by Elise Bryant
I guess I was staring a little too intently, because his head pops up, and he arches an eyebrow in question.
“I was just thinking how you have the best homework ever. Maybe I need to switch conservatories.”
“Yeah, and we’re not even done yet.”
Stop number two is an ice cream shop a few blocks over.
“Okay, I think we should order a flight here,” he says once we’re in line, rubbing his hands together as he studies the rainbow of flavors in the case. It’s kinda cute how his jaw tightens and he looks all serious, like he’s deciding on which color wire to cut on a ticking bomb instead of ice cream.
“Are there any nondairy flavors?”
“Oh, no,” he says, looking panicked. “Are you allergic?”
I try to figure out the ladylike way to explain to a guy that ice cream, specifically, gives me crazy farts. But then I realize that, duh, it’s just Sam, so I tell him exactly that. He falls over forward laughing, totally unaware of the white-haired woman in front of us who turns around to give us the death stare and shake her head.
When we reach the front, the freckled girl behind the case offers us little spoons with tastes of each flavor, Sam carefully considering each one like wine at a fancy restaurant.
“Oh, and you have to get this one,” the girl gushes, offering us each another spoon. “It’s our most popular flavor: Long Beach Crack.”
Sam takes it gladly, but I wrinkle my nose and wave it away.
“Oh, Tessa, c’mon! You gotta try this one. It’s freaking amazing.”
“It has these toffee pieces in it, um, made with Ritz crackers,” the girl explains. “It’s sooooo addictive, right? Hence the name. Get it?” She lets out a high-pitched laugh like a tinkling bell.
“No, thank you,” I say with a strained smile, and when Sam shoots me a questioning look, I nod toward the door.
When Sam finally decides on six flavors for our flight—three regular ice cream and three sorbet (our noses will be thankful)—we sit outside and he brings it up right away.
“You looked uncomfortable . . . about trying that ice cream? I know you didn’t want too much of the dairy flavors because, uh . . .” He makes a fart noise, which is so much worse than just saying it. But it makes us both giggle. “You tried the other ones, though, so I don’t know, was there something about that . . . ?”
“I just kinda hate when people—okay, white people—make light of stuff and say this or that is like crack. Does that make sense? Like, just because you can’t stop eating chocolate or whatever doesn’t mean you should compare your issues with an epidemic that destroyed people’s lives. It’s insensitive.”
His brow furrows as he nods his head and considers that. He always seems like he’s concentrating so hard on everything I say, actually—like every word I say is important. It’s nice.
“It’s probably kind of silly to be bothered by that, because they’re just words, but—”
“Not at all.” He stands up, a determined look on his face. “You know, we should say something to them.”
I grab his hand, pulling him down, my neck burning hot. “No! No, no. We definitely should not.”
Thankfully, he sits back down. And he also squeezes my hand once before letting it go. Probably a reflex. His cheeks turn pink.
After a somewhat awkward silence, he clears his throat. “So, uh, how is your plan working?” he asks. Now it’s my turn to blush.
“Should we talk about that?” I’m worried we’ll have a repeat of the blowup from before, even if we did eventually work things out.
“Yeah . . . probably not.” He sighs. “I’m just curious if you’re writing again.”
“No,” I admit. “But maybe soon . . . at least I hope so.” I think again about what he looked like, writing in his notebook at the last stop. “I miss it, you know? Growing up, I used to always carry a notebook around, so I could make full use of any downtime. And I would wake up in the middle of the night with words floating in my head and jump up and start writing. It was, like, my constant. I loved writing. Or love, I guess, present tense—at least I hope so. It made me really happy.” To my surprise, my eyes feel a little wet. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“Well, then it will come back. You don’t just lose something that you love like that,” he says softly. I don’t know how he can sound so sure about something that definitely isn’t.
“Just because I love something doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. Maybe it’s good I’m learning this now.”
He shakes his head. “But we’re not talking about you being good at it. We’re just talking about you doing it. Writing, I mean. They’re two different things.”
“Not at Chrysalis. I have to be good to stay at this school . . . and not just good, actually, great! There’s no point in even writing if my writing isn’t great.”
He looks like he’s going to say something, but my phone rings, interrupting him. My mom is frantic when I answer. “Where are you, Tessa? I have to leave in five minutes for Book Club, and remember your dad has a client dinner that’s going to go late tonight.”
Her book club. I totally forgot. In an effort to get out more, she joined a book club with other moms of teens with disabilities. I actually think it’s more of a drinking club, because she always comes home late in a Lyft in a pretty happy mood. I offered to hang out with Miles so she wouldn’t miss it tonight. And I could tell she felt a little guilty, asking that of me.
“Oh my god!” I feel terrible. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I’ll be there in a sec.”
I look up at Sam. I don’t know if it’s the sugar high or whatever, but I’m not ready for this afternoon—now evening—to end.
“Hey, do you want to hang out with me and Miles?”
When we get there, Mom and Miles are waiting in the living room. She grabs her bag, kisses Miles on top of the head, and starts giving me directions. “So Dad won’t be home until nine probably, and I’ll be back right after that. If you’re okay with this—are you sure you’re still okay with this?”
I nod my head. “Of course, Mom.”
She still looks unsure. Things have been good between us lately, and I can tell she’s been hesitant to ask too much, to tip the scale in the wrong direction. But I don’t want my parents to think I see helping with Miles as a burden—because I don’t. So I give her a hug and try to say in my most reassuring voice. “Mom, go. Have fun.”
“Okay.” I see her shoulders loosen a little as she takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to help him with a bath. Dad gave him one yesterday, and for dinner, I left cash on the kitchen counter. You guys can just order pizza—”
She stops, and her head jerks around to Sam, her eyes popping out all cartoonlike. But then Miles’s laugh rattles around the room, and it’s infectious like it always is. Pretty soon we’re all joining in.
“Can we just do half pepperoni this time, though, Miles? No offense, but I’m not really a fan,” Sam says. And that just sets Miles off even more, coughing out, “That was a good one, right?” in between hysterical giggles.
Sam and Miles end up getting along great, trading jokes over our dinner of pizza (half pepperoni, half mushrooms and olives). I think a big part of it is that Sam talks to Miles normal, not in the loud and slow way that most people do—like Miles is a baby or hard of hearing. I mean, he does have trouble hearing, but that’s what the hearing aids are for. He can hear just fine with those and doesn’t need people to shout each extended syllable. Sam gets that without me having to tell him.
Also, he doesn’t wait to follow my lead with Miles. Even Caroline does that sometimes, and she’s known Miles forever. Sam, though—he laughs at Miles’s jokes without looking at me for confirmation first, and if he doesn’t understand something Miles says, he asks him and not me. They’re little things, yeah, but they mean something.
And when Miles jumps on his computer after dinner to watch Dream Zone videos on YouTube, Sam doesn’t even bat an eye at Miles’s high-pitched, war
bly voice singing along to “Baby I’ll Give You (All of Me).” Instead he pulls up a chair next to him and peers closely at the screen.
“Hey, I remember this group. Are they still around?”
“Dream Zone. They’re the best band ever. They don’t perform anymore, but they will always be around,” Miles says excitedly. “They’re going to reunite soon, right, Tessie?”
“That’s pretty unlikely, bud.”
“It could happen,” he says, eyes locked on this video he’s seen a million times. The reflection glows on his glasses.
“Yeah, never say never,” Sam agrees. “This group my mom liked way back in the nineties reunited and formed this . . . I don’t know—supergroup or something with another boy band? Anyway, they toured all these county fairs last summer. So it could definitely happen, Miles.”
“See?” Miles says, a bright smile taking up his whole face.
The video he’s watching ends and another one starts from his playlist: “Together Tonight.”
“Oh, this is Tessie’s favorite song!” Miles shouts, jumping up in his seat.
I roll my eyes. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” Miles insists. “Tessie, you looooove this song. She really does, Sam. She knows all the words and can even do the dance.”
It’s true. Caroline and I once spent an entire summer studying the music video and perfecting every jump, snap, and hip thrust.
Sam looks at me, smirking “Oh yeah?”
I consider lying. I mean, I probably would with anyone else. But something makes me decide against it. Maybe it’s knowing that Sam won’t judge me. And even if he does, well, who cares? I’m not trying to impress him or anything.
“Guilty as charged,” I admit with a shrug.
“Oh my god,” he laughs. “I need to see that.”
And that’s how I end up belting out “Together Tonight” and doing the corresponding dance moves with Miles, while Sam looks on, alternating between falling over in laughter and looking mildly impressed.
The words and the movements come back to me easily, like they’re permanently ingrained in my brain. And they probably are, with how often I used to listen to this song.
Oh, I’ve been dreaming of a night like this.
Girl, I can see forever i-i-in your kiss.
Let’s not fight, let’s turn out the light
And be together tonight.
Sometime after the second chorus, Sam jumps up and starts trying to do the dance with us—three snaps while you jump to the right, thrust, and then a spin and big step forward. He keeps tripping and he doesn’t know what to do with his long arms and he can’t stay on the beat no matter how hard he tries—and I know he’s trying hard because his face gets all scrunchy in concentration, and he’s biting his bottom lip. He looks so ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. And I know I look ridiculous too, but I don’t care. Which is weird because I always care. But there’re no flaming-red neck hives. I don’t worry if I’m being too loud or how he must see me. I don’t feel embarrassed at all. Even when I get a little too into the moves and accidentally bump my hip into his, and he reaches out to grab my waist, steadying me—I’m fine. Perfectly fine.
When the song ends, and we finally sit down, giggling and breathing heavy, Miles looks Sam up and down. “He looks like Thad. Sam really looks like Thad. Don’t you think, Tessie?”
With the tight pants and the new haircut, I guess I can kinda see what Miles means, but not really. Thad had blond hair and piercing green eyes, and he was, like, heartthrob status—the Dream Zone equivalent of Justin Timberlake. But while Sam has those same elements going on and is good-looking—objectively—he isn’t that.
“Yeah, he definitely does!” Miles insists, getting louder. “Is that why you like him, huh? Is that why you like Sam?”
Okay, maybe I’m just a little embarrassed now.
“As a friend, Miles. I like him as a friend.”
Sam looks at me—his eyes half-moons and his lips curved into a small smile—and it does something weird to my stomach. I look away.
I wake up with the faint flicker of . . . something gnawing at the edge of my brain. I haven’t had this feeling in a while, but I recognize it. It’s as familiar to me as breathing.
I see Tallulah and Thomas standing there; his hands are in her hair, her arms are wrapped around his strong shoulders, and her lips are open, poised to maybe give Thomas a response to his declarations outside the coffee shop.
But when I finally grab my laptop from under my bed (almost falling headfirst onto the floor in the process), Tallulah is still silent, her mouth gaping like Ariel in The Little Mermaid when her voice is stolen by Ursula. And then Thomas disappears entirely. And Tallulah starts to fade away too.
I stay up awhile, hoping the scene will float back into my brain, but eventually I fall back asleep with nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Caroline’s been on me to take things up a notch.
“I mean, I get that eating lunch with Nico is very thrilling and all, but that’s not the point here,” she lectures me on the phone one night. “Like, not going to lie, you’re trying to write about love here, and chatting with him over a PB&J while his girlfriend looks on isn’t even close to that.”
I almost tell her about the close calls I’ve had, but then again, what is there to tell her? “I almost wrote?” “I got an idea about my two characters . . . standing and staring at each other?” That would only prove her point.
“It’s building, though! I can feel it building. The way he looks at me . . . it’s like we have a . . . I don’t know, secret or something. Like there’s all these people on the lawn at lunch, but I’m the only one he wants to talk to sometimes—”
She cuts me off. “You’re sitting with him, yeah, but we need to get you sitting on him, do you know what I mean?” I can almost hear her eyebrows waggling over the phone.
“Caroline!” I yell.
“His face, preferably.”
“Caroline!!!” She probably can’t hear me over her giggles. Her laugh is contagious, and I can’t help but join in—even though I feel equal parts mortified and . . . fluttery.
“How long were you planning that one?” I ask when we finally settle down.
“Awhile.”
I roll my eyes and lie back on my bed, squeezed between my fuzzy reading pillow and my laptop. I still keep it there even though I’m not writing, because that’s where it’s always been, ready to take in all of my middle-of-the-night ideas. It doesn’t feel right to put it somewhere else.
“What about Halloween? It’s on a Saturday this year, and that’s basically the universe throwing you a bone, because you know your parents will let you stay out late. Has he invited you to anything?”
“I don’t know. . . . I think I might just hang out with Lenore, Sam, and Theodore. We were talking about going out to eat and then watching movies at Sam’s house maybe—”
“Boring!”
I feel defensive all of a sudden. “His house is actually pretty cool. . . .”
“Okay, yeah, but hanging out with Hawaiian Shirt Sam isn’t going to get you any closer to your happily ever after.”
“He doesn’t just wear Hawaiian shirts, you know.”
“Regardless, you are not just wasting the magic of a holiday by hanging out with Sam.”
“Is Halloween magical? I think all the Lifetime movies are about Christmas.”
“Whatever. Okay. I got some options for you.” I can hear the sound of her fingers feverishly clicking across her keys. “It looks like there’s something called Pa’s Pumpkin Patch going on in Long Beach, and they might have a Ferris wheel. Do you know where that is? Can you do a drive-by with Sam to look for the Ferris wheel, or should I call them and leave a message?”
“Caroline. Do not leave anyone a message.”
“If that’s out,” she continues, ignoring me, “then there’s also a Ferris wheel at some place called the Pike. Could you get him there—”
“What, like, lure him to a Ferris wheel? Whatever he’s doing, it’s going to be with Poppy. The chances of us being alone are pretty much zero.”
“Oh yeah.” Her voice sounds slightly deflated, and I feel it too. It’s a necessary dose of reality, though. Perfect, beautiful Poppy will be wherever Nico is. Because she’s his person.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to dress up as yet?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Not really. I don’t have my partner in crime!” Caroline and I have always been pretty big on costumes, even if our plans were nothing more than watching Hocus Pocus and passing out candy with Miles at home (she didn’t think it was so boring then). Last year was our best yet: Cher and Dionne from that old movie Clueless. I was Cher and she was Dionne because those are our favorite characters, and no one got it because I wasn’t the Black character, but whatever.
“Brandon and I can’t decide what to be. First we were thinking Archie and Veronica, but that’s probably going to be every couple at the party we’re going to. So we’re thinking maybe more obscure, like, maybe Elliot and Gertie from E.T. or that skinny guy with the sweatband and Ellen Page from Juno, but my dad will probably have a fit if I walk out of the house looking pregnant. . . .”
I kind of start to tune out as she starts to go through her list of ideas.
“Any of those sound good! You two are going to be so cute. Hey—have your parents okayed that weekend next month yet? The flight from Sacramento to Long Beach is pretty cheap, and my parents said they would pay for half of it.”
“Uh . . . yeah. It took a while, but we’re good to go.”
“Oh, awesome!” I can’t stop myself from doing a little dance in my bed. “It will be so good to see you in real life again. I’m beginning to forget that there’s a whole body attached to your voice.”
“Yep, still have arms and legs and a whole actual life going on over here.”
“Maybe you can even meet Nico. Should we start planning something to make that happen now?”