Then it feels like three million years pass before he replies. Oh wait, I can’t crash the party. I forgot my dad and I are going to a basketball game.
“Kaylan! Ryan! Dinner!” My mom yells, and I run down the stairs because I’m hungry and because right now it’s really easy to be the good one in my mom’s eyes.
“Hi, Mom.” I smile. “How was your day?”
“It was fine. And yours?”
“Good.” I tell her about Mrs. Etisof’s painting as she puts a piece of chicken and some asparagus on my plate.
“Ryan!” She yells up the stairs again. “Dinner is happening. Come down now. Or don’t eat!”
She shakes her head.
“What’s up with him?” I ask.
“I wish I knew.”
“Same.”
We’re almost done eating when Ryan finally shows up.
“There’s some chicken left,” my mom says. “Help yourself.”
She gets up from the table and starts doing the dishes.
I glare at him. “Way to join us,” I sneer.
“Way to be the most annoying person ever to live.” He stabs a fork into his chicken cutlet.
“No, that would be you.” I talk through my teeth. “You’re really upsetting Mom, you know.”
“Sorry it’s taking away from you upsetting her. The way you do every day.”
My mom turns around and throws a dishtowel on the counter. “I can hear you two, you know. I’ve had enough. I’m going upstairs. This kitchen better be cleaned up when I come down to make breakfast tomorrow.”
We hear the door close to her room and then Ryan and I stare at each other. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” His chair screeches against the floor as he goes to put his plate in the dishwasher. He stays there, his hands firmly placed on the kitchen counter, talking with his back to me. “Can everyone stop asking me if I’m okay? You guys are the ones that aren’t okay.”
“Ryan,” I plead. “Seriously, you can talk to me. Remember, we used to be friends? We’d put on concerts on the back deck. You’d play the toy saxophone. And I’d sing. Remember our lemonade stand? Remember when you dressed me up in your wrestler costumes and taught me how to do a pile driver?” I know I sound pathetic right now, listing all the memories I have, but maybe sometimes you need to sound pathetic in order to get through to people.
“Stop, Kaylan.” He turns around, finally. “Please.”
He storms out of the kitchen and up the stairs and I’m left alone with my half-eaten dinner plate.
“Guess I’m loading the dishwasher by myself!” I scream up the stairs. “You’re the worst brother in the world!”
I rinse the plates and stack them against each other between the dishwasher slats, and wonder if things between Ryan and me will ever get back to the way they were before all we did was yell at each other. I want to go back to our bike rides around the neighborhood, and searching the house for change to get an extra ice cream at the pool.
I feel like I’ve been abandoned by my brother. He won’t talk to me. He won’t even help clean up.
THIRTY-TWO
THE NEXT MORNING I LOOK for Ari at the bus stop like I do every day, even though I’m pretty sure she’s not going to be there. I overheard her telling Marie and them that her mom has been driving her. It’s not really that big of a hassle because she has to drive Gemma to Brookside Elementary School anyway. I know Gemma refuses to take the bus because she’d be the first stop and she’d be on the bus for a million years before actually getting to school and she doesn’t have any neighborhood friends to sit with like Ari did.
Jason doesn’t take the bus either since his dad literally drives by the school on his way to work. He’s offered me a ride a few times, but I’ve turned him down. It seems too stressful to have to sit in a car with Jason and his dad that early in the morning. My brain isn’t awake yet. I probably still have orange juice breath. I can’t handle making conversation.
So I take the bus by myself and try not to stress too much about it. Ryan sits all the way in the back with some kids I don’t know. Tyler’s dad has been driving him lately since Tyler overslept so many times and missed the bus.
I spend today’s ride to school thinking about the dress rehearsal for the talent show. I can’t believe it’s tonight. When I picture August 1—Agita Day—it seems like a million years ago.
My birthday will be here so soon, and I haven’t planned for it at all. I’ve been so focused on all the other stuff. I guess we’re not doing the party. Maybe I should just do something with Jason, Cami, June, and the Whatevers instead, but I don’t even have the energy to think about it, really.
It’s the saddest thing ever to think you’re going to have a joint birthday party with your best friend and then when the time comes, you’re not even talking and you don’t even have a celebration.
I’m sure my birthday will be a Carvel cake with my mom. Ryan will try to spit on it. Maybe my dad will call and it’ll be some awkward conversation, and my grandma will send me a gift card.
It won’t even be as good as the awkward sleepover I had with Brooke and Lily for my ninth birthday, right before the breakup.
I make it to lunch, and June and the Whatevers are already at the table when I get there. I open up my lunch bag to find a soggy turkey sandwich, a bag of chips, and a clementine. My mom’s lunches are really slacking lately, probably because she makes them so early in the morning and can’t think clearly.
Normally, I’d worry about something like that. But right now my mind is too crowded with other stuff.
“I can’t believe you bailed again on our Harvey Deli date,” Cami says, spreading out her lunch. “What do you even do on the weekends?”
I shrug. “I’m sorry I bailed. I had a bad headache,” I say, which is a total lie unless you count moping and getting ahead on my homework as a headache. “I don’t really do anything. Sometimes I hang out with my next-door neighbor. She’s painting something for the Boat House on Arch Island.”
“Isn’t she, like, seventy?” June laughs.
“Yeah, but old people are wise,” I say, laughing too now. “Let’s hang out this weekend. Okay? I’ll text to make a plan.”
They shrug like they don’t believe I’ll ever show up. “Can I please rehearse for the talent show right now?”
I’ll admit that I said that pretty loud in hopes that I’d get Ari’s attention. She and her crew are at the other end of the table, laughing about the lunch aides, like always.
She looks up for a second and then back down at her gross cafeteria mac and cheese. It’s kind of crazy that we’ve been at the same table for this whole fight. I’ve overheard little bits and pieces about her life—like random stories about Gemma (I miss her!) and juicy little tidbits about the kid Noah from Hebrew School—but I wish I could hear them from Ari.
I wish they were more than tidbits.
“You’re gonna stand up in the cafeteria and perform? Right now?” June shrieks. The other girls shake their heads.
“I’ll sing quietly.” I glare. “I mean, I’ve already been on TV, so I’m okay in front of crowds.”
Cami laughs. “You’re so weird, Kaylan. You know that, right?” She pauses. “A good weird.”
My cheeks redden but I don’t dwell on her comment. I think she meant it as a compliment. “Someone time me.”
June takes out her phone even though we’re not supposed to have them in school. She gets the timer ready and points to me when it’s time to start.
I peel and sing a snippet from “Here Comes the Sun” under my breath.
When I’m done, I hold up the peel.
“Ten seconds,” June says. “Wow.”
The other girls sound like a chorus of “that was amazing” and “how do you do that?” And I glance down to the other side of the table, and I swear I see Ari smiling. Our eyes meet for a second. I smile. And then she looks back down at her food.
She’s impressed. I
know she is.
Finally, the last bell rings and it’s time for the dress rehearsal. My whole body feels bubbly. If I’m this nervous now, I have no idea how I will feel when it’s time for the actual thing. I might faint from anxiety. It’s hard to know for sure.
Mrs. Bellinsky claps as she walks into the auditorium. That’s her way to get our attention. She does it in every class she teaches.
“Okay, people. Quiet. Quiet now, please.” She talks and claps. There’s a rumor that she used to be a Rockette, but I’m not sure it was ever confirmed. “I need to see people in costume. Makeup on. Instruments ready. Clap three times if you can hear me.”
We all clap halfheartedly and I keep looking at the door to see who’s coming in. Tyler’s not here yet. He’s late. Or maybe he bailed.
“I’m so sorry to say that I need to leave town next week,” she says once we’re all quiet and listening. “I have an unexpected family emergency. So that is why we are having the dress rehearsal so early.” She continues to go on and on, and I stop listening.
I have a more important thing on my mind: Where is Tyler?
Mrs. Bellinsky is still talking about decorum and behavior for the event when he walks in.
“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. B,” he yells, interrupting her. He has a crew of three other boys with him, even though none of them are in the talent show. I don’t think they’re supposed to be here.
“Tyler, be seated at once.” For some reason, when Mrs. Bellinsky is in the auditorium she thinks she’s in a real theater and she starts talking in this very over-the-top, theatrical way.
I cover my mouth so I don’t start laughing.
Tyler and his boys sit right behind me. All the hairs on my arms stand up, and it’s like I can’t get comfortable in this chair knowing he and his friends are so close. I don’t know how to sit or where to put my hands. I feel like I need to fix my hair.
I’m forcing myself to listen to Mrs. Bellinsky and not eavesdrop on their whispering. And then I feel a tug at my ponytail.
“Kaylan,” someone whispers.
I try not to turn around while Mrs. Bellinsky is talking, even though there is a boy in the row behind me calling my name. I’m a feminist. I don’t jump whenever there’s a boy involved.
At least I hope I don’t.
But then there’s another ponytail tug.
“What?” I hiss.
“Hey.” Tyler smiles.
“Kaylan!” Mrs. Bellinsky says forcefully. “Are you listening to anything I’m saying? Decorum in a theater! Turn around this instant!”
“Sorry.” I look down at the floor and mumble a “thanks for getting me in trouble” loud enough for Tyler and his boys to hear me.
When it’s time to get up and go backstage and get ready, I make sure I’m not the first one up. I might have a wedgie; I’m not totally sure. And I don’t want Tyler and the boys to notice. I want them to get up first, so I can follow behind. I keep turning my head, ever so slightly, to get a glimpse of what they’re doing.
When they’re shuffling down the row, I follow the group backstage.
My act doesn’t require a costume, so I’m just lingering about, trying to look busy and also interested in whatever the other students are doing.
“Wanna help me with my costume?” Tyler asks me, smiling a wide, over-the-top smile. He literally just appeared out of nowhere. I had lost him in the group of kids for a few minutes.
“Wait. What?” I stammer.
THIRTY-THREE
“I FIGURED YOU’D BE GOOD at helping me get my wig to look just right,” Tyler says.
“You did?” I don’t have any wig experience. But I don’t know why I am debating this right now. I should be thrilled, ecstatic, jumping up and down. But instead I’m freaking out. I don’t know how to do makeup. Or put on a wig. I mean, I guess you just put it on, but . . . and I can’t be that close to him, touching his face, his hair. I’ve never been that close to a boy before. It’s like my limbs feel extralong and out of place, like I don’t know what to do with them.
He nods. “And I need some makeup help, too.”
“Wait, why do you need makeup?” I ask. “Aren’t you just singing your own made-up songs?”
“Yes.” He eyes me like I’m a complete buffoon. “But I need a look. I can’t just, like, go up there, looking like regular Tyler. And stage lights wash everyone out! Don’t you know that?”
“Um.”
“I need to look like Alternative Tyler.” He points to his face. “That’s why I have a Mohawk wig. And I’m going to wear KISS makeup.”
“KISS?” I ask.
I take a step back because everything seems to be going really crazy right now. I didn’t know boys thought about stuff like this—stage makeup. And wigs.
“It’s a band!”
“I know,” I shriek. “But are you singing KISS songs?”
“No! But it’s part of my look.”
He’s not really making much sense. But he’s just so cute that it almost doesn’t matter.
“So. Uh.” He stares at me, waiting for me to say something. “Will you be my stage assistant?”
Stage assistant?
This is literally the most awkward conversation I’ve had in my entire life and yet I don’t want it to ever end. I am so close to Tyler right now. He’s asking me to do his makeup. And help him with a wig. A shiver shoots down my back.
He owns a Mohawk wig.
I will be forced to touch him.
Me, Kaylan. Forced to touch him, Tyler.
“So where should I sit for my makeup?” he asks.
All around us people are buzzing about—getting on costumes, putting on makeup, all sorts of stuff.
“How about over here?” I lead him to a bench in the back corner of the stage. He sits down. “Did you bring makeup with you?”
He nods and hands me a pink makeup bag. “It’s my mom’s. I think I can use her eyeliner to do the black triangle parts.”
Something about the way he says it is so sweet and funny at the same time that I completely burst out laughing and then Tyler looks embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs.
I try to apply the makeup standing up but then it’s just too weird, and I can’t get a good angle, and it all comes out blotchy. I try to follow a picture I found by Googling on my phone. My hands are shaky. We are so close and I wish I’d popped some gum in my mouth before we started. I try to back up so he can’t smell my breath, but then it gets even more messed up.
I have to start again.
“This is kind of a hard design to do,” I tell him.
“Don’t you know about makeup? Girls all wear makeup, right?”
“Um.” I bite my lip. “I don’t really wear makeup.”
I sit down next to him and take the round sponge thing (I have no idea if there’s a technical name for it) and start rubbing the concealer on his face.
I try to focus, but all I can think is: I am touching Tyler’s face. I am touching Tyler’s face.
And then, midapplication, when I’m trying to finish the side of his nose, he puts his hand on my hand. It’s not sweaty, thank God. But it’s warm, like he’d had it in a glove this whole time.
“Thanks for doing this, Kaylan.” He looks into my eyes.
This is it, I think. I know it is. Tyler Beasley is going to kiss me, right here, right now, on this stage.
I manage to mumble out a “no problem.”
And then he says, “Listen, a friend of mine is having this party Saturday night. You should come.”
Wait. So he’s not going to kiss me?
But he is inviting me to a party.
That’s something. That’s a big something!
And then I remember—the party Ryan was talking about, actually fighting about, with my mom.
“Kaylan?”
I haven’t said anything. I’ve been silent, I guess. Just dabbing his face with this weird sponge.
“Oh ye
ah.” I stop dabbing for a second and then continue. “Party. Cool.”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I step back as if inspecting my work on his face, but really I’m just stepping back from this situation a little bit.
“So you’ll come?”
I nod. “Yup. Okay, you’re all set. You look fab, Cool Tyler.”
He cracks up and then high-fives me. “Just call me Tyler.”
Mrs. Bellinsky yells out that it’s time to start the rehearsal. I don’t have makeup on. I’m not in a costume. I was just planning on wearing my regular clothes and maybe a cool scarf or something, and ya know, being myself.
At least I have my phone with some songs loaded on iTunes so I’m prepared with background music. And I brought more clementines this time.
“So.” Mrs. Bellinsky talks into the microphone and it screeches. “Sorry. Sorry. So we know that getting ready for this dress rehearsal took us a long time. A verrrry long time. We’ll need to do better before the main event. Or you’ll all need to show up the night before.”
She waits for laughter, but no one laughs.
“Anyway, let’s get started.” She calls everyone up in the order we’ll be performing but tells us she’s still fine-tuning the exact final order.
So the group of eighth graders that does some kind of fifties-style dancing medley goes first, and then there’s seventh grader Stephen Board, who plays Mozart on the cello. After that I zone out for a little while, and when I zone back in, Tyler’s making his way to the stage.
“I’d like to thank Kaylan Terrel for helping me with my makeup,” Tyler says.
“Okay, Tyler.” Mrs. Bellinsky interrupts. “Let’s get started.”
So he starts. His first song, “Uptown Junk,” goes something like, “Uptown Junk. Throw it out. Throw it out.” It’s really bad. Like, really, really bad. And then he does a parody of Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood”: “Mad Mud. We used to have mad mud. In our cleats. After soccer.”
I look around, and it seems like people feel like they should laugh, so they’re forcing it because honestly—this isn’t funny. No one in the entire world could find this funny. These parodies are dumb, and the words don’t line up with the music, and it all just feels like a mess. I’m cringing that this is happening, and that he thinks it’s so great and so funny.
11 Before 12 Page 18