OCTOBER
6
THERE
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2008
(opening night for my mom’s exhibit)
“There are a couple of calls you need to know before you get on the water,” she tells me, pulling her blond curls into a ponytail. We’re sitting side by side on a picnic table near the river’s edge, watching the rowers run laps around the boathouse. “You obviously shouldn’t push off until everyone is ready, so your first call will always be ‘number off from bow.’ The bowman will call, “Bow!” and then the rest of the rowers will shout out their seat numbers. Once you hear ‘stroke,’ check to see that it’s clear, then push off.”
“Number off from bow,” I repeat. Does it matter that I don’t know who the bowman is?
Turns out the smiley blond girl from astronomy (whose name I now know is Megan) is a coxswain for Brookside’s crew team. I didn’t even know what a coxswain was until three days ago when Josh told me the crew team was looking for one and suggested that my gimp foot and I would be perfect for the job. They needed a coxswain, and I needed a varsity sport for my Northwestern application. Lacking other options, I decided to give it a shot. The coach was so elated that he didn’t even make me try out. Say hello to the newest member of the Brookside crew team.
I’m making an effort to stay positive—about this and everything else. The effort is necessary, because without it I succumb to sulking and pouting and generally feeling sorry for myself, which isn’t the way I normally react to setbacks, but appears to be my default response to this one. For the first couple of days, I moped around like Eeyore, stuck under a giant cloud of gloom, until Caitlin finally shook me out of it (literally, took me by the shoulders and shook me, practically giving me whiplash in the process).
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Megan is saying. “But you’re doing really great for your first day.” She smiles encouragingly. “Before you leave, I’ll give you a handout that lists all the calls with a little picture that tells you when to use them.”
“That’d be awesome,” I say with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you!” she gushes. “Because we only had one cox for the men’s team—me—Coach had to split practice so I could run both boats. I had no life.” She leans back on her elbows, arching her back to let the sun hit her face.
How can such a small girl have such big boobs?
“How long have you been on the team?” I ask. “I didn’t even know we had one until I met Josh.”
“He’s great, isn’t he?” Megan says, flashing a smile at Josh as he runs past us. He returns her smile, then waves at me. “Are y’all a couple?”
“Oh—no,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “Just friends.” In reality, I’m not sure you can even call us that. We haven’t hung out outside school since the night I hurt my foot. And we don’t really hang out at school, either. The polite “Hey!” we lob at each other across the room during fifth period is pretty much the extent of our social interaction. His suggestion that I join the crew team was the longest conversation we’d had since Ilana’s party, and it was only two sentences long. How pathetic is it that talking to him was the highlight of my week? Fortunately, I’ve been doing a better job of keeping my feelings to myself. I’ve been polite but aloof. No more stalkerish staring in astronomy. No more asking him out. If there’s gonna be a next move, it’ll have to come from him.
So far he hasn’t made one.
Caitlin thinks I secretly like the fact that Josh is so enigmatic. That the uncertainty keeps it interesting. It does, but that’s not why I find him so appealing. I like him because when he’s around, I feel really, really awake, like I’ve just drunk a Venti Red-Eye and chased it with Red Bull. It’s not an adrenaline rush, exactly (the boy wears crew socks with loafers), it’s just that when he’s around—even if he’s on the other side of the room and not paying any attention to me—I stop thinking about all the things I normally obsess over, i.e., the Things That Matter: my grades, my college applications, my future, my Plan. When Josh is there, wherever “there” is, the only moment that matters is the present one. The rest of it just falls away.
“So you’re not a couple then?” I hear Megan ask.
“Not a couple,” I reply, resisting the urge to add the word “yet.”
Megan’s eyes light up. “Could you talk to him for me, then?” she asks. “Be subtle, of course. If he doesn’t like me, I don’t want him to know that I like him. . . .” Megan smiles self-consciously. She’s pretty. I-can’t-help-it-that-I’m-adorable pretty. Ugh.
“Uh, sure,” I reply. “No problem.” What was I supposed to say? No, sorry, I can’t talk to him for you because I’m still hoping he’s secretly in love with me?
“Thanks!” She hops off the picnic table and turns to face me. “Let’s head down to the water,” she suggests, handing me my crutches. “I can explain the rest of the calls on the way.”
When we reach the water’s edge, Megan climbs into a boat mounted on wooden blocks a few feet from the dock. “This is our practice shell,” she says. “Hop in!” As soon as she says it, she giggles. “I guess you’re not doing a lot of hopping, huh?” she says. “Do you need help getting in?”
“No,” I say irritably, laying my crutches on the ground next to the boat. “I can put weight on it, just not for long periods of time.” I swing my leg over the edge and ease down onto the seat facing Megan, my knees at her nose.
“Where you’re sitting, that’s the stroke seat,” she tells me. “So depending on what boat you’re in, that’s either Josh or Brad.” Megan prattles on about the various boat positions, but I don’t hear her. I’m too busy fixating on the fact that I’m supposed to remember what to call, when to call it, and how to steer the boat with my face at Josh’s thighs.
“To steer to port, pull the cord on your right toward you, like this. To steer to starboard, pull the cord on your left. Just remember that it’ll take a few strokes for your actions to take effect—the worst thing you can do is—”
“The stroke seat, is that a good position?” I ask, interrupting her. “Is that where the best rower sits or the worst, or does it not work like that?”
“Oh, definitely the best,” Megan replies. “From a technical standpoint, at least.”
“So, Josh . . . he’s pretty good, then?”
“Like, ridiculously good,” she says. “His team got the gold last year at the World Rowing Junior Championships in France.” Megan glances over at the rowers, now huddled together for a team meeting. I follow her gaze. Josh is listening intently to whatever the coach is saying. “I wonder what else he’s good at?” she whispers, then starts giggling uncontrollably.
She did not just say that.
“So how’d you and Josh meet?” I ask, steering the conversation to less nauseating ground.
“Here,” she replies. “I was supposed to give him a tour of the boathouse before practice, but we never made it past the locker room. Not that anything like that happened. Not yet, anyway.” More giggling. The sound is really getting on my nerves. “We just started talking and the next thing we knew, it was time for practice. We, like, totally clicked.” She looks past me to where the rowers are gathered and brazenly stares at Josh’s butt.
“Megan!” Coach Schwartz calls. “Need you over here!” He motions for her to join the group.
“He means you, too,” Megan tells me, climbing out of the boat. “He’s just forgotten your name. He forgets everyone’s name, so don’t take it personally.” She picks up my crutches and hands them to me. “His bark is also worse than his bite, so if you mess up out there and he yells at you, don’t let it bother you too much.”
“I’m going out on the water?” I assumed I’d get to watch today from the safety of dry ground. “Isn’t it a little too soon for that?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be great,” she assures me. “I’m sure Coach will put you with the M8A, which means you won’t have to do much, anyway. With the water being as calm as it is, you won’t even have to steer. Josh can handle the calls.”
“Megan!” Coach bellows. “Now!”
I follow Megan over to where the team is gathered, trying not to look like a total gimp in the process. When she introduces me as the team’s newest coxswain, everyone cheers and claps. When I count how many of them I’ve met before, I’m startled to discover that it’s less than half. How do I not know these people? Brookside isn’t that big. Then again, I’ve been hanging out with the same crowd since freshman year and haven’t exactly made the effort to branch out beyond Caitlin, Tyler, the golf team, and some girls from the Oracle staff. These kids seem nice. And super serious about their sport. As Coach Schwartz runs through the plan for practice, they hang on every word.
Megan was right about the M8A, which I soon learn stands for the men’s eight A, the team’s fastest boat. They barely need a coxswain, which is great, since having me onboard is basically the same thing as not having one at all. She was also right about Josh. He’s ridiculously good.
He doesn’t let me off easy, though. “The only way to learn the calls is to do them,” he tells me as he helps me into the boat. “So I’ll tell you what to call, but you’ve got to call it. As loud as you can.”
“I thought I got to wear a little microphone,” I say, pointing at the headset Megan has on.
“You will,” he replies, and smiles. “Eventually. The cox box does a lot of the work for you, but the best coxes don’t need one.”
“How about the no-clue-what-they’re-doing coxes?”
“Eh. They don’t know how to use ’em, anyway.”
“So, Wags, we actually gonna get in the water today or what?” It’s Phillip Avery, the bowman, who, if Josh’s body language is any indication, is Josh’s least favorite person on the team. Phillip also happens to have been my date to Homecoming freshman year, which ended with my leaving him on the dance floor and walking home after he tried to stick his hand up my dress during Coldplay’s “Fix You.” We haven’t spoken since.
“Since this is Abby’s first day,” Josh says evenly, “I thought, being captain, I might explain to her what she’ll be doing before she does it. That okay with you, Phil?” Phillip hates to be called Phil.
I look down at the dock, swallowing a smile. Astronomy Boy is a badass in spandex.
Phillip mutters something unintelligible.
Josh carries on, undeterred by the seven impatient rowers standing behind him. I glance over at the B boat, already fifty yards down the river. Megan’s voice echoes in the air.
“Come on, guys! Put it in clean!”
“I’d like to put it in clean,” Phillip says under his breath.
“Wouldn’t we all,” the guy next to him says wistfully. “She’s so freaking hot.”
Josh looks past me to Megan. He’s still talking about steering technique, but his eyes are on her. And her big, perfectly perky boobs.
“I think I’m ready,” I say suddenly, cutting him off midsentence. “Now.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “Yeah?”
“Sure.” I shrug, feigning confidence. “How hard can it be?”
Turns out, even when you have someone telling you what to do and when to do it, coxing is still hard. Really. Freaking. Hard.
By the time practice ends two hours later, I’m exhausted. My butt aches, my throat hurts, and my brain is approaching overload. It takes every ounce of my remaining energy to hobble to my car. So much to remember! So much to do! Cross-country is effortless compared to this. All you have to do is run. Coxing is so much more work, and it’s not even a workout. But at the same time, it’s oddly exhilarating. Being out on the water. Being in charge. Being six inches from Josh.
“Abby!” I jump when I hear my name. I turn to see Josh jogging toward me, his hair wet from the shower. “I was worried you were gone already,” he says, coming up beside me. “I’m glad you’re not. Here, let me take these.” He reaches for the keys dangling from my pinkie finger.
I smile, dropping the keys onto his outstretched palm. Megan who? I feel a flash of guilt for agreeing to talk to him for her. But it’s not like she gave me much of a choice.
“You really rocked out there!” he says enthusiastically.
“Ha. Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. You just need to get more comfortable with the commands,” he tells me. “Your instincts were great.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but thanks. It was fun. More fun than I thought it’d be,” I admit.
We reach my car. Josh unlocks the doors and opens the driver’s-side door for me. “Big plans tonight?” he asks, sliding my crutches into the backseat.
“Oh, just this museum event,” I say. “With my parents,” I add, just to be clear.
“Cool,” Josh says, and hands me back my keys. I just stand there, smiling, waiting for him to suggest that we get together some other time. That’s why you ask someone about their Saturday night plans, right? Because you want to ask them out?
“Have fun tonight,” is all Josh says. He gives me a little wave, then heads to his Jeep. Defeated, I plop down in my driver’s seat.
He must like Megan. That’s the only explanation. Okay, it’s not the only explanation, but it’s the only one I want to accept. I’d rather believe that he fell for the smokin’ hot girl on the crew team than think he just doesn’t like me.
There’s only one way to find out.
I grab my cell phone from the glove compartment and quickly dial his number, waiting until he’s in his Jeep to press send. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, looking my direction.
“Hi. I was wondering what you thought of Megan.”
“Megan Watts?”
“Megan the coxswain.”
“Megan the coxswain is Megan Watts,” Josh says. “What do you mean, what do I think of her? I think she’s a good coxswain.” I lean forward in my seat to get a better look at his face, but there’s a glare on his windshield.
“I meant, are you interested in her? As a girlfriend.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you’d be a great couple,” I lie, fiddling with the zipper on my backpack.
Josh is silent on the other end of the line. When I look up, his Jeep is pulling away. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
This is awkward.
“I just didn’t want you to feel weird about it,” I say quickly. “If you like her. Because I’m fine with it. If you do.”
“Great,” Josh says, his voice totally void of anything for me to latch onto and analyze. “Thanks.” There is a sinking feeling inside my chest.
“Okay, well . . .” How does one end a conversation like this gracefully? Hope it works out! Obviously not, but somehow the equally ridiculous words “Good luck!” spring from my lips. Then, before it can get any worse, I hang up on him.
“I am a lunatic,” I say to the phone in my hand. Now what? Do I call him back? Send him a text blaming a bad connection?
Caitlin calls before I can do either.
“Hey,” I say, answering. “I think I just set Josh up with Megan Watts.”
“Who’s Megan Watts?”
“The other cox. Curly blond hair, big boobs. The guys on the crew team thinks she’s really hot.”
“Why would you try to set Josh up with another girl?” she asks. “Wait. Lemme guess. It was some twisted plan to see if he liked you, and it backfired.”
I sigh. “Something like that.”
“How’d I know? Listen, I want to help you overanalyze every detail of this, but I only have a minute before I have to be at the lab.”
“No problem,” I tell her. “We already have our conclusion, anyway. I’m a loser.”
“A loser who must read my Yale essays this weekend,” Caitlin says. “I emailed the latest drafts to you an hour ago. My application is due November first, and I need time to revise it before sending. Knowing me, lots of time.”
“Sure,” I say, still thinking about Josh. “He said why when I asked him if he liked Megan. That definitely means he likes her, right? Otherwise he just would’ve said no.”
“Do you make these rules up as you go along? Or are they from the same relationship manual that recommends asking the guy you like if he likes the hot blond girl?”
“She asked me to talk to him for her!”
“Ohhh. So that was your motive. It was philanthropic.” I can picture her rolling her eyes. “Hey, I gotta go,” she tells me. “We’ll obsess about Astronomy Boy later. Just read my essays, okay?”
“Of course I’ll read your essays,” I reply. “But no, we will not obsess later. Or ever. I’m officially over Astronomy Boy.” As I say it, I am certain, but I delete his number from my phone just to be safe.
“Your mom sure knows how to throw a party,” Dad remarks, looking around the crowded room. We’re standing in the High Museum’s Grand Lobby, which has been transformed into a nineteenth-century French salon. Mom is holding court nearby, stunning in royal blue silk. The gown belongs to Caitlin’s mom, a remnant from her ten-week stint as the lead in Madame Bovary: The Musical! six months before Caitlin was born. Thanks to the fifteen pounds Mrs. Moss put on in her first trimester, the dress is a whopping size six. With the help of some full-body Spanx and a pair of five-inch heels, it fits my mom perfectly.
“No one would believe she’s almost fifty,” I muse, watching her.
“Just don’t let her hear you call her ‘almost fifty,’” Dad replies, swirling his scotch. “She’s convinced that forty-eight still qualifies as midforties.”
“Not too shabby, Barnes.” Tyler’s voice cuts across the dull adult chatter. He strides over to us, wearing a tux that looks like it belongs in the 1970s. “You don’t look bad either, Ab.”
I stick my tongue out at Tyler as he shakes Dad’s hand. “What happened to the crutches?” Tyler asks me. “Don’t you have another week left?”
“Yeah. But crutches plus a floor-length gown equals Abby face-planting in front of hundreds of people. So I left them in the car.”
“See, now that would be fun,” Tyler says. He looks at my dad. “Not that this party isn’t super fun already, Mr. B.”
“Of course it is,” Dad replies between sips. “We’re surrounded by boring old white guys in ill-fitting tuxes. How could it not be fun?” He tilts his glass, finishing his drink.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Tyler deadpans. “Your tux fits okay.”
My dad laughs, but since he has an ice cube in his mouth, it comes out as a snort. The sound earns a few looks from the people around us. Dad doesn’t notice. Chuckling, he ambles off to get another drink.
“So where’s Ilana tonight?” I ask when he’s gone, trying not to scowl as I say her name.
“Play rehearsal,” Tyler replies. “She’s all worked up ’cause some big casting director is coming to see it opening night.”
“Ooh. Can Cate and I come heckle her?”
“She’s been acting weird,” Tyler says.
“News flash. She is weird.”
“I meant Caitlin,” he says.
“Oh.” I think about it. Has she been acting weird? I haven’t noticed anything, but between my foot and the SATs and the feelings Josh doesn’t have for me, I’ve been sort of preoccupied lately. “Weird how?”
“I dunno. Skittish.”
Skittish. Not a word I’ve ever used to describe my best friend. She’s the opposite of excitable. But just as I’m about to tell Tyler that I don’t know what he’s talking about, I remember how she reacted when I asked her if she had feelings for him. Uncharacteristically cagey. Perceptibly off-kilter.
She’s acting weird because she likes him. All at once, I know for certain that I’m right. I don’t know how I know, I just do. Caitlin likes Tyler, and Tyler likes her back.
“You haven’t noticed?” Tyler asks.
I hesitate. If Tyler and Caitlin do have secret feelings for each other, then until one of them actually does something about it, they’ll both be miserable. Okay, so maybe not miserable, but less happy than they otherwise could be. And what if the year passes and we graduate and they miss their chance altogether? That has to be worse than any fallout from my playing Cupid. Besides, Caitlin needs this. She hasn’t dated anyone since Craig, and I know it’s because she’s afraid of getting her heart broken again. Ty would never hurt her.
I choose my words carefully. “It’s the Ilana thing,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s hard for her.” I make it sound like this is no big deal, when Tyler and I both know it is. There’s only one reason Tyler’s relationship with Ilana would be “hard” for Caitlin.
Tyler’s face stays neutral. “She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to tell me,” I hedge. “I’m her best friend.” It strikes me that Caitlin might take issue with that statement at this particular moment.
“So she never said it explicitly?” he asks.
“She did,” I lie. “I just wasn’t supposed to tell you.” What am I doing? I open my mouth to take it all back, but Tyler cuts me off.
“I’m in love with her,” he says in a voice that doesn’t sound like his. Maybe because he’s using words I’ve never heard him use before. At least, not with a straight face. “I didn’t think I had a shot,” he says then. “You’re saying I do?”
Okay, whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. I mean, I thought he had feelings for her, and I might’ve used the word “love,” but I’ve known Tyler since preschool, and I’ve never heard him use the L word except when talking about golf clubs. Yet here he is, throwing it around and sounding all heartfelt and sincere. As I stand here, looking into his open and honest eyes, I’m startled by the depth of emotion I see. He’s really in love with her. And I’ve just hinted that she feels the same way.
My mind keeps reeling. Caitlin is going to kill me.
“Depends on how you play it,” I try to backpedal. “You can’t come on too strong.” If you do, she’ll know I said something to you.
“Yeah. Okay.” He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s failing. The boy is beaming, which is good, because the look on his face removes any doubt that I did the right thing. Not that I even did much at all—my words were nothing more than a nudge in the direction he was already heading. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself over and over again right now, trying to mitigate the rising swell of guilt. “Think she’ll be at the party tonight?” Tyler asks a few seconds later.
“What party?”
“Cul-de-sac party in that new neighborhood off Providence Road. Football team got a keg.”
“Oh. No. She’s working at her dad’s lab tonight.” Thank God. Caitlin is scarily intuitive. She’ll take one look at Tyler’s dopey grin and know something’s up. He needs to recover from his euphoria before their next encounter. And figure out what to do about Ilana.
Across the room, someone is waving. I’m not sure if the gesture is directed at me—all I see is a man’s hand flailing in the air. Whoever the hand belongs to is blocked by two obese women in silk taffeta. The women shuffle away and Dr. Mann comes into view, looking rather dapper in a gray suit. His smile widens when we make eye contact.
“Ms. Barnes!” he calls across the crowd.
“Who’s that?” asks Tyler, clearly amused by the wild-haired old guy moving toward us.
“Dr. Mann,” I reply. “My astronomy teacher.”
“That guy won a Nobel Prize?”
“Shhh.” I look past Tyler to my teacher, who’s balancing a plate of meatballs on a can of Dr Pepper. His other hand is extended to shake mine.
“They didn’t give you a glass for that?” I ask, nodding at the soda can as I shake his hand. The old man laughs.
“They offered me one, but I declined. It’s harder to spill on oneself from a can.” Dr. Mann smiles and takes a careful sip.
Tyler looks at me. Again: That guy won a Nobel Prize?
I ignore him. “Dr. Mann, this is my friend Tyler Rigg. He goes to Brookside also.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Rigg,” says Dr. Mann, shaking Tyler’s hand. “Perhaps I’ll have you in class next semester.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Tyler says pleasantly.
“So what brings you to the museum?” I ask Dr. Mann.
“My daughter is on the board,” he tells me, and points at a woman who looks to be in her early thirties, wearing a demure black dress. She has an Audrey Hepburn quality and her father’s striking blue eyes.
“So you got dragged here, too,” Tyler says. He stops a man carrying a tray of lamb chops and heaps six onto a cocktail napkin.
“I’m afraid it was me who did the dragging,” Dr. Mann says. “Greta just flew in from Munich this afternoon and was planning to stay home, but I insisted that we come. I am a great admirer of ‘le petit jeune chimiste qui accumule des petits points.’” His French is perfect.
“Hmm . . . Something about a chemist and small dots?” I say, trying to parse it out.
“‘The young chemist who puts together little points,’” he translates. Then he explains, “It’s how Gauguin described Seurat. He missed the artistry of the pointillist method, I’m afraid. Saw only the science.”
“And you see both?” I ask.
“In my view, the science is the artistry,” the old man replies. He looks past us to Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, the painter’s most famous piece and the centerpiece of the exhibit, on loan from the Art Institute of Chicago. “With his ‘petits points,’ Seurat invited the viewer to participate in a transcendent experience instead of thrusting one upon him.” He points his Dr Pepper can at the painting. “The inherent order you perceive in that image has not been constructed on that canvas; rather, it is being constructed as we speak, in your mind.”
This, of course, is not the first I’ve heard about pointillism. When you’re the only child of an art curator and a retired painter, you get more art theory at the dinner table than would fit in a semester on the subject. But for the first time, the theory resonates on a grander scale. Up close, all you see are the pieces, strewn about, heaped on top of each other. Total disarray. But step away, and a picture takes shape. When you make sense of the chaos, the chaos disappears. Or maybe, what looked at first like chaos never was.
In an ocean of ashes, islands of order.
It’s a line from Arcadia, a play we read in AP English last year. (I wouldn’t have remembered it except for the fact that I flubbed it when I read it aloud in class. “In an island of ashes, oceans of order,” I’d said, and someone made a joke about Oceans of Order being a great band name.) The original line is a reference to the patterns that emerge out of chaos, a major theme in the play. The phrase captures Seurat’s masterpiece perfectly. By themselves, the dots are just little circles of color. But in the right arrangement, they become so much more.
Before I can get too far with this idea, Tyler interrupts it. “Is that a monkey?”
“It’s supposed to be satirical,” I say vacantly. “The word for female monkey in French—singesse—was a slang word for prostitute.” My comment earns an impressed look from Dr. Mann. “It’s an equation,” I say then, still thinking about Arcadia. “The dots are the variables. The coherent image we see from far away is the solution.”
“Et l’artiste est le mathématicien,” Dr. Mann says.
“The artist is the mathematician,” I translate, liking the idea. But how much control does the artist have over the solution? I imagine my life as a painting and wonder the same thing.
My left foot begins to throb, so I shift all my weight to my right one.
“Papa!” Greta is calling to her father, gesturing for him to come meet whoever she’s talking to. Dr. Mann gives us a little bow before departing.
“So how long till we can get out of here?” Tyler asks, clearly not interested in discussing my philosophical ideas about life and math and pointillist painting. “I’m bored.”
“We’ve only been here an hour.”
“An hour in museum time is, like, five hours in regular time,” he replies. “How about we stay until nine, then hit the keg?”
“Fine. This ends at ten, anyway.”
“You should call Caitlin,” he says. “Tell her to stop by the cul-de-sac after the lab.”
I’m debating whether to shoot this idea down or pretend to call her when I hear my phone buzz from inside my clutch. Tyler hands it to me. He’s looking at my screen when I read the incoming text:
Caitlin: C U AT THE PARTY?
I look from the text to Tyler.
Shit.
By the time we get there, the “party” has dwindled to more of an intimate gathering.
Everyone is standing around the fire someone built in a metal trash can. Some football players are roasting marshmallows on a stick. Andy Morgan, our star running back, whistles when he sees us.
“Lookin’ good, kids!” Andy calls out. Tyler twirls me, and I do a little curtsy in my dress, careful not to put too much weight on my bad foot. Across the cul-de-sac, Ilana is giving me the death stare. She’s standing away from the fire with a group of drama girls, drinking a diet soda and looking pissed off at the world. Tyler heads toward her.
“S’more?” Andy asks, pressing a charred marshmallow between two graham cracker squares and holding it out for me. “There are chocolate bars around here somewhere.”
After a truckload of salty hors d’oeuvres, a melted marshmallow is hard to resist. “Sure,” I tell him. “Thanks.” I nibble on the corner of the graham cracker, waiting for the insides to cool. “How long have you guys been here?”
“About an hour,” Andy replies. “Long enough for Ilana to get pissed that Tyler hadn’t shown up yet.” I feel a flash of sympathy for Ilana. She and Tyler are standing off to the side, away from the rest of Ilana’s friends, in the midst of what looks like a heated discussion. I try not to stare. “Hey, there’s Caitlin,” Andy says, shoving another marshmallow into his mouth. “She’s so hot.”
I look up and see Caitlin parking her Jetta down the street. My eyes dart back to Tyler. Ilana has his forearm in a vise grip. It doesn’t look like he’ll be having any alone time with Caitlin tonight. I feel myself begin to relax. I’m not really worried that Tyler will rat me out since I told him it was a secret, but he’s been known to get chatty when he’s been drinking, which, thanks to his flirtatious banter with the bartender at the museum, includes tonight.
“You look amazing!” Caitlin says to me as she walks up. “How was the gala?”
“Really great,” I tell her. “You should’ve seen my mom—”
“Are you kidding me?” Ilana’s voice, even more high-pitched than normal, stabs me in the eardrum, stopping me midsentence. All heads swivel in her direction. She’s staring at Tyler, her face contorted in disbelief. Tyler mutters something indecipherable.
“Keep my voice down?” Ilana shrieks. “You break up with me—at a party, in front of my friends—and then you have the audacity to tell me to keep my voice down? Who do you think you are?”
My eyes dart to Caitlin. Hers are glued to the drama unfolding across the street. I brace myself, waiting for Ilana to come screaming toward me.
This is not how I expected this to go.
Yes, I assumed Tyler would probably break up with Ilana at some point. But I didn’t think he’d do it tonight. Or in front of a crowd.
“If that’s all it took to put him over the edge, their relationship was doomed anyway,” I murmur.
“If what was all it took?” Caitlin asks.
“Whatever made him break up with her. Not that I know what that is,” I quickly add. “Because I don’t.” Caitlin gives me a funny look.
“And . . . she’s out.” Andy points his roasting stick at Ilana’s retreating figure. She flings open her car door and gets in. I look over at Tyler. He’s looking at Caitlin.
This is bad. This is very bad.
“Hey, I’m pretty tired,” I say to Caitlin, feigning a yawn. “Can you take me home?”
“Right this second?” Caitlin asks. “I just got here. Besides, didn’t you drive? I saw your car when I drove in.”
“I’m not feeling well.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tyler heading toward us. “I don’t think I should drive.”
“I can take you,” Andy offers, skewering another marshmallow with his stick. “I told my dad I’d be home early tonight.”
“Oh . . . that’s okay,” I say. “I’ll just wait for Cate.” Caitlin eyes me. She knows something is up. I pretend not to notice.
“You okay?” Caitlin asks as Tyler joins our little circle. She puts her hand on his forearm. There are nail marks on the inside of his wrist.
“I’m great,” he tells her, and smiles. “Although I think she may have shattered my eardrum,” he adds, tugging on his earlobe.
“That girl does have quite the set of lungs,” Andy muses as he watches his marshmallow burn. “Want a beer?”
“Nah, I think I’m done for tonight,” Tyler tells him. “I had about a quart of JB at the museum. I should probably quit while I’m still standing.”
“I’ll drive you,” I say before Andy can offer. There’s no way I’m staying to make small talk with Caitlin. She and I don’t do small talk. And we don’t do fake talk either. So unless I’m prepared to admit that I’m freaking out about the fact that I told our best guy friend that she has a thing for him after she told me unequivocally that she doesn’t, it’s time to call it a night.
“A minute ago you were too sick to drive,” Caitlin points out.
“I got a second wind,” I say.
“In the last sixty seconds?”
“Ty, you ready?” I ask, pretending not to hear her. He’s busy shoving marshmallows onto a stick.
“One sec,” he says. “I’m making a roadie.”
Caitlin pulls me aside. “What’s going on with you?” she asks, lowering her voice. “You’re acting bizarre.”
“Nothing!” I say brightly. A little too brightly. Caitlin eyes me suspiciously.
“I don’t believe you. Is this about my essays? Did you read them and hate them?”
“If I hated them, I’d tell you,” I reply. “I haven’t read them yet. But I will,” I promise. “Tomorrow.”
“So why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” I insist, careful to avoid Caitlin’s gaze. “I’m just tired.”
“’Kay, let’s go,” Tyler declares, his mouth full of chocolate pieces. There’s a burnt marshmallow stuck to each pinkie. “Bring the graham crackers.”
“Okay, bye!” I announce, to no one in particular. Then beeline to my car.
As soon as we pull away from the party, I slump down in my seat, visibly relaxing.
“Why are you being weird?” Tyler asks. At least, I think that’s what he said. With the two marshmallows he has jammed in his mouth, it’s hard to be sure.
“You can’t tell Caitlin what I told you.”
“I can’t?”
“I’m serious, Tyler. She’d freak if she found out. Promise me you won’t tell her.”
“I won’t tell her,” he says. “But if you were so worried how she’d react, why’d you tell me in the first place?”
“Because I wanted you to do something about it,” I say. “Subtly. And I knew you wouldn’t make a move unless you knew you had a shot.”
Tyler doesn’t answer right away. “Nah,” he says after a minute, his words slurring just a little. “I would’ve done something either way.” He glances over at me, then out the passenger-side window. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: It’s definitely easier knowing she feels the same way. But I wouldn’t have let the year go by without telling her how I felt.”
I glance over at him, his profile illuminated in the moonlight. He looks older, somehow. Sure of himself. “So you didn’t even need me,” I joke.
That’s when I hear the sirens. Approaching from the other direction. At least, that’s what I think until we come around the next corner and see the red lights. Traffic is stopped in both directions.
“That’s Ilana’s car,” I hear Tyler say. He’s staring at the mangled white Mercedes on the shoulder. There’s an empty red pickup truck in the ditch across the street. Firemen and paramedics surround what’s left of the Mercedes.
“Where’s Ilana?” I hear myself whisper.
Tyler just points as a paramedic lifts a limp body through the broken windshield of Ilana’s car.