The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  To get to Danielle’s, I’ll have to retrace our steps from last night past the rows of frat houses, around the grad housing, and then through downtown. And it’ll be busy. On Sundays in the spring, they block off a bunch of streets for the craft fair, so people can sell handmade candles and mittens and other wholesome things.

  I can’t do it.

  I sit back on the mattress and text the girls.

  Is anyone awake? Can someone come get me?

  After waiting a minute with no answer, I scoop up my heels and tiptoe out of Dean’s room, praying no one else is awake in the house. The floor feels even stickier on my bare feet than it did with shoes, but I’m afraid the heels will make too much noise if I put them on.

  Finally I get outside and shut the door quietly behind me. The sidewalk in front of me is still empty, and I contemplate just sucking it up and making the walk. Maybe no one will be out after all. But then, down the street in the direction I need to head, a girl comes around the corner. She’s wearing a tight red dress and holding a pair of gold heels in one hand, walking fast with her head down. She passes one of the frat houses on the corner, and a voice rings out from the front porch, amplified by a megaphone.

  “Hey! We’ve got a Walk of Shame!”

  The girl’s head whips up and she walks a little faster. I duck, trying to hide, hoping the guys across the street will be too distracted by the other girl to notice me.

  “Was it worth it?” the megaphone voice calls out. Another voice joins in, beginning to sing: “Lady in reeeeeeeeeed.”

  There’s a clump of trees behind Dean’s house, and I run toward them, taking cover. Then I call Hannah. It’s cold for April, colder than it was the night before, and I’m shuffling my feet trying to stay warm. The phone keeps ringing and then, Hannah’s voicemail greeting. I end the call and try Ava and Danielle. There’s no answer. They’re probably all still in recovery from last night.

  I wait a few more minutes, and then decide to call Andrew. I don’t want him to see me in these stupid clothes. I know he’ll tease me about it for the rest of eternity. Still, desperate times call for desperate calls.

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  His truck pulls up fifteen minutes later.

  Rolling down the window, he calls out to me. “What can I get for twenty bucks?”

  I scramble out from the trees and hop in the truck as quickly as I can. “How about a punch in the face?” I fold my arms self-consciously over my chest, trying to block it from view. “Can we go?”

  “I’m just kidding,” he says, shrugging and glancing over at me. “You look nice, actually.” He pulls out onto the empty street. “It’s just weird to see you dressed like a girl. Where did you get those clothes? I know they’re not yours because they don’t have sleeves.”

  “They’re Danielle’s.”

  “Right. I should have known.”

  We drive past the frat house and I breathe out a sigh of relief, thankful the megaphone guys never noticed me. “Thanks for coming to get me. I know it’s early.”

  “I was up already.”

  We drive by Main Street where the craft fair is getting set up, zipping right past the turn to Danielle’s house.

  “Wait.” I say. “You were supposed to turn back there. I have to get back to Danielle’s before my mom comes to pick me up.”

  He turns to me and raises an eyebrow, a smile spreading across his face. “Collins.” He reaches over to pat my knee. “Do you really think I’m just gonna pick you up from a mysterious place on campus dressed like a girl and drop you off at Danielle’s, no questions asked? I’m gonna need some dirt.”

  “Drew, I have to—”

  “Let’s go get breakfast. Jan’s?”

  Jan’s is where we go to get our cheese and meat fix—it’s a tiny little diner downtown with sticky counters, plastic booths, and the best bacon in the entire world. Andrew and I go there way too often, usually on mornings after the vegans have served us leaves for dinner.

  He turns the truck onto Pinewood, and we see a collection of tents being set up, strung with woolen mittens and colorful baubles. There are people milling about, signs advertising local beer and hot cider. “Look, the craft fair!” Andrew says, leaning over to get a better look. He pulls into an empty parking spot on the side of the road.

  “Drew, the whole point of you coming to get me was to avoid the craft fair.” I pull my phone out of my bag and check the time again. It’s 8:24 already. “I really have to go back to Danielle’s.”

  He clicks off his seat belt. “Just tell your mom we’re together. She won’t be mad.”

  I glare at him. He glares back, mirroring my expression. Then he picks his phone up and starts typing in a number, bringing it up to his ear.

  “No talking on the phone while you’re driving,” I say, reaching a hand out to grab it from him.

  “We’re parked.”

  “So?” I don’t care if he talks to my mom. I just care about being seen in this outfit. I’m trying to avoid the general public until I can find a less ridiculous pair of shoes. I lean back in my seat and fold my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes as he talks.

  “Hey, Karen,” he says into the phone, his voice all cheery smiles. “Everything’s great . . . I’m with her right now actually . . . Yup, earliest she’s ever woken up I think. A new record. We’re just getting some breakfast . . . Yeah, no problem. See you later!” He ends the call and turns to me. “See? She loves me.” He opens the car door. “Let’s go.”

  I grab his arm to stop him. “Wait! I can’t go out there dressed like this. It’s obscene.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” he says. “You look normal. Like, my aunt Mildred would wear what you’re wearing to church.”

  “You don’t have an aunt Mildred,” I say.

  “Fine,” he says, relenting. “I have a sweatshirt in the back.” He reaches behind me and rummages around, pulling out a navy blue Prescott hoodie. It smells like campfire. I grab it from him and pull it on eagerly, covering up my stomach.

  “Okay, now can we go?”

  “Just Jan’s,” I say. “No craft fair.”

  “Just Jan’s.”

  He jumps out of the car for real this time, and I follow him out, stumbling a little in the sequined heels. Just as I right myself, I feel my phone vibrate. There’s a text from Dean.

  Why’d you sneak out?

  I feel warmth flood through me, relieved he’s contacted me. I pause for a minute, trying to think of something to say in response. What would Danielle say?

  Had to be somewhere

  There. Appropriately aloof. He texts back a minute later.

  Nice. See you at work. Last night was fun

  Andrew waits impatiently as I put away my phone. I feel a goofy smile spread across my face, and I can see him trying to figure it out.

  We head down the sidewalk toward Jan’s, me about five paces behind him because his legs are so much longer than mine, and he’s wearing sensible footwear. Once we get there, I scamper inside as quickly as possible, and he rolls his eyes at me.

  It’s not until I have a big pile of steaming pancakes in front of me that Andrew finally breaks down and asks.

  “Okay, so what the hell?”

  “What?” I feign innocence and reach over to grab a piece of his bacon. He swats my hand away and the bacon drops back onto his plate.

  “Why were you hiding in the woods dressed like my aunt Mildred?”

  I take a bite of pancakes to stall for time, and they burn the roof of my mouth. “There’s a guy,” I say finally, feeling my face get hot.

  Andrew takes a long sip of his coffee and then puts it down on the table, running a finger absently around the rim. “Who is he?”

  “We call
him James Dean.” I lower my voice so that hopefully he can’t hear me. He does.

  “We do?” he asks, leaning forward. “Is he a rebel without a cause? Does he have a motorcycle?” He takes a bite of bacon.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He does.”

  He puts the bacon back down. “Oh.”

  “He works with me at the store. He had a party last night and invited me, so we all went.” I can see the information clicking into place in his head.

  “So he goes to EVmU then?”

  “Yeah, he’s a junior.”

  “Hmm,” he says. Then he takes a bite of his own pancakes, chewing them for a while. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t say anything more.

  “What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

  He runs a hand through his hair and leans forward, putting his elbows onto the table. “Just . . . be careful, okay?”

  “What are you saying?” I know what he’s saying. It’s the same thing Danielle told me, the same thing I was worrying about last night.

  “I know how guys think,” he says. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “We didn’t, like . . . have sex or anything,” I say, my voice coming out strangely high-pitched. After I say it, Andrew’s face turns red.

  “Okay,” he says. “But he wants to.”

  “How do you know what he wants?”

  He gives me a pointed look. “He wants to.”

  I’m feeling combative for some reason. Of course I know he wants to; he told me so last night, condom in hand. I swirl a spoon in a circle around my cup of coffee. I can’t look at Andrew. I take a deep breath and speak, my voice quiet.

  “I’ve never . . .”

  “I know,” he says. I look up at him then and the expression in his eyes is kind, the familiarity of it comforting.

  “I haven’t told you, because, I don’t know, it’s sort of embarrassing to talk about. And you’re clearly, like, really experienced, and so is everyone else, and I’m pretty much the only one left.” The words all come pouring out before I can stop them.

  “You’re—” he starts, but then the waitress comes back over, holding up a jug of coffee.

  “How you guys doing? Anyone want a refill?” We both jump, turning to her with guilty faces.

  “We’re fine,” I say, my voice catching. “Thanks.”

  “No prob! I’ll come back in a little while with the check.”

  We turn back to each other and I struggle to find something to say.

  “You don’t have to tell me about it,” he says finally. He toys with the rest of the pancakes on his plate, using his fork to cut them up into fluffy little pieces.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s actually kinda nice to talk about. I’ve wanted to tell you about Dean forever, but it seemed weird. I didn’t know what you’d say.”

  He puts his fork down on the plate and folds his hands in front of him on the table. “Just be careful with this guy, okay?” he says again. “Does he know? That you’re a . . . um . . . that you’ve never . . .” He trails off.

  I shake my head. “I haven’t told him yet.” I add the “yet” for Andrew’s sake. I’m not sure if I’m ever going to tell Dean, but that feels too complicated to express to Andrew.

  “You shouldn’t dress like someone you’re not for his sake,” Andrew says. He taps his shoe against my sparkly heel under the table.

  “You said I looked nice.”

  “You do look nice,” he says. “But you just don’t look like you. This guy’s not worth that.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “No guy is worth that.” He takes another bite of bacon and then pushes the plate toward me. “Want the rest?” I reach out and pick up the last piece, biting into it. “Next time you should just order your own.”

  “Why would I order my own when I can have yours?” I smile, finishing the piece and licking the grease off my fingers. “You’re always too full to finish it.”

  “Or do I pretend to be too full so you can have some?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s like the chicken and the egg.”

  “How appropriately breakfasty a puzzle this is. Eggs and chickens and bacon,” I say.

  I’m glad things seem to be back to normal, but I know we’re both faking it a little bit, trying just a little too hard.

  THIRTEEN

  “YOU DID THE right thing,” Ava says Monday morning at school. “You can’t sleep with him right away, because then he’ll lose interest.”

  We’re all gathered in the lounge, a “seniors-only” room with wall-to-wall lockers and a bunch of fluffy couches. It’s like Prescott’s version of the VIP section at a concert, and as freshmen, we were dying to get a glimpse inside. Now that we’re finally seniors, the excitement has worn off. It kinda smells like old milk.

  We’re on the ancient blue couch by the window—Hannah, Danielle, Ava, and me—recapping the events of the weekend. There are only five minutes left until first bell, so the lounge is bustling with students, the noise blocking out our conversation. Ava looks around and lowers her voice. “He can’t know you’re a virgin because then he’ll think of you only as a virgin. Suddenly that’s what it’ll be about. He’ll just want to take it. Your virginity won’t be yours, it’ll be his.”

  “Guys are experts at making everything about them,” Hannah says. She has our French textbook propped open in her lap, and she’s scribbling last-minute notes before class, the paper torn and wrinkled because it’s probably lived in her car for a week with the gum wrappers and takeout bags.

  “What do you know about being a virgin?” Danielle says to Ava. “You haven’t been one since you were fourteen.”

  Ava crumples a bit at Danielle’s comment, and I keep talking, trying to pretend I didn’t hear it. “You can’t lump all guys together though.” If what they’re saying is true, it’s all just too depressing. “Not all guys are bad. Maybe he won’t care I’m a virgin. Maybe it’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m sure there are great guys out there,” Hannah says. “We just haven’t met them.” She sighs, closing her textbook and stuffing it back into her backpack. “Like, take Charlie.”

  Hannah hasn’t brought up Charlie to anyone besides me for a while. He turned her into a crying, insecure, puffy-eyed mess, and we were all thankful when he graduated at the end of last year and moved away for college. Now he’s probably some poor girl’s problem in South Carolina.

  “Charlie knew I was a virgin. He was my first relationship, obviously, and he knew that. And he was wonderful about everything. He said he loved me. We waited six months before we finally had sex, and I thought it was special. Turns out . . .” She doesn’t need to finish the story.

  I look at the empty spot on Hannah’s neck where there was once a delicate chain, a silver “H” that Charlie gave her for Christmas. She used to fiddle with it constantly, probably liking the reminder of him every time she touched it. We threw it in the lake when he dumped her, but still her hands sometimes absently reach up toward her neck out of habit.

  “Charlie was a Death Eater,” I say. “That’s a special case.”

  “Okay, well, Chase then,” Danielle says, glancing around the room to make sure he’s not around. “Chase told everybody we did it like five seconds after he got his dick back in his pants. How’s that for special?” She pauses to let the words sink in and then we all burst out laughing.

  It does seem like we’re surrounded by a special breed of assholes, but maybe that’s just guys in general. Even the good guys like Andrew still sometimes treat girls like shit, and I know it won’t be long before he gets tired of Cecilia.

  I don’t want to be that girl, the one someone throws away. Danielle is right. I can’t let Dean find out the truth.

  On Wednesday I have work again with Dean after school, and when the bell rings at the end of the day, I feel a little
like I’m going to throw up. I still haven’t seen him since the night of his party, or more accurately, since the morning after, when I tiptoed out of his bedroom. Will he act differently when he sees me? Will he try to kiss me hello? I’ve never kissed anyone hello before, and the prospect of it floods me with anxious energy. How will I know which way to turn my head? How long should the kiss last? Will there be tongues involved? Or even worse—what if I only think he’s trying to kiss me hello but he’s actually just going in for a hug and I end up with his ear in my mouth?

  There are a million ways this could go wrong.

  Hannah’s field hockey practice has started back up after school, which means she’s unavailable for emotional support, so I have to ask Andrew for a ride to work instead.

  “When are you getting your own car?” he asks on our way over.

  “Soon,” I say, even though we both know I’m lying.

  “I’m keeping a tally, you know. You owe me so many rides now, you better drive back and forth from California to Maryland every single weekend next year.”

  “Hmm,” I say, trying to listen to him but still thinking about the probability of the ear-in-the-mouth situation. I’m wringing my hands so tightly my knuckles have turned white.

  “You’re nervous,” he says; not a question but a statement, because he can likely see it on my face. “That guy from this weekend.”

  “Dean,” I say.

  “James Dean,” he corrects, with an exaggerated eye roll that shows how silly he thinks it is. He motions to my outfit—a pair of black leggings and a gray Prescott hoodie. “At least you look like you again.”

  “That’s probably not a good thing.” I reach up to pull down the visor and look at myself in the little mirror. I turn to him. “Do I look okay?”

  “You always look okay,” he says, flicking on his blinker and turning the truck into the parking lot of the video store. The compliment takes me by surprise.