by Cameron Lund
But I’m here now. I’m the one in Jordan’s tree house, the one he set this all up for. I’m the one he just called babe for the very first time.
He puts his mug down and leans toward me, claiming me in a kiss. I set my mug down too, worried I’ll spill it, and as I do, Jordan lays me down, climbing over me and pressing me into the blankets. I am immediately aware of every single nerve ending in my body, can feel every inch of my skin for the very first time in my life.
Jordan threads his hand through my hair, pushing himself against me. Then he brings it lower, touching the soft skin of my neck, and then lower still to my belly. He pulls his mouth from mine and looks into my eyes. “I think I love you, you know that?”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe, but in the best kind of way. “I love you too,” I say back, feeling my face break out into the world’s most impossibly huge grin.
“Good,” he says, smiling to match mine, and then he kisses me again, his hand finding its way under the giant parka to reach my bra.
“Wait.” The word’s out of me before I’ve decided on it. There’s a part of me that wants Jordan to keep going, that never wants him to stop, but there’s another part that doesn’t want to rush things. There are already too many firsts tonight, and I want to bask in them, want every first with Jordan to be a crisp and clear memory I can look back on and savor for the rest of my life.
“You sure?” he says, his hand still cupped there. “We have like an hour at least till my parents come back.”
“Can we just talk instead?” I move so that his hand slides off me, sitting up slightly and propping my body back on my elbows.
“I looked up the lengths of all the movies when they asked me for a rec, and I suggested the one that was three hours.” He sighs, but flips his body over so he’s next to me, propped up on his elbows too.
“So that means we have three hours to talk.” I smile at him. “Will you tell me you love me again?”
“Sure. I love you.”
“I love you,” I say back. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I could probably fill three hours with that. There’s a gap in the wooden ceiling, and I look up. Above us, it’s started to snow.
NOW
WHEN I GET TO WORK a few days later, Sarah is already there, scrubbing down the tables with a rag and a bottle of disinfectant.
“Help me sweep the floor before we open,” she says, nodding her head in the direction of the storage closet. I grab the broom and come out to meet her.
“It already looks pretty clean,” I say, starting to sweep.
“Oh, are you the expert?” she asks. “Did you get promoted to manager?” I roll my eyes and keep sweeping. I’m tired—wiped out from everything that’s happened—and spending time with Sarah only makes me more on edge.
We work in silence for a few minutes and then Sarah breaks it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
I’m surprised she’s apologizing. I kinda thought part of her might enjoy having this power over me—payback for all the years Olivia has tormented her. I would totally get it if she wanted to boss me around like some evil dictator. Force me to eat freezer bananas.
“It’s okay,” I say, giving her a weak smile. “Long weekend?”
She sets down the bottle of disinfectant with a loud thunk. “So long.” She pauses, like she’s deciding whether she wants to tell me more. Then she plows on. “My band had a show on Saturday night and then the venue refused to pay us because some guy threw up on one of their speakers. But, like . . . that wasn’t our fault. Some guys just can’t hang.”
I’m staring at her, and it takes me a second to realize my mouth is hanging open. There is so much about what she just said that I don’t know how to process. I always thought Sarah hung out by herself on the weekends like I used to back when I had no friends, hunched over her laptop watching old seasons of Doctor Who or something.
“You’re in a band?” I ask once I have properly stopped gaping. “I didn’t know that.”
“I mean, you don’t really know anything about me, do you?”
“I guess not. I mean, not since we were ten.”
“I’ve changed a lot since then.” She tucks the disinfectant and rag into a cupboard below the cash register as I finish up my sweeping. “Can you flip the sign for me?”
I scoop the dirt into the dustbin—Sarah was right, the floor was kinda dirty—and then dump it into the trash. Then I walk over to the front door and flip the sign around to OPEN. “Okay, well, what instrument do you play?” I ask, joining her behind the counter and pulling on my custom Scoops baseball cap.
I remember our fourth-grade music class—Sarah in the back of the room with her clarinet, disrupting constantly with sharp, ear-piercing squeaks. I was up front on the keyboard with Katie, giggling when she giggled. I feel bad about it now and wonder if I should say anything. But I don’t want to remind her.
“I play the bass,” she says. “And the synth. We’re kinda space-age electro pop.”
“Whoa, that’s cool.” I have no idea what most of those words mean, let alone put together, but it does sound cool. It sounds very un–Sarah Kozlowski. “I just . . . I mean, no offense, but, like, who else is in the band?” I’m not trying to be rude, but Sarah is always alone at school. Always. “I’ve just never seen you hang out with anyone. I thought you didn’t have any—”
“I have friends, Penny.” Sarah lets out a harsh laugh. “Just because all the people at RHS suck ass doesn’t mean I don’t have a social life.”
“Fine,” I say. “Sorry.” I know it sounds crazy, but it actually never occurred to me that anyone could have a life outside of Redwoods High. I mean, everyone I’ve ever hung out with has been someone from school—someone I’ve known since I was six years old. I didn’t realize I had any other options. “So what’s the band called?”
“We’re the Disco Cats. You may have seen our fliers around town? There are cats on them, like, flying through galaxies.” She sounds hopeful when she says it, and I want to tell her I’ve seen them, but I definitely haven’t. I would remember something that weird.
“No, sorry.”
“Well, maybe you could come to a show sometime? I mean, if you’re interested. There’s one at Java Town on Friday night.” And there it is between us—an olive branch. Sarah is offering me her friendship, and I could reach out and take it if I wanted. Maybe she isn’t so bad. Maybe she’s actually . . . kinda cool? I mean, not the kind of cool that means anything in high school. Not the kind of cool that will get you invited to the right parties, that will open up the right lunch table, earn you a place in the best group chats. But still, she’s interesting. That counts for something.
But I can’t do it. If I start hanging around Sarah K, this whole mess I’ve gotten myself into will only get worse. I’ll never get my friends back, will never get Jordan to fall back in love with me. Not if they find out I went to see a band called the Disco Cats.
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m busy Friday.”
Sarah chews on her bottom lip. “There are other shows. Other Fridays.”
“I’m busy every Friday,” I say, and then feel awful.
“Got it,” she says, and then after a long pause. “You know, I was actually starting to believe you were different.”
Her words are sharp, like they’re meant to be an insult, and I’m surprised at first how much they hurt. But Sarah doesn’t get that I’m not like her. I don’t want to stand out.
“I’m not different,” I say, and for the first time the words don’t feel right. “I’m just like everybody else.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I figured that one out.”
THEN
JUNIOR YEAR—FEBRUARY
“GUESS WHAT KAI SAID to me the other day.” Olivia and I are walking arm in arm like always out of biology on our way to lunch. She’s wearing a big floppy felt h
at like she’s at Coachella instead of the gym-sock-stink hallways of our high school.
“Um, that you are beautiful and amazing?” I tease, nudging her shoulder with my own. Olivia is at that annoying point in her relationship where she literally never shuts up about Kai. It’s February now—almost Valentine’s Day—and the hallways are decorated with pink construction-paper hearts and red streamers. I know the boys are probably going to get into some cute competition to see who can get us the best presents. I mean, they have to know we’re going to compare.
“Basically”—she leans in closer to me—“he told me he can’t even believe I’m real. He feels like he’s won the lottery.”
“Wow,” I answer, a lump in my throat. “Jordan says I’m hot, but . . . nothing like that.”
“Well, you are hot,” she says. “My best friend is an eleven.”
“If I’m an eleven, then you’re a twelve.”
“Duh, Penelope. My hotness is infinite. I contain multitudes.” She’s giggling, quoting this poem we read last month in English class, and I know she’s joking, but I feel stung by the casual way she’s just announced she’s hotter than I am.
Sarah Kozlowski walks by us then, her nose buried in a book, and she shifts out of Olivia’s way without even glancing up from the pages. She’s got her blue hair tied up on top of her head with a pen, and there are ink smudges all down the back of her neck.
“Oh my god, it’s so sad, isn’t it?” Olivia says to me in a mock whisper. She’s trying to be quiet, but I know Sarah can probably hear her. “Valentine’s Day must be the worst when you don’t have any friends.”
I don’t know whether or not Olivia remembers my own terrible experience when we were kids—if the memory of my empty box has faded with time. I hope so. I don’t think she’d be saying this to me if she could remember that moment in the same painful, visceral way that I can.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing back at Sarah. There’s so much I want to say to Olivia, but I don’t know how. “It would suck.”
“She’s been single for seventeen years.” Olivia giggles. “I bet she’s never even kissed anyone. She probably just sits alone in her room crying and looking at pictures of our boyfriends on Instagram.”
“It’s so sad,” I say as Sarah turns the corner. I can’t help but think about how a few months ago—until Jordan invited me to hang out on Thanksgiving—I hadn’t kissed anyone either. But I don’t want to remind Olivia of that.
“Some girls get all the luck in life, ya know?” Olivia says.
“Kai is the lucky one,” I say, grinning, “to be with a twelve like you.”
“Hell yeah, he is,” she says. “But I’m lucky too.”
We walk into the cafeteria and our friends are waiting for us—Myriah and Katie with a messy stack of pink and red construction paper laid out before them, scissors in hand. Romina is between them, ignoring the arts and crafts and listening to something on her headphones. Kai and Jordan have folded a piece of red paper into a table football and are flicking it back and forth at each other.
“I mean, look at him,” Olivia says to me as we approach. “Isn’t Kai the hottest, coolest, most amazing guy you’ve ever seen?”
Jordan smacks the paper too hard and it hits Kai in the face, and Kai laughs and pretends to fall backward out of his chair.
“He’s going to hurt someone,” I grumble, because it’s the best answer I can give.
“Hey, babe,” Jordan says with a big grin as I slide into the seat across from him. His long legs are stretched out beneath the table, and I stretch mine out too so I can tease him by running my foot along his. We have perfected the art of footsie. “You gonna make me one of those?” He nods toward the pile of papers, half of which have fallen haphazardly onto the floor.
“I already made you something better,” I say, and it’s true. I spent weeks pressing flower petals between the pages of heavy books in my room, laying them out in a mosaic pattern on a poster board in a way that looks like Jordan’s jersey number. I’ve been so antsy to give it to him, but a part of me is worried it’s going to be a little too extra.
“Yeah, what are you gonna give me?” He leans closer, lifting an eyebrow, and the tone of his voice raises goose bumps on the skin of my arms. I know what he wants me to give him—I know what he’s implying—but I’m not ready.
“Not that,” I say, my voice soft. “Not yet.”
He shrugs and backs away. “What? I was talking about chocolate chip cookies. The kind you made for that bake sale last week.”
“Cookies give you gas,” Kai says, smacking Jordan’s arm. He turns to me. “Please, for all our sakes, don’t make him cookies.”
“Maybe don’t tell me what I should do,” I say, folding my arms.
“Wow, my mistake,” Kai says flatly.
Katie slams a purple marker down on the table. “Ugh, I can’t get it right!”
“What are you making?” Myriah puts down the scissors and inspects Katie’s paper. “What does that say? Is that a . . . cabbage?”
“It’s supposed to be an anatomical heart.” Katie folds her arms. “Matt loves science.”
Jordan leans closer. “Well, you’ve made the ventricles way too big. This heart has a pretty serious disease.”
“You could just turn it into a cabbage,” Myriah suggests. “Does Matt love cabbages?”
Romina pulls her headphones partway off, patting Myriah’s hand. “Myr, nobody loves cabbages.”
“Matt said he had this huge surprise for me, and I want to give him something nice back,” Katie says.
“I swear to god if you don’t take a picture of this boy on Valentine’s Day and send it to us, I will officially think he’s a ghost,” Olivia says.
“Can you have sex with a ghost?” Romina pulls her headphones all the way off now, setting them down on top of a stack of lace doilies. “Like, do you guys think that’s possible?”
“He’s not a ghost!” Katie says.
“You could one hundred percent fuck a ghost, though,” Olivia says. “Katie, what if he’s a Revolutionary War soldier?”
“Probably not likely in California, though,” Jordan says.
“Or what if you’re the ghost?” Romina says, smirking. She makes an exaggerated ooooo noise until Katie threatens her with the scissors and Myriah tells everyone to settle down, and I think for the millionth time how lucky I am to be here—at this table, but also here with my friends and my boyfriend, right in the middle of it all. I love these people so much. And yeah, maybe Valentine’s Day is about romantic love, but it’s about this too.
“So, Jordan,” Olivia says, leaning over the table toward him. “Where are you taking my best friend for Valentine’s Day?” She picks up a pair of scissors, running her hand over the blade absentmindedly.
Jordan wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer, and I feel giddy. At this point, Jordan could probably gift me a hug for Valentine’s Day and I would still be thrilled.
“Oh,” he says. “Um, I was gonna make her some . . . spaghetti. I mean, that’s all I really know how to cook, but—”
“Kai and I love spaghetti,” Olivia says. “Don’t we?”
Kai laughs. “It’s a top-five food for sure.”
“Wait, what if we did a double date?” Olivia picks up a piece of construction paper and starts cutting it into a heart shape. “I mean, not if you don’t want us to. I wouldn’t want to interrupt. But wouldn’t that be so much fun?”
I don’t want her and Kai to join us, to crash whatever romantic night Jordan has planned for me. But I don’t want to shoot down Olivia’s idea, not when she seems so excited and her eyes are so sparkly.
“Yeah, you guys can come if you want,” Jordan says. “But bring some paper plates. I’m not doing your dishes.”
* * *
• • • • • •
Jord
an’s mom has Jordan’s dad pressed against the refrigerator, kissing him in a way that is starting to feel like the start of a creepy old-person porno. I don’t know if I should look away.
I’m sitting next to Jordan on one of the stools around the kitchen island, and I take his hand, squeezing it in what I hope he’ll understand is a help me grip.
Finally, his mom pulls back and turns to us. Her red lipstick is smudged all over her face. “So sorry about that, kids. This man is so handsome I can’t help myself.”
“She’s a tiger!” his dad says with a toothy grin.
“Could you guys maybe not maul each other in front of my guest?” Jordan asks. “Or, like, preferably ever?”
His dad winks. “It’s Valentine’s Day, son! If there’s ever a time to show our love, it’s tonight.”
“We think it’s so sweet you’ve invited your girlfriend over for a special romantic night.” His mom straightens her dress—this killer red A-line that I am obsessed with—and fluffs her dark hair, heading toward the front door. “We won’t be out too late. Well, maybe a little bit late. Your father has a surprise for me!”
“Your mother loves surprises!” his dad says, pulling on his suit jacket. They’re clearly going to a fancy place, one with little tables and candlelight and waiters who let you try sips of wine before you order. I can’t wait to go on a real date at a place like that someday.
If Kai and Olivia weren’t coming over, we could have tried to re-create that here—maybe decorated the dining room with twinkle lights and lit candles and played soft accordion music. But it won’t feel the same. I should have told them not to come. I don’t want Kai here to ruin another Valentine’s Day. But sometimes it’s hard saying no to Olivia.