Leading Lines

by Chantel Guertin

  “You look really pretty.” I give her a hug.

  “For an old lady?” She applies a light coral gloss to her lips and presses them together.

  “You’re far from old, Mom. Just wait till Hank sees you; he’ll probably have a coronary.”

  She rolls her eyes but looks pleased. “Is there punch?”

  “I think there very well may be,” I say, and we link arms and make our way to the library, which has been transformed into a sort of bazaar—there’s a candy bar, a poker table, the football team is raffling off old jerseys, the yearbook committee has set up a complicated game of Concentration using yearbook photos.

  As we’re standing in line to get drinks, a high-pitched voice says, “Holly?” and Mom turns.

  “Kathryn!” The two embrace and then Mom gets out of line and starts chatting. I look around just as Dace walks into the library with Juan. “I can’t believe you!” she squeals, rushing over to hug me.

  “Do you know how hard it was to set you two up without a phone?”

  “I love you. And I love your dress. You were right. This one is much more you. You look like a mermaid.”

  “Thanks,” I say as the bartender hands me three glasses of sparkling juice. I pass two to Dace and Juan and then take the third for myself. “You look gorgeous.” Dace is wearing a vintage dress that’s creamy white lace up top with a pale pink tulle skirt that looks fantastic with her skin tone. Her hair’s piled low on the side, a messy side-chignon.

  “Is he here yet?”

  “I haven’t seen him, but I told him to find me in the library—easier since it’s less crowded and brighter than the gym.”

  She squeezes my hands. “This is huge. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Juan tells Dace he’s going to go say hi to his friends and she nods and then turns back to me.

  “Did you talk to Ben?”

  “I feel like a jerk. But he took it really well.”

  “You did the right thing. You can’t force yourself to feel something that isn’t there.”

  “I know. Did you … find anything out?”

  “About Dylan? RFBR are on the schedule for 8:20 but Emma says the dance committee didn’t ask for names of band members, so she has no idea if he’ll show or not.”

  “I doubt he will. He was so against it.”

  “Yeah but would they really perform without their lead singer? Kind of a crap move.”

  I shrug.

  “Maybe that’s for the best. We can have a dance party fueled by too many cinnamon hearts, without you keeping one eye out for Dylan all night. Speaking of which, should we load up?” she asks and pulls me over to the candy bar. We grab cellophane bags and start scooping various pink, red and white candies into our little bags.

  “Pippa.” A voice says behind me. I turn to face David. He’s clean-shaven and wearing a navy jacket over a dress shirt and skinny tie, with jeans and ankle boots. He takes off his cap and then leans forward to give me a hug. It’s one of those loose, tentative hugs, like he’s not even sure he should be hugging me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.”

  “This is Dace.”

  Dace sticks out her hand. David takes it. “The infamous Dace.” He grins. “The top model.”

  “And you’re the noted fashion photographer,” Dace says without missing a beat. Juan comes back over, and David and I move away to talk.

  “I’m really glad you came,” I tell him.

  “I’m glad you asked.”

  I nod, and look around.

  “So, um, should we find my mom?”

  He claps his hands together. “Let’s do it.”

  “OK. Except, I actually don’t know where she is. I would text her, except, you know, no phone. Oh, but you can.”

  “Let’s be retro and just wander.”

  “Old school.” I think of Dylan. Again. We’re about to leave the library when I glance over to the far side, to the shelves of books. There’s Mom. Between two stacks, her back’s to us, but she’s standing close to someone. I shift to get a better angle just as she takes a step back and I realize she wasn’t just standing close to someone. She was kissing Mr. Alderman in the stacks.

  I turn to face David, and he looks surprised, to say the least. I’m sure it wasn’t the way he envisioned being reintroduced to Mom in person, but it’s not as though he hasn’t been party to a makeout session at a social event before.

  “Maybe we should come back later?” David says.

  “Yeah,” I say, flustered.

  We hustle out of the library.

  “You OK?” he asks once we’re out in the hall. “You seem a little shell-shocked.”

  “Yeah. That was my homeroom teacher. I mean, I knew my mom and him had history, but …” I feel like my eyes are as wide as saucers. “I didn’t really process what might happen. I’ve never seen my mom kiss anyone other than my dad.”

  He grimaces. “A little weird?”

  “A lot weird.”

  “Speaking of catching people locking lips …” He hesitates as we walk slowly down the hall. “Your mom told me that you saw me and Savida kissing at my party back in December. She gave me quite the talking-to. Totally deserved. I can only imagine how awful that was for you. I’m sorry—and believe me it will not happen again.” He looks super embarrassed and I’m super embarrassed and thank god for Dace because she comes rushing up and saves me from having to say anything.

  “Pip! It’s 8:20,” she says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. I look at David but he shoos us.

  “Go! Have fun. I’m going to wander.”

  And then Dace and I are off, rushing down the hall back to the gym. The doors are open and the familiar opening of “Where Are We Now?”—one of my favorite RFBR songs—begins. I squeeze through the crowd, trying to see the stage. There are five guys up there, but in the center, at the microphone, where Dylan should be, is someone else. Shorter. Darker skin. Longer hair. He starts singing the words I’ve heard Dylan sing so many times.

  “That is definitely not Dylan,” says Dace.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.

  “Philadelphia Greene,” Dylan says. My heart is pounding in my ears.

  “Hi,” I squeak out.

  “Hi,” he says. His eyes are warm.

  Dace raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m going to, um, well, do something else, like not stand here right now,” she says, not-so-subtly giving us some space.

  “You’re not up there,” I say to Dylan. “But you’re here.”

  “Surprising, I know, after I was all anti-reunion.”

  I offer a half-smile. “Is it weird to see—?”

  “Yeah, kind of,” he says, knowing that I mean him being here, back at Spalding. “I’ve started telling people why I’m on a break year.”

  “Wow.” My heart starts beating more regularly, but my stomach is still doing flip-flops.

  “So how are you?” Dylan asks. “Did you get …” He pauses, as though he wants to ask me something. I wait, because I’m not sure what he means. He clears his throat. “So how’s Ben?”

  “Good. I mean, I’m good. Well, I guess Ben’s good too, but we’re not … we worked on this project together,” I say, pointing at the mural, “but that’s it. I didn’t. We’re not—I …”

  I want to tell him I’m still in love with him, but I don’t have the courage.

  “You look really pretty,” he says. I can feel my face flush. He’s wearing dark denim and a white button-down under a blue check blazer I’ve never seen before. But it’s his eyes, his dimple, his lips I can’t take my eyes off.

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  “I’ve never been called pretty before,” he jokes, and I feel my face get even hotter.

  “So this.” He nods at the mural. “This is a big deal.�
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  “Thanks.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

  “Did you … ?” He pauses. “I was looking at it earlier. There’s a lot on here I’d forgotten about.” If he’s seen the photo of himself, on the steps of the hospital, he doesn’t mention it and I wonder if it’s intentional, if that means something. That he doesn’t want to bring us up? He points out the photos he really likes, and all I can think is how I’ve missed him, just being near him. His eyes, his laugh, his smile. I want to tell him that I don’t want to be broken up with him. That I want to kiss him and have his arms around me, pulling me into him. I want to smell his cologne on my clothes after being with him. I want to feel his heart beating in his chest. The rule for how long it takes to get over someone may be right in some cases, but not this one. I’m nowhere close to being over Dylan. I don’t want to get over Dylan. How can you get over someone you’re still totally in love with? I have to tell him. In case there’s even a small chance he feels the same way.

  “Hey, I was wondering where you went.”

  Muse—looking like a boho princess in a long flowy floral skirt and wispy white top, her hair all wavy with a braid along the hairline—hands Dylan a glass of punch.

  “Hi Pippa,” she says, giving me an empty smile. All of a sudden the lights are too bright, the music too loud. I blink, forcing myself to stay in the present.

  “I was just talking to Pippa about this mural. She made it.”

  “Cool,” Muse says, barely looking at it. She nods toward the stage. “These guys suck.”

  “This was actually my band,” Dylan says, looking uncomfortable.

  “Really?” Muse says, making a face. “Your music has evolved so much, DM.”

  My legs feel like they’re going to give out. I clear my throat. “Anyway, I should go find Dace. See you later.”

  Dylan nods. “Yeah. OK. It was good to see you.”

  I mean to turn and walk away first, but Dylan says something to Muse and she nods, and then they turn toward the stage, winding their way through the crowd that sways to the music, until they disappear.

  I slump against the wall, feeling defeated. Out of nowhere, Dace is there, leaning next to me. She rustles in her cellophane bag of candy, pulls one out, looks at it and gives it to me. It’s one of those pastel-colored Valentine heart candies with a two-word message on it: Love You.

  I pop it in my mouth. “Love you too.”

  Dace grabs my hand. “Let’s dance.”

  • • •

  David and I spend a while in front of the mural later, looking closely at it, studying it. He sees it as art, not just a fun alumni dance activity, like the photo booth or candy table. He talks about the lines in the football field, the light over darkness in a pic of an empty parking lot at the Spalding shopping mall.

  When we’re back out in the hallway, walking to my locker, he says, “The steps at the hospital—that one’s your memory, right?” he says.

  “How did you know?”

  He tilts his head. “I can be a good listener occasionally. Nice leading lines with the steps.”

  That captured moment in time is more than a memory to me, and the lines in the photo are more than a technique. They’re the tethers to my past—to the hospital, to Dad, to Dylan—which have led me to where I am right now. “I thought about using a different photo after Dylan and I broke up. Something that didn’t have anything to do with him. But everything else felt like a lie.”

  “I like it,” David says. “You’re not rewriting history. Memories are important, even ones that are still painful.”

  “I’m ready for less pain.” I fiddle with my clutch. David has the lowdown on the most recent Dylan-Muse situation, but I like that he’s being real with me.

  We stop in front of my locker and I spin the combination and open it, then take out the album.

  “I never really thanked you for what a great mentor you were.”

  “Occasionally great,” he says.

  I laugh. “OK, so I feel kind of guilty taking credit for this, or saying it’s a thank you for being my mentor or whatever. Because it’s more than that. And it’s also not really just my gift. It’s something Dad wanted to do for you. I just … I found it on his computer. So I finished it. I guess, just—here.” I shove it into his hands. He turns the book over, taking in both sides of the cover, then opens it slowly from the center—a trick so you don’t crack the spine.

  Then he goes through the first few pages.

  I suddenly get self-conscious. Like, what if he thinks it’s so weird, or something? “You don’t have to look at it now.”

  “I didn’t think he’d do it.” Astonishment—thankful astonishment—fills his voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I asked your father for this. Well, not for this exactly. But for some photos of you. Of your life. This was when I knew … he wasn’t doing well. I debated even asking, but I didn’t want to bother your mom with it later, but there was this part of me—I had no idea you’d come to Tisch—that thought I’d never see you, let alone get to meet you and spend two weeks with you. So I sent your dad an email, asking him if he’d share some photos of you with me.”

  David continues flipping through the album, smiling and peering in closer at particular pages. He looks up at me. “Thank you, Pippa. For coming into my life. For coming back into my life. Just … thank you.”

  Two words. Right now, it’s all I need.

  CHAPTER 22: THE DAY AFTER

  “Can we discuss Principal Forsythe’s dance moves?” Dace says over breakfast the next morning. We’re at home, sitting around the kitchen table—Mom, David, Dace and I. David slept at the Coach House Inn last night but got here around 10 this morning. Dace is here at Mom’s suggestion, as a buffer so I wouldn’t feel all, Hey, here’s me and my mom and Original/Replacement Dad, just having Saturday brunch together. But we probably didn’t need to worry—Mom and David have this really funny banter, nothing at all like her and Dad, and it’s totally chill, like we do this all the time.

  Mom’s made her famous waffles, David’s drinking coffee and Dace is popping up from her chair every few seconds to re-enact scenes from the dance. It’s typical February weather outside—frigid—but the sun’s streaming in the window and onto my skin. I look around and realize how nice this is. Mom’s in a great mood (and I can’t wait to tease her about Hank when we’re alone), and David’s heading back to New York tonight, but today, we’re going to go on a photo tour of Spalding. He’s got his old Nikon with him, and I’ve got Dad’s, and we’re going to shoot together while I show him around the town where I grew up.

  “Oh my gosh, I almost forgot!” Dace shouts, hopping up from her seat, her mouth full of waffles. “After you left last night,” says Dace a second later, “Juan and I broke into the storage room and got your phone back.” She returns a minute later with it, holding it in the air like an Olympic torch. “It’s dead.” She plugs it into the charger on the wall by the coffee maker.

  “Wow, thanks. But what about that huge poster? And how’d you get a key?”

  Dace laughs and sits back down at the table, taking a swig of orange juice. “That poster caused a huge fight. When the dance committee saw that people were ripping it up they completely lost it, but hello, what were they going to do with it after the dance was over anyway? But yeah, so that was happening, and Juan somehow got the key, because he’s a total badass—” Dace looks over at Mom, who’s keeping her opinion to herself. “Uh … I don’t really know how we got in. But Pip, your phone’s back! Haven’t you been dying without it?”

  “It was kind of a relief, actually, to not have it,” I say. Then I look toward Mom and David. “And to see how you guys possibly managed to function when you were our age.”

  My phone beeps a bunch of times as it comes to life and it’s too much to resist. I stand up and grab it off
the counter. Five days’ worth of texts materialize on the screen. I swipe to see the messages. Mom, David, Ben … all before they knew I’d lost my phone, although Dace sent several last night. Where are u? Pipster? Where arrrrrrreeee youuuuu? I look at her and she laughs. “Your non-replies are what reminded me,” she says sheepishly, but I’m already looking at the other name on the unread texts: Dylan.

  I can barely steady my hands enough to click on his name. Lines and lines of text fill the screen.

  Dylan: Favorite memory of Spalding: you.

  And then, next, there’s a photo, a selfie of the two of us from our mini-Christmas together, when we exchanged gifts at his place, in his room. And then:

  Pretty sure this is too late for your mural, and you probably wouldn’t have wanted a pic of us on it anyway. And actually it doesn’t even have anything to do with Spalding, but when I think of the school, I think of you. And I wanted you to have this photo. I’m not sure if you remember, but I took this right after we’d opened our Xmas gifts. I know we can’t get back to how happy we were then, and I know that’s not what you want, but I didn’t want us to end things as strangers. Maybe we can’t be friends. But at least know I think of you like that. And I always will.

  I stare at his words, scrolling back up and reading them again, until Dace interrupts.

  “What?” Dace says. “What are you reading? What does it say?”

  I hand her the phone. Mom and David have taken their coffees into the living room.

  “Wow,” Dace says a minute later. “When did he send this?” She scrolls up the screen. “Two days ago.” She looks at me. “Before you two saw each other. Do you think … ?”

  My eyes have filled with tears. I take a few deep breaths.

  “What does this even mean?”

  “Maybe just what he said. He wants to make amends. To leave things on a good note? So when you think of him and what you guys had, you remember the good stuff, and not the way it ended. Isn’t that better than hating him forever?”