like home. I shake out my legs and stretch my arms, swinging them behind me and in front, letting my shoulders relax. When the whistle sounds, I take my place on the block, the roughness under my feet comforting somehow. And when the starting buzzer blares, everything around me melts away.
I’ve been in my head a lot since I got to Oakwood. Thinking about everything my body is doing, making myself crazy. But as I cut through the water tonight, feel it rush over me as I break the surface on entry, I just shut it all off. The only thing I think about is the water and the way I feel moving through it. When my arms burn I think about the lake, and how much harder it was swimming against the light chop. I think about that tiny bottle of my lake in this pool. I swim lap after lap, thinking about nothing but the water and how I’m meant to be in it.
When my palms slam against the touch pad, I don’t look at the scoreboard right away. I look up at my mom and dad, to the spot where I know they’re perched in the bleachers. They’re both on their feet. Everyone around them is sitting, but my parents are standing, clapping and cheering like absolute lunatics. Mom is pointing to the far corner, to where our times are lit up in lights. To where I shaved three seconds off of her event time. Ellie reaches her hand down to me, helping to hoist me up and throwing her arms around me. I did it.
* * *
Mom and Dad take me to dinner to celebrate. We sit in a booth at a little Italian restaurant in town, plates of spaghetti in front of us. Swimming makes me ravenously hungry, and I’m practically shoveling noodles into my mouth. My parents have been making small talk about my school year so far, what Ellie is like, how my classes are. Even though we talk at least once a week.
Dad picks his napkin up and then sets it back in his lap. “Sylvie and Greg wanted us to tell you congratulations. We thought about inviting them, but”—Dad glances from me to Mom—“you know.” I saw Sylvie and Greg up in the stands by my parents. It was slightly weird seeing them all together. It’s how I once imagined things would be: our parents watching us swim together, all of us going to dinner afterward.
I almost apologize that they’re not here, but all I can think right now is that Dad and Greg are the whole reason this happened. Greg pushing Asher to fix things with me, my dad deciding he didn’t want to do morning swims with me anymore.
“This is your fault,” I say, matter-of-factly. “If you’d sucked it up and just spotted me across the lake…” I wave my fork at him. “Your boredom is what started this whole mess.”
I expect Dad to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, his voice is apologetic and soft when he says, “I’m sorry, Chipmunk.”
Guilt immediately wells up in my chest. “I’m just kidding. It’s my fault, not yours.”
“It’s … a little mine.” Dad runs a hand over his head, the same move as when Mom catches him smuggling vacation jerky out of a grocery bag. He lets out a long sigh that almost whistles. “You’re right.”
“About?”
“I wasn’t actually bored spotting you. I love spotting you, I—”
“Wait, what?”
“It’s just … this thing with you and Asher has gone on so long, and we all thought, if we could just put the two of you together, out on the water, that maybe—”
“What?” My voice is angry, harder than I mean it to be. “Maybe we’d just fall in love and swim off into the sunset?”
Dad’s face softens and his voice is slow and controlled. “We thought you two would finally have it out. That whatever was going on, whatever the issue was between the two of you … that you’d have time to hash it out. The two of you falling in love was the farthest thing from my mind.” Dad looks up to the ceiling and runs his hand over his head again. “Though I can’t say your mother and Sylvie have never considered the possibility.”
“At least they never tried to push us together,” I mutter. “Not like you and Greg.” I wonder if it was a coordinated effort, Dad opting out of morning swims and Greg prodding Asher to fix things between us.
“I am sorry, Chipmunk.”
I want to stay mad, but it’s nearly impossible when my dad is looking at me like he feels absolutely horrible. What did he do wrong, really? I don’t regret what happened out on the lake because of him. And as much as I want to, I can’t wish away everything that came after it. I don’t think I want to.
* * *
When I get back to my room, Ellie has music blasting out of her laptop, and there are two glasses and a few bottles sitting on her desk.
“Um, where’d you get that?” I pick up the orange bottle and smell it. Who knew something could smell sweet and also burn your nostrils at the same time?
“Corrie bought it for me. We’re meeting up with everyone in an hour to celebrate.” She points to my closet and then hands me a glass. “Get ready.”
Aside from the juniors—like Corrie—and seniors, everyone on the team is underage. None of the upperclassmen are going to risk getting arrested—and kicked off of the team—for serving minors in their own apartments. And campus security turns a blind eye to anything in the dorms, but there are way too many of us to fit in anyone’s room. So instead, we’ve all been drinking and getting dressed, and now we’re converging in the middle of campus for my rite of passage as an Oakwood athlete. I stare at the silver contraption in front of me, and the giant pit of sand below it; this is where big moments are celebrated.
I’ve heard about this before—I’ve seen the photo of my mom doing it—but even when I threatened to break her record, I never fully believed it would happen, because I am 100 percent unprepared for this.
“It’s tradition,” Ellie says, pushing me toward the pit of sand. “Get on it already.” She smacks my butt and I jump.
It’s not that I’m scared—my head is a little too fuzzy to be scared—I’m just not sure how exactly I’m supposed to mount this … thing. In front of me hangs a giant silver ball. It’s several feet across, and it dangles like a pendulum over a giant pit of sand. As it moves, the pointed tip below it cuts designs. Miley’s song might have made this a hot spot for students, but the Oakwood sports teams made it a tradition way before Miley made wrecking balls cool.
“There’s a sign,” I say, nodding at the plaques every three feet around the rectangular pit of sand.
“Those don’t apply to us,” someone shouts from behind me. “We’re here to celebrate.” In what starts out softly and slowly grows louder, my name rolls off of my drunken teammates’ lips in a constant cadence. Sid-ney. Sid-ney. Sid-ney.
I stand n
ext to the ball and reach my hands up, but I can barely reach the top, let alone get enough leverage to pull myself up.
Ryan steps forward, lacing his fingers in front of him so I can step up. With a hand on his shoulders I propel myself up, grabbing onto the cord as Ryan continues to push my foot up. Once I’m standing, the ball wavers under me. I wrap one leg around the cord to steady myself, and prepare for what I know is about to happen.
Two more guys join Ryan, and with hands pressed against the silver ball they push forward through the sand. A little squeak escapes me as they step out of the way and I’m flying through the air. Music plays out from someone’s phone and cheers erupt. I don’t care about the signs anymore. This night is so close to perfect—just one person away from perfect, actually—and I could stay up here forever.
I ride the ball standing up, and sitting, and at one point Ellie jumps on with me, before dismounting because it makes her dizzy. I’m standing on the giant silver ball, one leg raised behind me like a ballerina, when a voice cuts through the air. “You could get arrested for that, you know.” My foot wobbles a little when I realize whose voice it is. “Or fall and break something.” I look to where our team is huddled to one side of me. His hands are shoved in his pockets. “Twist an ankle maybe.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t jump this time,” I say.
Asher climbs over the fence until he’s a foot away from the ball. “Jump.”
I stare at him, at his arms stretched out for me.
“Do you trust me?”
I don’t say anything, just let myself fall off of the giant silver ball, until I’m safely in his arms, my feet barely hitting the sand.
He looks at me like I just fell off of a ten-story building.
“You came.”
“First record-break of the season.” He smiles and looks at me conspiratorially. “Of course I came.”
Maybe it’s the way Ellie’s drink is making my skin prickle and my head slowly detach from my shoulders like a balloon on a string, but instead of pulling away like I know I should, I wrap my arms around Asher. His body stiffens against me, and he doesn’t move for a second, but then his hands rest on my back, and he’s squeezing me. Suddenly, this night feels complete. And that’s scary, because the one thing I can’t guarantee in my life right now is Asher Marin.
73 DAYS AFTER
Asher
The cafeteria food is questionable sometimes. Like just now, I ate a “fried vegetable.” As if they couldn’t be bothered with identifying which vegetable it was when there are a million out there. Spoiler: it was a pickle. I nearly puked in the middle of the cafeteria, and it’s possible that Ryan will never come here with me again. Is a pickle even a vegetable? Is it legal to vaguely label food like that?
On the table my phone buzzes, and my mom’s face appears in the middle of the screen.
“Hi, sweetie. Could you do me a favor?”
I’m expecting her to tell me not to go to parties, or to remember to take my laundry out of the machines so no one steals my clothes, but she surprises me when she says, “Can you run up to the lake house?” She lets out a sigh. “There was a big storm last night. Dad’s worried one of those limbs could have come down. The trees along the house are in rough shape. We should have had those limbs all cut at the end of the season.” I didn’t notice anything about the state of the trees this summer, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention. I had other things on my mind. “Kris and Tom are out of town and you’re closer than us.”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Can you go tonight?”
“Tonight?” It’s already eight o’clock. “I sort of had plans.”
“Please?” Her voice is pleading. “It’s only a few hours. You can be back in time to go out. You’re all up until two a.m. anyway, right?” She laughs, but it sounds more nervous than amused. “Just take a quick look through all the rooms to make sure the roof didn’t leak, and then you’re free. I’ll mail you a gas card.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
By the time I leave the dorm it’s almost nine thirty. I shove a change of clothes, protein bar, and a bottle of water from my mini fridge into my bag, in case I decide to spend the night. I hadn’t thought about how close the lake house was to school—maybe I could take friends up there one weekend. Maybe some friends from the team. Would I invite Sidney? Would I have to? I wonder how weird it would be for her to know her teammates were hanging out at her house—our house—without her.
It’s weird that we have this shared thing. It feels a little like we’re a divorced couple, and the house is our kid. She was right about that—how awkward it would be going to the house if things went south between us. Except that she’s the one that forced that situation into existence.
Driving to the lake in late fall feels so strange. The grass has lost its brightness, and the trees are all in their deep yellows and oranges, some of them with leaves already shed. It’s like going to an entirely different place. All of the signs that usually mark the sidewalks with the announcement of fairs and festivals are gone. Downtown, half of the shops are closed for the season—the little wine tasting room and yogurt shop are dark. I’m not sure if I like seeing it like this. I wonder how different it will feel next summer, without Sidney.
When I pull into the driveway, the first thing I notice is that nothing has changed. There aren’t even any leaves on the ground, let alone branches down. Now that I think of it, I didn’t see signs of a storm anywhere as I drove here. I pull out my phone to text my mom.
I get a list of four different dishes and kitchen utensils to retrieve, and climb out of my car. Something about this lake is like a magnetic pull. It’s always the first thing I have to see—before going into Lake House B, or checking to see where Sidney was, I always went to the dock. And today is no different. The day is cool and the lake is flat. All along the shoreline, docks are empty, the pontoons and fishing boats put away for the winter.
Down the dock, a pop of color against the faded gray boards catches my eye. Fifteen feet down, a cluster of three rocks sits. They’re painted—with cresting blue waves, clusters of green ivy, and little purple flowers, like the rocks Sidney makes. Did she leave them down here? I consider leaving them, then scoop them up and take them with me to the house—they won’t fare well out here in the snow. I set them on the kitchen table inside, not sure if I’m going to leave them, or take them with me. Showing up at her dorm with three random rocks might seem like a giant excuse to see her. And while I wouldn’t mind that, I’m also not sure I’m ready to dive headfirst into full-blown friendship with Sidney. I thought I could—that maybe, with time, I could look at her differently. But after the way she looked at me at the wrecking ball, I’m not sure my heart can handle it. It’s bad enough that eventually I’m going to have to see her at parties, and eventually I’m sure with other guys. I wish I was a better person—the kind of person who could be happy for her happiness. Maybe I will be, someday, but I’m not there yet.
I’m pulling Mom’s red baking dish out of a cupboard when I notice another pop of color. At the edge of the kitchen, there’s a rock painted with a cluster of little white flowers and a few feet to the right, there’s another, leading into the hallway. I pick them up, and see another partway down the hall, just outside of the laundry room. And another, just outside of Sidney’s bedroom. The door is open, and inside there are three more rocks in a triangle. If they were breadcrumbs—which is what they feel like—they’d be leading me to the bathroom. That door is closed, but not latched, and when I nudge it open with my toe, I half-expect something to jump out at me. Or to be hit by something. At the very least, I expect something to spray all over me. But the door swings open harmlessly, and the room is empty. No shaving cream covering the floor. Not a single menacing thing. Except that on the mirror, in slashes of red, there are four words:
MEET ME AT MIDNIGHT
I can
’t decide if it’s better or worse than finding the bathroom filled with bees as I’m doused in lemonade. It just feels like two different kinds of torture. So I get into my car, leaving the pile of rocks on Sidney’s bed, and I drive back to school.
Sidney
This was a really horrible idea. Maybe one of my worst. Because unlike all of my pranks of the past, I have no control over this. Asher deciding not to show up means it’s over. There is no backup plan for him ignoring me. And to add insult to injury, I had to get Sylvie involved to make this happen. Had to tell her the whole sad tale to convince her to lure him up here, even though I knew she had heard at least some of it. And for what?
Now everyone knows all of the sordid details of how I ruined everything. It’s bad enough that my mom will probably harass me for the rest of my life—for the next five years at least; probably every time I bring a guy home. Will I bring guys home? I think maybe I’m ruined for that. Going back to ten-day relationships doesn’t sound that bad. There’s three-hundred-sixty-five days in a year, divided by ten—but probably add a three-week buffer between them … I’m thinking through how many guys have to be interested in my sarcastic mouth when I hear the footsteps clunking along the dock.
“What’s up, Sidney?” The fact that he’s here should fill me with hope, but I hate how resigned Asher’s voice sounds right now.
“How far did you make it before you turned around?” He’s late, which means he wasn’t going to come, but he did. And deep down, I know it’s because he’s too nice to leave a girl sitting alone on a dock at midnight. And that should send a bucket of ice water over my plans, but it doesn’t. It’s just another reminder of what a good person he is. And how much better I have to be, to even begin to be worthy of spending time with him.
Meet Me at Midnight Page 28
