by Jen Klein
“You’re the one who told me their names!”
“—and screwing up my good thing because you didn’t know how to have one of your own. Picking the biggest freak show around—”
“Ardy’s not a—”
“You won.” Cooper is too far gone for logic. “You got him to lose his shit. Good job, well done.”
“He didn’t—”
“That means it’s over. Just let me be with Ian.” Cooper stops, hands still on his hips, breathing hard. “But you couldn’t do that. You screwed up your own love life, so God forbid I be happy with mine.”
We stare at each other. I’m horrified knowing that my mother is somewhere close-by, hearing all of this. A sinkhole is growing beneath me, and my whole life is falling into it. I start to say Cooper’s name, but it’s too late. He’s already storming away. I follow him to the front door, but he yanks it open and is gone before I can sort through everything I need to say. I stand there staring out into the darkness and trying to gather my thoughts before turning to face my mother.
She’s sitting in the uncomfortable green chair, pretending to read a book. She sets it down so she can look at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I really don’t.”
“Okay.” She closes her book, standing up from her chair. “But so you know, friendships go through changes. It’s totally normal, especially for people like you and Cooper, who have been friends for so long.”
I know what she’s trying to do, and I appreciate it, but she really doesn’t get it. “Thanks.” I just want to be alone. “I’m going to bed.”
“Okay. Good night, sweetie.”
Which should have been the end of it, except then Ardy Tate stalks out of my room. He didn’t escape through the closet to the back of the house after all. By the look on his pale, clenched face, I know he heard every word Cooper said. “Sorry,” he manages to grit toward my mother. “I know I shouldn’t have been in there. I won’t do it again.” He shoots an angry, hurt look at me. “I promise.”
And then he’s gone, too.
Leaving me standing there. It doesn’t matter that my mother is right beside me. I feel completely and terribly alone.
I’m grounded, probably forever, and it’s perfectly fine with me. Grounded means I can exist in only three places: Home. School. Wheelz.
That’s it.
And that’s okay.
At first Katie is happy about my situation with Ardy and Cooper. “Good riddance to both of them,” she says. “Does that mean you’ll start coming to parties with me again?” I remind her about the grounding, and that puts an end to that. “But when you’re sprung from prison,” she says, “I get you back.”
The first few days at school, I basically only see the tops of my shoes. That’s where I keep my gaze focused when I’m walking. When I’m in class, I stare at my desk or the teacher. I know Ardy’s there in English, over in his corner with Hope, but I don’t look at him. I do everything I can to not see him anymore. To not see anyone. This is where all my knowledge of secret make-out places comes to good use. In between classes and at lunch, I can hide in the computer-cart storage room, or the back corner of the library, or that mostly-empty janitor’s closet on the third floor.
Cooper’s at school, of course, but he literally walks in the other direction when he sees me. I tried calling him later that night, but he hasn’t called me back. It’s killing me because he’s the person I would normally run to so I could talk through everything and figure it out. But each time I get a glimpse of his icy-cold face, I know he’s too furious. Too far gone. It’s way too late.
I’m so bound up in my own sadness that it takes me a day and a half to remember Hope and our previously budding friendship and the fact that she’s going through her own painful breakup with Evan. I take a detour past the French room when I know she’ll be coming out, ripping my eyes from my shoes long enough to scan the hall. I’m in luck, because Hope is coming straight toward me. But she veers, heading into French class without saying a word.
It only makes sense. If Ardy’s told her any part of it—the game, my plans to win by hurting him—it’s no wonder she’s over me.
I’m over me, too.
Even the perfect rooms at IKEA don’t help.
* * *
A week into the new hell that is my life, Leo is late to meet me after school, which means I’m at the flagpoles much longer than I normally would be. Thus, when Ardy ambles out the front doors and we make eye contact, both of us freeze, staring across the wide expanse at each other. My heart aches at the sight of him, so familiar and yet somehow new again after this time apart. After a moment I half raise my hand, an awkward attempt at a greeting. He doesn’t return the motion. He doesn’t do anything but stand there, looking at me for a long, long moment, until he abruptly turns and walks back into the school. I presume he’s going to find another way out.
I want a way out, too. Before I can convince myself otherwise, I send him a text:
I’m so sorry.
I wait, staring at my phone. Nothing happens. So I send another one:
It started as a game. It didn’t end that way.
Still nothing. I try again, three messages in a row:
Let me explain.
Please talk to me.
Please.
Flickering dots appear on my screen. Ardy is typing. I wait, holding my breath, desperate for communication. For acknowledgment. For anything.
The dots disappear, then flicker back into existence, then disappear again. This time they stay disappeared.
He’s not talking to me.
Later that night I try again, this time with a message online. Finally—finally—my phone buzzes with a text from him:
Stop.
And then with several other texts, all in a row:
I don’t want to block you.
I know what that feels like.
But please stop.
No minute is long enough.
* * *
Another week passes, and I learn through the grapevine—and by grapevine, I mean Katie—that Hope’s newly exed ex-boyfriend, Evan, is going to the Not-Prom with Sara Ball. I like Sara okay—she’s a ballet dancer and science-decathlon leader who’s had a tough go of it because of her last name—but I hate it for Hope.
I can’t help but wonder: What does this mean for Hope and Ardy? They’re simultaneously available for the first time in years. Is all of this—my terrible judgment, Cooper’s treason—a way of making their stars align? Is the big romance of my life story not even about me?
The Spring Fling Thing is on the horizon, and it’s all anyone talks about. Except me. I don’t talk about it, because I’ve stopped talking at all. Since I was always either with Cooper or Katie or some boy behind a computer cart, no one else ever expected me to join their conversations, so now no one notices that I’ve stopped being a part of them. I’m just the girl sitting at a desk or walking through the cafeteria, hearing what people say but not being included. An exile of my own making.
At home Mom and Dad are also talking Not-Prom plans because, of course, it’s being held at Wheelz. One evening when I emerge from my room for dinner, I’m shocked to find both of my parents at the table. Leo hasn’t been called down yet, apparently so the three of us can have special time together. Mom, like she’s giving me some great gift, bestows upon me an “ungrounding” for that night.
“It’s fine,” I tell them both. “You don’t have to do that.”
“We know,” Dad says. “But we don’t want you to look back and regret not going.”
I don’t tell him that of all the things I can look back on with regret, the fake prom won’t even make the list’s top ten.
“Besides,” Mom chimes in, “it won’t look good for Wheelz if our own daughter isn�
��t there.”
“Trust me,” I tell them. “No one will notice if I’m there or not.”
“We will,” Dad says.
“Just because things didn’t work out with one boy,” Mom says, “it’s no reason to stop living your life.”
“Please don’t,” I say. This is not a conversation I’m willing to have with her. With either one of them. I cross my arms and wait. Mom and Dad exchange glances.
“For real.” Mom’s voice lowers, becomes serious. “You are going because we want you to leave this house and start acting like a human again.”
“Going to the stupid school’s stupid Not-Prom won’t change anything.”
“We’ll unground you for real,” Dad says. “Not just for the party.”
“I like being grounded.”
“You’re going,” Mom says. “The only thing left to discuss is what you’re going to wear.”
“Clothing isn’t supposed to be part of the equation,” I remind her. “No dresses, no tuxedoes.”
“I know, but surely people are doing something to make it special.”
I stay silent. Yes, I’ve heard people at school discussing wardrobe options. The consensus seems to be on designer jeans and blingy earrings. Sure, no one’s going to wear a ball gown, but everyone will put their own stamp on the night. Their own way of making it special.
Not me.
I don’t want it.
But it looks like—in all areas of my life—what I want doesn’t remotely matter.
I try to leave the house in cutoff sweatpants and a tank top, but both my mother and Katie insist that I change clothes. It’s easy for me to ignore Katie’s text instructing me to put on something cute, but it’s harder to get past Mom. I consider fighting her on it but decide I don’t have the energy. I end up in denim capris with rips along the thighs and a white peasant blouse. Mom would love it if I’d wear heels or a skirt, but I remind her they’re not particularly conducive to go-kart racing, and she gives in. What I don’t say is that I have absolutely no plans to race. Or to play games or dance or participate in any way whatsoever. I’ll make an appearance long enough for my parents to feel like I haven’t ruined my senior year or their establishment’s reputation, and then I’ll bail.
The Wheelz parking lot is already packed when I arrive, but I manage to squeeze my tiny car into a spot. As I’m wiggling out, I notice Ardy’s minivan across the pavement. I do a quick scan for Hope’s car but don’t see it. Did they carpool?
Or…did they come together and it’s not about carpooling?
Ms. Perkins is stationed at the front doors, I assume to prevent people from going in and out to drink in the parking lot. The rule here is, once you leave the party you can’t come back. Also, our parents get a text when we leave, so there’s no sneaking out and running around town unsupervised while they think we’re at the party.
When I enter, I’m bombarded with a late-nineties pop song. It’s way louder than my parents usually pump the music. It drowns out the sound of the karts whizzing around the track, as well as the ever-present beeps and whistles of the video games.
Dad is managing the track. There’s a long line for it, which is a good thing—it means people are excited to race—and a shorter line for refreshments. I wave at Leo and Mom behind the counter, fervently wishing I could trade places with them, and then I check the clock on the wall. Nine o’clock. I purposefully arrived an hour after the party started, and I plan to just as purposefully depart several hours before it ends.
There’s a big group off to one side. Although some of them are bopping their heads or weaving back and forth a little, Cooper is the only one who is truly dancing. As I watch, he grabs J’shon Frederic and pulls him into some moves.
God, I miss Cooper.
The other person I miss like breathing is with Hope. They’ve scored two trackside stools and are perched there, heads bent together. The sight of Ardy makes my breath catch in my throat, especially since he did dress up for the event. At least kind of. Sure, his jeans are ripped across the upper thighs, like mine, but he’s paired them with a crisp white collared shirt and a black blazer. He looks both dashing and rumpled at the same time, and the end result breaks my heart.
“Stop it.” It’s Katie, arriving at my side. “Distract yourself with a new boy if you have to, but I cannot allow you to stand and stare. It’s a cringeworthy offense.”
I nod because it’s too exhausting to explain that I truly do not care if I’m engaging in cringeworthy behavior.
“Come on.” She grabs my arm. “All the delinquents are in the party room.”
I allow her to drag me across Wheelz, noticing Sara Ball as we skirt around and past smaller groupings of people. Surprisingly, Sara seems to be joined at the face to Deondray Enos. “I thought she was—” I start to say, but Katie interrupts me.
“Yeah, everyone thought she and Evan were a thing.” Katie rolls her eyes. “Evan thought so, too. Karma, right?”
The lights are off in the party room, and even though there are fluorescents right outside, it’s dim and hard to see. I squint through the shadows, finding Tilly Thompson and her twin brother, Tyler, whose parents must be worse than mine; at least our last name doesn’t start with L, too. Omar Taylor, Carrie Wright, and Evan are with the twins, all sitting at a table in the back corner. Evan waves us over, and Katie and I pull up chairs.
“What’s shaking?” Katie asks the table.
“We hate the music,” Carrie says.
“Be nice.” Tilly points at me, a reminder that my parents own the place.
“Sorry,” says Carrie.
“I’m not the deejay,” I tell everyone. “Go request something.”
“Meh.” Omar shrugs. “Too much trouble.”
Tyler pulls out his phone. “I’ll deejay for this room. What do you want?”
“Anything but country,” Katie says.
“I like country,” Carrie replies.
While the others start arguing about music, Evan nudges me. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I respond.
“How’s Hope?” he asks.
I turn to look at him, disbelieving. “You didn’t get the memo.”
“About you and Ardy breaking up? I heard that….Oh.” Evan nods, realizing. “He got Hope in the divorce. Makes sense.”
Sure does.
Evan doesn’t say anything else, but I turn to follow his gaze out the room to the trackside stools where Hope and Ardy still sit, still together.
Evan shakes it off, turning back to the group. “Let’s play a game.”
Typical Evan.
“Like what?” Katie makes a face. “Did you bring Monopoly?”
“Something more interesting,” he says. “Spin the bottle?”
Tyler and Tilly immediately shake their heads. “You don’t play that in a room with your brother,” she says.
“I thought we were playing ‘Never Have I Ever,’ ” Carrie says, holding up her lidded cup from the concession stand.
“Shh!” Omar hisses, nodding his head toward me.
My eyes narrow, realizing what he’s warning against. I jut a hand toward Carrie. “Hand it over.”
“Dude…” It’s a protest, but she gives me the cup anyway. I slip the straw between my lips and take a long pull. Yep, it’s what I thought: her soda’s spiked with some sort of alcohol.
“Be cool,” Evan says to me.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Katie tells him. “Her parents own the place.”
“All the more reason to actually have fun,” Evan says.
“No way,” I say, and watch everyone’s faces fall. “If we get busted, we’ll get in trouble, but my parents could actually lose their license. You can’t drink here. It falls into the category of not cool.”
“Not cool is this dumb Not-Prom,�
�� Carrie says.
“It’s not like we can go somewhere else,” Omar says. “And—no offense, Lark—this is the last place I want to be tonight. My parents made me come to bond with my classmates.”
“I know what you mean,” I tell him. Carrie raises her cup to her lips, but I give her a stern look, so she lowers it. I look at Evan, but he’s staring at Hope and Ardy again. Since I cannot handle being a part of that, I turn back to everyone else. “I can get us outside,” I say, and watch their faces light up. “There’s a fire exit in the back. It has an alarm, but I know the code to turn it off.”
“My car’s a block away,” Evan says. “We could hang out there.”
“In your car?” Katie asks, skeptical.
“Trust me,” Evan says. “It’s big.”
If Cooper were here, he’d say “that’s what he said.” But he’s not, and that hurts. And I don’t trust Evan, but I trust myself and my ability to be at the same party as Ardy even less…which is why we all end up sneaking out.
* * *
I wouldn’t use the word car to describe Evan’s vehicle. It’s more of a behemoth: a giant silver land yacht with leather trim and three wide rows of seats. Evan starts off in the driver’s seat but quickly realizes he’s impeded by the steering wheel, so he switches to the passenger side. Katie and I are piled together in the captain’s chair behind him, with Tyler next to us and Carrie, Tilly, and Omar in the backseat.
It’s been only thirty minutes since we crept out the fire exit, and already things are getting raucous. Unsurprisingly, Carrie wasn’t the only one spiking her drink. Slightly more surprisingly, there’s still quite a bit to go around. Evan had two fifths of rum in the glove compartment and another two in the trunk. “Where did you get all this?” I ask him.
“Doesn’t hurt to have older siblings,” he tells me.