The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  “Where did you get it?” I whisper.

  Ava leans past Danielle to whisper back. “We just found it. It’s like it came out of nowhere.”

  We all turn toward Chase, and he must feel the heat of our stares, because he looks up and locks eyes with Danielle. He stops chewing on his pencil and cocks his head, the expression on his face unreadable.

  “I don’t see how anyone thinks they can get away with this,” Danielle says at lunch, popping a grape tomato from her salad into her mouth. “It’s like treason.”

  We’re in the senior section, by the windows where the tables get the most sunlight. Prescott is small enough that everyone has lunch at the same time, but it means we’re always fighting over the best tables, like we’re vying for spots in a lifeboat. People used to care a lot about who they sat with, but now that we’re seniors, we’ve all gotten over ourselves, and stuff that used to matter doesn’t anymore.

  Right now though, it’s just Danielle, Ava, Hannah, and me because Danielle is keeping the note a secret. Before this weekend, I don’t think she would have even let me see it. I know it’s probably because I was there with her at the party. I’m fully in this now.

  She lays the note down on the table, smoothing out the edges with a black-polished fingernail.

  “Whoever did it probably doesn’t think they’ll get caught,” Ava says, flipping her hair—bright green now for Saint Patrick’s Day—behind one shoulder.

  “Does the handwriting look familiar?” Hannah leans over the note and studies it. The letters are a mix of upper- and lowercase, some big and some small. Like someone was trying to make sure they wouldn’t be recognized. Ava is always watching these true crime documentaries on Netflix, and sometimes she texts us articles. This note kinda reminds me of that—like someone is asking for a ransom.

  “Don’t worry,” Danielle says. “I’ll find out who did it.” She smiles, then eats another tomato. I can hear it burst between her teeth.

  “Hey.” Andrew sits down in the chair next to mine, and Danielle snatches the note off the table, putting it away before he can see. Then she leans toward him, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear, revealing a row of silver studs.

  “Drew, I’m sorry about this weekend. The, you know . . . wrapper.” Her face turns pink. “I should have said something sooner. I can’t believe he didn’t throw it out.” She reaches across the table and pats his arm.

  “It’s no big deal,” he says, taking a casual bite of his sandwich. But the tips of his ears turn pink to match her cheeks.

  “If you could just . . .” She clears her throat. “Could you not tell anyone about it?”

  “Everybody already knows about it,” Ava says, biting into a baby carrot with a loud crunch. “Clearly.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t know every little detail.” Danielle reaches over and grabs another baby carrot, flicking it with two fingers so it spins back across the table, landing in Ava’s lap.

  “Ouch!” Ava says, even though the flying carrot definitely didn’t hurt.

  “Hey, Danielle,” a voice calls out from behind me. Chase is making his way over to our table, a backpack slung low over his shoulder. “Hey, guys.” He nods to us. “Dani, can I talk to you?” He rests a hand on her shoulder but withdraws it quickly when she turns to look at him, her gaze icy.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Ava says in a clipped tone.

  “Ava,” Danielle hisses. “Seriously. We’re not in seventh grade anymore. I can speak for myself.”

  “Fine,” Ava says, standing up. “I was just trying to help.” She grabs her food and walks to the busing counter, slamming down the tray just a little too hard.

  Whenever Danielle and Ava fight like this, Ava usually storms off and spends the next few hours with her theater friends, who she ironically likes to say are “less drama.” But I know she’ll probably be back with Danielle by the end of the day.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Hannah says. She gets up and follows Ava out of the cafeteria.

  “Sorry about that.” Danielle turns to Chase. “What’s up? Do you want to sit down?”

  Chase rearranges the dirty Red Sox cap on his head, putting it back slightly askew. “Well, actually, do you want to go for a walk or something? I kind of wanted to talk.”

  “We can talk here.” Danielle motions toward Andrew and me. “They’re harmless.”

  “We can go.” Andrew starts to get up from his chair. “You guys can ha—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Danielle reaches a hand out to touch his shoulder. Her voice is sweet, but her back is straight, her movements stiff. It strikes me that she knows what’s coming. Her armor is on, laced up tight. Does she want us here for moral support? It feels wrong—Danielle needing anyone’s help for anything.

  Chase slumps into the chair next to her.

  “Okay.” He seems caught off guard at having an audience. “So this weekend was really fun.” He looks at Andrew for a second. “Nice party, dude.” Andrew nods that special guy-nod back. “It’s just—” he begins again, but Danielle interrupts.

  “Here’s the thing. I don’t think you really understand what this weekend was for me. I just don’t like you like that, Chase. No hard feelings.”

  “That’s not what I—” he tries to butt in, but she keeps talking.

  “I just kind of want to explore other options, and I really don’t want to be locked down with one guy. It’s not a good time. We can be friends though, right?” She pats his hand and looks at him, her eyes big.

  Chase darts a quick glance at Andrew, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say, as if he needs help. “What the hell, Danielle?” This is probably the first time a girl has ever spoken to him like this—Chase Brosner, star of the basketball team, the hockey team, and the lacrosse team. He’s been everyone’s crush since sixth grade.

  “What?” Danielle asks, bringing a hand up to examine her cuticles.

  “You’re being crazy.”

  “I’m not being crazy,” she says. “I’m just saying something you don’t like.”

  “Fine,” he says, his tone sharp. “We can be friends. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Good, I’m so glad you understand.”

  “Cool.” He shakes his head and pulls his backpack up over his shoulder, and then lumbers out of the cafeteria. When he’s out of sight, her gaze hardens. Andrew turns to Danielle, looking at her like she’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

  “But I thought you liked him.”

  “He was clearly about to screw me over, and I’m not going to let him get away with that twice. So I did it first.”

  “You couldn’t have done that in private?” I ask.

  “I needed witnesses,” she says. “Now he can’t make up a story. I dropped him and you both saw it.” She takes another bite of salad and sighs. “I win.”

  SIX

  HANNAH AND I meet in the student parking lot after school. She’s agreed to take me job hunting, per my parents’ notion that teaching me responsibility will make me stop attending any of Andrew’s parties; as if he would ever let me.

  “Ready to face your punishment?” she asks. “Firing squad or electric chair?”

  “Definitely poison,” I say.

  “That’s how the cowards do it.”

  We walk together across the parking lot to Hannah’s Jeep. She got it used for her sixteenth birthday, and at this point, I’ve ridden in it almost as many times as she has. It’s stopped snowing now, but there’s still a light dusting on the ground. The sun is out and the parking lot is white and glittering. For the first time in months, it almost feels like I don’t need a coat.

  I take off my woolly mittens—a gift from Hannah—and stuff them into my pocket. She knitted us each a pair for the holidays this year, and mine are scratchy and lumpy and I love them.

  “So, w
here am I taking you?” she asks. “Do you know any places hiring? Would they hire you back at Green Mountain Grocery?”

  “I’m not working at Green Mountain again,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Those were dark days in my life.”

  “Where’s Andrew gonna work? He’s in this too, right?”

  She pulls open the driver’s-side door and I climb in on the other side, knocking the snow off my boots. As usual, the floor by my feet is littered with trash—dirty plastic coffee cups stuffed with napkins, old school folders and binders, papers spilling from the sides. Knowing Hannah, there are probably some essays from sophomore year down there, forgotten and disintegrating. I’ve learned to ignore the trash problem, which is saying a lot, for me.

  “Yeah,” I answer, shrugging. “You know how his uncle works at the fire department? He’s gonna help there.”

  She starts the engine and turns on the fan. “Wait, as a fireman? Are we okay with him doing that?”

  “Just in the office,” I say. “Are you kidding? I would kill him if he got anywhere near a fire.”

  “Does he get to wear a uniform?” She side-eyes me, grinning.

  “Hannah, no. We’re not in a porno.” This is a new low, even for her.

  “Fiiiine,” she says, stretching out the word with a sigh. “Can’t you help? His uncle is basically your uncle too, right?”

  “Apparently it only takes one person to make coffee and sort mail.”

  Andrew and I loved Uncle Leroy when we were kids because he’d sometimes let us climb up into his fire truck. But one time, I ate too much fried dough and threw up on the front seat. I’m not sure I’ve ever been forgiven for that.

  “That sucks,” Hannah says. “Andrew throws a party and gets a glamorous job out of it, and you get stuck with the electric chair.”

  “Poison,” I correct.

  She pulls the Jeep out of the parking lot, tires spraying slush onto the sidewalk, and heads in the direction of the university. As we drive closer to campus, cresting the hill on Woodhaven, the same bright Dunkin’ Donuts sign from yesterday comes into view.

  “Here are some stores that have employees,” Hannah says, her voice deadpan. “If you’re lucky, they might need some more.”

  She turns into the lot and slides the Jeep into a parking spot. I look at the stores spread out in front of us, feeling depressed at the thought of working at any of them. At the end of the lot is an old sad Chinese restaurant, aptly named “Chinese Food Restaurant,” the once bright letters of the sign faded to a sickly yellow. It’s the mecca for Prescott stoners because the all-you-can-eat buffet is only $5.99. I went there once with Andrew and Hannah in tenth grade, and we all got food poisoning and spent the rest of the night sprawled out on the floor of Andrew’s room in pain, taking turns running to the bathroom.

  Another reason I can’t wait to get out of Prescott: better food. Last year, I went with Hannah and her parents to New York City to check out NYU. We all already knew she was going to apply—her parents pretty much never stop talking about it—but we wanted to see the campus for ourselves. We ate at so many cool places—breakfast burritos at a corner bodega, lunch at her mom’s favorite secret ramen spot, and dinner at this amazing Indian restaurant with food so spicy it made me sweat. That’s what I want more of. Green Mountain Grocery doesn’t even sell hot sauce.

  Next to Chinese Food Restaurant is an old video store Andrew and I used to love when we were kids. I’m actually kinda surprised to see it’s still in business. A while back, it started stocking textbooks to sell to students and then opened a cafe in the front of the store. I guess coffee and cookie sales have kept it afloat, but the new Dunkin’ Donuts will probably put an end to that.

  “I’m leaning toward prostitution,” I say.

  “Look! The video place is hiring.” Hannah grins. I think at first that she’s kidding, but sure enough, when I squint my eyes I can just make out the red hiring sign tacked to the front of the store.

  “No.”

  “Let’s at least go check it out.” She pulls open her door. “This could be the start of your glorious film career.”

  “I’m not getting out of the car.”

  And then we see him—the guy from yesterday, with the eyes like melted chocolate and the windblown brown hair. James Dean. He emerges from inside the video store holding a big square chalkboard and then props it up on the sidewalk. Crouching down in front of it, he pulls a piece of chalk out of his pocket and begins to write. I squint but can’t make out what it says.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll get out of the car.”

  Hannah turns to me with sparkling eyes. “Do you think he works there?”

  “Unless he’s vandalizing the storefront.”

  James Dean turns in our direction, and we both instinctively back away from the window. He rubs his hands together and blows into his fingerless gloves, little puffs of steam rising in the air. I can just barely see his shirt from here, black, SCORSESE written across the front in block letters. It’s amazing.

  I pull down the passenger-side visor and study myself in the little mirror. My hair is falling out of its braid, and it looks a bit like I’ve just gone for a run. But maybe James Dean will think I’m athletic. Probably not.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “You are a beautiful unicorn princess,” Hannah says. “Now let’s go.” And before I have a chance to object, she jumps out of the car, yellow boots crunching into the snow. By the time I climb out after her, she’s already halfway across the parking lot, easily maneuvering over the slick patches of ice.

  “Hannah, wait!” I call out, trying to catch up. The ground is slippery beneath my feet, and I’m trying to go as fast as I can while remaining upright. She’s almost at the sidewalk now, and turns once she’s hopped up onto the curb. James Dean turns too, and from this distance, I can see that his cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed pink from the cold. It’s adorable.

  And then my boot catches on a thin patch of ice and I slip, falling backward into a wet pile of slush. My elbow is throbbing when it hits, and I can already sense the bruise forming on my tailbone. I can feel the cold seeping through my pants—snow finding its way into places snow has no business being—but the heat spreading across my face is worse. This is not the kind of grand entrance I wanted to make. I lie back for a second, letting the embarrassment wash over me, avoiding the moment I’ll have to face James Dean. Maybe he didn’t see me fall. Maybe he turned back to the chalkboard at just the right moment, and I can still get up and scramble away and come back tomorrow shiny and new.

  “Keely!” Hannah’s voice calls, high and sharp. I sit up, dizzy, turning in her direction, and then I see it—a bright red car is sliding right at me over the ice. The driver blasts on the horn and I scramble to my feet. As the car turns sharply, slush sprays in all directions, and I careen myself toward the sidewalk. I land hard on my hip, bruised but out of the way.

  The car skids around me, finally coming to a stop. The driver rolls down his window, his face blotchy and purple.

  “This is a parking lot, you dumb bitch! What are you doing? Making snow angels?”

  “Hey!” says a deep male voice behind me. James Dean is waving a piece of chalk at the driver. “She fell. Give her a break!”

  “I almost ran her over!”

  “Exactly! Maybe you should slow down.”

  “Whatever,” the driver huffs. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops.”

  “Yeah? Let’s call them.” James Dean’s voice is firm and steady. “You almost killed this girl.”

  “Go to hell!” The driver clucks his tongue and backs away, slush spraying out from under his tires. And then he’s gone. The calm of the parking lot falls over us, and we stand for a moment too long in silence. My heart is thudding like crazy and my mouth feels dry, adrenaline coursing through me.

  “Are you okay?” Jam
es Dean puts a hand on my shoulder and I jump at the contact, still dazed.

  “Keely, you almost died!” Hannah grabs on to my other arm. Her eyes are watery.

  “I’m fine,” I try to say, but the words get caught. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine.”

  “That started out pretty funny, but now I feel bad for laughing,” James Dean says with a slight grin, showing off a set of perfect dimples. “You should come inside. You want some tea? Coffee? Whiskey? We have it all.”

  I let him steer me into the store. My thoughts are still fuzzy, whether from the shock or from the heat of his hand on my shoulder, I can’t tell. A little bell jingles over the door as he pushes it open. Walking by, I glance down at the chalkboard and see that it reads:

  I SPEAK SIGN LANGUAGE

  The store looks just like I remember, but maybe a little more bleak—the floor is made of peeling linoleum and illuminated by dim fluorescent lights. In front of us is a curved glass counter filled with pastries and bagels, and behind that the wall is lined with textbooks. The rest of the space is filled with DVD cases, covering the walls and piled onto rolling racks. Andrew and I used to love exploring those racks when we were kids. We’d pool our allowance together and ride our bikes here in the summer. Even though we could probably find whatever we wanted online if we tried, this place felt like more of an adventure. But then we grew up and stopped coming. Seems like we’re not the only ones. There are no customers or other employees around; we’re the only people inside.

  “Is it usually this empty?” Hannah asks.

  “We do better in the morning when people want coffee,” James Dean says. “Now is kind of a slow time. Hardly anyone’s bought a DVD for like twenty years. Mostly collectors. Vintage types. Actually, there’s a regular who looks like a vampire. Blade. Not Twilight.” He steps up to a set of barstools by the counter and opens a little gate, taking his place behind the register. “I’m Dean.” He runs a hand absently through his mussed hair.