by Elise Bryant
“This is Lavon,” he says, stroking the shoulder of the guy sitting next to him. Lavon is wearing a white tank top that shows off his arms, and he has freshly laid waves. He reaches out to shake my hand, a goofy smile on his face.
“Nice to meet you, Tessa. Theo has told me a lot about you.”
So apparently someone gets to call him Theo.
Theodore leans forward, covers the side of his mouth, and says in a stage whisper, “He’s my boyfriend.” He turns and marvels at Lavon before leaning in to kiss him again. A second later, they’re full-on making out, and then I’m just sitting there like a loser again.
I’m about to get up, but then someone plops down next to me.
“Hi. Tessa, right?” I have no idea who this white guy in a green flannel shirt is, but I search my memory because he seems to recognize me. And then it clicks. Fedora. Except instead of a fedora, he’s wearing a man bun tonight. Maybe that’s his fancy look.
“Hey, uh . . . you.”
“We’re in Art of the Novel together?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know you!” Or your regular hat choice, at least.
“That piece you shared last week. It was beautiful. You have a real unique voice.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, because obviously I haven’t shared a thing. Does Fedora have me confused with someone else? Is he trying to hit on me? Honestly, I’m kinda annoyed that Fedora is here at all. Did Nico just invite everyone?
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur, and Fedora starts going on about his work in progress, something about aliens, but I tune him out. I wish I knew where Lenore was. Or Sam . . . I wish Sam had come with us. I know if he was here, I would feel more calm. But I guess he would just have made things weird, considering how he feels about my plan.
Pushing those thoughts away, I spot Nico across the room again. He looks upset—and of course he is, after what I overhead. Poppy is next to him, though, in an oversized leopard-print top and short shorts, and she’s kissing his neck, her hands wrapped around his hips. . . . God, what am I even doing here?
And then a Cardi B song I sorta recognize comes on, and everyone starts dancing. Dancing!
I hate dancing.
Everyone always expects me to be good at it, to perform their idea of what Blackness means, but I’m not. Like, not at all. I think it’s because I can’t let go in the way that you have to in order to dance. I try to always be measured and controlled, and dancing is none of that. I care too much about what I look like, how each movement looks to others, so moving my body like that would just be exhausting.
So I don’t dance. Ever. Well, in public, at least.
I know there’s an item on Caroline’s list about a dance of romance, or whatever, but that’s just not going to happen.
Fedora gets up and starts doing something that looks like a Peanuts character, all tiptoes and nose pointed to the sky. He beckons for me to join him, curving his two pointer fingers toward me and shimmying his hips.
Uh-uh. Nope.
I hop off the couch and scoot away, but then someone grabs me by the waist and pulls me into the middle of the crowd.
“I love this song! Don’t you love this song?” Lenore squeals. Her breath smells sweet and her locs are down now, swirling around as she whips her head back and forth. Relief washes over me because I’ve found her, but it’s replaced quickly by panic that I’m standing in the middle of a bunch of gyrating bodies.
I scan the room, making sure Nico can’t see me standing here all awkward, but he’s going up the stairs alone. Poppy and another girl are grinding on Rhys a few feet away, giggling as his face starts to match his hair.
This is my moment. Our moment. I can hear Caroline’s voice whispering in my head. Go!
I stop Lenore in the middle of an enthusiastic twerk. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
She looks confused, and then leans in and whispers, “Girl, you got some poop problems?”
“Yep!”
I’m not so much fleeing as I am running to something.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I walk past more doors than there are people that live in this house. I have never lived in a house like that—not in Roseville and not in Long Beach. We’ve always had just enough rooms for our family, and most people I know are like that too. I wonder what it must be like to live in a house with such excess, to have rooms that people probably don’t even go into every day. Does dust gather in those rooms? I guess that’s what Grace must be for.
Most of the doors are shut, but there’s a light on at the end of the hallway, and I slowly drift toward it, like a moth to a flame. And when I get there, I see Nico, back hunched over in a C, studying a large book. But squinting, I see that it’s not something serious like the complete works of Leo Tolstoy or something. No, it’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—the illustrated one. And I’m surprised. It doesn’t fit this image of him I’ve created in my head.
I turn around to go back to the party, my neck feeling a little hot. But then I stop myself. You can do this. Or at least—you will do this, and you’ll find out about your capability along the way. With a sudden pang of boldness, I knock on the doorframe, making Nico look up.
“Hi,” I say, my voice a little strangled.
“Hey,” he says, and smiles. Full-on cheeses. I take that as my invitation to walk in.
“What you reading?” I ask, even though I know.
He shows me the cover and then blushes, which throws me off. He’s usually so confident. “I know it’s kinda little kiddish.”
“Not at all! I loved Harry Potter. Well, still love Harry Potter. They’re my favorite books.” I’m talking too much, trying to make him feel better, because they’re definitely not my favorite books anymore. I almost even spill the beans about my Harry Potter fan fiction history, but luckily I have a little more self-preservation than that.
“Cool. Me too.”
“Except . . .” Should I say it?
“Except what?”
“Except, I just wish there were more brown people in the books. It made my Halloween costumes in elementary school pretty difficult.”
“Well, Hermione’s Black in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I saw it on Broadway a couple years ago. And J. K. Rowling said Dumbledore is gay, right?”
I just give him the side-eye, and he laughs, loud and full, his head falling back to face the ceiling. It emboldens me further, and I close the space between me and the bed, sitting down at the end.
“The books,” he continues, not acknowledging me sitting on his bed either way, “they’re just . . . they’re a comfort to me. I read them when I’m feeling kinda shitty. And these illustrated ones—have you seen them? They’re dope.”
He scoots closer to me and leans in to show me the page he was on. It’s Hagrid, towering over Harry, their faces illuminated by the fireplace as Hagrid reveals something that will change Harry’s life forever. The picture is beautiful, but I’m also distracted by the beautiful face of the guy presenting it to me. His lush lashes and full lips. His perfectly tousled hair. And this close, I can see a tiny scar above his eyebrow. I want to trace it with my fingers.
I start talking, to slow my heart rate down. “I remember the first time I read this book . . . it just blew my mind, you know, Harry being this special, important child and no one knew it for most of his life—he had this whole new identity just waiting for him. I mean, I know it’s a trope, the chosen-one thing, but it was so thrilling for me at the time.”
Nico nods, pulling the book back into his lap, but he doesn’t scoot back to his original spot. “J. K. Rowling made me realize I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write like her. But, like, don’t go telling people in our classes that. I’ve got an image to uphold.” I shake my head quickly, and he smiles. “She’s just made such an impact on the world. I want to do that. And be famous! Be a celebrity author.”
“But not just like her. Right?” I ask, searching his face for some recognition
. He blinks at me.
“Because of, you know . . . what she’s said,” I continue. “It’s ruined so much of the magic.”
At that, he just shrugs. “She’s still famous.”
I consider saying something more. Caroline and I have discussed our anger and heartbreak over all this at length, but I also don’t want to scare Nico off by getting too deep.
“Hey, what’s your favorite book?” he asks.
So I guess my face isn’t giving away everything going on in my mind. I decide to go with it.
“Prisoner of Azkaban.”
“Solid choice,” he says, nodding. I notice the book is closed now, and he’s just focused on me. “My favorite is Goblet of Fire.”
“Why?” I ask, and then add quickly, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s so good. I’m just curious.”
“It’s the book when things get dark, you know what I mean? And Harry realizes that he’s not a kid anymore and this is all a part of something bigger.”
“It gets dark way before that! The basilisk wasn’t dark enough for you? And, um, Harry’s parents getting killed?”
“But it wasn’t in front of Harry! Voldemort straight-up murdered Cedric in front of Harry. That was some dark shit.”
I laugh, and he joins in. “True, true.”
I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but he seems to be even closer now—his knees are so close to my right hip that I can feel the heat coming off them.
“What house would you be in?” he asks.
“I don’t know, I feel like there should be more overlap. Like, do you ever think it’s strange, dividing people up by four strict personality types? I mean, what kind of world would it be if there were only four types of people?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“But also I would totally be a Ravenclaw.”
“Slytherin.” He grins. And I’m not imagining it. He’s definitely closer.
“So what’s happening now?” I ask. “That you, um, need the comfort of Harry Potter?” I try to keep my tone steady, innocent, as if I wasn’t just spying on the conversation he had with his parents.
His looks down and sucks in a sharp breath, and I’m worried I miscalculated this—that I ruined whatever ground we had gained from this conversation so far. I feel like I’m maneuvering across an obstacle course. But then he looks back up at me, eyes wide and vulnerable.
“My parents are big supporters of the arts. They actually helped to start Chrysalis, did you know that?”
I shake my head and try to sound surprised. “No. Wow.” He doesn’t need to know that I’ve heard all about the founders’ kids.
“Yeah, well, you’d think that would be a good thing, because, like, most parents want their kids to be doctors or lawyers or whatever. Art school isn’t on the table. My parents . . . they’re all about it, yeah, but . . . they expect me to be the best. Like art is this competition. And it’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m sorry, Nico,” I say. “But you are so talented. I hope they see that. That piece you shared in class yesterday was really powerful. I can’t wait to read more.”
“Really?” A smile spreads across his face, but then his eyes darken again, probably remembering what his mom said about it. “Anyway, it’s not enough for them. I need be chosen for the gala this year for my mom to be even mildly satisfied.”
“You’ll get it. No one else in that class is as good as you.” He’s blushing again, and it makes my whole body feel warm.
“Thank you, Tessa,” he says, his voice small and sweet, and I’m all of a sudden aware that we’re alone in his room. Alone in his room on his one bed. The lights are dim, and the sounds of the party are distant, like we’re in our own little bubble. It’s not a closet, but I think it’s better. Nico Lucchese and I are having a moment, just like number four on the happily ever after list.
I get a blurry image in my mind of Tallulah and Thomas in the same place as us. Knee to knee on his bed, lips moving closer and closer like magnets, but then they slam together, all awkward noses and clinking teeth. And then—poof!—they disintegrate like all the good characters in that Avengers movie my dad made me watch. It makes my head hurt.
“My older sister, she was this dance prodigy,” he continues, snapping me out of my almost inspiration. “Well . . . is. She’s studying at Juilliard now. But when she went to Chrysalis, she was always chosen to solo at the winter gala. Even as a freshman. My mom expects me to be the same as her with my writing. I worry that I’ll never be good enough. That I’ll, um, I’ll never measure up to everything she’s already done. Does that make sense?”
“Mmm-hmm. That must be really tough, living in her shadow. I . . . I get it.”
“Yeah? Do you have older siblings?”
“A brother—but it’s not the same.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice playful. “Is he a fuckup?”
“No. No, no. My brother has disabilities.”
His face falls. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
He takes my hand. And my body goes a little haywire, torn between those words that I hate so much and the fact that HE’S HOLDING MY HAND. Touching me, on purpose, not in my imagination.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I manage to squeak out.
“I’m sure he’s taught you so much,” he continues, and now he’s squeezing my hand. “That’s probably why you’re such a great listener.”
And yeah, now he gave not just one but two of my most hated responses to people finding out about my brother. Plus there was that whole J. K. Rowling thing.
But . . . I push it out of my mind. It’s easier to. I’m pretty sure it has to do with how his hand feels over mine, like he’s not just holding on to my fingers, but to my whole heart, my whole being. All my insides feel like they’re doing a dance, one with high kicks and twerking and shoulder shimmies.
And maybe I just need to get over it, the things that bother me. Maybe I’m being too sensitive.
I focus on memorizing every detail—his smooth palms, the bump on his middle finger from holding a pen—so I can share it with Caroline later. And use it all in the story, too, that I’ll write at the end of this.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“And then what happened?” Caroline asks. I call her to download as soon as I get home.
“Well, we talked some more about the novel he’s working on now. And he showed me some of his old notebooks from when he was younger. Get this—he used to write Avatar fan fiction when he was in elementary school!”
“The Last Airbender or those creepy blue things?”
“The Last Airbender.”
“Ah, phew! Did you tell him about your fan fiction?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course not!”
“Hey, he told you about his! He probably would have thought it was cool.”
“I don’t think so . . . but he did say I should eat lunch with them. That he wanted to get to know me better.”
Caroline squeals so loud, I’m sure she’s going to wake Lola up.
“Oh my god! Oh my god! I’m a genius!”
“Is this always going to come back to your genius?”
“Pretty much. You’re welcome. So what else happened? Did he, like, throw you on his bed and ravish you?”
“No, we eventually just went downstairs, and then I found Lenore. She was leading this conga line through the living room? It was weird.”
“She didn’t drive, did she?”
“No . . . Lavon, that’s Theodore’s secret boyfriend—he wasn’t drinking, so he drove us all home. She’ll probably have to get her mom’s car tomorrow. I hope she’s not in trouble.”
“Wow,” Caroline says, her voice serious.
“What?”
“It’s just . . . you survived your first high school party. I’m so proud. I literally look like the star-eye emoji right now.”
“I didn’t just survive. I thrived!” I laugh, imagining Caroline beaming at me like a parent on graduation day. “And hey, y
ou’ve never been to a high school party.”
Now she’s laughing too, but her laugh sounds different from mine.
“Tessa, I’ve been to parties before.”
“You have? When?”
“Well, I went to my first one when I went to stay with my ninang—”
“But that was in July! How come you didn’t tell me?” My voice gets higher.
“It was right after you moved, and you were going through a lot. I didn’t want to make it about me.” She must hear that I sound a bit hysterical, because her tone is softer now.
“I want to talk about you! I want you to tell me things.” That’s what best friends do, and if she’s not telling me things as big as that, then the gap between us is growing even more than I thought. “Sorry, I was just surprised, that’s all. Have there been any more?”
“Yeah, one with Brandon. Michael and Olivia went with us.”
“Like, since school started?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh my gosh, Caroline, it’s like you’re living a secret life! How did you get your dad to agree?”
She lowers her voice into barely a whisper, as if he can hear through the walls. “I told him we were studying for the AP Lit exam—trying to get a head start, you know? And I was home by ten.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, we did.”
I sigh. “Caroline, please keep telling me what’s going on. I always want to know. And I’m sorry if—”
She cuts me off. “It’s fine. I will.”
Then there’s this weird, long silence that feels really heavy—I don’t like it. And I want to fill it, so I don’t have to think about what it means. But Caroline must have the same idea, because we both start talking at the same time, and it comes out this garbled mess. We both laugh.
She says, “You go.”
“I was just gonna ask, what’s the next step in the plan? Like, I think I’ve done number two, number four . . . maybe even number three?”