by Cameron Lund
She shrieks, the braid falling out of her mouth. Hannah runs to the sink to grab some towels. Miss Blanchard, our art teacher, runs over in a panic. Andrew is laughing deep belly laughs, and then I’m laughing too, because his laughter is contagious. I look down at my ruined sweater and realize I’ve forgotten to be nervous about James Dean. For a while I wasn’t even thinking about him at all.
* * *
• • • • • •
That disappears the second Hannah drops me off in front of the store.
“You’ll do great,” she says. “Now off you go.”
She practically shoves me out of the car. I’m wearing my coat so my ruined sweater is hidden, but I know I’m going to have to take it off at some point. I didn’t wear anything underneath the sweater, and I’m definitely regretting that decision now.
Hannah drives away, and I stand for a moment outside the door, trying to psych myself up. Then I push it open. My nerves calm down when I get inside because James Dean isn’t there. Instead it’s a heavyset, balding white guy behind the counter—probably the owner, Mr. Roth.
“Welcome,” he says when he sees me, breaking out into a smile. “How can I help you?”
I raise my hand up to awkwardly wave. “I’m Keely. Your new—”
“Ah!” he interrupts. “My new recruit. Come in, come in!” I’m already in, but I guess he means to come farther into the store toward him. He claps his hands together, as if I’ve done something worthy of applause. He might be the jolliest person I’ve ever met. “Come get settled in. Today should be relatively easy. I just have some paperwork for you to fill out. Want me to hang your coat?” He reaches out a helpful hand, but I pull my coat tighter around me.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Let me just see if Dean has your papers,” he says, turning toward the back of the store where there appears to be a break room. The name sends a burst of nervous energy through me. “Dean!” he calls, and then there he is.
He looks just as perfect as I remember him—better maybe—in a black T-shirt just like the other day, except this one says HERZOG. I guess directors are his Thing. His hair is combed back in a style perfectly mimicking that of the real James Dean.
“Hey,” he says casually, leaning against the door frame to the break room, arms folded. “We meet again.”
“Hey,” I say back, trying to be just as casual.
“All righty.” Mr. Roth claps his hands again. “I’ve got to go. Dean here has you covered. Tim should be in around five o’clock—he’s our other cashier—and then I’m sure the three of you can get everything sorted.” He bustles around the store, straightening and moving bits and pieces around. “I’ll see you all tomorrow!”
Then he’s out the door, and it’s just the two of us. Alone again.
“He’s . . . very jolly,” I say.
“Practically jovial,” Dean agrees. He’s still leaning against the door frame like he’s waiting for somebody to take his picture.
“Should I . . .” I begin, trailing off, not sure what I’m about to ask. It’s hot in the store and I want to take my coat off, but I hug it tightly to my chest. My hands feel clammy.
“Right,” he says, pushing off from the wall. “Paperwork.”
He walks over to the counter and riffles through some drawers, then pulls out a stack of forms. I take a seat again on one of the stools. The coat situation is getting bad—I’m starting to sweat in earnest now. I decide to cut my losses and take it off. Dean raises an eyebrow when he sees my sweater.
“What happened to you?”
I motion to the stains. “There was a . . . blue paint incident at school.”
“Clearly.”
His eyes flicker to my chest, to where the sweater is pulled tight, and his gaze lingers for a moment too long. My whole face burns.
“I’m not good at ceramics,” I say, which makes sense in my head, but I realize Dean might not see the connection.
“Well, let’s hope you’re better at working a cash register.”
“I am,” I say. “Promise.”
“Promises are dangerous,” he says. “You should never make a promise unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“Good,” he says. “Me too.”
“Good,” I say, though I’m not really sure what he means or what he’s promising, if he’s promising anything at all.
We spend the next hour going over everything in the store—how the movies are organized in the computer, how to fill up the coffeepots and open the cash register (this last one involves lots of elbows because it always jams). Apparently the cookies and pastries are just from Le Soleil bakery down the street—Dean picks up a bag of them each morning and drops them off with Mr. Roth on the way to his 8:00 a.m. lecture.
“So why do people come here instead of just getting them right from the source?” I ask, examining the various flavors lined up neatly in the glass display case. There are little action figures surrounding the cookies—a tiny Iron Man and Black Panther, a slightly less tiny Hulk.
“Because I work here,” Dean says, breaking into a grin. “I’m charming.” I look up at him and immediately blush and look back down at the counter. Do girls actually come here to talk to Dean? Is that why he thinks I’m here?
He must see my confusion or panic, because he shrugs. “I’m totally kidding.” At this, I flush even redder, but he continues on, thankfully ignoring the state of my face. “We’re like four blocks closer to campus, so that’s probably the main reason. But people come here for the vibe too. Where else can you get a little plastic Avenger with your cookie?”
Dean has a point. I do love the vibe in here. I don’t know why I ever stopped coming. This store is part of the reason I fell in love with movies in the first place.
“I feel kinda sad for Mr. Roth,” I say. “I mean, there’s that new Dunkin’ Donuts—”
“See that poster behind you?” Dean interrupts. “The Blues Brothers one?” I turn and see the classic poster, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi in sunglasses, slightly faded from the sun. “That’s been taped to the wall since the eighties. Roth could probably sell it on eBay or something if he wanted, but he never will. Same with Raiders of the Lost Ark,” he says, nodding his head to another wall, “and Shawshank. If you like movies? This place is magic.”
“I love them,” I say, the words like a sigh. I love him. All I want is for him to think I’m as cool as he is, because he is so cool, and beautiful, and terrifying. James Dean is magic.
“You okay?” He waves a hand in front of my face and I blink a few times. Was I staring at him? If I was staring at him, I might actually die.
“Yup,” I say. “I’m great. I’m good. Are you good?”
“I’m good too.” He smiles. “You know, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
* * *
• • • • • •
HANNAH
How was your first day??
ME
I have good news and bad news. Good news: I think James Dean and I are friends? Bad news: I think James Dean and I are friends
HANNAH
That’s a good step!
ME
Pretty sure he was quoting Casablanca though, so not sure if it counts?
HANNAH
A random old movie quote! He’s perfect for you. Was it in like a professional co-worker way or a flirty way?
ME
I mean figuring out if something is flirty is not one of my skill sets
HANNAH
Ok like did he touch you or make eye contact? That movie is romantic, right?
ME
I need an expert
* * *
• •
• • • •
ME
Question
ANDREW
What’s up?
ME
Ok so if a guy quotes movies at you, would you say that’s flirting?
ANDREW
. . .
ANDREW
I’m confused
ANDREW
Is this about the Hitchcock puns?
ME
Never mind
* * *
• • • • • •
We watch Casablanca that night because I am the world’s biggest overanalyzer, and I need to decode it for clues.
Hannah can never just watch a movie—she says they’re boring, which I ignore for the good of our friendship—so she’s having Andrew and me simultaneously help her with an art project, painting colorful patterns onto leaves she collected from her backyard last fall. She says she’s going to hang them on her wall once we’re done, but if the ones I paint mysteriously fall beneath her bed, I won’t be offended.
I still haven’t told Andrew about James Dean. Not that there’s anything to tell. But still, admitting I have a crush to Andrew makes the stakes feel higher. If Andrew knows, it’ll be more embarrassing when this goes absolutely nowhere.
But Hannah is not the subtlest.
“Okay, so this movie is clearly romantic,” she says. “All the kissing and the sad music. If I were into a girl I would reference this movie to get in her pants.”
“Yeah, Collins.” Andrew looks up from his leaf. “I’m surprised you picked this one.”
“It’s a best picture winner!” I say. “Arguably one of the best movies of all time.”
“Yeah, but Gladiator won best picture. We could have watched that. You’re just not usually the kissing type.”
“I am too the kissing type! I like kissing. I kiss people!” Okay, so maybe not exactly the truth, but I would definitely kiss James Dean if I could.
Andrew is bright red. “I didn’t mean . . . in real life. I meant the movies you watch.”
Hannah is laughing at us so hard she knocks over a jar of yellow paint and it spills onto her rug. “Oh my god, why does this keep happening?” We all jump up and look for some towels to clean it up, and luckily some of the weirdness dissipates, the tension broken. “We have to stop spilling paint,” Hannah says. “I swear this never happens unless you fools are around.”
“We’re bad luck,” I say, thinking of my ruined sweater. Except—James Dean didn’t seem to mind the stain at all. My cheeks flush at the memory of his eyes on me.
In the movie on Hannah’s laptop, Rick puts Ilsa on the plane to escape the Nazis, sending the woman he loves away with her husband in order to save her life. We’ll always have Paris, Rick tells her as they say goodbye. They might not be together in the end, but they’ll always have their memories.
Except that’s not the quote James Dean used. If he liked me, he would have said something about Paris, not something about friendship. I think he’s probably just into movies, not into me.
“Hey, guys, next year when we’re all flying to different places,” Andrew says, “at least we’ll always have Paris.”
“We’ll always have Prescott,” I say.
“Let’s go with Paris,” Hannah says, dabbing at the rug with a bath towel. “I’d much rather have that.”
EIGHT
ON WEDNESDAY, Chase tries again with Danielle. We’re walking to chemistry together when he comes up behind us and swings his arm casually over her shoulder. She smiles until she turns and sees who it is, and then her smile twists into a snarl.
“Hey, Dani,” he says.
She ducks out from under his arm. “Don’t call me that.”
“Come on.” His grin is easy, like he’s used to getting what he wants.
“What do you want?” she asks instead.
“Just want to talk,” he says. “Just a conversation. We’re friends now, right?”
“We’re not the kind of friends who have conversations,” she says.
“Collins,” he says to me, like I can help him in some way.
And then Jason Ryder makes it worse, lumbering down the hall like he owns it. He breaks out into a wide grin when he sees us, sees Danielle and Chase standing together. He pats Chase roughly on the back.
“Hey, look,” he says. “It’s Slutty and the Beast, back together.”
“Dude,” says Chase.
“Aw, Jason,” Danielle says, her voice sweet. “It’s cute when you try to make jokes. You’ll get it right someday.” She pulls her bag higher on her shoulder and turns to me. “We’re late.” Then she sets off down the hall. I scamper after her.
“The part that makes me maddest,” she hisses when we’re out of earshot, “is how Chase and I were both equals in this bullshit. We had sex with each other. Together. But for some reason, I’m a slut. I’m a slut because I’ve had sex one time with one person.” She walks faster, not looking at me.
“You’re not a slut,” I say, because I feel like I need to say something.
“Well, obviously,” she snaps, turning her head to me. “That’s the whole fucking point.”
Andrew’s parents are having a date night in Burlington, so he’s decided to have a guys’ night—something with tacos, because guys seem to have an inexplicable obsession with them. It’s too risky to have a party, so tacos are a safe compromise. Cheese and ground beef aren’t illegal, even if they horrify our vegan parents to their core.
“I’m not coming,” I tell him when he invites me, but we both know I’ll end up there anyway. Still, I tell Andrew I’ll help him shop for supplies, so we find ourselves at Costco, piling gargantuan ingredients into our cart—whale-sized tubs of guacamole and sour cream and a jar of hot sauce that would outlast the apocalypse. The bag of shredded cheese we buy is legitimately bigger than I am. Andrew stands it up next to me to take a picture.
“Why did you invite Ryder?” I ask, jumping onto the front of the cart. I know Andrew hates Ryder as much as I do, and yet he always seems to be everywhere.
“Chase invited him,” Andrew says, pushing me and the bag of cheese down the aisle. “And I can’t just tell Ryder not to show up. Hey, ready for warp speed?” He starts running, pushing the cart faster, building momentum as we go. The aisles at Costco are about the size of city blocks, so there’s plenty of room. As we gain speed, he jumps onto the back. I scream and put a foot down to brake us before we crash into a ceiling-high stack of Chips Ahoy! cookies.
Once we’ve slowed down to a steady roll, I jump off the cart and move around to the back so I’m the one pushing. He jumps off and walks beside me.
“You were downstairs that night, right?” I say as we turn into the refrigerated aisle. We pause in front of the juice.
“What night?”
“My birthday.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“What happened when Danielle and I were still upstairs?” I don’t know why I haven’t thought to ask him before. “How did everybody find out about it? Chase must have said something, right?”
“Somebody could’ve seen Chase and Danielle go into the room together,” he offers.
“But then how did everybody know so fast?”
“Chase isn’t a bad guy,” he says. “If he said something, it was probably because he was excited, not because he was trying to embarrass her.”
I think again of the note Danielle got the other day, someone actually calling her a slut for losing her virginity to a guy she was into. Could Chase have written the note? It doesn’t seem like something he would do. Andrew is right—Chase might be dumb sometimes, but I don’t think he’s the kind of evil to shame a girl he slept with. The note could definitely be from Ryder. But why would Ryder go through the
effort of disguising his handwriting if he was going to call her names today in person?
“Ryder called Danielle a slut today,” I tell Andrew. “To her face. How is that okay?”
He stops the cart so fast I bump into it. “It’s not okay. Fucking Ryder.”
“Yeah, but how does he always get away with shit like that?”
“Just wait until next year,” he says. “If someone acts like an asshole in college you can just stop hanging out with them. We just have to get out of high school and it’ll be better.” It’s the mantra we’ve been repeating to ourselves since high school began. I just hope it’s true.
“Hey, Collins, what does this look like to you?” Ryder lifts his taco in my direction.
“It looks like a taco,” I say, sprinkling some cheese onto my own and trying to ignore him. We’re standing at the kitchen counter, the spread of toppings laid out in front of us in various containers. Andrew is on the stool next to me, and Chase is across the counter with Edwin Chang and Ryder’s sidekick, Simon Terst, who might be even worse because he actually looks up to Ryder like he’s some kind of hero.
“Exactly,” Ryder says. “A taco. A muffin. A tuna sandwich.” He waggles his brows. “Get it?”
“No,” I say, my voice flat and sarcastic. “Explain it to me.”
Ryder tilts his head to the side, a smile frozen on his face, and I can see the cogs turning behind his eyes as he tries to figure out if I’m serious.
“She’s got it,” Andrew says.