All Our Worst Ideas

by Vicky Skinner

  For a second, I stare straight ahead, thinking maybe I heard her wrong. But then I look over my shoulder, and I see that Morgan is actually blushing, like she’s embarrassed that she said anything at all. She shrugs. “You know, we’ve been working together for a long time, but I don’t really hear you sing or anything.”

  I blink at her. “I don’t sing.” Mostly because I find the idea of singing in front of people to be absolutely appalling, but also because I have a terrible singing voice.

  She seems to think this is funny or cute or something because she winks at me. “Okay, Oliver.” That’s all she says, and then she smiles and turns away from me, vanishing in the direction of the back hallway, where the bathrooms are.

  When I turn back around, Amy and the guy are gone.

  AMY

  I’M ON MY break Tuesday night, trying to fit in some calculus homework, when Oliver walks into the office and finds me at Brooke’s desk. It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that Oliver hasn’t spoken to me since that night we worked together in the stockroom, but we definitely haven’t had any meaningful conversations since then, and as far as I can tell, he still hates me, our mutual love for the Front Bottoms aside.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, the door still open behind him. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He turns to leave, but for some reason, this weird desire that I’ve been harboring to get Oliver to like me, or to at least tolerate me, makes me stop him.

  “You don’t have to go. I’m just doing homework. Stay.”

  The office at Spirits isn’t big, but it’s the closest thing the shop has to a break room, so even though there’s barely enough room for the two of us and Brooke’s desk, Oliver comes into the room, shuts the door, and drops down into the metal folding chair that’s pressed against the back wall.

  I go back to my homework. When I feel brave enough to glance over my shoulder, I see that he’s playing a game on his phone. I turn back around quick. I’m supposed to be working on this test review for our exam next week, but it isn’t helping me figure anything out other than that I really hate calculus.

  When I get the wrong answer for the fourth time on a problem, I look at my cell phone, sitting on the desk beside me, considering. Petra gave me her phone number almost a year ago, when we were both studying our faces off for the SATs. When you’re trying to get a high score on the SATs, you use every resource you have, even if that resource hates your guts. I haven’t used her number since September, after the SATs, when I promised I’d never use it again. And here I am, turning on my screen, scrolling through my contacts, clicking on her name …

  “What are you working on?” Oliver asks.

  I’m so shocked to hear his voice that my phone clatters to the desk. “Just some calculus homework.” I don’t turn around to see his expression, but when he doesn’t say anything, I go on. “I keep doing the same problem over and over but my answer never comes out to the answer on the solutions list. I guess I’m just…” Distracted, I think. But I don’t say it.

  I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. About Jackson coming to see me after work, driving me to his place. He made me dinner and held me while we watched a movie and kissed me on the couch until we heard his parents’ keys in the lock, and even though I knew I should have been doing this stupid calculus homework instead of messing around with Jackson, I ignored it.

  And now, here I am, completely unable to focus on said calculus because Jackson is all I can think about.

  I hear the chair behind me squeak and then Oliver hovers over me. Before I can even really process what he’s doing, he leans down, his face close to mine, and I feel the press of his thumb against my spine as he holds on to the back of my chair. I can’t help but glance up at his face, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes sweep over my paper, taking it all in with such concentration that it’s almost like he’s not even here with me at all.

  “Problem’s right here,” he says, stabbing his finger at the paper. Without asking, he gently takes the pencil from my hand and erases what I have on the page, and then, like he’s done it a million times, he writes in the correct formula, solves it, and hands the pencil back to me. The solution matches the one on the review, and I look up at him as he sits back down.

  It isn’t that I’ve been under the impression that Oliver is stupid. But when he said he wasn’t in school, I just assumed that it’s because he thinks school is a waste of time. The guy slouches around, silent as the grave, his head down, his shoulders slumped, all the time. And well, he looks like a slacker.

  I’m not the kind of girl to give into idiotic stereotypes. I want to smack myself.

  I wait an appropriate amount of time, copy the formula he set up for me, and then ask, “So, you’re not in school?” It doesn’t matter, not really. But I’m curious anyway. I heard what Brooke said the other day, about Oliver touring MBU.

  “No.”

  That’s it. Just no. No explanation. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Just as I’m about to go back to my review, maybe finally give up on trying to make any kind of a connection with him, he says, “Where are you going?”

  I glance over my shoulder at him. He blinks at me. How can he have a face so devoid of expression?

  “I applied to Stanford.”

  A beat of silence. “Wow.”

  There’s something about the way he says that, too, something that tells me maybe he isn’t all that impressed.

  “Is that stupid?” What is it about Oliver that makes me feel like I should be trying to get his approval all the time? What do I care if he thinks my plans are stupid? This has been my dream since eighth grade, when we had to create a brochure for a school of our choice, and I, of course, chose Stanford.

  But he shakes his head, his eyes going back to his phone. “No. California’s just far away. I think that’s pretty brave. Leaving home like that.”

  I laugh, more breath than anything else. “Well, I live in a tiny house with my parents and four siblings, so the farther the better.”

  His eyebrows pull in. “Your real problem is this music.” I’m thrown, momentarily, by his change of subject. He gestures toward my phone, sitting on the desk beside me. I’ve been listening to Pvris since my break started.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “There are all kinds of studies that show that this kind of music will scramble your brains while you’re trying to focus.”

  He reaches out for my phone, but I put a hand over it. Is he seriously going to come in here and try to change my music? No one changes my music. “It helps me concentrate.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Trust me.” He grabs the one edge of my phone that isn’t covered by my hand, and even though he’s given me absolutely no reason to trust him, I let him slip the phone out from under my palm.

  He clicks around on my Spotify app, backing out of my favorite playlist and searching for something else instead. He finally decides on something, and soft piano chords filter out of the speaker as he sets my phone back down. I recognize the song. The Civil Wars. “Try this. It’s better for your brain cells. What do you have to be so angry about anyway?”

  At first, I think he’s serious, but when I twist in my seat to look at him, he has a little half smile playing on his mouth. It’s the first time he’s done anything even resembling joking with me. Or smiling. And that need for his approval dissolves into something more pressing. I want to be Oliver’s friend.

  But like he knows what I’m thinking, he stands up and opens the door. Just before he steps out, he turns back to me. “Did you know there’s a tutoring center across the street? I bet they could help you with that calculus.”

  I sigh and stare at the closed door, and then after a moment, let my head fall to the desk and listen to the song Oliver chose.

  AMY

  I’VE ALWAYS BEEN proud of my spot as vice president of the student council. Partly because it looks good on my Stanford application, not to mention my application for the Keller Scholarship, but also bec
ause it’s always made me feel like I’m doing something for this school.

  Maybe I don’t go to the Homecoming dances, but I’ve always been one of the people who help prepare for them. I may never get nominated for prom queen, but I’ll be the one to design the ballots.

  The biggest downside, of course, is that the president of the student council is none other than Petra Johnson herself, and today, ballot counting day for the prom theme, I’m not feeling too proud of being stuck with Petra.

  Add on top of everything else, I have to be out of here soon if I want to make it to my shift at Spirits on time, and I’m feeling pretty antsy.

  I’ve been thinking about Spirits all day, realizing slowly, like a cold coming on over multiple days, that Spirits has become the highlight of my week, and being here, in the middle of the chem lab, trying to focus on ballot counting, is a form of psychological torture.

  I don’t realize I’m causing the table to shake until Petra reaches over and puts a hand down hard on my leg, effectively making my knee stop bouncing and also making me lose count.

  “Dammit,” I say, tossing down the stack of ballots I was counting.

  “Did you start using?” Petra asks, bending over and looking into my eyes, like I just might be hopped up on something right this second. “Because you know people claim those drugs help you focus, but I swear, it’s a downward spiral.”

  I roll my eyes and start counting again without answering her question. When I’m done with my stack, I jot down the number on the clipboard beside me. “I’m just anxious about getting to work, so can you shut up so I can count?”

  Petra nods, and I get side-eye anyway.

  I slap my stack of ballots in front of her. “My stack says underwater theme. See you later!” I’ve already got my bag in my hand, and I’m at the door of the chem lab when Jackson appears in the doorway, and I almost run into him.

  “Can we talk?” His gaze goes over my head, and I turn to see Petra’s eyes glued to us, her hands frozen with the ballots in them. She doesn’t even pretend she’s not watching us.

  “Yeah, come on,” I say, taking Jackson’s hand, and getting that same thrill in my stomach that I have every time I’ve touched Jackson for the past eleven months, like there are sparks going off under my skin.

  When we’re farther down the empty hallway, and I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’m definitely going to be late to Spirits now, Jackson stops me and says, “So, I’ve been thinking…”

  “Me, too,” I interrupt him. “So, don’t tell anyone because we’re not announcing it until Friday, but the prom theme is officially ‘Under the Sea,’ so I’m thinking an aquamarine dress to match an aquamarine tuxedo vest. What do you think?”

  “I think we should take a break.”

  Everything comes to a screeching halt.

  Jackson’s eyes go over my head again, and I recognize the way he’s fidgeting, like he’s nervous, which makes me nervous, because he’s serious about this. “Ames, I love you so much, but you’ve been so different these past few weeks. All you can talk about is Stanford and valedictorian, and it’s just too much stress for me right now. I know you have a lot to worry about, but this is senior year, and I just feel like we’re not having fun like we’re supposed to.”

  “But … but I was just—”

  I was going to say that I was just talking about what we’re going to wear to prom, and how can we be taking a break, because we’re going to prom together, and Jackson and I have been together for almost a year, and how can he even be saying something like this? Weren’t we just curled up on his couch, making out and laughing and being completely in love?

  But he goes on. “I know you’re working hard, but that’s the problem. You’re so busy with everything you’re trying to do that it’s like I’m not even here. I barely see you, and when I do see you, you’re so distracted.”

  “What about the other night?” I keep coming back to it, how good things were, how happy we were.

  Jackson shrugs. “It was great. But one good night every few months isn’t enough.”

  I feel my chin trembling now, and my mind is going to all these weird places, and all I can think about is how Jackson’s birthday is this Friday. “What about your birthday?”

  Jackson’s eyes get this sad tilt to them, and he looks like he’s about to smile, but he just sighs and says, “Maybe you can sit this one out, okay? Look, maybe once things have settled down, we can reevaluate, but right now, you should focus on school, and I’ll focus on track, and we’ll just take it one day at a time.”

  A tear finally makes its way down my cheek, and without even hesitating, Jackson wipes it away. He kisses me, soft and gentle, and then walks away, and I’m left standing in the hallway, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

  OLIVER

  AMY IS LATE for her shift, and I feel a weird kind of mixture of anxiety and frustration. Brooke thinks I hate Amy, so she always makes Amy shadow me, even though she’s way past the training point. She’s already been working at the shop for almost a month. I thought it would bother me, but Amy has a weird kind of energy that I like. She’s focused and determined and she gives a shit about everything she does.

  Or at least I thought she did. Tonight, she’s supposed to be helping me get the rest of these records put into the system, but instead I’m doing it by myself and only mildly seething because I really thought I pegged her wrong, but now she’s almost an hour late, and that’s just so annoying and—

  “Sorry I’m late!” Amy stops at the end of the counter, right beside the computer I’m using to catalog. She’s huffing and puffing, and she’s also holding a pair of slide-on house shoes in her hand that have koala bears on them, and all this is almost enough to distract me from the fact that she’s clearly been crying, but not quite. Her nose is red and her eye makeup just a little goopy and her cheeks splotchy.

  She swallows. “I, um, had to stay late for this whole prom thing and then, um, and then…” She trails off and clears her throat before saying, “I forgot that it was wacky shoe night, so I had to rush by my house on the way here, and then all I had were these house shoes, so I grabbed them but…”

  Her eyes have wandered down to my own feet. They widen. “Are you wearing…?” But before she can finish her sentence, she’s started laughing.

  I look down at the cowboy boots I borrowed from Marshal, our weekends-only cashier, last week, and even though they’re definitely not something I would have picked out for myself, I don’t think they’re that funny. But Amy has her head thrown back, and seeing her like that, laughing up at the ceiling, makes me smile.

  After a second, I roll my eyes and focus back on the computer. “Just go clock in.”

  She’s suppressed her laughter by pressing her fingertips to her mouth, and she just nods before vanishing into Brooke’s office, and I forget what I was even upset about.

  When Amy comes back, we create an assembly line behind the counter. I’m printing barcodes while Amy sits at my feet, wearing her koala shoes, sticking the barcodes onto the corresponding records. We work in silence, the way we always do.

  “Hallelujah” is playing over the speaker system, the Jeff Buckley version, and I follow along with the lyrics in my head as a girl in Crocs designed to look like watermelons walks by the counter.

  “God, I love this song.” I don’t even really intend for Amy to hear me, but she cranes her neck to look up at me. There’s already such a big height difference between the two of us that now that she’s sitting on the floor, she’s bending back far enough that she looks like she’s stargazing. Her face twists into a confused expression. “Are you serious?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  She rolls her eyes. She actually rolls her eyes. “Loving ‘Hallelujah’ is such a cliché.”

  I rip the next price sticker from the machine, but when she reaches up for it, I don’t hand it down to her. She wiggles her fingers, but when I still don’t hand her the
sticker, she sighs and drops her hand.

  “You dare blaspheme the work of Leonard Cohen?”

  She shrugs. “Isn’t ‘Hallelujah’ everyone’s favorite song? It’s so unoriginal.”

  I scoff at her. “No. That’s the problem. It should be everyone’s favorite song.”

  Her eyes settle straight ahead on the hold shelf. “It’s so repetitive.”

  “That’s where the beauty is, Amy.”

  She blinks at me, and I think maybe it’s because I called her by her name. I can’t remember ever having done that before. “That’s where the flaw is,” she finally says.

  She looks up at me, and I look down at her, and I feel a weird warmth flood into my stomach. I hand her the sticker. I’m watching her peel it off my index finger when I hear someone call my name. I recognize Mom’s voice before I even look up, but a part of me hopes it isn’t really her. Maybe just someone who sounds exactly like her.

  But when I turn to look over my shoulder, I see her rushing through the shop, cutting through the line that’s forming at the register, and making her way toward me in her blue scrubs. She smiles big, her brown curly hair flowing behind her as she comes over.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she says when she gets to me. She puts a brown paper sack down on the counter between us. “You forgot your dinner, and I didn’t want you to get hungry.” She smiles so big. Mom has impressively large gums, which in turn make her seem like she has big teeth, which in turn gives her the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.

  I don’t look down at Amy to see if she’s looking at Mom. Of course, she is. I think everyone is looking at Mom, and she’s not even wearing weird shoes, just her orthopedic ones.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say quietly, taking my brown paper sack, which just has a peanut butter sandwich and a baggie full of sliced apples.