Happily Ever Afters

by Elise Bryant

  Cutting the ignition, Sam puffs out his chest and does this weird little waddle thing in his seat. “Oh bother, I think this is something that a nice pot of honey could take care of.” He makes a dopey face and then moves side to side again.

  I blink. And then blink again before erupting into giggles. “What was that?”

  “Winnie the Pooh, of course,” he laughs, his cheeks flushing. “You know, because, like, Eeyore . . . they’re friends?”

  I fall forward, my sides aching from laughing. “Oh my god. Please don’t ever do that again. Especially not in public, or I’ll be forced to deny this friendship ever existed.”

  “Hey, it got you to smile!” He points at me and winks, exuding major dad-joke energy. “See you at lunch?”

  We get out, and I smile at him over the top of the car. “Yeah. See you later.”

  A call comes from a few spaces over in the lot.

  “Hey, Whiner!”

  I look around, confused. But then I follow Sam’s gaze to a black Audi parked across from us. And getting out of it are Nico, Poppy, Grayson, and Rhys. The founders’ kids, the CW cast.

  I get the sudden urge to run away. My conversation with Caroline this morning is surely written all over my face. Acquaintance? What was I talking about? Nico and I aren’t acquaintances! The crazy stalker vibes are wafting off me, and he’s going to pick up on them and then this plan will be dead in the water before it even begins. Plus, Sam is wearing those cargo pants that zip off at the knee, you know, to, like, make shorts? Why they even make these I have no idea. Do people find themselves in situations often where they have to quickly change the length of their pants? I like Sam a lot, but these pants don’t belong anywhere in my love story.

  There’s no time to escape, though. The four of them are heading right for us.

  “Hey, Whiner!” Nico says again. I don’t get it. Is Whiner, like, Sam’s nickname or something?

  Sam looks like he’s just going to keep walking, but Nico comes up and does one of those slap-back things that guys always do. They are polar opposites of each other: Nico is slim and intimidatingly tall, while Sam is eye-to-eye with me and has a soft belly that pushes against the bottom buttons on his shirt. Sam has relaxed shoulders and an easygoing demeanor, and Nico’s posture is sharp, like he’s standing at attention.

  I’m struck again by how much Nico is like Thomas. No wonder I gave his name so readily to Caroline when she brought up Sam.

  “Sam Whiner!” Rhys, the ginger, says. So it’s Sam’s last name. Whiner is probably really Weiner. I feel kind of silly for not knowing that already, after weeks of drives and lunches together. “So you finally got in. Third time’s a charm?”

  Something changes in Sam with that. His face, which was just doing a goofy impersonation to make me laugh a few moments ago, gets hard and tight. “Yeah.”

  “Did you make it into the theater conservatory?” Grayson asks, a smirk on his face. “We all know you can turn on those waterworks, huh, Weiner?”

  Grayson draws out “Weiner” in a high-pitched tone. I decide immediately that I don’t like him—if only for the way that Sam’s jaw tenses as he looks away. Plus, Grayson also has a fuzzy hope of a mustache littering the top of his lip that only a douchebag would think looks good.

  “Oh, but you must be in the new culinary arts conservatory, right, Sam?” Poppy asks. This is the first time I’ve seen her up close, not just from me sneakily spying on them during lunch. Her skin is poreless, but not because she’s wearing a whole bunch of makeup—because it’s actually that flawless, like one of those girls who model for Glossier.

  “Yeah, I am,” Sam says.

  “And I’m sure your famous mommy joining the board didn’t have anything to do with that,” Grayson says under his breath. Famous mommy? I don’t know what that means. But I do know that I want to punch Grayson in the face. Nico, I notice, doesn’t join in when Rhys and Poppy laugh along with Grayson.

  “Sam’s really good at what he does. He made this,” I say, holding up my half-eaten donut. Probably not the defense Sam was looking for, but he sends a secret smile my way.

  “Tessa, right?” Nico’s looking right at me, and then everything else kind of slips away. All I can think about is that his eyes are like pools of chocolate. I want to step closer, so I can dive into them. I want to trace the path of his collarbone that’s peeking, just barely, out of the top of his button-up.

  But instead I say, “Mmmmm.”

  “We have Art of the Novel together?”

  I’m suddenly only capable of single syllables. “Yep.”

  “We better get going, babe. You know Mr. Garcia has it out for you with the tardies.” Poppy puts her arm around Nico’s waist, and he sticks his hand in her back pocket. They fit together.

  Of course they’re together. I don’t know how I missed it in all of my lunchtime stalking. Guys like Nico like girls like Poppy. I’m going to have to find someone else for Caroline’s plan. Or maybe just forget about it altogether.

  “Bye, Tessa. Bye, Weiner.”

  By the time I finally croak out, “Uh, yeah, bye!” they’ve already sauntered off too far to hear me. Sam looks at me, his eyebrows pressed together, a clear question there. But I ask one before he can. “Are you okay? What was that?”

  He rubs the side of his face and shakes his head, and he gives me a sad smile. “I’ll see you later, Tessa.”

  At lunch I don’t let him slip away so easily, though.

  “Okay, are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

  We’re sitting in what has become our regular spot on the porch of the Bungalow. Three rocking chairs and a stool that Lenore swiped from a group of creative writers last week. I’m fighting the urge to look up at Nico and his group, sure I’ll see all the relationship signs I missed before with him and Poppy.

  Sam’s perched on the stool, writing in a notebook that I know contains his recipes. He shrugs. “It’s nothing. Really.”

  “It isn’t nothing,” I insist.

  He looks up at me with a smirk. “I don’t know . . . maybe I just caught your bad mood from earlier.” Touché.

  “Y’all better tell us what’s going on instead of carrying on like we can’t hear you,” Lenore cuts in. She’s wearing another magazine-worthy outfit today: a black leather beret, Doc Martens, and a sleeveless black dress with gold-embroidered bugs.

  Sam lets out an exaggerated sigh but then nods, giving me permission, and I quickly fill Lenore in on the weirdness of this morning, knowing she’ll be able to get the details out of him. I need to know Sam’s history with Nico. Okay, yeah, he may have a girlfriend, but this hasn’t been verified just yet. And Nico wasn’t, like, mean to Sam or anything—not like Grayson and Poppy. Sam might have an in.

  “Ooohh, so Sammy boy knows the founders’ kids,” Lenore chirps. “How come you didn’t tell us about your bougie friends?”

  “They aren’t my friends,” Sam says. He closes his recipe book, looking exasperated. “Look, I went to middle school with them, and our parents knew each other . . . but we weren’t friends then, and we aren’t now. In eighth grade, they all auditioned for Chrysalis and got in, and I didn’t. . . . I think they made that pretty obvious.”

  “What other conservatories did you try out for?” Lenore asks.

  “Film . . . and creative writing.” He looks at me. “But I wasn’t very good at either. They weren’t my things . . . I just wanted to come here instead of Bixby High.”

  “So, no acting?” I don’t want to mention what Grayson said about the crying, but I also want to know what he meant. Thankfully Sam gets the message without me having to say more.

  He sighs again. Maybe I’m pushing this too much. “That’s . . . it’s just an old stupid joke. I don’t know why they keep bringing it up. I was on this show when I was in sixth grade. . . .”

  “Oh, wow, so you’re, like, a child star?” Lenore interrupts.

  “No. No, no. It was a baking show. Like one of those competit
ions on Food Network? I got sent home, and I cried. It was stupid.”

  “Nah, real men cry,” Lenore says, getting up to pat his back. I quickly nod in agreement.

  “It wouldn’t have been that bad, except Rhys recorded it and, like, put it up on YouTube—it was black and white with all these effects, like falling leaves and a fake storm. It was stupid. But I don’t know . . . maybe it started his interest in film, so it was, like, valuable or something.” He gives us a sarcastic smile.

  “And what did that asshole mean about your mommy—mom getting you into the school?” I ask. “That’s not true, right? I mean, he obviously hasn’t tried your chocolate-chip cookies.”

  That finally makes Sam’s dimple appear, for the first time since the encounter this morning. But then his face clouds over again, and he looks down at his hands, picking at the side of his nail.

  “My mom did join the board this year . . . but that’s not the reason I got in. I had to audition, same as anyone.”

  “But who’s your mom? He said she was famous?”

  “My mom’s Audrey Weiner.” He forces the words out, like they taste bad. “I just . . . I don’t like people to know or, like, think of me differently.”

  The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

  Luckily, Theodore does it for me. He was deep into his sketch, but that makes him look up. “Your mother is celebrity chef and four-time James Beard Award winner Audrey Weiner?”

  Just like that, her face snaps into place: dark curly bob, signature red lips. I can see her saying her catchphrase, paired with a snapping finger, at the end of every recipe. “And there you go!” She’s everywhere—her own show on Food Network, appearances on talk shows, restaurants. Like the female Guy Fieri, but less irritating.

  “Damn, Sam! How come you didn’t tell us you were rich? My mom watches her holiday specials!” Lenore side-eyes me. “And you guys are neighbors. Are you rich too, girl?”

  “No, I mean . . . we’re comfortable,” I sputter. “But, like . . . I don’t know. This isn’t about me!” I look at Sam, who’s still studying his fingers. “How come you didn’t tell me your mom was Audrey Weiner?”

  Why has he told me all about his bubbe’s last three boyfriends and her year-long grudge with a personal shopper in Saks, but not this? I replay all of our conversations in the car, searching for times his mom could have come up.

  He shrugs. “Your mom met her. Figured she told you. And is it really important anyway?”

  “Not at all,” I say. “It’s not like all of a sudden I want to cozy up to you because you have a famous mom.” That makes Sam’s cheeks turn red. “But it’s just a lot to not mention. That, and then all the drama with the founders’ kids. That’s the kind of thing you tell your friends.”

  “Other people’s opinions of me aren’t really my business. And I think that situation says more about them than it does about me. So I’ve let it go.” And then he shrugs. Like that kind of perspective and confidence is no big deal. I wish it was so easy for me.

  “Whoa!” Lenore shouts. “Drop! That! Knowledge! Samuel!”

  I’m reminded of the conversation we had in his car on the first day. It’s like a filter has been removed, and this whole other side of him is being revealed again. I’ve assumed a lot about Sam because of the bad hair and the dorky clothes, and I feel like a jerk. I hate when people do that to me—because of my skin color, because of my awkwardness. Maybe I need to let Sam be whoever he is, zip-off cargo pants, Hawaiian shirts, dad shoes, and all.

  “Mmm-hmm, okay, but can she, like, introduce me to Alton Brown?” Lenore says, pursing her lips. “I’m interested.”

  “Disgusting, Lenore,” Theodore says. Then, pausing, “But also, I suppose I wouldn’t turn him down, with ten years and a little disillusionment under my belt.”

  I laugh so much that I almost forget what’s coming for me next period.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I have it all worked out.

  Ms. McKinney usually starts the workshop in the last thirty minutes of class, which seems like too much time to me. But we always somehow go over—with some readers going on and on, making allusions to Beckett and Vonnegut in an attempt to show off their literary knowledge, and some writers trying to justify every last thing that was criticized in their work. It may be my day to share, but I don’t plan on being in class to participate in the circle of creative torture. No, I’m going to find an excuse to leave forty minutes before class ends, disappear until the final bell, and then deal with whatever consequences when I get back. It’s not like they’ll sit around waiting for me. Those real writers will be jumping over each other, probably, to take my place.

  I’ve never been one to ditch class (and does this really count?), but I’ll do whatever I have to.

  See, I don’t deserve to be here.

  When I first figured that out, realized my lack of words was my new normal, it was a gaping wound. This thing that I’ve loved for so long wasn’t mine anymore, and someone might as well have chopped off my arm or something.

  But the pain is dulling. And now that Caroline and I have a plan, however silly it may be, all I feel is overwhelming resolve that I’m definitely, definitely going to keep Ms. McKinney and Nico and all these real writers from finding out what I’ve been hiding. Because I may not deserve to be here now, but I’m going to fix that soon.

  So I stare studiously at my computer screen, I type my name and my address about a million times, and I even grab a book off the shelf—A Clockwork Orange?—to look like I’m using it for a reference or something. But when the clock hits go time, I close my computer and quietly walk up to Ms. McKinney.

  “Miss, can I go to the restroom?”

  She looks past me to the clock on the wall, and her eyebrows press together.

  “Can you wait until class is over? It’s almost time to begin workshop.”

  “It’s kind of . . . uh, an emergency.”

  She clutches her hands together and looks me right in the eyes. “Are you sure? You seemed fine just a minute ago. It appeared you were typing a great deal.”

  Her eyes are pale blue, almost clear, and it feels like they’re seeing right through me. I almost confess right then, taken with her magical teacher powers, but then I look past her and see Nico. He’s looking up from his Moleskine and watching our interaction.

  Nope. I gotta leave.

  “I’m having, like . . . stomach problems.” I clutch my waist and wince to really sell it. “I need to go to the restroom. Now.”

  That seems to do it. “Okay, well, do you want to leave your copies here, so we can pass them out while you’re gone?” she asks, but I’m already fleeing.

  “When I get back,” I call over my shoulder.

  I run up the stairs like someone’s chasing me, and as soon as I reach the top, the tightness in my chest releases. Yeah, I basically just said I had to poop in front of the most gorgeous guy in the world, but whatever. It was necessary.

  I’m good. For today.

  Except, while I definitely had a plan for getting out of class, I didn’t really figure out what I was going to do after that. My stuff’s down there, including my phone. And I can’t go walking around campus—one of the administrators or the security guard would stop me, and then I’d have to explain that to Ms. McKinney too.

  I go to the restroom on the main floor of the Bungalow, to feel a little less like a liar, but then I end up in the kitchen, out of sight from the basement door, and lean against the counter. The worry kicks in immediately. Should I be counting the minutes to make sure I don’t go down too early? But I guess I’ll hear the people come up when class is done. Unless Ms. McKinney sends someone sooner. Would she tell them why I was gone? Like, am I going to get a reputation as Diarrhea Girl or something? Is that worse than being known as a nonwriter?

  My pulse is rising and my neck is hot again, and I must jump three feet when I hear the squeak on the hardwood floor announcing someone’s arrival in the kitc
hen.

  “Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I don’t want to look up, knowing who that voice belongs to. But of course I do anyway, taking in his full lips and shiny brown curls. He has tight black pants on, brown boots, and a navy polka-dot button-up with the short sleeves rolled up. It takes all my willpower not to visibly swoon.

  “Uh, hi.”

  “Hey. Ms. McKinney sent me up to find you, but you seem . . . better?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine, totally fine.” Then I remember I’m supposed to be selling it, so I add, “Now. Now I’m fine. I just needed some air.” Not because I was pooping! I want to scream, mortified, but I just press my lips together so I don’t seem even more unhinged.

  He smiles, and I notice that his eyes look a little sleepy when he does, heavy lidded under the weight of his dark eyelashes. They’re so thick, the kind of thick girls go to expensive monthly appointments in order to achieve.

  “Yeah, I get it,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Ms. McKinney can be kind of a know-it-all sometimes. I need air too. And my dad says her books aren’t very good anyway . . . never made the list.”

  He laughs, and I find myself joining in, even though I don’t really agree with what he’s saying.

  “And those people in there.” He shakes his head. “Those workshops are torture.”

  “Right?” Though I obviously don’t think they’re torture for the same reason.

  “But you . . .” He reaches one of his brown boots across the kitchen floor and taps the tip of my hot-pink ballet flat. I feel it pulse through my whole body in an instant, like an electric shock. “You probably are going to blow them away. Your writing’s probably real deep . . . real soulful. I can tell.”

  I fight the urge to raise my lip. Probably just a poor choice of words. Instead I laugh, and I hope it doesn’t sound as manic as I feel. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Nah, I’m sure of it,” he says, nodding his head and smiling at me. One of his loose curls falls into his face, and he pushes it back.