Well, That Was Awkward

by Rachel Vail

  The randomness of that idea stopped me from crying, because: what? Why would I care if it rained on my wedding day? I was five. I didn’t even care about, like, later that afternoon. But also, whether I cried or didn’t one day when I was five years old would affect weather patterns years in the future? Was I a superhero? I controlled future rain with my emotions?

  I had learned a song about the rain cycle at Hollingworth Preschool that year, and it hadn’t mentioned anything about me. Did other people know about my superpower?

  When the adults got distracted by the first guest ringing the buzzer, I smashed my face down into the cake. I really wanted the whole thing for myself, and that was my plan. It wasn’t a good plan, I realized, while my face was still three layers deep.

  So I waited there, head inside the cake, thinking maybe this would stop happening. I was scared that I would be in serious trouble as soon as I looked up.

  But eventually I needed to breathe, so up I straightened. I saw Mom laughing instead of yelling. I was so confused. She thought it was hilarious. She was too busy taking pictures of me (blinking, waiting with tight knees to get hollered at, frosting coating my eyelashes like fairy-goo mascara) to even consider punishing me.

  Since then, I haven’t cried on my birthday (or really ever), even today in the belly of the ferry, with all my friends sitting on benches silent and glum, and Dorin chattering my ear off. Successfully avoiding wedding-day storms!

  In case I eventually get married. Some people don’t, obviously. And realistically, what’s my shot at walking down the aisle in a poofy white dress if nobody ever texts me things like:

  AJ: Hey, so, you wanna be like going out? With me? It’s fine if you don’t.

  Which is what AJ texted Sienna, from Emmett’s apartment where he and Emmett and the other boys were changing out of their wet clothes into some of Emmett’s dry ones before coming back up to my apartment for pizza and cake.

  Sienna held out the phone for me to see what he’d written.

  “Wow,” I whispered to Sienna. Silently I vowed, despite everything, not to face-plant into my cake this time.

  The girls who had come back to my apartment all gathered around to see what had happened. We covered our mouths and held in screeches and hopped around like my floor had turned into burning coals.

  “Everything okay?” Mom called from down the hall.

  We stopped, hands over mouths, frozen like the gargoyles on the building up the street, our eyes all bugged out.

  “Yup!” I yelled. “Fine!”

  “What do I say?” Sienna whispered.

  “Do you want to?” I asked her.

  “I guess so,” she said.

  “So, say ‘I guess so,’” I suggested.

  “No!” Riley said. “Gracie! She can’t just . . . I guess so? Do you have a concussion?”

  I had to laugh. “A concussion?”

  “What should I say?” Sienna’s eyebrows were so scrunched, her forehead looked like a traffic jam. “You guys!”

  “Say okay,” Beth suggested. “Casual. This is so exciting! Ben asked me out last night, so now there will be all these couples for graduation parties!”

  “If any of you last,” Riley said. “Just saying: graduation is still a full month away.”

  “Way to be positive,” Beth said poutily.

  “Or say yes,” I told Sienna. “Yes is good.”

  “Not too formal?” Sienna asked.

  I shrugged. As if I were some kind of authority on how to respond when a boy asks you out. Too bad Michaela had to leave early. She and David were going to a concert with her grandparents.

  “Yes is fine,” Beth said.

  “Or maybe ask if he has a concussion,” I suggested. “That’s hilarious.”

  “Gracie!” Ilaria shrieked. I was surprised, because Ilaria rarely speaks at all. I always forget she and Jo exist outside of math class. They were sitting together on my bed. How random that I even invited them.

  “Everything okay?” Mom asked again. “I’m making popcorn!”

  “Awesome!” I called back.

  Sienna unlocked her phone to reread the ask, and then looked pleadingly at me.

  “Say yes,” I whispered. “It’s okay for it to be a little formal. It’s a big deal.”

  “Or maybe just say okay,” Dorin suggested. “Okay is a good compromise.”

  Riley rolled her eyes, as she had at every syllable Dorin had uttered all day.

  “Okay is good,” I said. “Okay is perfect.”

  “One plain, one pepperoni, one mushroom and olive?” Dad yelled down the hall.

  “Great!” I answered. “And garlic knots!”

  Sienna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her phone cradled in her hands.

  “Of course! Double order!” Dad yelled back.

  When Sienna opened her eyes, I whispered to her, “Or how about: Sure. That’s more confident but also less formal, you know? Like, sure.”

  Riley nodded. The other girls nodded. We had a treaty. Hallelujah.

  Sienna typed: sure. “Should I add any kind of emoji or anything?”

  “Nah,” I said. “I think simple is better.”

  “That’s true,” Jo said from the bed. Still there. “For most things.”

  “Okay,” Sienna said.

  “Hit send,” I said. I could hear the popping start in the pot on the stove—one, two, waiting for the third to pop . . . There it went. Mom was pouring in the rest of the cupful of kernels and then adding some butter, which was sizzling on top. The lid clanked on. Mom really does make the best popcorn. We had two minutes until she’d call us to come eat it.

  “Are the boys on their way up?” Mom asked.

  We all grinned at one another. “I guess!” I yelled. “Soon!”

  Sienna was holding her phone, staring at her sure text in its little rectangle, until the screen went black and she had to unlock it again.

  “Hit send,” Beth whispered. “And you’ll be going out with AJ!”

  “You do it,” Sienna said, thrusting the phone at me.

  “Me?”

  “It’s your birthday,” she said.

  “So?”

  “And that way we’re, like, more in it together,” she said.

  Leave it to Sienna, who is the most awesome, to include me instead of taking the spotlight for herself in this most romantic moment of her life.

  I put my hands on top and slowly lowered my thumb toward send. “You sure?” I checked, hovering a millimeter above it.

  Sienna’s eyes met mine, and she smiled, all calm now. “Sure,” she said.

  So I hit send, and just like that, Sienna and AJ were going out.

  25

  SO MUCH BUZZ, HOW DID MY PARENTS NOT NOTICE?

  Ten minutes later Emmett and AJ and the few other boys who hadn’t bailed already came back upstairs. It was a huge commotion. Luckily the pizza came fast, and it was all a big blur of everybody grabbing slices and chomping away. Well, not Riley, because, she told us, a slice of plain pizza has 285 calories—also, fun fact, a bagel has between 245 and 500 calories. She hasn’t eaten a single bagel since she was ten, which the rest of us all thought was tragic. “How do you live in New York City and not eat a bagel in four years?” Emmett asked her. “How is that not grounds for eviction?”

  “I think it might be,” I agreed.

  “You have to run five miles to burn off one dry bagel,” Riley said. “Just saying.”

  The calorie announcement didn’t slow most of us down, pizza-wise, though probably some of us would have had at least one or two more slices if she hadn’t said that about how many calories. It’s like when they list the calories in Starbucks—maybe you end up getting the salted caramel cake pop for 180 calories instead of the cranberry orange scone for 420. You still get something. St
amp out world hunger, starting with my grumbling belly, but the calorie count, man. Sucks all the fun out of things.

  Then Mom brought out the cake, which was so pretty. Everybody sang “Happy Birthday.” I blew out the candles. I did not face-plant. I managed to wish for a long happy healthy life for myself and everybody I love instead of Please let cake have zero calories or even Make him like me instead.

  Those of us unafraid of (or just fully over) calories because, birthday cake, enjoyed the nice big slices Dad cut and served us. People handed me their bags and boxes and gift-card envelopes as they put their shoes on and said good-bye. Most of us are allowed to just go home independently, even though it was almost eight p.m.

  “Phew,” Dad said, gathering up pizza boxes, paper plates, and plastic cups to bring down to the basement.

  “Yeah,” Mom said, yanking the trash bag out of the bin and replacing it immediately with a fresh one. “I’ll come down with you.”

  Then the only ones left in my apartment were me and Sienna, and Emmett and AJ, who was sleeping over at Emmett’s. The four of us alone together never would have been awkward before, but now, well. We couldn’t talk. We looked at Lightning sleeping in her bin for a minute, and then I decided to open my presents, as an activity. Sienna’s was a whole stack of stuff, so I started with that. There was a book about taking care of Russian tortoises and a copy of Cyrano de Bergerac, which we saw with my parents at the Vivian Beaumont over February break and we both said we should read afterward but we didn’t, and also a toddler toy of a stuffed tortoise that lights up and shines little stars on the ceiling for an hour while you fall asleep. In the card taped on top were two certificates from her parents, one a one-hundred-dollar donation in my name to firstbook.org, and the other, one hundred dollars to turtleconservancy.org.

  Wow, I love her whole family so much.

  But I tried not to go on and on about it, because obviously that would make Emmett and AJ feel bad. I didn’t want to open their gifts right after that, so I opened the one, beautifully wrapped, from Riley, Michaela, and Beth. It was a set of three bracelets from Somebody and Somebody. (What are their names? I think they both start with A, but I have to make sure before I send the thank-you note.) I had to origami my hand to squeeze it in. Still, they are very pretty once on. I didn’t feel too much like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters in front of my three discouragingly slim friends, there, trying to smoosh into a too-small shoe, getting those bracelets on, no worries.

  Dorin’s gift was a log. Well, half a log, hollowed out.

  “Okay,” Emmett said. “Sort of random, but cool—who wouldn’t want half a log?”

  “It’s for Lightning,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, I’m sure she’d share.”

  “Maybe I could use it when she’s napping,” I agreed. “When I’m feeling loggy.”

  Sienna and AJ were smiling tensely, not talking.

  Emmett’s gift, in a big multicolored bag full of yellow tissue paper, was a hat. It had a wide brim, a big red feather, and a nylon see-through top.

  “From the guy we love on the corner?”

  “Who else?” Emmett said.

  “So perfect,” I said, showing it off to everybody. “Is this the most hilarious hat you’ve ever seen? I love it!”

  “You guys are so weird,” Sienna said.

  “I think it’s the best hat he had,” Emmett said. “But there was also a lime-green fedora, so . . .”

  “No, this is the clear winner. The air-cooled top? This feather? Come on.” I plopped it right onto my head and let everybody, including Mom and Dad, who were up from the basement, snap pictures of me.

  AJ gave me a twenty-dollar gift card to Starbucks. Which is totally great. It is. Forget what I always say about I will never give a gift card as a present because it’s completely impersonal and just sad. I’ll definitely be happy, buying treats there for myself. And maybe for friends! Who even knows! I slipped it into my wallet.

  “I wasn’t sure what to get you,” he said sadly. It was adorable.

  “This is awesome,” I said. “Seriously. And just my size! See how well it fits?”

  He was blushing. Yikes. I had to look away.

  We decided to watch The Incredibles because, why not, and nobody had any opinions or preferences. Sienna and I flopped down onto the couch. Emmett and AJ sprawled on the floor. Mom and Dad watched with us for a few minutes, sitting in chairs, but then went to their room.

  I don’t think AJ and Sienna said one word to each other or even made eye contact, including when we said good-bye and the boys went down the stairs to Emmett’s, but still, obviously something major had changed. There was so much static electricity in the room as we watched the movie, I’m surprised the TV didn’t conk out and the birthday balloons hovering over my leftover cake on the table didn’t attach themselves to our heads.

  26

  THE MORNING AFTER

  By the time I wandered down the hall from my bedroom the next morning, Lightning was already munching away at her plateful of salad. Mom and Dad were watching the Sunday political argument shows, which they call the talkies, on TV. Dad’s hair was damp from his post-run shower, and bagels still warm from Absolute were covered with the Shakespeare tea towel in the big blue bowl on the counter. I peeked underneath it. Yes. A salt bagel was plunked right on top.

  Dad smiled when I said thanks.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said. “What a horse’s patoot!”

  “Me?”

  “What?”

  “I’m a horse’s patoot?”

  “No,” Dad said, his eyes dragging away from the TV. “This—ugh. Are you listening to this bankrupt excuse for a boneheaded foreign policy?”

  “Trying to,” Mom said.

  “Trying not to,” I said.

  “Where are my glasses?” Dad said, his favorite question. They were beside the bagel bowl, so I brought them to him. He only wears them for movies and the talkies. But he can never find them. Sometimes he’s already wearing them.

  A diabetes medication commercial came on as Sienna wandered down the hall in what she always wears when she sleeps over: my softest too-huge-for-her purple flannel pajama pants and so-old-it’s-practically-silk, inherited-from-Mom Springsteen concert T-shirt. “Talkies?” she asked.

  Mom was pouring boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. “They’re in rare form today,” she answered. “Gonna need a lot of tea.”

  Sienna laughed. She’s used to my parents and how enthusiastically angry they get at most of the talkers on the talkies. It’s the only time anybody ever sees my parents mad—in front of the talkies, Sunday mornings. I sampled a cucumber slice from the plate loaded up with freshly arrayed cukes, red onions, tomatoes, lemon wedges, and a small pile of capers (eww, but Sienna and my dad like them) on the side. We’re good at Sunday, my family; Sienna always says so.

  “Are the boys coming up for brunch?” Mom asked me.

  “Oh,” I said, scoring a slice of Havarti from the cheese plate. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “There’s plenty if they want to come,” Mom said. “Daddy got whitefish and salmon and Tofutti and scallion cream cheese.”

  “I couldn’t remember which you said Sienna likes!” Dad protested.

  “I like anything,” Sienna said.

  “See?” Dad said. “I love this girl! She likes everything! So that’s what I bought!”

  Mom laughed. “She didn’t say everything! She said—”

  “I could text Emmett to see if they’re coming up,” I said. “Or . . .” I turned to whisper to Sienna. “Or you could text AJ.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “Nah.”

  “You sure?”

  Sienna held out her phone in her palm like she was her eighty-seven-year-old great-grandmother, Abuela, unsure how such a thing might work, afraid
it might explode like a grenade in her hand if she did it wrong.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You do it,” she whispered. “I can’t. You text him and pretend you’re me again.”

  “It’s on,” Dad said.

  “Seriously,” I said.

  “Hmm?” Mom asked me as she went over to sit next to Dad on the couch, carrying fresh mugs of milky tea for each of them, both psyched, their glasses on, ready to get happily furious at the people arguing about incomprehensible world events.

  “Nothing.” I took Sienna’s phone and pressed my thumb onto it, since we have each other’s thumb prints set to unlock our phones. I went to the texts and scrolled through all last night’s texts from “Sienna” to AJ and from him back to “her.” Well, from him to us, but he didn’t know that. It started about ten minutes after AJ and Emmett went downstairs after The Incredibles, just twelve hours earlier.

  Sienna and I both smiled, rereading them. Wow, I thought. We went on and on, didn’t we?

  In person AJ is a little shy. I used to think he was definitely nice but a little boring (except for his eating style). Turns out by text he’s way funnier, and more random. We had gotten into a weirdly natural and hilarious rhythm, me and AJ. We had texted back and forth for over an hour, even after Sienna started losing interest. She started watching a Planet Earth episode about lakes on my computer, and falling asleep. But AJ didn’t know that. He doesn’t and can never know it was actually me he was flirting with, while he was picturing my adorable though sleepy best friend.

  I read all the way through our long text conversation, right through to the end where, after a few minutes when I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, AJ texted: you asleep?

  me (on Sienna’s phone, answering honestly sort of if I was supposed to be her): yeah

  AJ: Drat. I can’t fall asleep. I’m already thinking about what to eat for breakfast. I’m hungry all the time lately.

  me (still as Sienna): me too! my favorite kinds of lakes: