The Fascinators

by Andrew Eliopulos

  “Weirder, you mean?”

  “Ha! Fair enough.”

  The rest of the drive home could have been awkward after that, but somehow, it wasn’t. They talked right over the speed bump, and by the time Denver pulled into Sam’s driveway, Sam was genuinely smiling, all thoughts of the creepy guy from the Fox and the will-we-or-won’t-we tension forgotten.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” Denver said.

  “Thanks for inviting me.”

  Sam could tell there was something more Denver wanted to say before he got out, and sure enough, Denver kicked off with that most ominous of conversation starters: “Can I ask you something?”

  “Okay,” Sam said, drawing out the word to signal his reservation.

  “I know it’s not my place, but—you and James. Is there something there?”

  It was so not what Sam was expecting him to ask that he kind of spluttered even trying to form the words of a simple no. Maybe it was that Denver was so charming, or disarming, or whatever, that Sam didn’t have his usual armor up, prepared with a lie. Denver waited patiently for Sam to find the words he wanted, but based on the look on his face, it was clear that this speechless disaster was already answer enough.

  “Is it really that obvious?” Sam finally said.

  “I mean, as a guy who dated another guy on the DL for two years? Yeah, kind of.”

  If anything, this came as a relief to Sam. One of his greatest fears with James was that he was reading too much into something that wasn’t there. The idea that whatever it was between them could be obvious to an outsider—that whatever it was could be compared to a real relationship—felt like the best possible affirmation.

  “So, what—are you guys hooking up? Boyfriends? All of the above?”

  “None of the above,” Sam said. “It’s more like we’re friends with a long history of confusing moments. Almosts. Sort ofs. But I’m determined that one day soon, we will finally get everything out in the open and figure out what this thing is between us.”

  “Oh,” Denver said, and there was a whole paragraph in that one sound.

  “You won’t say anything to him until then, will you?” Sam said. “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret, but I’m waiting for the right moment, and with everything that’s been going on the last couple weeks, it has most definitely not been the right moment.”

  “No, don’t worry, I won’t say anything.” Denver then added a very awkward thumbs-up, the universal symbol for powering through discomfort. “I just hope you’re not getting your hopes up for nothing.”

  “Same,” Sam said. “That would be the worst.”

  Chapter 12

  IN A GROUP MESSAGE INITIATED BY SAM, THEY SET THEIR next practice for Monday afternoon, and other than that text chain, Sam didn’t hear from any of his friends for the rest of the weekend. He kept starting separate messages to all of them and then changing his mind. He really did have enough homework that he needed to spend a good chunk of the weekend doing it, and after everything that had happened, he was sort of glad that his downtime came in the form of watching TV on the couch with his parents.

  Still.

  A school-year weekend in which they didn’t have plans, for no clear reason, felt like one more sign that things had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

  When practice finally rolled around, Sam was ready with a document of all ten briefs for this year’s convention categories, having decided that he wouldn’t leave everything for Delia to do for a change.

  Denver and Delia arrived at the same time, with Delia getting Denver’s full report of the play on their way in, no doubt comparing it to what she’d heard from Sam at lunch.

  When the upstairs door opened again, signaling James’s arrival, Sam was surprised to hear the sound of more than one voice echoing down the stairs.

  Delia and Denver noticed it, too, and stopped talking. They all exchanged a worried look, their minds going to the same anxious place—that James had been followed. That the faceless ones hadn’t been satisfied by the return of their book.

  But the additional voice turned out to belong to Amber.

  That was enough to make Delia and Denver relax. Sam’s body stayed tense.

  “Hey, everybody,” James said, like he was a coach gathering up his team for a pep talk, “look who I brought.”

  They all smiled and waved hello.

  “I thought Amber could help us out, now that we’re planning to run the full gamut and make a play for this thing.”

  “Ah,” Delia said.

  “Wait, help us out how?” Sam said.

  “By competing in one of the categories,” Amber said, like it was both obvious and a surprise she’d been looking forward to delivering. “James explained it all at church yesterday. Now he won’t have to be in two places at once.”

  “I thought you had soccer?” Sam said.

  “I do. But only twice a week until the spring. And James told me y’all haven’t been meeting as often this semester.”

  “I thought we were planning to change that?” Sam said, with just enough of a question in his voice that no one picked up on how adamantly he was trying to resist this.

  “Now we don’t have to,” James said. Which, ouch.

  “Which competition category were you thinking?” Delia asked Amber. “I already penciled in the new ones I thought each of us should take on, based on our strengths.”

  “And I’m betting you penciled me in for the Elements of Empathy trial,” James said, “which Amber would be even better at.”

  “You have empath skills?” Delia asked her.

  Amber nodded.

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Prove it,” he said.

  “Are you joking?” James said, while Amber looked at James in confusion. This probably hadn’t been part of the plan they’d discussed at church.

  “I mean, Denver had to do the tryout two short weeks ago,” Sam said. “I’m sure we’re all happy for the help at convention, but it doesn’t seem like it would be fair to let Amber in without passing the same tryout, especially since she could almost definitely do it using the empath magic she’ll have to do at convention pretty soon.”

  “Sam,” James said, with a warning in his voice.

  Denver jumped in to defuse the tension. “I’m sure Sam isn’t saying Amber has to pass the tryout right here, right now—just that she has to be able to pass it at some point before convention. Right, Sam? That’s what you mean?”

  “Yes, as club president, I’m okay with the tryout if we add that caveat,” Delia said, adding her own look of reproach to the dour glances already directed Sam’s way.

  That wasn’t what he’d meant, and Denver knew it. But Denver was trying to keep him from doing something he would regret, something that would make him a person he didn’t want to be, and with the slight step back afforded from that intervention, Sam recognized that giving Amber such a harsh ultimatum really was something he’d regret.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “That’s what I meant. That you have to be able to do it at some point before convention. Preferably using empath magic.”

  “Oh, okay then,” Amber said, her smile returning. “What’s the tryout then?”

  “You have to figure out how much money Sam has in his wallet,” Denver said.

  “Oh,” Amber said. “I’m pretty sure that’s something I can do right now anyway.” She turned to Sam, scrunching her face up, as if she was really taking him in—as if he were a magical painting hiding inside a blank canvas. The longer she stared at him, the more bothered she looked. Sam was just starting to feel a sick sliver of triumph when Amber said, “I’m getting the vibe that you’ve been through a recent loss, that you’re a little low, that you’re out of reserves. I’m not entirely sure that it’s money-related, but it’s the best I’ve got, so I’m going to have to say zero dollars. Am I right?”

  “More than you know,” Sam said. Whatever triumph he’d felt was gone.

  Alone in his bedroom that night,
Sam fell into a spiral of looking through old photos, even dredging up some rarer ones he’d never posted on social media, ones that he stored on the cloud.

  Here, on his v-clips, was one of him, James, Delia, and Ms. Berry at their freshman magicker conference, posing with Delia’s and James’s medals above their heads like they were checks for a million dollars.

  Here, from the cloud, was one of James and Delia, smiling across from Sam at a booth in Mary Ellen’s, with presents wrapped on the table in front of them because they were there to celebrate Sam’s sixteenth birthday, when he could finally drive them himself.

  Here was a candid photo of James alone, definitely not posted, from when James had come with Sam’s family on a weekend trip to Jekyll Island. He hadn’t even known Sam was taking a picture, and he was staring out at the ocean as if he wanted to be on the other side of it, as if he were much older than fifteen. On that same trip, James had said to Sam’s parents, “I wish I could be part of your family,” quote unquote.

  What would it mean if all these moments, these memories, didn’t end up building to something more than friendship? What if Sam said nothing while Amber and James became a couple right under his nose? What if this was exactly how James was feeling, watching Sam get close to Denver?

  Too long, he’d ignored his mom’s advice to put it all out there—talk to James about his feelings. Too long, he’d been worried about screwing up the group dynamic of the Fascinators, because without the Fascinators, he didn’t know who he was.

  Now, the group dynamic was screwing itself up just fine on its own, and it seemed like having a real conversation with James might be the only way to get it back on track.

  The opportunity seemed to present itself in the form of—of all things—a house party.

  Sam hated house parties. Even before the catastrophic one at Bridget’s house last spring break, he’d suffered through plenty of endless nights watching people play beer pong or King’s Cup or whatever else could make getting drunk on cheap beer seem like a fun game instead of a sad diversion. And the worst part was always watching James drink faster than anyone, because it made Sam feel like his company was one of the things James needed to be diverted from.

  But—guilty as he felt for even letting his mind go there—Sam was hoping that this time, like that night by the soccer field, his company might be one of the things drunken James was diverted to.

  Because tonight, the house party was for some brainy sophomore named Kevin in Sam’s economics class who’d boldly invited all the juniors and seniors in their class even though he didn’t seem to be real friends with any of them. His address was in one of Friedman’s two super-rich subdivisions, which was all the explanation Sam needed. The kid was probably used to getting whatever he asked for.

  James had seemed dubious.

  Will I know anyone there? he’d responded to Sam’s text the night before.

  You’ll know me. And I’ll know the host. Nice kid. Knows his opportunity costs.

  Not sure you’re using that term correctly.

  Was a joke! ;)

  Since when have you wanted to go to a party on a Saturday night anyway? James had said after a long pause, at which point Sam was disheartened to realize that James was pretty clearly not feeling this.

  Since you told me I should try to make other Friedman friends, Sam ventured. He took James’s lack of a response to mean he knew exactly when Sam had meant, and had probably been remembering that night a lot too since they’d found the spell book in those moonless woods.

  You know I’m sort of still grounded, right?

  Since when has being grounded kept you from going to a party on a Saturday night?

  See you at eight on the corner at the end of my street.

  At first, the party had played out exactly as it was supposed to.

  Kevin had looked pleasantly shocked to see them, opening the front door and then welcoming them in way too quickly, explaining that his parents were out of town and he’d managed to get a twenty-four pack of PBR from his older cousin and would Sam and James like some—all before Sam and James had even said hello.

  Sam and James had grabbed beers and then moved to a far corner of Kevin’s back porch, where more wide-eyed underclassmen were looking way too giddy to be here.

  “Well, here we are,” James had said, quirking an eyebrow at Sam as if he might actually suspect that Sam had an ulterior motive for inviting him on this dubious outing.

  “Parties, am I right? I’d better stick to this one,” Sam had said, motioning to his beer. “Designated driver and all that. But you feel free to go wild. I can’t believe you’ve been grounded for two whole weeks.”

  “My dad is . . . He’s been . . . Well, it’s been worse than usual.”

  “Is Benji okay?”

  “I think so?” James said. “I guess in Sunday school last week, they covered Noah’s Ark and the flood, and he got really freaked out, thinking it was a story of a current event. He was still crying when I picked him up from his class, and my dad and I ended up having words because he told Benji he couldn’t cry like that in public.”

  “Lesson learned: do not tell apocalypse stories to first graders,” Sam said.

  “I think the lesson is that my dad is an asshole.”

  “No, I know,” Sam said. “It’s good Benji has you there for another year.”

  This was apparently not the right thing to say, because James frowned and then finished off his first beer in a single long gulp.

  But the night had quickly gotten worse from there, because Sam and his econ classmates weren’t the only upperclassman who’d caught wind of the fact that a rich sophomore with a huge house and no chaperones was hosting a party, and waves of people kept coming out the back door onto the porch, until it really was starting to look like one of those legendary movie parties, with enough people Sam didn’t know at all that they could have just as easily been extras as Friedmanites.

  During one such wave of people, about thirty minutes after the boys’ arrival, a deep, bro-ey voice called out “James!” and Sam had looked up with dread to find two guys and a girl, all three of whom he only vaguely recognized, making their way right toward them.

  “How’s it hanging, man?” the original speaker said. He was wearing a pink polo shirt whose front half was tucked into a pair of khakis. A bro-ey ensemble if ever there was one.

  “I’m good, I’m good,” James said. Then he gestured to Sam, who tried his best to look these strangers straight in the face and appear at ease, like he belonged here. “Sam, you remember Brad, and this is Ben and Kayla. They graduated last year. They all go to Friedman Baptist.”

  “Ah, yeah. That’s right. Hey, y’all,” Sam said. He did remember them, sort of. Not from any specific moment, although he was pretty sure he’d seen Brad play football or maybe baseball, possibly both. But in the four months since graduation, it looked like the three of them had aged a thousand years. On the other hand, if they were still in Friedman, and still showing up at an underclassman’s party, they couldn’t have progressed that much.

  “We’re friends with Kevin’s cousin,” Ben said, as if he could read Sam’s mind. “We promised him we’d step outside and make sure y’all kids weren’t going too crazy out here.” He eyed the beers in Sam’s and James’s hands. “You know, not doing anything we wouldn’t want to admit in front of everybody tomorrow morning.”

  It took Sam a second to catch on to what Ben meant, and when he did, he was hard-pressed to fight a smile, even though Ben definitely wasn’t kidding.

  “You don’t go to church with us, do you?” Kayla said, catching his smile right away. “I don’t think I’ve seen you there before.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t.”

  “Where do you go?” she pressed.

  “I don’t really go to church. My parents go to First Methodist, but they’ve always said I’m free to believe or not believe whatever I want, and . . . and yeah, I don’t really go to church,” he repeated inanely.<
br />
  Now it was their turn for the acid smiles, and Sam suspected he knew why—his lisp always slipped out on “First Methodist,” without fail. As soon as he started saying it, he’d felt his tongue betraying him and seen this reaction coming, as it often did.

  “Gotcha,” Ben said, like that was all they needed to know about that.

  “You be good, James,” Brad added, with this insinuating look between the two boys that made Sam feel judged and gross.

  Then the three of them left to check on and/or harass more innocent high schoolers, leaving Sam and James in an awkward silence until finally Sam said, “Assholes.”

  Which was once again not the right thing to say, apparently. James folded his arms across his chest and said, “They’re usually nice to me.”

  “Well, you go to their church. They’re contractually obligated to be nice to you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Gee, sorry for implying that people at your church are nice to each other. Won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Sam, lay off my church, all right? I don’t attack you for your beliefs or lack thereof. Please don’t generalize me or put me in some idiot box because of mine.”

  “You think I—what?” Sam wanted to cry. This seemed like something James had been prepared to say, like maybe it was something he’d been thinking about for a while. Was this Amber’s doing? Had she put these thoughts into his head? “James, I don’t think you’re an idiot. You know that.”

  “Do I?” James said. “Cause I’m pretty sure you and Delia both think I’m this, like, party animal who only wants to get drunk and high on the weekends.”

  Sam was at a loss for words. He wasn’t even sure where this was coming from, but with so many random underclassmen around, just out of earshot, now didn’t feel like the right time for whatever emotional reckoning James was trying to have with him. It certainly seemed to be the complete opposite of the emotional reckoning Sam had been hoping to have tonight.

  “Wait, what the hell?” James said. He wasn’t looking at Sam, though. He was looking over Sam’s shoulder, at something out in the backyard, down the porch steps.