The Originals

by Cat Patrick

  “Ready to roll?” he asks, shifting awkwardly, like maybe underneath it all, he’s nervous. Honestly, it makes me warm to him a bit.

  “Um… my mom wants to meet you. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” Dave says easily. “Parents love me.” I sigh too quietly for him to notice: Apparently that glimmer of sweet nervousness has been replaced by cockiness.

  Despite the fact that the last time we spoke we were screaming at each other, Mom is inquisitive but friendly; despite the fact that I saw her at a secret office, I’m polite back. Thankfully, she doesn’t keep us too long: We’re out of the house less than five minutes later.

  Beyond her reach and anger and secrets, I relax on the way to the multiplex. Dave isn’t my style, but he’s okay… as a friend.

  “Nice car,” I say as I lean back in the passenger seat.

  “Yeah,” Dave says. “My dad let me borrow it.”

  “Don’t you have one just like it?”

  “Mine’s used, but yes,” Dave says, glancing at me with a smile that I’m sure makes some girls swoon. “I drive it to and from practice and sometimes some of the other guys get rides. It smells like french fries and sweaty socks.”

  “Thanks for saving me from that, Dave’s dad.”

  “Should we call him?” Dave jokes. “You two can have a little chat.”

  “Oh, totally,” I say. “In fact, why don’t we just invite him along?”

  We both laugh that polite sort of laughter that happens when you don’t know someone well, and when it’s over, when no one has anything else to say about Dave’s dad, the car falls silent. It lasts only a moment before Dave reaches over and plugs in his iPod. He scrolls through and selects a playlist; the first song is a slowed-down remake of a hip-hop classic. He looks at me expectantly, like I’m going to start singing or something.

  “What?” I ask, my pulse quickening a bit. This is where stepping into someone else’s relationship gets dicey.

  “I found it,” he says, nodding to the iPod.

  “Your iPod?” I ask, smiling in case I’m way off base—maybe he’ll think I’m joking.

  “Funny,” he says. “No, the song.”

  “Oh!” I say, pretending to remember a conversation that Ella failed to mention. I’m mad for a second until I remember that she did tell me a lot—obviously it’s hard to remember every word she’s uttered to Dave and vice versa. “Yes, you did.”

  “See? I told you it was good. Pretty killer, right?”

  “The killer-est.” In my opinion, the original is much better, but I can see Ella liking this one.

  “It reminds me of you,” Dave says, which reminds me of Sean. Those same words from Sean’s lips would give me shivers; from Dave, it’s a line. How many songs have been dedicated to how many girls in this pristine Lexus?

  “That’s sweet,” I say, looking out the window. I try to think of something else to talk about.

  “San Diego is so much better than Florida,” I say out of nowhere.

  “I forget which city you said you lived in,” Dave says as he makes a left; I can see the theater down on the right. “Were you close to Miami?”

  “Unfortunately not.” I flash back to the one-story house outside of Clearwater where I spent most of my young life. “We lived in a small town you’ve never heard of. Lots of alligators and lawn flamingos.”

  “Alligators? Serious?”

  “Dead. There was one in our front yard once. Animal control in Florida is about a lot more than lost kitties.”

  “That’s so badass,” he says, nodding, then getting this faraway look like he’s imagining himself wrestling an alligator with his bare hands. He pulls out of the quick daydream and adds, “But it’s good that you moved… that you’re here now. You’re a nice distraction from Milo’s sinuses in student government. Man, that guy would so get eaten by a gator.”

  I don’t have first period with Dave now, but I did before the trig quiz and the switch, so I know who he’s talking about. And I know he’s being mean.

  “Milo can’t help his breathing problem,” I say frankly. We’re in the lot now, and Dave’s searching for a spot; he’s focused on turning into one that’s too small for the car.

  “He sounds like a pig,” Dave says distractedly.

  “He does not,” I say, shaking my head. Dave turns off the car and looks at me, and it’s like a lightbulb goes on in his head. He backpedals.

  “Naw, I’m just kidding,” he says. “Milo’s a good guy. I know he can’t help it. Did you know he’s getting an operation to fix it?”

  “Really?”

  I want him to tell me about how he and Milo go way back. I want him to tell me that they hang out sometimes, and that’s how Dave knows about the operation. I want him to redeem himself, because as much as I don’t like him, Ella does. And I don’t want her to like a bully.

  Instead, Dave just nods, then opens his door. “You ready?” he asks.

  No, I think. But I say…

  “Can’t wait.”

  Dave lets me pick the movie; I go for the expected romantic comedy. I could’ve acted cool by choosing the sci-fi thriller or the indie about the druggie race-car driver, but I haven’t seen anything in the theater in over a year and I’m taking the opportunity to girl out a little.

  We sit in the middle, just off the left aisle, and Dave immediately stands again to go buy snacks. I turn off my ringtone, then alternate between rocking preshow trivia and watching the other moviegoers choose their seats. There are couples of all ages, from the cutest old man and woman I’ve ever seen to parents with an afternoon babysitter to a pair of tweeners who probably got dropped off at the mall by one of their moms. There’s a four-pack of girls from school; I’ve seen them around, but I don’t know any of their names. One of them keeps turning around and looking at me, probably because I’m with Dave, who everyone seems to know. And there’s one scruffy-looking guy sitting alone who makes me nervous until an even scruffier-looking woman sits down next to him.

  There’s someone for everyone, I think to myself as Dave reappears.

  “Here you go,” he says too loudly for the quiet theater.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking my frozen Junior Mints and water from his outstretched hands. I rip open the candy box and start munching.

  Dave eats some of his popcorn and we don’t talk for a few minutes. I wish the movie would start so the silence wouldn’t seem so obvious. Instead, Dave clears his throat.

  “So you live with just your mom, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say warily.

  “What happened to your dad?” he asks, catching me off guard. It seems surprisingly bold until I remember that he and Ella have probably chatted about family before. Even still, I don’t feel like making up a story when the truth is that I don’t have a dad. The Original did—she had the happy family—but then she died and her parents contracted my mom’s lab to bring her back from the dead, and our mom stole us and said it didn’t work. End of story.

  “Uh, he’s not…” I begin, my voice trailing off because I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell the truth. I try to think of something appropriately vague. Finally, I say, “I don’t really know what happened to him. It’s not something my mom talks about a lot.”

  “Oh, okay,” he says, and I think I see a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to bring up a bad subject. Sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal, I just don’t know,” I say. “It’s sort of embarrassing.”

  “Sorry,” Dave says again, looking embarrassed himself. It’s amazing how he can go from looking like an overconfident ass to a sheepish kid in under ten minutes. He faces front toward the screen and eats a few handfuls of popcorn. I consider that I might be messing this up by being too… me.

  What would Ella do?

  “Thanks for bringing me,” I say quietly as the preview-rating screen lights our faces green. I shove doubts about Dave from my mind and just smile.

&nb
sp; Dave smiles back at me in a way that, for maybe the first time today, feels perfectly genuine. “No,” he says, leaning in a little closer to me and lowering his voice to a more theater-appropriate volume, “thank you. You picked the movie I really wanted to see.”

  When the credits roll, Dave and I leave and go to the massive two-story bookstore and browse. I make a beeline to the music section; Dave follows. As we walk the aisles, he interviews me like he’s a journalist. Ella warned me that he likes to play Twenty Questions.

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Violet.”

  “Pretty,” he says, nodding his approval.

  “When’s your birthday?” he continues. “You know mine from that thing in government, but when it was your turn, the bell rang.”

  “January thirtieth,” I say.

  “That’s coming up,” he says. “Noted.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me in this totally cheesy way that makes me want to frown; I force myself to smile. The questions continue. “Do you have any pets?”

  “No, do you?” I ask, attempting to turn the tables.

  “No,” he says. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Bacon.”

  This makes Dave laugh so loudly that people three aisles over turn to look. When it goes on for a few seconds, I start to feel like he’s making fun of me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Bacon’s just not… I meant more like your favorite kind of food.”

  “Any kind with bacon,” I say before putting on earphones to sample a just-released CD. This forces Dave to stop with the questioning. I listen and watch him wander; he looks a little lost without me to talk to. As I’m trying to figure him out it hits me: He hasn’t figured himself out yet. Trying to act casual, he strolls down a couple of aisles before he ends up near the stairs that lead to the second level. I watch him pause, turn, and gesture that he’s going up, coincidentally to the beat of the song playing in my ears. I nod, then point to my ears to tell him I’m going to keep listening. When he disappears from view, I feel free: I hum along and tap my thumbs on the CD cover I’m holding. The title track ends and a ballad begins, and someone taps on my shoulder. I turn around to find Sean in dark jeans and a black shirt, his hair wilder than usual. He looks at me excitedly; he’s holding the same CD in his hands.

  I rip the earphones from my ears.

  “Hi!” I say, wide-eyed and smiling.

  “Hi,” he says back, looking almost as happy to see me as I am to see him. “It’s good, isn’t it?” he says, pointing to the CD case.

  “Amazing.” I nod before casually glancing in the direction of the stairs.

  Sean takes a step toward me and looks into my eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all weekend,” he says. “I wanted to call you, but I didn’t know if your mom would answer…. I can’t believe we just ran into each other like this.”

  Another nervous glance at the stairs.

  “I know,” I say. “It’s crazy.”

  “Want to get coffee or something?”

  Another glance, and this time, he notices.

  “Are you here with someone? Is it your mom?”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, yes, I’m here with someone. No, it’s not my—”

  “Hey, Kelly,” Dave says as he walks up from the opposite direction. I see signs for an elevator over his head; of course he would come down that way. Dave stops right next to me, a little too close.

  “What’s up, Chancellor,” Sean says. “Popular place.”

  “Guess so.” Dave looks at me. “Are you ready to go?”

  Even though I only glance at Sean, I see it: unfiltered jealousy. His eyes have clouded over; his dark eyebrows are knitted together like he’s ready to take down the villain on his superhero planet. Except it’s possible that right now the villain is me.

  “You two came here together?” he asks, just to be sure. He looks at my dress accusingly.

  “Yep,” Dave says, stepping closer to me as if to mark his territory. I want to shove him away, but I think better of it. Mom’s letting us date. It’s a step in the right direction. If I mess this up, she’ll never let us do it again.

  And besides, Ella would kill me.

  “I’m ready,” I say. Dave turns to lead me out of the store. I put back the CD, and take a step away from Sean. “See you in class,” I say quietly. There’s nothing else to say.

  Apparently, Sean agrees; he turns and walks away.

  eleven

  “Tell me about it again,” Ella says at breakfast Monday morning. I wish she’d be more sensitive: She knows that the date ended with Dave and me running into Sean. The thought makes me sick.

  “El, I told you everything yesterday when I got home,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Twice.” I’m still in pajamas; Mom was out running errands when I got up.

  “You might’ve forgotten something,” she says. “Let’s just go over it again. I’m going to see him in less than an hour!”

  Though I’m sure she knows the date backward and forward already, right down to little facts like the way he watched the entire movie with just his left foot up on the armrest in front of him, but not his right, I tell her again between bites of cereal, swallowing hard every time Sean enters my mind. Betsey must know what I’m thinking, because she chimes in when I pause too long—she’s already memorized the details, too.

  “But he didn’t try to kiss you?” Ella asks when I’m finished. “Just the hug?” She looks a little defensive. Jealous. And why wouldn’t she be? Someone who looks just like her stole her movie date.

  “Just the hug,” I reassure her.

  “Show me how he did it,” Ella says, standing from the table. She moves tentatively like she’s not sure her twisted ankle is going to support her: It does. I look at her with my mouth open.

  “You want me to do a hug reenactment?” I ask, laughing a little. She nods, smiling like a crazy person. I have that exact smile in my arsenal; I rarely use it, but when I glance at Betsey, I see that she’s mirroring Ella’s face exactly. It’s a little creepy. “I’m totally not hugging you,” I say, laughing again. “Not like that.”

  “Do it,” Ella says. “Come on!”

  “Ella!” I say. “You know what a hug feels like. It was just a hug.” It’s impossible not to think of Sean’s arms around me on Friday night. That was a hug.

  “Fine,” she says, tsking and looking at me with a stern expression as she grabs her plate and takes it to the sink. Despite her hesitation a second ago, she’s walking normally; Mom cleared her to go to school. “I guess I’ll just have to try to get him to hug me again.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you,” Betsey says, her mouth full.

  “Definitely not,” Ella says dreamily.

  I glance at the clock, wondering when Mom will be back.

  “Hey, you guys?” I say. “I need to talk to you about something.” I’m thinking about it so much that I actually dreamed about Mom’s secret office last night; I know I need to tell them about it. I wanted to do it sooner, but Mom had a very rare day off yesterday and she was home from the time I got back from the movies with Dave until we went to sleep last night. Maybe she even slept all night in her own bed for once. This is my first chance to talk to Ella and Betsey alone.

  “Is everything all right?” Bet asks, looking at me curiously.

  “Yes, but—”

  “If everything’s okay, can we talk tonight?” Ella interrupts. “I need to finish getting ready.”

  I open my mouth to explain that we should probably talk now—because I’m not sure where Mom will be later—but the buzzer beeps, telling us that the gate’s opening. Mom’s home.

  “That’s fine,” I say. Then, not wanting to worry them, I add, “Really, it’s no big deal. Tonight’s great.”

  “It’s a plan,” Ella says before waving and leaving the kitchen. She heads up the stairs a little slower than usual because of her ankle, humming all the way.
I’ve heard the song before: It’s the one Dave played for me on the way to the movies.

  At school I push thoughts of Mom out of my head and focus on Sean. The second I walk into creative writing, I can tell that he’s still mad about seeing me with Dave at the mall. His posture is stiff and he’s facing full front. It’s probably my imagination, but it seems like he may have scooted his desk up an inch or two.

  “Great,” I mutter to myself as I walk up the row to my seat. I ease into my chair and take a deep breath. Rationally, it’s probably okay that he’s mad: I can’t date him anyway. But emotionally, I can’t take it. I know that I have to try to fix things with him or I’m going to have a breakdown of soap opera proportions.

  “Sean,” I whisper to his back. He ignores me.

  “Sean,” I whisper again. I reach forward and touch the back of his right arm. He doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t turn around.

  “Sean!” I whisper louder. “I need to talk to you.”

  Finally, slowly, he turns halfway in his seat, not all the way like when he’s talked to me before. Like when he’s given me his full attention.

  “What’s up?” he says, no intensity in his voice, like I’m anyone.

  “I need to talk to you about yesterday,” I whisper. “I want to explain.”

  “No need,” he says, shrugging like he doesn’t care. His voice is louder than mine, and that lack of intimacy almost stings worse than his words. “I’m good.”

  “Really, Sean—” I begin, but Natasha cuts in.

  “Hey, Sean,” she says, glancing at me with a smirk. “Show me that app you were talking about earlier.” Earlier? Jealousy rushes through me, and I realize that this is how Sean must’ve felt when he saw me with Dave.

  He pulls out his phone and starts talking to Natasha about a photo app, taking a picture of her and then doing something on the screen. Instead of letting the anger take over, I try to redirect my energy toward getting him to talk to me. And that requires a softer touch.

  “Can I see?”