“Adios, chicas,” he says. “I’m out.”
“Does that ever get weird working with him?” Lys asks after Matt heads toward the parking lot.
I shake my head. “Everything’s cool between us.”
Nat glances over her shoulder, toward Applebee’s. “So I’m just gonna say it. Suicide attempt aside, Gavin Davis is back on the market.”
Lys grins at me. “So when are you gonna tap that?”
Nat gasps and I laugh. “Nice, Lys. Keepin’ it classy.”
“Dude. You’ve been in love with him for, like, three years,” she says. “Now is your chance.”
Nat raises her hand. “Can I say something?” We nod. “As the most responsible of the three of us, I would say go for it, but be careful.”
“Why are you the most responsible?” Lys asks.
Nat eyes Lys’s ensemble, which includes rainbow tights, platform sneakers, and a pink bow in her hair.
“Fine, you can be the most responsible,” Lys says.
I break off a piece of a freshly baked peanut butter cookie. “What do you mean be careful?”
“He’ll be on the rebound,” Nat says. “And he might be a little…” She makes the sign for crazy, twirling her index finger next to her temple.
Lys nods. “True. The dude did try to kill himself.”
“Guys, I appreciate your faith in me, but there is no way Gavin would ever look at me that way, so I don’t really need this advice.”
Nat’s eyes flash. “You just think that because of the kind of crap your mom says.”
I fold my arms. “Like what?”
She ticks off on her hand: “According to her, you have cottage cheese legs, you’re not photogenic, you can’t sing—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” My eyes flick toward Applebee’s. Maybe you and your parents went out the other door. “But this is Gavin Davis we’re talking about. He’s going to have a Grammy before any of us finish college. Also, if you compare Summer and me—”
Lys holds up her hand. “Please allow me to give the lesbian perspective. Summer is nice and cool and all of that, but she’s really not as hot as you think. I, for one, have never fantasized about her while masturbating.”
“OH MY GOD,” Nat says, her eyes wide with shock. Two spots of pink deepen on her cheeks.
Lys raises her eyebrows. “Aren’t you people not allowed to take the Lord’s name in vain?”
Nat gives Lys a dainty punch in the arm and Lys gets into a karate stance and starts quoting Princess Bride. “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Just then a woman comes up and I try to keep it together while I box up her dozen cookies but I keep snort-laughing. She frowns at the three of us as though we’re all hoodlums, her eyebrows going way high as she takes in Lys’s ensemble. It’s crazy that a socialist lesbian and an evangelical Christian are besties, but that’s just how the three of us roll. We became friends our freshman year, when we were put together for a musical-theatre assignment in drama class. We decided to sing the fabulously naughty “Two Ladies” from Cabaret (Lys played the emcee), and we bonded over our love for Alan Cumming. I feel like our friendship is like those outfits you see in Vogue where nothing matches but it looks totally awesome. We’re plaid and polka dots and stripes.
As soon as my customer’s gone, I glance at Nat and Lys.
“I wrote him a letter,” I say as I start bagging cookies to sell as day-olds tomorrow. The mall closes in fifteen minutes.
“Gavin?” Nat asks.
I nod. “And I … I mean, he probably didn’t read it. Or, if he did, he’ll think I’m, like, the lamest person ever.” My breath tightens just thinking about it. “I’m sort of mortified. I don’t know what got into me.”
Nat’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Well, you’re going to find out tomorrow. Kyle says Gav’s coming back.”
“Tomorrow?” I say.
“Yep.”
“Oh god,” I moan. “Why did I write that stupid letter?”
“Because you’re fucking cool and fucking hot and he probably fucking knows it and just needs an excuse to fucking make out with you,” Lys says.
Nat nods. “I agree with everything she says minus the F-bombs.”
Lys places a hand over mine. “You’ve been crazy about him forever. Now it’s up to the universe.”
“Or God,” Nat says.
“Or Buddha or Muhammed or, like, the Dalai Lama, whatever,” Lys says. “Ten bucks says Gavin falls for you before he graduates.”
“Ten bucks says he doesn’t,” I say, holding out my hand.
Nat balls up her bag and throws it in the trash. “May the best woman win.”
*
YOU ARE BACK at school today.
I see you in the halls, joking around with the other drama guys, with your band. You’re like a pack of gangly puppies; none of you ever sit still. Somehow you’re able to live in both those worlds: the cool-guy band and the nerdy drama dudes.
It’s been nine days since The Day happened and from where I’m standing, Gav, it looks like you’re back to normal. You’re wearing your Nirvana shirt and your fedora is tilted at a particularly jaunty angle. The hat throws me off. I’d expected—what? A black turtleneck and beret in place of your usual outfit? A Greek chorus following you to class? You’re wearing the cardigan sweater again and I wonder if it’s to hide your wrists. I know I’m not the only one who wonders if there’s a bandage, a scar on each one.
My heart speeds up and I suddenly feel foolish. What possessed me to write that letter? What if you think I’ve overstepped my bounds, that I’m weird? What if—
You turn around.
There are dozens of students between us, everyone rushing because the bell’s about to ring. You’re holding both straps of your backpack and you stop the minute you see me. Freeze. Your eyes widen (blue, blue like a tropical sea) and then the corner of your mouth turns up, just the slightest bit.
How do boys do that? How do they make your whole body combust just by looking at you?
I hug my books to my chest, Sandy in Grease asking Danny Zuko with her eyes, What now?
I don’t know this yet, but these moments between us are choreography for the movie of your life. This thing you’re doing—the look, the stop, the awed stare—you stole it right out of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. You’re ripping off Colin Firth like nobody’s business and I don’t even realize it. You’re two steps away from rising out of a lake wearing a drenched white shirt. It’s only later that I’ll see you’re feeding me rehearsed lines and perfectly timed smiles and gasps and tears that come at precisely the right moment. A year from now I’ll be screaming Fuck you, FUCK YOU into a pillow because I won’t have the guts to say the words to your face.
But right now, a boy is staring at me from the end of the hall and even though he doesn’t say a word, he’s claimed me.
I’m new territory and you’ve planted your flag.
FOUR