She flips through the pages. “That would’ve been amazing, but I’m not seeing any here either. The Broadway selection is okay. Tons of Disney.”
“I can do anything from Hercules and Little Mermaid and Aladdin and Beauty and the Beast and Tarzan and Toy Story and The Jungle Book.”
“Is that all?”
“I know a couple songs from 101 Dalmatians,” Arthur says with pride.
Dylan returns with four cups. Thank god. He hands everyone a cup and I take a sip, expecting it to be harsh. But it’s kind of flat and gross.
“Is this Coke? Without alcohol?”
“She not only saw past the beard, but she mocked me.” Dylan shakes his head and downs his Coke like a shot. “It was awful.”
Samantha convinces Dylan to perform a duet with her, which just gives me all sorts of anxiety because Arthur is probably going to want to do the same, right? I agreed to karaoke night in the first place because Dylan assured me we would all just do group songs. But Arthur showing up has completely changed the game. We went from a party of three to a double date. The rules are out the window. Duets are allowed, and this is going to be a shit show.
The disaster begins with “Telephone” by Lady Gaga featuring Beyoncé. Samantha pulls out her phone, recording herself as she sings Lady Gaga’s parts beside Dylan, and damn, I love Dylan because he doesn’t even need to look at the monitor to sing Beyoncé’s parts. He just takes the phone from Samantha and sings straight into the camera like it’s some old-school, punk-rock music video and not a song about boyfriends being thirsty for their girlfriends when they’re out having fun without them.
Arthur sits next to me the entire time, our knees touching as he bounces and sings along.
The song ends. “Let’s do ‘Bad Romance’ next,” Dylan says.
“Not the most romantic choice.” Samantha taps the microphone against his forehead. “Try again, dodo.” She turns to me, and I get the sinking feeling like when I’m in class and a teacher wants me to answer a question. “You want to go?”
“You can go again,” I say. “I like watching.”
“Better be me you’re watching, buddy,” Dylan says.
Arthur pulls the binder into our laps. “Want to sing something together? I can take lead. My dad isn’t big on singing either, but when we were road-tripping to Yale, I was singing whatever came on the radio and he’d jump in at the chorus.”
“I might need another few minutes to get hyped,” I say.
“I’ll sing a duet with you, Arthur,” Samantha says.
“My hero.”
“I tried coming to yours and Ben’s rescue with that Yale meetup, so this’ll make me feel better,” Samantha says.
“I really didn’t even know that meetup was happening,” Arthur says. “I know it’s not my year, but I would’ve gone just to get some tips on the applications.” He rests his hand on mine. “God, how awesome is life right now. I mean, everything is really coming together. So many possibilities for where we’ll all end up next year. I’m cool with any of the Ivy Leagues, though Yale and Brown are really hit or miss, you know. I may end up putting a bunch of liberal arts schools on my list, just to be safe.”
I stare into my lap and nod along like Arthur’s possibilities for the future are no different from mine. But he’s seen me fake my way through enough already that he catches himself.
“Of course, there’s financial aid and scholarships,” Arthur says.
I shake my head. “I’m not getting a scholarship.”
My heart is racing because I feel like such a loser now. Like I’m always going to be fighting some uphill battle to make a place for myself in this world. Like why bother if I’m not some rich valedictorian. You would think the universe would be cooler about taking care of those with less. Let’s say I get financial aid. I’m not liking my odds of maintaining the high GPA to keep it. And if I can’t afford college, why would someone as brilliant as Arthur want to be with me, someone who’s struggling with high school?
“I said something stupid,” Arthur says.
“You’re okay,” I say. Though I can’t look him in the eye. I really wish Dylan would come through and fill this awkward silence with some stupid joke. Call Arthur Arnold, talk about sex, anything. Except this has become the quietest karaoke room ever.
Arthur’s hand slides off mine and he tucks his hands between his legs.
“Um. Follow me,” I say, going out into the hallway.
Arthur stands and turns to Dylan and Samantha. He’s probably not sure if he should say bye or not. I guess that’s up to him.
The hallway is echoing with songs from other people’s private rooms. A group is butchering Journey, which is what you should expect during karaoke—awkward singing. What I didn’t expect was an awkward talk.
“I’m an idiot, Ben. I don’t know why, but I know I am. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I have to remember you don’t know every little thing about me. Like you don’t know that I kind of suck at school. So Ivy Leagues are really not a thing that’s going to happen for me. And I don’t know you well enough to know if that’s important to you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not! I’m sorry. I just get excited.”
“You should be super excited. That’s awesome. I hope you get into Yale or Harvard or Hogwarts. Wherever you want. But school is sort of a sore subject for me right now. I’m . . .” I wasn’t planning on telling him tonight, but why the hell not. “I’m actually in summer school. That’s the class I’m taking.”
He looks up at me. “Okay. That’s cool.”
“You think I’m stupid.”
“Are you serious?”
The thing is, I am. Hudson, Harriett, and I had the same teacher as everyone else, and yet we’re the only ones from our class wasting away in summer school. Even Hudson and Harriett had perfectly fine grades before the three of us got closer. I’m the only one in that entire class who actually deserves to be there.
“How could I possibly think that?” Arthur says.
“Because you’re applying to Yale and I’m in summer school.”
“So what?” He steps closer, taking my hand. “That doesn’t mean anything. I almost went one year, too.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Okay. But for real, I did. Fifth grade. It was before I was on meds.” He squeezes my hand. “I had a really hard time focusing—like a really hard time. The only reason I didn’t have to go was my mom got me six tutors. I’m not even kidding.”
“That’s a lot of tutors.”
“Listen, Yale and everything . . . You know I don’t care about that stuff, right? I don’t care if you’re in summer school.”
“I believe you,” I say. “And I’m sorry for not being happy for you without being hard on myself.”
“We’re saying sorry a lot,” Arthur says.
“That’s what people do when they want something to work,” I say. “Do you want to go back inside?”
“I really, really do.”
I’m about to open the door when I stop and knock.
“WE’RE HAVING SEX!” Dylan shouts from inside.
I open the door and Dylan and Samantha are flipping through the binder.
“Straight sex is so weird,” I say.
We all settle back in. Arthur gets another round of Cokes and when he returns, he grabs the remote. “I know you don’t want to do a duet, but can I do a solo?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Dylan cuddles up next to me and Samantha accepts it because if she’s in this for the long run, this is her new life.
Arthur selects a song. He clears his throat as the song starts. “This song is called ‘Ben,’ and I dedicate it to . . . Samantha and Dylan. Kidding. Karaoke humor. Ben, this one is for you.”
Arthur has hit peak awkward, and even he’s cringing at himself.
He looks nervous, but not as nervous as I am when I see the first line dragging across the monitor. The song is “Ben” by M
ichael Jackson. I’m already half praying for a blackout and half smiling because this will be one for the books.
“Ben, the two of us need look no more . . .” Arthur isn’t going to be on Broadway anytime soon, but he has a really nice voice, and I’m mortified and I’m charmed and I never thought that was a combo that would make sense. He takes a deep breath when the song ends.
Samantha claps first and cheers. “Yay! Go Arthur!”
Dylan is fighting back a laugh.
“I know, I was flat on the key change,” Arthur says in response to Dylan. “I haven’t practiced my falsetto in a while. I’m sorry—”
“Your voice is awesome,” I say. I smack Dylan in the arm. “What’s so funny?”
Dylan’s laugh is stuttering. “That song is . . . about a rat.”
“What?” Arthur and I say at the same time.
“It’s about a pet rat,” Dylan says. “It’s from a horror movie. Same title. Literally about a boy befriending a rat.” Samantha is laughing with him now. “Because rats . . . are . . . so . . . misunderstood.”
“I—I had no idea,” Arthur says.
Dylan laughs and points. “Rat!”
I get up and take Arthur by the arms. “Thank you for the song.” I laugh, and he finally laughs too. “I’m going to choose the next song though.”
“You’re going to sing?” Arthur asks.
“We all are,” I say.
We throw out options. John Legend. Elton John. Aerosmith. Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Proclaimers. Destiny’s Child. Nicki Minaj. I really want to sing “You’ll Be in My Heart” by Phil Collins, which is from Tarzan, which I was obsessed with as a kid, but maybe a song about being in each other’s hearts forever during a double date isn’t the wisest choice just yet.
We go for Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” which is definitely not about rats, and I work up the nerve halfway through to share a mic with Arthur, and our voices don’t ever really become one, but I like how we sound together.
Like two people trying to make it work.
Chapter Nineteen
Arthur
“It was so nice to meet you,” Samantha says, gazing right into my eyes. She’s got a hand on each of my shoulders, and I’m calling it now: this girl’s going to be a motivational speaker one day or a life coach or like some kind of tiny white Oprah.
And then there’s Dylan, sneaking in from the side to snake an arm around each of our waists. “Man, I love this guy,” says Dylan, and he punctuates it with a squeeze. “Listen, I love this guy. Seussical, you’re a keeper. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“You’re welcome.” He beams. “Now you two kids have fun. Don’t do anything Rose and Jack wouldn’t do in a steamy vintage car.” He glances slyly at Samantha. “That’s from—”
“Yeah, we know,” says Ben.
“Well, okay then. I guess we’re off.” Dylan releases himself from the Arthur-Sam-wich to wrap Ben in a bear hug. I watch him whisper something in Ben’s ear; Ben mutters shut up and smacks Dylan on the arm. It’s weird, watching Ben with Dylan. They’re just so . . . handsy. Ethan and I aren’t like that at all. I guess a part of me wants to ask Ben about it, but—
Nope. No. Not going down that road again. Jealousy over the Hudson thing got me exactly nowhere with Ben, and something tells me Dylan’s even more off-limits.
Anyway, Dylan and Sam are gone, and it’s just us now. We’re on the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street, and Ben looks as awkward as I feel. It’s funny—I always imagined dating someone would be pretty straightforward, once you established you liked each other, but it’s not. There’s this whole new world of bewildering situations. Like how many days should you go between dates? How do you find out if he wants to be your boyfriend? And, of course, there are those moments like right now—moments where you don’t know if it’s time to say goodnight and get on the subway, or . . .
“So, do you want to walk around or something?” I ask, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in my chest.
“Sure.” He touches my arm—more knuckles than fingertips. And it’s just for a moment, but my organs go wild. We start walking.
“So you like to sing,” Ben says.
“Sort of.”
“I bet you’re in all the school musicals.”
“Not really. I was in choir, though.” I smile. “Ethan and I wrote a musical once, and we roped Jessie into performing it with us. We were twelve.”
“You wrote a musical when you were twelve?”
“I mean, it was the worst musical ever,” I say, and he laughs under his breath. “It was summer. We were bored. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
“I think it’s cool,” he says. “What was it about?”
“You want to know?”
“Definitely.”
The sidewalk ends, but Ben barely pauses. He steps confidently into the intersection, slipping between cars and taxis. But as soon as I follow, someone honks at me, and I flinch.
I speed-walk to catch up. “So, it was about these two knights named Beauregard and Belvedere.”
He grins. “Were you Beauregard or Belvedere?”
“Beauregard. He was the smart one. Belvedere was the muscle. And Ethan was like two inches taller than me back then.”
“Was Jessie the princess?” Ben asks.
“She was the dragon. Named Cheese. It’s kind of a long story.” I have that antsy, prickly feeling like I’m talking too much. “Want to sit somewhere?”
“Sure.”
Somehow we’re at Macy’s, which is wild—because this isn’t just Macy’s. It’s the Macy’s, straight out of my TV screen. It’s like meeting a celebrity. We snag a little round table outside. I watch Ben peek at his phone, smile, roll his eyes, and shove it back in his pocket without responding.
“Dylan?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“I really liked him. And Samantha. Your friends are great.”
“Yeah, they’re cool. They liked you, too. Like . . . a lot.”
I nod without speaking, because if I speak, I’ll unleash the millions of questions I’m dying to ask. Like, what do they like about me and tell me in detail and was this a test and did I pass? And do you like me a lot, too?
“So tell me more about Ethan and Jessie.” Ben leans forward, onto his elbows. “They sound cool.”
“They’re . . .” I trail off. “Well, we grew up on the same cul-de-sac. We were like a nerd gang.” I pull out my phone. “Here, I’ll show you some exclusive, not-really-new footage of them.”
“Okay.” He scoots his chair beside me, and I’m suddenly aware of everything. My heartbeat and the sound of my breathing and an itch on my elbow. I swipe quickly through my albums. “So, here’s me and Jess, and that’s my car.”
Ben’s quiet for a moment. “Jessie’s cute.”
And she is, though I never really think about that. She’s just Jessie. Short and pudgy, with a Cupid’s bow mouth. Jessie’s mom is Jordanian, kind of pale, and her dad’s black—whereas Jessie’s skin is sort of in between. In the picture, she’s smiling, just barely. I’m wearing sunglasses and my hair’s a little overgrown and unruly. I went through a lazy hair period sophomore year. It wasn’t pretty.
Of course, in the first picture I find of Ethan, he’s shirtless. He’s leaning back on his hands at the edge of a pool, feet underwater, and his hair’s wet, which makes it look jet-black. His eyes are wide open and his mouth is an O. He used to make that face in pictures.
“Still not picturing how Ethan’s a tiny, nerdy guy,” Ben says.
“I swear, he used to be!” I laugh shortly. “Now I’m the last tiny nerd standing.”
“I guess so.” Ben smiles. Then he reaches for my hand under the table. “That’s not a bad thing. I like tiny nerds.”
“You do?”
He laces our fingers together and shrugs. And I’m dead. I am actually dead. There’s no other way to explain it. I’m sitting in fucking Herald Square, holding hands with the cutest boy I’ve eve
r met, and I’m dead. I’m the deadest zombie ghost vampire who ever died. And now my mouth isn’t working. It’s like I’m stunned into silence. That never happens. I just need to—
I kick back into gear. “So that’s Ethan. Still nerdy, no longer tiny. He was really good at puberty.”
“Apparently.” Ben laughs. “Did you guys ever . . .”
“No,” I say quickly. “No no no no no. He’s straight. And he has no game. None of us have any game. We’re kind of like three celibate stepsiblings.”
“As opposed to stepsiblings who have sex with each other?” Ben’s smile sets my whole body into overdrive. Like, I’m pretty sure there’s a little Olympic gymnastics team practicing their floor routines in my stomach.
“I can’t figure out if you like me,” I blurt.
He laughs. “What?”
“I don’t know.” I laugh too, but my heart’s pounding. “It’s just. The whole time at karaoke, you seemed sort of . . . withdrawn, I guess? Like you didn’t want to be there—”
“Karaoke’s not really my thing.”
“Yeah, but I keep thinking about how if you really liked me, it would be your thing. Not karaoke in particular, I don’t care about that. But I think I’d find anything fun if I was with you. Even weird, violent arcade games where I can’t turn around to look at you or a zombie will eat part of my body.”
“Well, that’s what zombies do,” Ben says.
“I know.”
“But I get what you’re saying.” He furrows his brow. “I’m being a shitty date.”
“No you’re not!”
He tugs my hand. “Come on, let’s walk. I can’t sit here.”
“Why not?”
“Because you being honest makes me want to be honest, but I can’t do that if I’m looking at you.”
“Oh.” My stomach twists. “Should I be worried?”
“Worried?”
“I feel like I’m about to get dumped. Not that we’re in a relationship. Oy. I’m sorry. I’m so . . .” I exhale. “Why am I so awful at this?”
“At what?”
“At this.” I lift our threaded hands. “At being with you and being a normal human being with, like, minimally functional conversational skills. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
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