The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  No way. I look over at Hannah and see her eyebrows rise and her mouth open. She begins to laugh and brings her arm up to fake a coughing fit. What are the chances?

  “Your name is Dean?” I ask stupidly.

  “Um, yeah,” he answers. “Why?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Dean motions to the bar stools for me to sit. I look down at my wet clothes. My coat is actually dripping onto the floor, a puddle forming on the tiles beneath me.

  “I’m kind of soggy,” I say. “I don’t think I should—”

  “Please, these stools are a hundred years old, they’ve seen worse.”

  “Actually, I should go,” Hannah says, turning to me. “Now that I know you’re okay. You’re okay?”

  I nod.

  “Great.”

  “You just got here,” he protests. “Stay for a drink.”

  She laughs. “This is supposed to be a job interview, actually. So I’m basically intruding. It’s not very professional.” She backs away, toward the door.

  “Job interview?” he asks. “You want to work here?”

  I shrug. “I saw your sign.”

  “But you two have fun!” Hannah calls. “I’ll be in the car! Bye, Dean!” The little bell jingles as she pushes open the door, and then she’s gone. I clear my throat awkwardly and sit down on one of the bar stools. My wet pants feel cold on my legs. He begins rummaging through the cabinets under the sink and pulls out two glasses, setting them down on the counter. Then he pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

  “So, what was your name again? Kelly?”

  “Um, it’s Keely.” I pull at a loose thread on my coat, eager to have something to focus on besides my embarrassment and cold butt. Will I leave a wet mark on the stool when I stand up?

  He unscrews the top of the bottle. “Would you like some whiskey, Keely?”

  I glance behind me instinctively, like someone might be watching.

  “I’m not allowed to have whiskey.”

  “Not allowed?” He pours two glasses of amber liquid and then screws the cap back on. “Says who? If you’re not in control of your own body, who is?”

  I feel a blush spread up my cheeks. “No, I mean, I’ve had whiskey before.”

  I don’t know why I’m lying. I’ve definitely never tried whiskey. The only time I’ve even been tipsy is from drinking watermelon Breezers, which taste like Popsicles. Whiskey makes me think of Irish fishermen or old-timey cowboys—someone weathered and grizzled and clouded by pipe smoke, not someone like Dean with twinkling eyes and adorable dimples. The smell of the cup in front of me makes me slightly nauseated, but I lean toward him hesitantly.

  “It’s just . . . I’m not allowed. I’m not twenty-one.” I bite my lip. “I’m still in high school.” My voice instinctively lowers, like I’m admitting something shameful.

  “Cool. I’m twenty.” He shrugs. “But that’s just arbitrary, isn’t it? It’s your body. So why does someone else get to say what goes into it?” He picks up the glass nearest him and holds it up. “If you want to drink whiskey, drink whiskey. If you don’t, don’t. It’s as simple as that. So would you like some whiskey?”

  He holds his gaze on mine, a smile in his eyes. I pick up the glass in front of me and clink it with his, then take a sip. He grins and takes a sip of his own.

  It’s horrible—sharp and sweet at the same time, like old medicine. My throat is burning and my eyes begin to water, but I force myself to swallow. As I do, a warm feeling spreads across my chest.

  “Better?” His face is cool and easy, like the whiskey hasn’t affected him in any way.

  I cough a little. “I guess.”

  “It should warm you up. I think I have a dry sweatshirt, actually, if you want to put that on. You look a little . . . damp.” He grabs a backpack, pulls a black EVmU sweatshirt out of it, and tosses it to me. Somehow, I catch it without spilling whiskey all over the counter.

  “You go to EVmU?” I peel off my wet coat and pull the sweatshirt over my head. It’s soft and warm and smells like boy, in a good way. I have a flickering hope that maybe he’ll let me keep it, and I push the thought away before it can fully take root. I’m being ridiculous.

  “I do,” he says. “Junior. Film theory.” He motions to the rows of movies behind him. “That’s why I work in this fine temple of the arts.”

  I laugh, taking another hesitant sip of my whiskey. It still burns my throat, but a fluttery feeling is forming in my stomach.

  “Seriously,” he says, grabbing a DVD off the nearest shelf. “This right here is a relic of the past.” He lays it down on the counter in front of me and taps its case with his index finger. “We’re in a museum of the obsolete. We’re about to fall away to time. Just by being here, you’re a part of history.”

  “Aren’t I always a part of history?” I ask. “I mean, everything we do becomes part of the past the second we’ve done it.”

  He grins. “Touché.” Then he clinks his glass against mine and swallows the last of his drink. When he sets the empty glass down on the counter, he rests his chin in his hands and leans toward me conspiratorially, like he wants to share a secret.

  “Did you know that in the first movie theater, the first time anyone saw a film on-screen—it was this clip of a train pulling into a station, and the audience had never seen anything like it. They freaked out—ran screaming, panicking, out of the theater, because they thought the train was real; thought they were about to get run over, flattened, by this train. That was only a little over a hundred years ago. And now here we are: IMAX, 3-D, virtual reality, and these little guys are another part of film history. Like that train.” A lock of brown hair falls across his forehead, and I resist the urge to reach out and smooth it away.

  “You really love this place,” I say.

  “Sarah quit last week because she got hired at the Bagelry on campus. Said there’d be better tips there, which is probably true. We get a coffee rush in the morning, but it’s not great.” He shrugs. “You have to really love this place to work here. You have to really love movies. Sarah didn’t have the passion.” He lowers his voice to a theatrical whisper. “She was a bio major.”

  I tell him about how I’m going to Los Angeles next year to study film. “I love Hitchcock,” I say, brightening. “My best friend and I, we’ve seen them all. We can quote every line from Vertigo start to finish.”

  “The girl staring at us from inside that car out there?” He nods toward the window. Hannah’s Jeep is still parked where we left it, and I can just make out the outline of her hair.

  “No. Well, Hannah’s my best friend, but she’s not who I . . .” I trail off, not wanting to tell him about Andrew in case he gets the wrong idea, like everyone else. “It doesn’t matter.” I begin fiddling with the end of my braid. “I don’t know why she didn’t just stay here.”

  “Because this is a job interview,” he says. “Which you’re acing, by the way. Have you ever worked anywhere before? I guess I should ask that.”

  “At Green Mountain Grocery, the past two summers. It was horrible.”

  “Great! I’ll have to run you by Mr. Roth. He’s the owner. But you should be golden.”

  “Don’t you . . . I mean, I don’t want to hurt my chances or anything, but don’t you need my résumé or, like, references or something?” I take another hesitant sip of my whiskey.

  “Nah, I can already tell you’re perfect.”

  I swallow and the whiskey spreads like fire through my chest.

  SEVEN

  FRIDAY NIGHT AND we’re sprawled out on the couch in Andrew’s basement watching Saving Private Ryan. I’ve told him about the video store and the job, but not about Dean, because it’s way too embarrassing.

  We have bags of McDonald’s takeout dumped on the coffee table in front of us (a secret from the vegans) and I’m trying to focus my energy on
the delicious fat clogging my arteries instead of on the color of Dean’s eyes, but it’s harder than it should be. I’ve never felt this way about any of the guys at school. Maybe it’s just because Dean is new and different and interesting, and I didn’t watch him pick his nose in kindergarten.

  Andrew reaches over and steals a fry out of the bag in my lap.

  “I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” I say, handing him the bag. I haven’t touched the fries since the invasion of Normandy, and now they’re cold and soggy. It’s late now—maybe past midnight—and the darkness of the basement is making the movie even more intense.

  Andrew’s phone beeps and he jumps, picking it up to read the text.

  “Anyone interesting?” I ask, and he shrugs.

  “Cecilia.”

  “Still Cecilia? It’s been like a whole week.”

  He grabs a handful of fries and brings his fist up to his mouth. Andrew is always grabbing handfuls of things and it drives me crazy.

  “I’ve dated girls for more than a week,” he says, licking the salt off his fingers. “I think you have this idea that I’m a lot shittier than I really am.” He says it with a smile, his voice easy, so I know he’s not mad.

  “So you and Cecilia are dating, then?”

  “Okay, so dating isn’t the right word.”

  I roll my eyes and then we both get distracted by the TV, because there’s a huge explosion and the sounds of soldiers dying. Before I can help it, I wonder if James Dean likes Saving Private Ryan, if he’s seen it before or if he only watches abstract film school movies. Do they even call them movies in film school? I need to learn before next year.

  “Do you . . . think about her a lot?” I ask, and then I feel my cheeks get hot, because it’s a weird question. “Like, do you find your mind wandering to Cecilia at random times?”

  “Not really,” he says. “Only at night. Or in the shower.” He grins.

  “That’s not . . . never mind,” I say. And then I can’t let it go. “I mean, does she give you that stomach flip? Like when you drive over a big hill?”

  He picks up the remote and pauses the movie.

  “I know the stomach flip. Believe me.” He reaches a hand up to fiddle with his hair, the floppy part on his forehead. He’s got his glasses on so he can see the movie, and he takes them off, tapping them against his palm. “Are you . . . have you . . . um . . . do you like someone?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “No.” For some reason, I feel like I have to deny it. “I guess I’m just wondering what you get out of it. Is it just sex?”

  Now he looks really uncomfortable. His face is probably even redder than mine, and I don’t know why I said anything.

  He scratches his chin. There’s stubble growing in there, just barely. “No,” he says. “It’s not sex . . . just sex.”

  “Was Sophie different?”

  Andrew dated Sophie Piznarski for six months our freshman year, back before Party Andrew existed. I hung out with them sometimes, just the three of us, me sitting awkwardly on one end of the couch playing games on my phone while they cuddled together on the other.

  “Sophie was a long time ago,” he says. “It’s different now. I’m different.”

  “No kidding,” I say.

  “It’s just easier this way.”

  “Cecilia’s easy?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I mean, I’m easy. I like things to be relaxed and . . . I don’t know. Feelings suck. No feelings, no stress.”

  “C’mon, if you’re not feeling anything, what’s the point?”

  “I feel lots of things,” he says, and I can sense that he’s getting agitated. “You have no fucking idea.” The curse word takes me by surprise. He was all jokes and smiles a few seconds ago, but I must have struck a nerve. His hands are in his hair, scrunching and pulling, and he probably doesn’t notice he’s doing it. I reach a hand up and rest it on his, trying to stop him.

  “All right, I believe you.”

  He pulls his hand away. It’s as if all the parts of Andrew have been mixed up and he’s trying to set them right again, get them back in their proper places.

  “Sorry, Collins.” He takes a deep breath and then smiles, back to normal. “Don’t mind my weird shit.”

  “Hey,” I say. “I’ll listen to your weird shit whenever, okay? I’m here for your weird shit anytime you need me.”

  He puts his glasses back on, adjusting them until they’re straight. “Thanks.”

  “You’re allowed to have feelings, you know.”

  “Thanks for the tip, doc,” he says.

  “I mean it. I’m your best friend. You can talk to me about real stuff.”

  “A little confident, don’t you think?” he says, grinning. “Just proclaiming yourself my best friend.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I say. “I think I’m allowed to proclaim myself whatever I want after eighteen years with you.”

  “Actually, I’ve been getting really close with Jason Ryder lately,” he says, a mischievous smile on his face. “He might be taking your spot. He told a hilarious joke recently about women and sandwiches, and I think it might make him best-friend material. He’s—”

  I shove him before he can finish and he falls off the couch.

  It’s my first day of work after school on Tuesday, and when it comes I’m a nervous wreck. Every class seems to be about five seconds long, like I’ve spent the whole day stuck in hyperspace. Andrew, Hannah, and I have ceramics together last period, which is usually my favorite class, but today I can’t stop checking the time. We’re sitting at a big wooden table lined in paper, trying to paint our mugs with colored glaze. Mine looks less like a mug and more like a monster from the deep.

  “Excited for today?” Hannah asks me from across the table. She dips her brush into the blue and paints a perfect swirl.

  “What’s today?” Andrew asks. His mug broke in the kiln, so he’s just been watching us glaze.

  “Keely’s big first day,” she says. “Our little baby’s all grown up.”

  “Video store?” he asks. He has a thin stripe of purple paint on his left cheek and I wonder how it got there, considering he hasn’t touched the paint all class.

  I nod, feeling the swooping rush of nerves in my stomach. I glance up at the clock and see that the class period is almost over. Suddenly I want to throw up.

  I tried to dress up a little bit today. I wore black pants—real pants instead of leggings—and the new sweater my mom got me for my birthday. She keeps complaining that I haven’t worn it, but that’s because it’s too small and bunches around my boobs. Usually I try to keep attention away from that zone, but today I thought I’d try something new for James Dean’s sake.

  “Are you nervous?” Hannah flutters her eyelashes in a way that means she’s talking about James Dean and not the job.

  “You’re an animal, Collins,” Andrew says. “You’ll kill it.” He reaches down and digs around inside his backpack, pulling out a bag of potato chips. I don’t know how he can stomach them right now—the room smells like clay and turpentine—but I’m not surprised. As he’s mid-chew, a girl comes up to our table. She’s walking with quiet hesitant steps, like a deer in a forest worried it’s going to be shot. She’s thin and dainty like a deer too, with big eyes and a pointy nose. Her name’s Madison Jones. Sophomore.

  “Um, sorry,” she says. “Excuse me. Sorry.” Madison says sorry a lot in class, like she’s apologizing for existing. She taps Andrew on the shoulder. “Sorry. Are you done with the blue glaze?”

  She’s focused only on Andrew, directing her question at him, even though he’s clearly eating potato chips and not painting.

  “Oh, yeah.” He turns to me. “Collins, you done?”

  She glances quickly back to her table, a group of sophomore girls, and their heads are all bent together, whis
pering and giggling.

  I slide the jar of blue glaze over to her. “Yeah, whatever. This mug is hopeless anyway.”

  “It’s not hopeless,” Hannah says, ever reassuring. “You have a lot of potential.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Madison says, flicking her eyes to me and then back to Andrew. “I didn’t know your girlfriend was still using it.”

  I feel myself turn red, but it’s more because of the fact that she won’t look at me directly, that she won’t address me by name, than the accidental use of the word girlfriend. It’s not like that’s new. Andrew is red too, his freckles bright, and he puts the bag of chips down.

  “She’s not . . . I mean—”

  “Actually, yeah, I’m still using it.” I slide the jar back in my direction.

  Andrew looks flustered, and I roll my eyes at him, because he should be used to this by now—it’s only happened to us once a day since the start of high school. But for some reason it still ruffles his feathers. He always has to correct whoever makes the mistake: She’s not my girlfriend. Because God forbid somebody keep thinking I’m a real, datable girl.

  Hannah looks flustered too, her eyes darting back and forth between Madison and me. I know she hates conflict and she’s horrified I won’t share.

  “Oh, okay, sorry,” Madison says. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, brings the tip of her braid into her mouth.

  “We’re not together,” Andrew says again, as if Madison is dense and needs extra clarification.

  “Not anymore,” I say, smiling sweetly at Madison. “I dumped him last year after the incident with the cheese.”

  “The what?” asks Madison.

  “Collins,” Andrew says, a warning in his voice.

  “Never mind.” I pick up the jar of glaze and hold it out in her direction. “Take the blue.”

  “Sorry, are you sure?” She’s still chewing on her braid.

  “Yes,” I say. If she apologizes one more time, I might lose it. “Just take the stupid jar.”

  I slide it toward her, but it’s too forceful, my arm is too tense, and before I can stop it, the jar is flying through the air. It lands with a crash on the tile floor, and blue glaze sprays everywhere—all over Madison, all over my nice birthday sweater.