by Katie Wismer
She sits up in her seat, cautious excitement prodding her face. “So…”
“So you better be really freaking careful if you’re going to do this. And not just about not getting caught, but also, what if Mr. Graham turns out to be a perv or something? And you have to tell me everything.”
Her entire face breaks into a grin. “You want the dirty details, do you?”
“No. I want to be able to cover for you if you get yourself into trouble.”
She nods. “Okay, deal.”
A carhop in roller skates pulls up to the car with our milkshakes. When I roll down my window and exchange a couple of dollars for the drinks, our classmates’ laughter seeps in. As he skates away, a large, white SUV pulls into the spot beside me, the music so loud it’s shaking the car.
Ashley.
I quickly roll up the window.
She either hasn’t noticed us or doesn’t care. Every seat in her car is packed with other members of the Pretty Committee. Johanna notices a moment later and sits up straighter.
“Don’t leave,” she says.
I was already reaching for the ignition. “Why not?”
“Because then it’ll look like we let them chase us off!”
“Or it’ll look like we already got our food, which we have.” I emphasize this with a sip of my milkshake.
“No, it’ll look like she scared us off. No way.” She reaches over and plucks the keys from the ignition before I can stop her. “We’re staying.”
“You can’t be serious.” I try to snatch the keys back, but she stashes them in her pocket. “Jo. This is ridiculous. It’s not going to look like anything. She hasn’t even noticed that we’re here, and if she does, she’s not going to care.”
“She hasn’t noticed us, huh?” Jo points through the windshield. The Pretty Committee is now standing amid the picnic tables with the jocks, laughing and talking to each other, looking straight at us.
I have a bad feeling about this. “Maybe we should just go…”
“Oh, hell no. Especially not now. Hold your ground, Mare.” Jo stares pointedly back at them.
And then the first packet of ketchup is thrown. It makes contact with the windshield and explodes in a small burst of red. There’s not even enough time to react before more start pounding against the car, covering the windshield. It gets to the point where there’s so much ketchup that I can’t see through the glass enough to see who’s throwing. Judging by the quantity, it’s everyone. I briefly wonder how they’re managing to make them explode, unless they’re opening the packets before throwing them.
After the initial jump of surprise, Jo and I sit silently in the car, waiting for it to stop. Jo, however, looks like her head is about to blow up. Her hands are clenched into fists in her lap, her teeth locked together. I’m more annoyed than anything, thinking about how I’m going to have to clean my car later.
Once the windshield looks like a crime scene, the pounding stops, replaced by a chorus of laughter. I’m too consumed by my thoughts, wondering if turning on the windshield wipers will just make it worse, to stop Jo when she throws the door open and jumps out.
Oh no.
I hurry out of the car as she stomps toward the crowd of students. They’re literally caught red-handed, what with the ketchup dripping down their fingers, but they don’t look the least bit concerned. If anything, they seem thrilled that Johanna is engaging.
I’m terrified of what will happen a moment before it does: Jo marches right up to Ashley and slaps her.
Silence falls over the crowd. For a moment, nobody moves. The rest of the Pretty Committee looks outraged. The guys look thrilled at the prospect of a fight. Ashley brings a hand to her cheek, where a distinct red mark in the shape of Jo’s hand is beginning to form.
The moment doesn’t last long.
“You crazy bitch!” Ashley shrills and lunges forward as if to seize Johanna’s hair.
I surge forward, grab Johanna by the crook of her arm, and yank her out of Ashley’s reach. Ashley stumbles forward, her hands catching air, and her eyes shoot to me. The look she gives me is so cold, I actually shiver. She’s undeterred. She, along with a couple of her friends, step toward us, wanting a fight. Johanna clenches her hands into fists—if this does turn into a fight, Johanna isn’t going to be doing any more bitch-slapping or hair-pulling. It’ll be the real thing.
I yank her back again and shove her toward the passenger seat. “Get in the car,” I order.
She doesn’t look happy about it, but she complies. As soon as I slam the door shut, Ashley bangs her fist against the window.
“Get back out here and face us, you cowards.”
Johanna’s entire body tenses at the word. Snatching the keys from her, I throw the car into reverse before she can jump back out, and run the windshield wipers at the fastest possible speed. The ketchup smears across the windshield, but I don’t stop. I just keep driving.
✦✦✦
“I can’t believe you stopped me. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to kick Ashley Miller’s ass?”
Johanna and I are sitting in my basement, finishing off our milkshakes, catching up on some trashy reality TV shows on Netflix. Every couple of minutes, Jo brings the fight back up, shaking her head and clenching her jaw as if just thinking about it is pissing her off all over again.
“Honestly,” I say around a spoonful of my milkshake’s dregs, “If it had been just Ashley, I might have let you. But you were outnumbered one to, like, twenty. You’re badass, Jo, but you’re not that badass.”
“I would have had you for backup.” She can’t even say it with a straight face.
I snort and accidentally spit some of my milkshake, which just makes Jo and me crack up harder. I have my talents, but none of them include any sort of physical activity. My mother tried putting me in ballet as I kid because I was so uncoordinated, but took me out of the class after two weeks to save me the embarrassment and the other dancers the hazard.
I shake my head, wiping the milkshake from my chin. “I can’t believe you slapped her.”
“It felt so good.” Johanna rolls so she’s hanging upside down from the couch’s arm. “Sorry about your car, though.”
I shrug and set my milkshake on the coffee table. “I’ll take it to the carwash later, but I bet it’ll still smell like ketchup for another week or so.”
Jo scrunches her nose. “At least none of it got inside.”
“True.”
“So…” Jo grins. “Sunday is just a mere five days away.”
I snort, fishing my spoon around the bottom of my cup for the remaining frozen chunks. “So?”
“So, that means you’ll see Sam at church. You have to talk to him. And don’t give me anymore of that, Gee, Johanna, I don’t know, bullshit. You’re doing this. This Sunday. You signed a contract.”
I roll my eyes. “You realize that isn’t a real contract, right?”
“That’s irrelevant.” She’s been hanging upside down for so long now that her face is nearly as red as her hair. “You agreed to this. Now it’s time for you to start following through.”
I don’t argue, because as much as the idea terrifies me, a small part feels a kind of exhilaration. I do want to do this. And on Sunday, I will.
5
On Sunday morning I quickly realize how much easier it is to be brave with Johanna in my basement than it is standing on a curb outside of the church, alone, my entire body jittering like I’ve had three too many shots of espresso. My family arrives early, as usual, but I trail behind them as we cross the parking lot so they can’t see the nervous energy thrumming through me. Suddenly I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve. Harper shoots me a narrow-eyed look over her shoulder, scrutinizing my face as if my guilt is written there.
A black car pulls into the lot.
“Where’s Johanna today?” Papa asks as we near the front doors.
Sleeping in, probably wanting to leave
me alone for what I’m about to do. I trail the car with my gaze, willing my parents to hurry up and get inside. “She’s not feeling well,” I lie.
“Oh no,” Harper mock pouts.
We just ignore her.
“I’ll add her to my prayers,” Maman says.
The car finishes its leisurely stroll through the empty rows, parking just a few yards away. When its passengers emerge onto the blacktop, my heart speeds up and pounds painfully against my ribs.
“I’ll meet you guys inside,” I tell them. Harper shoots me another suspicious look, but disappears into the church without a word.
I am hyperaware of how damp the fabric beneath my armpits feels and make a mental note to keep my arms down at my sides so no one else will see. I should have worn a looser shirt. Or something black. Anything but yellow. Of course sweat would be obvious in yellow. The blouse was a little too small, too—an extra-small from my early high school years before my boobs came in. I definitely should’ve picked something less form-fitting so I wouldn’t constantly have to remind myself to suck my stomach in.
Mr. Johnson’s wearing the same black suit—or at least one that looks similar enough to last week’s that I can’t tell the difference; Sam’s in a pair of khaki shorts and a white collared shirt, the shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, his dark hair disheveled. I’m beginning to think that’s how it always looks. Mr. Johnson laughs at something Sam said as they cross the lot. I don’t think either of them have noticed me yet. This just reminds me that they will, in fact, notice me at some point.
My hands start sweating. I wipe my palms on the back of my jeans—I managed to talk Maman into allowing me to wear them as long as I wore a nice blouse on top, hence the ugly yellow monstrosity—and force a smile as they approach.
I should really invest in some of that lotion that makes your hands stop sweating I keep seeing on infomercials.
“Bonjour, Meredith!” Mr. Johnson calls, looking all too pleased at his attempt at French. It comes out as “bun-juer.”
My fight-or-flight response is in full gear, and I’m about two seconds away from bolting and forgetting the whole thing. I need to get him out of here before I lose my nerve.
“Salut, Monsieur Johnson. Sam.”
“Hey,” Sam responds, takes the sunglasses from his face, and hangs them from the neckline of his shirt. When he meets my eyes, a soft smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and I have to look away.
“No friend today?” Mr. Johnson asks.
This is it. Now or never.
Oh my God, my entire body is trembling.
Get ahold of yourself.
“Yeah, she’s not feeling well. I was hoping maybe Sam could keep me company instead until the service starts?” My voice steadily rises with each word, ending in a shrill, shaky peak.
Sam blinks, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Mr. Johnson just grins. “Of course, of course. Your father and I have been talking about how the two of you should spend more time together. In fact, feel free to sit with them during the service, Sam.” Mr. Johnson’s practically bouncing with excitement as he nudges Sam toward me and hurries into the church.
Now we’re alone, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll throw up.
A corner of Sam’s mouth quirks. “I think you just made his life.”
“He and my dad, both.”
His expression shifts just a notch, like a record skipping. “Did your dad ask you to hang out with me?”
Is that disappointment on his face? I can’t ignore the small thrill the thought gives me. “No, not at all.” I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. “I was actually wondering if you wanted to get out of here.”
Full-on shock blooms across his face. “Right now?”
I fold my arms behind my back, hooking each hand around the opposite elbow. I don’t trust my voice not to get all high-pitched again, so I just say, “Mm-hm.”
“We’d miss your dad’s service,” he says slowly. His eyebrows lower over his eyes—and now I can’t get Jo’s comment about flirty eyebrows out of my head.
“Oh, right.” I rock back on my heels. Abort, abort, abort. I wave my hands like the whole thing was no big deal and I’m definitely not having a heart attack right now. “Of course, if you want to stay—”
Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, intimidatingly calm. I can’t read his face at all. “I mean, if you want to, I’m totally fine with ditching it. I just wasn’t sure if you’d want to miss it.”
I nod at the plaza across the road. “How about we go get some coffee instead?”
✦✦✦
I have never in my eighteen years of life missed one of my dad’s sermons. It’s not even a rule in our house—it’s just assumed to be understood. But instead of guilt, this small act of deviance is giving me a sort of…thrill.
Sam and I make our way across the street, occasionally filling the silence with meaningless small talk—most of which he has to supply because I’m too socially inept to think of the proper things to say. He’s polite, but reserved. We both are. Although our dads have been best friends all our lives, I don’t think either of us knows much about the other. We grew up together, but once we reached our teens, we went separate ways. I think the last time we had a conversation was middle school. We were never close, but we spoke. An acquaintances-by-default kind of thing. But it was a lot easier to talk to him on a swing set back when we both had braces. Now he looks like an underwear model, and I’m shaking so badly I probably look like a Chihuahua.
This unspoken mystery of where we now stand draws a line between us, and I don’t think either of us knows how to cross it.
When we reach the coffee shop, he holds the door open for me, and I blush for no apparent reason. Inside, the lights are dim and the small wooden tables are empty. Light jazz music plays in the background. The woman behind the counter has a half-shaved head and nearly a dozen piercings distributed throughout different regions of her face. She glances at us with a bored expression.
“You, uh, want to grab us a table and I’ll get the drinks?” Sam offers.
“Black iced coffee,” I say by way of response, and he looks relieved that I didn’t make a big deal out of him paying. Truthfully, I just now realized I forgot my wallet and he saved me from a mortifying moment at the cashier.
It isn’t until I’m sitting at the table in the corner waiting for him to return with the drinks that it hits me. Coffee, him paying—this looks suspiciously like a date. Which means I’m actually doing this. Which means he’s going to sit down across from me any second now and I’m going to have to hold an actual conversation with him. What do we talk about? I doubt he’s still into dinosaurs and Disney movies. Am I supposed to bring up our extinct friendship, or am I supposed to be flirty? How do you even be flirty? Does he like funny girls? God, I don’t even know what he likes anymore.
Now I’m blushing all over again. This was such a stupid idea. No matter how badly I want to be this girl, I’m not. I’m not confident and cool. I’m just not. I’m so consumed by my own panic that I don’t even notice him approach until he’s sitting across from me and there’s a coffee cup in my hand.
“Wow. You look like you’re trying to solve some kind of differential equation or something.”
I blink at him. “Huh?”
“I just mean—” He clears his throat. “You looked really concentrated on whatever you were thinking about, is all.”
“Oh.” I laugh. It comes out horribly hysterical and cackle-like. I slam my mouth shut. Oh, God, he’s going to think I’m crazy. Think of something funny to say back. The only thing I can think of is, You looked like you were constipated when you showed up to church with your dad, with your scowling and everything, but oh my God I can’t say that. That’s not even funny! It’s just gross. And now that it’s in my head, I can’t think of anything else.
And now we’re sitting in uncomfortable silence.
“So, um, you go
to Northfield now, right?” he offers as he folds his sunglasses and sets them on the table.
I leap in. Easy enough topic. “Yeah. You go to Madison Prep?”
Northfield is the main public school, and Madison prep is the all-boys private school across town. There’s a separate branch of Madison for girls—but the entire school is ridiculously expensive and difficult to get into if you’re not a legacy. It’s for the smartest and the richest—and as Jo commonly corrects, the snobbiest. Northfield is sort of the dumping ground for everyone else.
Sam’s dad is a Madison Prep alum.
“Yeah,” he frowns.
“You don’t like it there?” I ask, grateful the conversation is leaning toward him.
He shrugs and sips his coffee. “It’s fine. I guess I can’t complain, because I know I’m getting a good education, but I swear everyone there just takes themselves too seriously. You’d think they were curing cancer or something with the way they strut around. Some classes just feel like our only purpose is to sit there to give the teacher an audience for him to talk about how awesome he is. Or give him an opportunity to require us to buy his book.”
I nod, but not because I understand or agree. Honestly, I only processed about half of what he said. I’m trying to listen, but it’s like my anxiety is muffling everything around me and I can’t hear anything over my own pounding heart. But then realize I need to say something in reply, and a cold moment of terror seizes me. Do I reply seriously, or make a joke?
Mon Dieu, why is this so hard?
He saves me again and asks, “Do you like Northfield?”
He must feel like he’s having this conversation with himself.
“Uhh…” I trail off and stare intently at my coffee. “There’s nothing wrong with the school. It’s just…well…yeah.”
He’s leaning toward me, elbows propped on the table. He’s close enough to me that I can see the dark blue outline of his eyes, the freckles on the bridge of his nose. Suddenly the table doesn’t feel like enough distance between us. I can smell the mint from his toothpaste. “It’s what?” he asks.