The Best Laid Plans

by Cameron Lund

  “Until junior year? That’s a long time,” Danielle says.

  “But you’re seniors,” Dean says, stiffening. “You’re about to graduate. Right?”

  Danielle laughs. “Duh, James Dean. Don’t freak out. You’re not being pervy. Keely’s eighteen.”

  “What happened junior year?” I pick up another breadstick and slather butter onto it, holding the knife stiffly in my hand.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Andrew says. “It’s weird we’re talking about it.”

  “No, I want to talk about it.” I bite into the bread, and even though it’s slicked in butter, I have trouble swallowing it. I notice my knuckles turning white around the handle of the knife, and put it down.

  “Ava was so mad at me after that party,” Danielle says, reaching over for a breadstick of her own. “She said because she didn’t have anyone to kiss at midnight, I was supposed to stay with her, and, like, sacrifice my own night. She was still hung up on Tim Loggins and was so mad he didn’t show. It was the whole reason she’d thrown the party in the first place.”

  “What party?” I ask, feeling the back of my neck start to get damp with sweat.

  “New Year’s,” Danielle says, biting into the breadstick, somehow managing not to spill any crumbs. “Don’t you remember how mad she was? Just because I hooked up with someone and she didn’t. Typical Ava. Always making everything about her.”

  Next to me, Andrew is bright red. He reaches a hand up to rub the back of his neck. I wonder if he feels as sweaty and uncomfortable as I do.

  I know exactly what party she’s referring to. Ava’s parents were out of town for New Year’s Eve. Someone got ahold of a bottle of peppermint schnapps and we were mixing it with chocolate fudge, and I felt such a sugar crash that I went to bed early, briefly waking up at midnight when I heard everybody cheering in the other room. I was sleeping on the twin bed in the guest room, and when I woke in the morning, Andrew was sprawled out asleep on the floor like a dog, wrapped in an extra blanket.

  He hooked up with Danielle that night? How many other girls has he been with that I don’t know about? I feel a sharp sting of betrayal at the thought, but I know it’s silly. It just hurts he didn’t want to tell me. He’s told me about plenty of other girls. Why is this so different?

  “But what are you guys up to?” Danielle motions toward Dean and me. Her words have begun to flow together, like a phrase of music, and I can tell the wine has gotten to her. “I heard you’re going to the prom, James Dean.”

  “Looks like it,” he says, taking a casual sip of his wine.

  “Are you excited?”

  “Sure,” Dean says.

  Danielle dips the end of a breadstick into the dish of sauce and brings it up to her lips, taking a bite and getting a bit of sauce on the edge of her lip.

  “You enjoying that breadstick?” Dean asks with a low laugh.

  “I love breadsticks,” Danielle says. She wipes away the sauce from her lip with a long finger in a way that makes me certain she’s had too much wine. “You know,” she says, once her hands are clean, “Keely can’t wait for prom, either. She loves breadsticks even more than I do.”

  Andrew clears his throat beside me. I turn to look at him and see that he’s staring intently at the checkered tablecloth, his forehead wrinkled, the tips of his ears bright pink.

  “Is that right?” Dean asks. “Could have fooled me.”

  I laugh, trying to pretend the joke hasn’t made me uncomfortable. My phone buzzes again in my lap and I look down to see another text from Danielle.

  James Dean loves stuffed crust and extra sausage

  I cover the phone quickly, nervous Andrew can see what it says. Danielle laughs, and then types something else.

  Careful, he might get alfredo all over you

  I slam the phone facedown on the table and narrow my eyes at Danielle. She looks back at me, mouthing “What?” with an innocent shrug of her shoulders.

  “You know, I never went to my prom,” Dean says, leaning back in the booth. “This will be my first.”

  “Aw, it’ll be Keely’s first time too!” Danielle says, and I slam my foot down on top of hers under the booth. “Ow!” She pulls her foot away.

  “Our school doesn’t have a junior prom,” Andrew says, and I silently thank him for trying to rescue me. “So none of us have been yet. But it’s not that big of a deal. “

  “Whatever,” Danielle says. “I’ve been three times. You just have to get asked by a senior.”

  “Why didn’t you go to your prom?” I ask Dean, eager to latch on to a topic of conversation that isn’t about my inexperience.

  “Eh,” he says, letting his lip curl up with the word. “It just wasn’t my thing. I was into this girl in a punk band and they had a big show that night, so I went to that instead. It was way more epic anyway. Our prom was, like, in the gymnasium.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat, James Dean,” Danielle says. “Our prom is badass. Did Keely tell you it’s at the Walcott?”

  “That big old hotel on the lake?” he asks. “That place is stuffy as hell.”

  “It’s really pretty,” I say, trying to get him excited. “I went there for brunch once and it’s got these amazing high ceilings and old chandeliers. It looks a little bit like Hogwarts.” I can see Dean’s interest waning. “And there are secret passageways,” I add, hoping that will get him. He raises an eyebrow.

  “Secret passageways at a prom? Sounds dangerous.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand, running his thumb over the sensitive skin of my palm, and suddenly I’m short of breath. “Who’s going to stop us from sneaking away together?” His words send an excited flutter to my chest, but there’s something uncomfortable there too.

  “You guys should just rent a room upstairs for after,” Danielle says. “That’s what everyone is doing.”

  “I’m game,” Dean says, a messy grin spreading across his face. “You think we should get a room?” His grip on my hand tightens slightly, and I feel unsteady, like his hand is holding me there in place.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to smile, wondering why I have to try. “We should definitely get a room.”

  “Nice,” he says. “I’ll arrange everything.”

  I’ll just have to tell my parents I’m sleeping over at Hannah’s or something and hope they believe me.

  “Who are you going to prom with?” Andrew asks suddenly, his attention focused on Danielle. His leg brushes against mine again as he shifts in his seat, and I inch away from him.

  “What?” Danielle cocks her head to the side, clearly surprised.

  “Are you going to prom with anyone yet?”

  “I’m going alone.” She takes a sip of the wine. “But I could be persuaded to change my mind.” Leaning toward him, she lowers her voice. “Aren’t you going with Abby Feliciano? That’s what everyone’s been saying.”

  “Not yet,” he answers. “Haven’t asked anyone.”

  “Is that so?” She breaks into a smile.

  “You want to come with me?” he asks, leaning in to mimic her movements. I feel an unexpected lump in my throat, like I swallowed something too soon.

  “C’mon, Reed. You have to try harder than that. You think I’d go with just anyone?”

  He reaches over and takes her hand in both of his, cupping it between them. Then he brings it up to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on her wrist. Andrew has always been good at this. It’s making me a little sick.

  “Come with me,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Danielle Oliver. I want you to come to the prom with me.”

  They stare at each other for a few seconds, and I have to look away, focus my gaze back on Dean, who’s leaning back into the booth watching them with a lazy smile on his face.

  “Well, all right,” Danielle says, the corner of her mouth lif
ting up into a grin. “If you insist, Reed. No need to beg.”

  “Cool,” he says, smiling wide.

  “Cool,” she says back, her smile matching his.

  Just then, the waitress comes over with our food, placing one large mushroom and pepperoni pizza down in front of me and Dean, a Caesar salad in front of Danielle, and a plate of spaghetti in front of Andrew. I look at the spaghetti longingly, at the steaming pile of sauce and the piece of garlic bread wedged onto the side of the plate, the smell of it heavenly.

  When Andrew sees our pizza, his eyebrows raise.

  “You got mushrooms?” He reaches over me to grab the shaker of Parmesan cheese, and I hand him a few packets of red pepper automatically. “You hate mushrooms.”

  “I don’t hate mushrooms,” I say.

  “You totally hate mushrooms,” Danielle says. “I’ve eaten lunch with you like five hundred times.” She leans toward Dean, bringing a hand up to her mouth as if to share a secret, though her voice is still loud and sloppy. “Collins eats like she’s five years old.”

  “Hate is a strong word,” I say, pulling a slice of pizza off the tray, wincing as the hot cheese burns my fingers. “Mushrooms aren’t my favorite. But I’m not five years old.”

  Dean grabs a slice and folds it in half, dipping it into some barbecue sauce and biting into it like a sandwich.

  I’m sorry I didn’t ask your opinion, I want him to say. I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted.

  “You can pick the mushrooms off,” he says after swallowing. “It’s no big deal.”

  Maybe he’s right—I don’t want to be the girl who makes a big deal about everything, who thrives on drama, who makes everything difficult. So I shrug and take a bite of pizza, trying not to wrinkle my nose when I feel the slimy mushroom between my teeth, trying not to think about how I am willingly eating fungus.

  “See?” Dean says. “They’re good, right? It takes seven full meals of something before your palate gets acquired to the taste. You just have to try more things.” He leans conspiratorially over the table. “I can be your guide.”

  “They’re okay,” I say, not wanting to let him down. I do want to try new things and I want Dean to be the one who shows me how, but mushrooms will always be mushrooms.

  “You’re cute when you chew, you know that? Your nose crinkles.” I bring my hand to cover my nose, embarrassed, but Dean pulls it aside. “Don’t. Your nose is perfection.”

  I can’t help the small burst of pride his compliment gives me, and suddenly I don’t care about the mushrooms at all.

  Beside me, Andrew clears his throat. “Should we get the check?”

  “We just got our food,” I say.

  “What are we doing after this?” Danielle asks, piercing her salad with her fork.

  “We could all go back to my place and hang out for a while,” Dean says. “You guys want to come over? I’ll just leave the bike. We can walk from here.”

  “I don’t know,” Andrew says. “It’s kind of late.”

  “We should definitely go,” Danielle says.

  All three of them look at me, as if waiting for me to make the decision.

  “Okay,” I say. “I guess we could go for a little while.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  A FEW HOURS and another bottle of wine later, we’re sitting in the living room at Dean’s house, grouped around the TV, where a seriously competitive game of Mario Kart is taking place. Dean and I are on one couch with Cody, all three of us leaning forward and staring intently at the screen, trying to win. Danielle is the only one who isn’t playing. Instead she’s sprawled out next to Andrew on the love seat, her legs in his lap.

  Usually I can kill it at this game, but I feel like my fingers aren’t quite connected to my brain, and I’m having a really hard time focusing on the race when I can see Danielle’s long tan legs out of the corner of my eye like some commercial for shaving cream.

  The wine combined with the circular movement of the cars on the screen has made me a little dizzy.

  “How’s your friend Ava?” Cody asks as his car careens off the edge of a cliff. He throws the controller on the couch and leans back, apparently giving up on the game. He looks over at Danielle. “Why didn’t she come?”

  “Who cares?” She sits up and throws an arm around Andrew’s shoulder, trying to pull his attention away from the game and onto her. I can tell she’s had a lot of wine. Her hair is thrown up in a sloppy ponytail and her cheeks are bright red.

  “Ava’s a cool chick,” Cody says. “Plus she’s a dime.”

  “Yeah,” Danielle says. “If you’re into purple hair.”

  Andrew is playing Princess Peach, and I watch as she shoots out a roadblock to my Toad, bumping him off the road. I turn to him and growl, but he’s so far in the lead now there’s no way I’m catching up. The cars careen around a turn and then Mario, Dean’s character, zooms across the finish line first. The tinny music coming from the TV turns triumphant as the characters dance around on the screen in celebration.

  “Yes!” Dean shouts, pumping a fist into the air. “Take that, fuckers!”

  Andrew is hitting his controller against his palm and I see him roll his eyes. Dean jumps off the couch and drops his controller onto the floor, then he switches off the TV, turning to me.

  “Keely, you want to come hang out in my room?”

  The question catches me off guard. I glance over at Andrew. He’s staring down at his controller.

  “Um,” I say. “What time is it?”

  “It’s only twelve thirty,” Cody says in the casual way of a college boy who doesn’t still live with his parents.

  “Wait, really?” I jump off the couch. “I never told my mom where I was. I promised her I would come home early.” I dig through my bag for my phone and pull it out, and sure enough I have three voicemails. How could I have forgotten to check? “Gimme a sec,” I say to the guys before turning to wander down the hall. There’s no way I want Dean to hear me on a call with my mom.

  She picks up after one ring.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. “Yes, I’m with Andrew.” I try to explain the situation to her, that we went over to a friend’s place after pizza and lost track of time, but she rages on about my birthday party, about how I need to be more responsible. It’s like she’s trying to push me away before I’ve even left home. I sigh and promise her I’ll come back, then end the call and head back into the living room.

  “I’m so sorry, but I really have to go.”

  “I can take you back on the bike,” Dean says. “We can walk back to Giovanni’s.”

  “No way,” Andrew says. “You’ve had like two bottles of wine.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Dean says. “I do it all the time.”

  “Oh, so you’re a pro.” Andrew’s tone is flat and sarcastic. He turns to me. “I’ll just drop you off. I haven’t had anything to drink since the restaurant.”

  “Okay,” I say, my voice hesitant.

  He turns to Danielle. “And I can take you on the way.”

  “Oh, I can walk from here,” she says.

  “It’s no problem though.”

  “Yeah, but it’s only twelve thirty.” She pouts. “I don’t want to leave yet. Not all of us have curfews.”

  “It’s not a curfew,” I say. “She’s just worried because I forgot to tell her where I was.”

  I know Danielle’s parents don’t care where she goes—that’s the whole reason we were able to leave her house a few weeks ago to go to Dean’s party. But I don’t like the idea of her staying here alone with Dean, especially since they’ve both been drinking.

  Apparently Andrew feels the same way.

  “Just let me drive you home,” he says.

  “So you can kiss me good night?” She’s smirking, leaning her body toward him.

  He runs his hand thr
ough his hair. “Yeah,” he says. “This was a date, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t kiss on the first date,” Danielle says, but still she gets up and follows him to the door. “Bye, James Dean, bye, Cody.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say to Dean. “I wish I could stay.”

  “I wish you could too,” he says, and then he pulls me into his arms and kisses me in front of everyone. I’ve never had an audience to a kiss before. It makes me feel powerful, like I’m finally a real girl—one that counts. But there’s another part of me that can’t help the embarrassment that washes over me as Dean pulls away.

  I know it’s because Andrew is watching.

  Andrew’s truck has only two real seats, with a little bench connecting them that’s only really big enough for a child. Luckily, I’m pretty much child-sized, so we all fit up front—Andrew in the driver’s seat, Danielle in the passenger seat, and me squished in between them.

  It’s uncomfortable, to say the least.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask as Andrew slides his key in the ignition. Danielle turns on the radio and when a Beyoncé song comes on she blasts the music, singing along loudly, her voice raspy and off-key.

  “I’m fine!” Andrew shouts so I can hear him. I turn the music down.

  “Bitch!” Danielle says. She leaves it but continues mouthing the lyrics.

  “I only had a few sips at the restaurant,” he says. “I knew if I got drunk, I’d, well . . . I just knew it wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Thanks,” I say, because I know what he’s implying—what he can’t say in front of Danielle. He’s worried if he drank he would have given something away, would have let something slip about the Plan he wouldn’t be able to explain. “And thanks for taking me home.”

  “You’re on the way,” he says, and the casualness of it stings a little bit.

  The night is warm, but the air streaming through the window is raising goose bumps on the bare skin of my arms. I feel awkward sitting in between the two of them. Like I’m intruding. This is the end of their date, the part where he drives her home and drops her off and tells her he had a nice time. Now I’m here, squished in between them, each side of me touching a side of them.