Just Like Fate

by Cat Patrick

  “Do you want anything to eat?” Debbie asks. “I can reheat some macaroni.” She brushes her auburn hair behind her ear, such a youthful movement that I have to remind myself that she’s not that much younger than my dad. Still, she’s nothing like my mom. At the thought of my mother, I lower my eyes.

  “No, thanks. I’m probably going to watch some TV, though.”

  “Oh, okay. Maybe I’ll join you later?”

  “Sure.” I offer an awkward wave, noticing how my father’s forehead creases even though he’s pretending to watch the computer screen. I leave the room and head to the couch, falling back without even grabbing the remote.

  I’M WRITING YOU A SONG, Chris texts.

  I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. REALLY?

  UH-HUH. MAYBE I’LL LET YOU HEAR IT SOMETIME. YOU LIKE NEIL DIAMOND, RIGHT?

  I laugh. IT’S SWEET CAROLINE, ISN’T IT?

  HOW CAN YOU HATE THAT SONG??

  BECAUSE WHEN YOUR NAME IS CAROLINE, EVERYONE THINKS YOU WANT TO BE SERENADED WITH IT. ALL THE TIME.

  I’ve been hearing that song since I was a kid, from both my family and friends. Except Simone. She hates it nearly as much as I do.

  SOUNDS TO ME LIKE IT’S MORE A PROBLEM WITH THEIR LACK OF CREATIVITY, Chris texts.

  POSSIBLY. OTHER THAN THIS AMAZING SONG YOU’RE WRITING, ANY OTHER BIG FRIDAY NIGHT PLANS? The minute I hit send, I regret it. Will he think I’m asking him out?

  ARE YOU ASKING ME OUT, CAROLINE?

  I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle and then dart a look toward the kitchen, wondering if my dad and Debbie can hear my embarrassment all the way in there.

  NO. JUST THOUGHT A PARTY STUD LIKE YOURSELF WOULD BE OUT AND NOT TEXTING A STRANGER.

  I CAN BE OUT AND STILL TEXT.

  My heart dips just a little as I think about Chris demonstrating his superhuman strength for another girl. But then I think about that party, and how I left my grandmother to go there … and I don’t really feel like texting anymore. I don’t feel like anything.

  I’M NOT ACTUALLY OUT, he writes back after I don’t immediately reply. STALKING YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE INSTEAD. SHOULD I KEEP THAT DETAIL TO MYSELF?

  But I’m no longer in the mood to joke around. I look toward Gram’s picture hanging on the wall in the dining room. It’s a photo of her and my grandfather, his hand on her shoulder as they both mug for the camera. They were so happy together. I glance down at my phone and scroll the messages, wanting to talk to someone to take my mind off Gram. Realizing how much I need Simone. And remembering that even she doesn’t want to talk to me right now.

  I HAVE TO GO, I type to Chris. NIGHT.

  GOOD NIGHT. NEXT TIME I’LL CALL YOU.

  I lie on the couch, tucking the throw pillow under my head as I reach for the remote on the coffee table. My phone buzzes, startling me. But it’s not Chris. My mother is calling. I click ignore and then leave my phone at my side—pretending that I don’t exist.

  NINE

  STAY

  After our impromptu date at the fairgrounds on Wednesday, Joel turns completely cold, avoiding me in class and in the halls and just flat-out everywhere. It’s so unnerving that I become hyperaware of where he is at all times, watching for waves or glances or any indication at all that he did, in fact, have his tongue in my mouth two days ago. The funny thing is that focusing on Joel—even though he’s being a complete jerk—is somehow better than focusing on the void in my heart.

  The void Gram left behind.

  “Bad news,” Simone says when she shimmies up next to me at my locker after school on Friday. I look at her, bracing for a blow. Simone was supportive when I told her about my behind-the-scenes romance with Joel, and she said she’d run recon. So … bad news isn’t exactly what I want to hear.

  “Oh, no,” I say, leaning in close.

  She nods. “Yep. So Joel and Lauren are hanging out this weekend.” She does an exaggerated frown like one you’d draw in kindergarten. My heart sinks.

  “Well, maybe he’s going to break up with her,” I say, feigning optimism and hating myself for not just forgetting him altogether. Why do I like someone who had a zillion chances but never took one? Who may or may not like me now because I had a death in the family and he feels some sense of kismet because of it?

  “Maybe,” Simone says, then, “Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

  I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. So, hey, what are we doing tonight? We could drive to Clinton and make your brother get us into a college party. We haven’t done that in ages.”

  I do want to go visit Teddy sometime, but not this weekend.

  “I promised Natalie we’d get pedicures,” I say. “So I have to go meet her. But I’ll come over later?”

  Simone looks at me like I’ve grown horns. “You’re not seriously ditching me for your evil sister.”

  “I’m not ditching you,” I say, starting down the hallway. Simone falls into step. “And maybe lay off Nat, okay? We’re both going through the sadness of losing Gram; we get each other better right now. I mean, I know we always used to joke about her, but it’s sort of not funny anymore.”

  “Got it,” Simone says, eyes serious. “I … I’m sorry. I should’ve put all that together myself.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, relieved.

  “No, really. That was beyond lame of me,” she says. “Consider Natalie my bestie, too.”

  “Well, you don’t have to go that far,” I say, “but thanks. And I’ll be at your house by seven—I don’t want to miss greasy pizza and gossip.”

  “Don’t think for one second that you’re forcing me to listen to mopey music all night long.”

  “It’s not mopey; it’s soulful,” I say, laughing. She eyeballs me.

  “Look at you in your cute little Cons with your shoegazer music—you’re so emo,” she says, bumping me.

  “And you’re the pop diva,” I say, bumping back. “Not everyone is all ‘Brittney Banshee is the best thing to ever happen to music!’” I mock.

  “Whatever; you love her too.”

  “I like her. You love her. Like, want-to-dye-your-hair-blue-and-dance-in-rainbows-with-her love.”

  “Well, you are way obsessed with Electric Freakshow. Like, want-to-have-their-punk-rock-babies-with-fauxhawks-and-vintage-T-shirts obsessed.”

  We both crack up. Simone takes my arm and starts swinging it as we walk. “We’re so awesome,” she says, starting a round of our long-running extreme self-confidence game.

  “We’re the prettiest girls at school, and our breath never smells.” I lift my chin and straighten my naturally deflective posture.

  “We have the nicest, shiniest hair. We have princess hair!” she says, beaming and stroking her hair like Sleeping Beauty might.

  “We are the smartest girls on the planet! Anything we don’t know is worthless because we are the taste makers of … everything!”

  A girl walking in front of us turns around. “Wow,” she says, looking us up and down. “You really like yourselves.” She flips back around and Simone and I laugh all the way to the student parking lot.

  An hour later, I’ve got my feet in a tub and the massage chair on high. Natalie’s squirming in a chair next to me as a woman rubs a pumice stone over her heel: She’s super ticklish.

  “I hate this part,” she says when she realizes I’m looking at her.

  “Think of something else,” I say. “Read your magazine.”

  “I can’t focus! Distract me!” she pleads.

  “Uh … okay,” I say, trying to think of something to say that isn’t about our family; I don’t want to talk about Gram. The only other person on my mind is a guy. “You remember Joel Ryder, right?”

  “Lauren’s boyfriend?” she asks with a curled lip, then squirms in her seat. The woman tells her to hold still.

  “You don’t like him?” I ask, surprised.

  “Not him,” she says. “Lauren is devil spawn. She majorly screwed over a good friend of mine last year, and I heard that s
he’s still up to her old ways this year.”

  “Good,” I say, relieved, “because I made out with her boyfriend. Twice.”

  The cosmetologists stifle giggles. Natalie’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open, but I see a hint of amusement like she thinks it’s good gossip and not the horrifying kind. Plus she’s finally sitting still. She turns her shoulders toward me and leans in a little. “Tell me everything.”

  For twenty minutes I tell Natalie the story of Joel, from the day we met to my longtime obsession to his out-of-the-blue kiss in the auditorium to the fairgrounds to his giving me the brush-off at school. Nat is completely engrossed in the story—and I can tell by her face that she’s absorbing without judgment. Maybe we really have moved past our issues.

  When I’m finished, she sighs.

  “Okay, so first of all, let’s just get one thing straight: That guy’s a complete bag,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re a total catch! I mean, you got Dad’s tall, skinny genes—jerk!—and your hair is straight and shiny—I’ve always coveted it. Plus you’re smart and funny—you’re the whole package. He’s a loser if he’s not into you.”

  “Thanks, Nat,” I say, embarrassed. I can’t remember the last time she’s given me a compliment, let alone a whole string of them like that. She likes my hair?

  “Now, I’m not into this whole cheating thing—it’s beneath you,” she says, managing to sound more friend than parent. “But I’ve heard gossip about Lauren’s exploits at school; the girl’s not exactly a one-man woman if you know what I mean. So, don’t feel too guilty about her.” My shoulders relax a bit before Nat adds, “But seriously, Coco, cheating—whether you’re the cheater or the cheatee—only makes you feel bad about yourself.” Her eyes hold mine so intently that I think she might have experience in this area. I want to ask whether she’s been cheated on, but she keeps going.

  “What you need to do is get Joel to tell you how he really feels and then move on from there,” she says. “If he was just looking for a hookup, then fine, you can get over that. There’s a cute guy in my Spanish class I’ll set you up with. But if Joel really likes you—and if he’s going to break up with Lauren—then great.”

  “Thanks. I really … it’s nice to talk to someone about this stuff.” I pause, considering, and then I just go for the sentiment. “It’s nice to talk to you.”

  “I wish it didn’t take Gram dying to force us into hanging out again,” she says with a sad smile. “But I’m glad we got here one way or another.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  The massage feature on my chair stops abruptly, and I reach over to restart it. I look back at Natalie, thinking that I might tell her I love her, but she’s already reading about the latest celebrity breakup while the pedicurist paints her toenails bright red. So, I leave it alone for now.

  “Can I tell you something, and you promise not to judge me?” I ask later at Simone’s house, just before taking the biggest bite of pizza known to man.

  “Shoot,” Simone says, distracted by a magazine she’s flipping through.

  “I’m embarrassed about the whole Joel thing,” I say, lowering my eyes. “Both that I fell for his tortured soul routine and the fact that I’m super sad that he didn’t leave his plastic girlfriend for me. I’m a horrible person, right?”

  “Not nearly as horrible as I’d be.” She grins. When I don’t laugh, she throws her arm over my shoulders in a side hug. “Linus, you’re easily the nicest person I know. Joel fed you some lines—lame ones, but whatever—and you believed him. I’m pretty sure that makes him the jerkoff in this scenario.”

  “I guess,” I say. Simone pulls away and grabs her own slice of pizza. “Before Gram died,” I start again, “she told me to be careful of who I love, to not let them take too much.”

  “Gram was a smart lady,” Simone says through a mouth full of food.

  I smile. “Yeah. She was. She also told me to not let a bad choice ruin my life. Does Joel count as one of those?”

  “Definitely.”

  I nod, thinking it over. I’m not in love with Joel, even though I’ve dreamed of him for years. But if it can still hurt this much, I can’t imagine how much real love must suck.

  “You know,” Simone adds, “I’m reading an interview in Rolling Stone with the lead singer of Electric Freakshow, and he said he wrote their last song about the whole concept of choices and where they lead.” She smiles. “Maybe Gram read that same article.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure River Devlin was a huge source of inspiration for her.”

  “Anything’s possible.” When she leaves to grab us Cokes, I feel unsettled. Because I can still hear the sorrow in Gram’s voice when she said, “Never let them take what’s you.”

  I resolve at that second to end this drama with Joel, to stop sneaking around, to stop waiting for him. I won’t let him take what’s me. So later that night, after the room falls quiet with only Simone’s soft snoring in the air, I sit up, throw off the covers, and use my phone to guide me out into the hallway. Then, I type, without thinking, what I need to say to him.

  IT’S CRAP THAT YOU IGNORED ME FOR TWO DAYS. WE NEED TO TALK—OR ACTUALLY, YOU DO. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

  I hit send before my rational side realizes what’s happening. After it’s gone, I go back and reread the text—that’s when the worrying starts. I stare at my phone for a full two minutes, willing it to chime.

  He’s with Lauren—of course he’s not answering my texts.

  Spending time with Natalie and then Simone must have pumped me up enough to harden my heart—even a little—because although I’m aware of the taste of rejection in the back of my mouth, I’m happy that I sent the message. At least he knows what’s on my mind. At least he knows I’m not some pathetic wimp. Maybe I dodged a bullet here.

  I creep back into Simone’s room and climb under the air bed covers. And this time, I fall asleep.

  When I wake to Simone’s mom’s heels clicking on the hardwood floors at seven the next morning, I stretch and yawn and smile at the ceiling—it was a peaceful rest. But my blood pressure rises when I tap on my phone: At two in the morning, Joel wrote back. It’s just one word, but it sends shivers down my spine—and in the light of the new day, my girl power faded from sleep, I’m not sure whether they’re the bad or the good kind.

  YOU.

  NINE

  GO

  Saturday evening, I’m loading the dishwasher when my phone rings from the counter. My stress level climbs as I lean over and check the caller ID, worried it’s my mother, who I haven’t spoken to, or wondering if it could be Chris, who has yet to actually call me.

  When I see it’s Simone, I swallow hard. I never called her back after our last conversation. My hand is actually shaking when I bring the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Mony,” I say, trying to sound like everything’s fine. She’s quick to squash that lie.

  “Oh, hey,” she responds with fake peppiness. “Guessing you’re not coming out tonight—seeing as you’re not here. But that’s okay. I’m getting used to you bailing.”

  “The party.” I close my eyes, remembering that I agreed weeks ago to show up at Alan Fritz’s annual October bash. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot; I would’ve—”

  “Would you have, Caroline?” The hurt is thick in her voice, and although I know it’s my fault, I’m not sure what to say. “You said you were moving to your dad’s to deal, but all I know is that you seem to have cut me out of your life. I’m drowning here without you. I—” She chokes up, and I lower my head, feeling horrible for how I’ve been treating her.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Don’t you see that that’s the problem?” she asks, her voice picking up a higher pitch. “You never fight for anything. Stand up for your goddamn self and fix things.”

  Her words tick me off, maybe because I know they’re partly true. “You sound like Natalie.”

  “Yeah? Well, at least you
r sister isn’t leaving her friends to live in some guilt-free fantasy world.”

  “It’s far from guilt free,” I snap back. My father pokes his head in the room, surveying my stance at the dishwasher before retreating back into the living room.

  “Staying there isn’t going to make it better,” Simone says. “I wish you could just see that.”

  I’m silent for a long time, and Simone waits. I almost expect her to hang up on me, but then I remind myself that Simone would never hang up on me. And she’d never cut me out of her life. Not for anything. I let my anger roll away, shove it away, so that I can claim back a little bit of myself.

  “Do you still want me to go to that party with you?” I ask. “I’ll drive back right now.” I realize that I mean it.

  “No,” she says, her voice softer. “Alan’s lame anyway. But maybe you can call more often. Or at least acknowledge that you still care about me.”

  “Mony, you’re my best friend. I’ll come home tomorrow, okay? We’ll … we’ll go out for fro-yo or something.”

  She laughs, and the sound of it makes me smile. “Bribing me with frozen treats?” she asks. “You know the way to my heart. Speaking of heart, I thought you should know that Joel Ryder has not only been asking about you, but that he and Lauren have ended their star-crossed romance. Looks like he’s wide open for you.”

  I wait for a flutter, a tingle, anything to happen. But my heart is calm. “Actually,” I say. “I think I might be over him.”

  Simone’s gasp is long and dramatic. “You little minx. You’ve met a boy, haven’t you?”

  I lean against the granite counter, grinning as I tell Simone the details of my random encounters with Chris. She’s riveted, enough so that she forgives me for being a coward. If only I could forgive myself.

  Simone makes me promise that tomorrow will be just us—no other friends or hot guys—and that I have to re-create my entire life through charades so she doesn’t feel left out. When I agree, we hang up.