I think of the tiny things that make us what we are: the way he sees I’m irritated even when I’m doing my best to hide it, how I can make him laugh when he least expects it. How he understands that I get freaked out and will blow things out of proportion, but then how I will always calm down and come back, even if I’m convinced I never will. How he’s so cool and great and mysterious when he sings—and how he admitted that I’m better. Years and years of the two of us ending up, somehow, together. A team.
He said I didn’t have to be around. But all this time—he didn’t have to be either.
The closer I get to his house, the more anxious I feel, wondering if he’s back from his grandparents’. Seeing all the cars in the driveway washes me in relief, and I practically jump up the stairs to his porch. I’m impatient, waiting for someone to answer my knock, afraid he’ll see me and won’t answer.
And then he’s there, holding the door open. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie—something I hardly ever see him in anymore. He’s got on a baseball cap and his glasses, which he never wears. He looks like the boy I met in fifth grade, only a lot taller. He looks like my friend.
We blink at each other a minute.
“Apparently,” he says finally, “I can’t write songs for shit.”
I hold up my notebook—the empty, fresh one I grabbed with my jacket. “Well”—I smile big—“apparently I can.”
We don’t talk about what happened. We don’t bother comparing Thanksgivings or families or what’s been going on since our fight. Instead we go down into the rec room to get some ideas going. When freewriting yields very little, I tell him the story of Taryn and Sylvia and Aaron. I don’t mention the band thing, or anything about Earhorn, only the story of two lesbians and a grungy hipster boy. This gets him to talk about Whitney: to admit, at least sideways, that it was weird when she started hanging out with some senior right after the Halloween dance. I tell him about Lish dropping me again. He brings up that week in ninth grade when she fake flirted with Abe, just to get revenge on him for pointing out how she talks with food in her mouth.
We laugh. We remember. We write and write. After almost two hours we’ve come up with a couple songs that, with some revision, could become something.
“I knew we’d make it back,” he says, giving me a high five.
His words make my eyes go wide.
I stand and reach for my jacket. “I gotta go.”
He gets up too. “What, homework?”
I can see he wants to tell me this is way more vital to my future than some project for Enviro.
“No. You’ll see. Keep working on those.” I point to the sheets of our almost-lyrics. “And get ready for more.”
“Okay.” His face is confused at first, but then something in it shifts. “Spider . . .” He reaches out to give me a hug. “I’m sorry.”
I feel how good it is, our being together again.
But then I can’t help it: “Well, you were a jerk. But I’m sorry too.”
He holds my gaze for just long enough.
“So.” I snap to, pushing back my hair. “Practice tomorrow?”
“Every day until the dance.”
“I’ll be there,” I chirp, waving and bounding up the steps.
At home, I tear through my desk until I find what I’m looking for, shoved in the back of the middle drawer: the scribbled thoughts from what feels like months ago, when Trip stopped talking to me. Some of the scrawls are so messy I can barely decipher them, and some are so maudlin you can practically smell the pathos coming off the paper. But there are other parts that surprise me with their honesty, with how clearly they say exactly what I felt. They aren’t the main lines I’m looking for, though, so I smooth out each page, spreading them across the desk so that I can see, until—there they are. I’m glad I had the sense to actually record them when they were fresh.
At the top of a new page, I write, Hansel and Gretel Crumbs.
I hope I kept enough of them to lead me back.
Chapter Nineteen
I can’t describe the happiness I feel the next day, walking out to the parking lot with Oliver, both of us excited and eager for rehearsal, not caring about anybody else around us. Though Oliver’s chin is high, I can’t help but sneak glances over at Trip, who’s hanging out with his gang a few rows down from Oliver’s car. I don’t know if it was a good idea or not, what I did last night, or if he even got it, or cared, but after spending an hour reshaping all those thoughts, perfecting the last song we wrote together—I don’t know. I was . . . thinking about him. A lot. And he and I don’t have the accordion background of me and Oliver, so it’s not like we can just snap back to the way things were. But I’m still grateful for what we had. So last night before I went to bed, I had to let him know somehow that Our Golden Summer mattered. I opened his playlist and selected one to email to him. No message, no nothing—just that “It’s All Mixed Up” song he played for me over the phone forever ago.
I try not to stare as we drive past on the way to Oliver’s, and when we get there, I push it totally out of my mind. I’m so happy to be back—carrying a platter of snacks down into Oliver’s rec room, hearing Abe’s under-his-breath “thank god” at the sight of me. Eli comes over and wraps me in a hug, lifting me off the ground. And then Fabian, when he arrives, is all Kermit the Frog, both of us twinkling at each other. None of us dwells on my little departure. Winter Formal is in less than two weeks, and there’s a lot we have to do.
We stay focused and work, trying some of the new songs and going over old favorites. When I suggest to Oliver that we sing “Disappear” as a duet, he scrunches up his brow for a second, then agrees to give it a try. I realize I’m being my whole self here, surrounded by true friends. And it feels awesome.
Feels so awesome, for all of us, that we go until seven thirty, and Mrs. Drake offers to make us dinner. We decline, needing to get back to families and homework, since we’ll be practicing again tomorrow. Eli and Fabian leave their equipment down in the rec room, and I give the new lyrics to Oliver, so he can work on melodies tonight if he has time. Fabian drives me home.
“You were better today,” he says.
“Um, thanks?”
He realizes how that sounded like a backhanded compliment. “Not just better than at Earhorn, but better than I’ve ever seen you. I think the rest of us were too.”
“We needed each other,” I say.
“I think we all did,” he smile-says back.
Every afternoon for the next whole week I’m at Oliver’s house practicing, even on Wednesday, when Benji and I have to work on our next 20th Cen. test. I tell him to come over to Oliver’s, and we sit together on the couch and work like always, except every now and again I have to stop to give critiques. Other times, of course, I have to get up and sing. And somehow it makes sense that Benji’s a part of the whole experience.
The week goes by: every afternoon, practice; every night, cramming homework, ending the day—too late, usually—emailing a song to Trip. I don’t know why I keep doing it, because he never writes back, but when I think about not doing it Wednesday night, it seems weird, and then the next day and the next are the same. I consider sending him the new lyrics I’ve written, but I’m not sure if they’d have relevance to him now, and anyway, what I really want to be doing is showing him how much I appreciate what we had when he first played these for me.
Then it’s the weekend, with chores and movies with my family, and me and Fabian hitting the Masquerade Saturday night for a show. Benji comes with us, as well as Fabian’s boyfriend, Drew, and I find out—now that my jealousy’s had a chance to unhinge itself—that he’s actually very funny. And attentive. And nice. If Fabian’s not going to be into me (not that way, anyhow), I guess I can be glad that he has someone like Drew to be into him. Especially if he can become my friend too.
I feel a little edgy, though, wondering if Taryn might come crashing up to us, or if I’ll see Sylvia lurking in some corner, full of all the t
hings she hasn’t said to me yet. They used to hang out here with us, after all. I’m not sure why they wouldn’t be here tonight. The idea of bad feelings between us still makes me feel a little strange. I know I don’t want to sing with them, but I feel like I still owe them something.
As the second band starts up, I pull Fabian to a quieter place in the outside stairwell to talk.
“Everything okay?” He is so nice, so concerned.
“I just want to know if there was more to it.” I have to half shout it. “Between you and Taryn and Sylvia? When you quit their band?”
He pauses while a group of tattooed guys and girls thumps past us.
“It’s a long story.”
“So why didn’t you tell me all of it?” I holler.
“Because the details aren’t important. After a while . . . they weren’t my thing.”
“Why did you let me do it, then? When you knew they were such a mess?”
“Because you wanted to, silly. You were so cute. And I didn’t know; maybe you liked messes. I mean . . .” He chuckles and leans in. “You were hanging out with Benji.”
I twist my mouth. “You didn’t even know him.”
He shrugs, meaning, I’m just sayin’.
“I haven’t talked to them since,” I tell him.
He nods. “I know.”
“What do they say?”
He shrugs again, annoyingly stoic and removed. “Taryn’s all over the place. And, you know, for better or worse, Sylvia goes with her.”
“But should I call them?”
A knowing pause from him before he answers: “Should you?”
So I do. On Sunday. I figure I will end up leaving a voice mail, anyway, so—
“Hello?”
“Um, Taryn?”
“Oh my god! No way! Charlotte, we were just talking about you. I swear to god, you are utterly fate. Guess where we were last night. Earhorn! And it was boring as all hell and all so amateur, and we were looking at each other and going, ‘We really need to get back into practice.’ I’ve found, like, fourteen songs you’d be great at, and Sylvia’s working on some new ideas about maybe doing originals—though, you know, she has no real training in poetry, which I keep telling her she needs. But I wanted to write songs inspired by Sharon Olds poems. Or Elizabeth Bishop, maybe. Something, I don’t know, with some teeth. But you can bring some poems too, and we’ll talk about it. What are you doing Tuesday?”
I can’t help being shocked. And for a moment, I’m terrified to tell her I’ve decided to go back to Sad Jackal. But I can’t do things simply because I don’t want her to get upset. I need to listen to myself.
I tell Taryn I’m not going to be able to play with her and Sylvia, and there is a long, long pause.
“Aaron said you were going to say that.”
“Well, I guess, tell him thanks for understanding.” And— what?
“I don’t think so. We broke up. But thanks for noticing.”
I pretend not to hear the nastiness in her voice. “Well, I’m sorry, Taryn. I really am. I learned a lot singing with you and—”
“I’ll tell Sylvia you called.”
And then, I guess, that part of things is over.
I don’t have very long to feel weird about it, because about five seconds after I hang up with Taryn, Hannah’s at my half-open door, knocking politely. She has her keys in her hand.
“You’re not ready?”
“Ready?”
Brief, exasperated stepmom sigh. “Dresses? Shopping? Winter Formal next weekend? The way Darby’s pacing downstairs . . .”
“Oh. Right.” I guess I do remember Darby, Gretchen, and Hannah talking at dinner the other night. I just hadn’t realized they meant today.
Darby appears behind her mother. “Why aren’t you ready?!”
“I’m not going to the mall.”
“Not the mall, dummy,” she growls. “A boutique. Gretchen found it. Get your butt in gear.”
“Wait. You have a date?”
She makes a nasty face. “Do you not hear anything I say? Having a date means you have to hang on one guy the whole night.”
“Oh.” I pull open a dresser drawer, look for some clean cords. “I forgot about your harem.” I look at Hannah. “Is it a harem? Or are those only made up of women?”
Hannah lets out a hoot. “You two can work it out. I’m leaving here in ten minutes, because otherwise it will dawn on me how unpleasant Buckhead traffic on a Sunday afternoon is going to be.”
Darby gives me a pointed look. “Hurry up.”
The entire way up and across town, Darby chatters about her friends and what they’re wearing to the dance, who their favorite guys in Sad Jackal are, what bets they all have about what I’m going to wear, and their general curiosity about whether this means Oliver and I have gotten back together.
“That last part is a joke,” she breezes, right before I’m about to punch her. “Nobody thinks you’re together. At least, they hope not. They want him themselves.”
We finally find the boutique Gretchen wanted—a small, glass-front place tucked into a mini-strip of shops, one with barely any parking.
“Hello, hello!” the owner sings to us from the rear of the shop. She’s attaching giant binder clips to the back of the wedding dress another woman is trying on.
Darby looks over the woman in the dress. “It’s pretty,” she says. But the woman doesn’t seem very grateful for the compliment. She turns to face herself in the surrounding mirrors.
“Here, see?” Gretchen says, going over to the rack along the right wall—the one full of formals, instead of wedding gowns.
Hannah checks the price tag of the first dress on the rack, raises her eyebrows. “Not exactly cheap,” she mutters.
“But not mall prices either,” Gretchen says testily.
“Ooooh! Lookit this one!” Darby pulls out an emerald-green column dress.
“I am not wearing anything fitted,” I growl.
“We’re not just here for you,” Darby snaps, my rock star position apparently eclipsed by visions of herself making some grand entrance at the dance.
“Fine, then.”
I move down the row, past Darby in the sizes made for tiny ninth graders, past Gretchen in the sizes designed for average-framed girls, and onto the You Are Not a Water Buffalo But Don’t Push It, Honey, end of the rack. The band’s been so song-obsessed, so focused on playing things over and over until we can do them flawlessly backward, that I haven’t really thought about the formal part of Winter Formal. I can’t picture the boys in tuxes, but this isn’t going to be a jeans affair for them either. I’m about to text Oliver for ideas when Hannah comes up behind me.
“What about this one, Charlotte?”
I turn around. She’s holding up a cream-colored A-line, strapless dress, with a dark blue satin ribbon across the waist. A little ruffle of tulle pokes out from under the hem, but other than that, it’s completely smooth.
“Oooooh,” Darby sighs, looking up.
“I don’t know about strapless” is my first response.
Hannah’s brow creases. “Why not? You have beautiful collarbones.”
It’s such a random thing for her to say—and a random thing to notice—but still, it’s nice to hear. “I do?”
She holds the dress up against me. “Of course you do. And you could wear your hair down, if you wanted. Or up would look good too.”
I check the size. It’s actually what I wear.
“Try it on.” Gretchen’s face is approving.
“It doesn’t look like a wedding dress? I’m not going to be”—I picture stage lights glowing off me—“too pale?”
“The blue offsets that,” Hannah says.
“And we can spray tan you,” Darby adds.
“What a beautiful choice,” the shop lady says, finally coming over to us. “Shall I start you a dressing room?”
I look at Hannah, uncertain, but she’s already handing the dress to the woman.
&
nbsp; “You can look at other things, if you want,” she tells me. “But I think that one’s going to be it.”
And in the end, my stepmom is right. As soon as Gretchen gets the zipper up, I can feel how well the dress fits me. I don’t have much of a waist, but somehow with whatever’s structured inside it, this dress gives me one. My boobs have never been more than annoying most of the time, but the way the neckline curves just right at the top, they’re suddenly up. And they’re pretty. I thought the flared-out hemline would make me look wider, but really it just balances out my hips, makes me look . . . perfect.
“Such a nice hourglass,” the shop lady says, smoothing her hands along my waist.
It’s embarrassing, but, looking in the mirror, I see that she’s kind of right.
Darby and Gretchen find dresses that make them look fantastic too. The maroon spaghetti-strap column dress Darby picks makes her look, as Hannah says sadly, like she’s twenty-one already. Gretchen’s dress isn’t quite as glamorous as Darby’s, but the shimmery pink material brings out her healthy, All-American Girl glow.
Enlivened, I guess, by her happy, pretty daughters, Hannah agrees to an unplanned stop at Lenox, to get the accessories over with. She gives us each some cash to supplement the funds we brought ourselves and tells us to meet in an hour outside of the Crate & Barrel, where she wants to do some shopping of her own. Gretchen and Darby both disappear in separate directions immediately, so I’m searching solo, not sure whether to go up the escalator or stay down on the main floor.
Being Friends with Boys Page 24