by Nina LaCour
“Is this on speaker?”
“Just a second. Now it is.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“You remember your SAT workshop starts tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I want you to get the most out of it.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Kate, how did you do on your SATs?”
“All right.”
“Where are you going for college?”
“UCLA.”
“Oh,” she says. “Wow. And what class are you in with Mark?”
“Calculus. I got into their art program. There was a portfolio review, so the SAT scores matter less. But they were fine; they were decent.”
“Maybe you could help Mark this summer.”
“Mom.”
“Vocabulary drills, maybe?”
“I’d love to,” I say.
“Mom,” Mark says.
Becca sighs.
“So what do you think?” I ask. “We don’t even have any plans. We’re just enjoying the energy. It’s extra celebratory this year. Any chance we could get an extension on the evening? Just a few hours?”
“Normally I would say no to this. It’s already so late and you snuck out, Mark.”
“You snuck out?” I shake my head at him in mock disappointment.
“Sorry,” he says into the phone. “You know. Desperate times? Or something?”
“Wait,” she says. “Where’s Ryan?”
“He, um…” Mark is searching for an answer and I don’t want him to get himself into even more trouble by covering for his sometimes-secret-boyfriend, other times heartbreaker-of-a-best-friend. But it’s his call, not mine.
“He’s asleep in the back,” he finally says. “It’s just Katie and me awake now.”
“Okay. You can have a little more time. But only if you stay together.”
“I’m the ride,” I remind her. “So he’s stuck with me.”
“Two hours from now at the latest. And that is firm.”
Mark’s jaw drops.
“Awesome. Thanks so much, Becca!”
“Okay, Kate. Come around the house soon so we can meet in person. Mark, have fun and be safe. I love you.”
We hang up, and Mark says, “Two hours from now? Are you my fairy godmother? Is this Jeep actually a pumpkin? I didn’t even know my mother was capable of establishing this kind of curfew. I wasn’t sure this hour was a time she knew existed. Like, maybe theoretically she knew, but I certainly didn’t think she would know from experience, like from actually looking at a clock and seeing that it was this late and she was still awake.”
“Don’t underestimate your mother.”
We both look out at the city. All of those lights, all of that darkness. I touch one of the rose’s petals. Violet is out there, somewhere.
“So,” Mark says. “I’m pretty sure you’re babysitting me.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but that’s definitely the impression I got.”
“That’s kind of fucked up. Thanks, Mom. Thanks so much.”
“Well. Desperate measures, I guess.”
“So what now?” he asks, and right then his phone lights up.
“The photographer?”
He nods.
“He’s at a friend’s party in Russian Hill.” He turns to me and swallows, a grin spreading across his face. “He gave me the address.”
MONDAY
5
MARK
It takes a day for it to hit. I guess people are tired or something.
But when it hits, it hits.
By Monday morning, it feels like everyone in school has seen. Or at least the people who care about such things. Which includes Ryan.
The blog—the gossip one that everyone reads—calls me an It Boy. The life of the party.
This is open to interpretation. Some of the interpretations include:
I never realized how hot he is.
I heard he’s on drugs.
He must be dating that photographer.
He must be sleeping with that photographer. After all, they’re both gay.
You’d never guess that such a quiet guy parties so hard.
It’s too bad he isn’t straight—I’d date THAT in a second.
Even I can acknowledge that the photo’s amazing. I can say this objectively because I can’t really believe it’s me.
Everybody wants to know the details about what happened or what didn’t happen to It Boy and Rising Art Star.
I don’t know if Ryan finds the link on his own or if someone forwards it to him early Monday morning, knowing we’re friends. I do know, however, exactly when Ryan first sees it, because a few seconds later I get a text from him:
WTF? I think there are some things you have to tell me.
As if he’s told me anything about his weekend. As if I heard from him at all on Sunday.
I’ll see you at school, I text back.
But at school it’s not Ryan I’m looking for—it’s Katie. It’s so strange to think that she’s been here the whole time, walking the same linoleum halls, without me ever really knowing her. I wonder if she’s a member of the GSA, or if there are invisible pockets of lesbians who meet in empty classrooms throughout the school, under the radar of gay boys who are too caught up in their own drama to notice. I myself have never been to a GSA meeting, partly because it wasn’t something I could do with Ryan and partly because I usually had practice at the same time.
I guess Katie and I have formed our own rainbow alliance. It feels like she’s something I’ve always wanted but didn’t know I wanted until I got it: a partner in crime.
In all the craziness of Saturday night, I didn’t think to get her number and put it in my phone. I don’t even know where her locker is. But when Sara Smith comes up to me and says, “You two. Wow, you two,” I know she isn’t talking about me and Ryan. I ask her if she’s seen Katie, and she points vaguely over her left shoulder, which is enough to guide me.
Katie looks to be at the same level of surprise I am—something short of shocked but far past surreal.
“This is insane,” I tell her. “I mean, the plan was to get to Ryan and Violet. But now everyone else is a part of it. Sort of.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Sort of. Have you heard from her?”
“No. Just Lehna. Who’s livid. She actually called me ungrateful.”
“Did she ask you what really happened?”
Katie shakes her head. We swore that we would only tell them what really happened if they thought to ask.
We’re betting on the fact that they won’t. And living on the hope that they will.
“May I make a confession?” I ask, even though I would never say such a thing if I didn’t already know the answer was yes.
“Please,” Katie says.
“I would just like to state for the record that I wish you could stay at my side all day, so we could go through this together. Whatever this ends up being.”
Katie looks at me with what I think is amusement.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just that you’re such a softie. I never would have called that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re on the baseball team? Because we’ve never said three words to each other until this past weekend? Because, in general, I’ve gotten a bro vibe from you whenever I’ve seen you in the halls.”
“You’ve seen me in the halls?”
“You see, that was more the kind of comment I would have expected you to make. A small masterpiece of handcrafted obliviousness, delivered with sincerity.”
She’s saying this, but she’s not saying it critically. I think.
She looks at my expression and chuckles. Then she pats me on the arm.
“Don’t worry. I’d love for you to ride shotgun with me, too. But I’d also like to graduate, and that makes class attendance m
andatory. I’ll see you in Calc, though. Think you can fend off the paparazzi ’til then?”
“I guess I’ll have to get used to having my picture taken.”
She gives me another brief pat on the arm, then heads off to first period. I feel a little more alone without her, which is strange.
I catch some people looking at me during Spanish, but mostly it feels like things are returning to normal. But then second period is study hall, and that’s where I know I’m going to see Ryan. It’s one of the parts of the day that I’ve always designated as our time—all we have to do is tell Mr. Peterson that we’re going to the library and he’ll let us leave; the fewer kids he has to watch over, the happier he is. Sometimes Ryan and I ask for permission at the same time, but mostly we space it out. He doesn’t want it to seem like we’re running off together. And as long as the end result is us running off together, I never mind.
It isn’t completely out of the question for us to head to the library. We’d sit across from each other, and the tension there made everything—even a pencil sliding from my side of the table to his—seem powerful and ours. Other times, we’d break free from the building and walk through the woods or the playing fields. If it was absolutely quiet—if there was absolutely no one around—I could usually get him to make out with me a little. And when it was done, he’d smile and start talking again as if nothing had happened, as if other people were around, even when they weren’t. Everyone knew we were friends, so we acted like friends. But that’s never what it felt like, not if I was being honest with myself. I wanted him more than that. I needed him more than that.
By the time I get to the room, he’s already got the pass in his hand. He winks at me and steps into the hall. I go to Mr. Peterson and ask for a pass of my own. He actually questions me about why I need to go to the library. Of all days, why do you have to start being skeptical now? I think. But I also answer quickly, invent a report on Sylvia Plath that I’m researching. He grunts at the mention of Sylvia Plath, as if she’s an ex-girlfriend of his. But he lets me go.
Ryan is waiting just outside the doorway, just out of Mr. Peterson’s line of sight. He looks eager to see me. And, despite everything that happened Saturday night, this eagerness makes all my hopes feel a little more justified.
“Well well well,” he says, smiling and shaking his head. “It looks like both of us had nights to remember.”
If he were just my friend, I would smile back at this. I would be curious. I would want to know everything.
But I don’t want to know what he means. And I can’t think of any way to tell him that.
From the direction he starts walking, I know we’re headed to the cafeteria, not the library.
“Taylor told me—he said that when he saw you dancing on the bar like that, he knew you’d have no problem finding some trouble. I was a little worried, when I saw you weren’t in the club anymore, but he told me you’d be fine. And then, you know, he was kissing me, and I didn’t worry as much.”
“Taylor was the one with the tattoos?” I find myself asking.
Ryan nods. “Yeah. Some you could see. And some weren’t apparent until … later.”
I don’t want to know what this means. I have to know, but I don’t.
“But holy shit, me getting to know Taylor is nothing compared to you partying it up at the Facetime Mansion. Do you know how many of my favorite authors hang out there? Please tell me Zadie Smith spilled her drink all over you.”
I try to give him my best Mona Lisa Smile. His question, in my mind, doesn’t count as asking. He’s not asking to hear about me. He’s asking to hear something that would reflect back on him.
We’re at the cafeteria now, but instead of going outside like we usually do, he steers us to a table. No one is around, except the staff starting to put lunch together.
“I have to tell you, Taylor was awesome,” he says as he sits down—but not before double-checking that even the lunch ladies can’t hear us. “I promised him I’ll be there for the real Pride Week festivities, now that kickoff is over. So we have to go back. It is absolutely imperative that we go back.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” I say.
“I owe you my life for covering for me. I don’t know what you told your mom, but it worked—she didn’t rat me out. I didn’t get home until about three o’clock on Sunday, and I was sure my mom was going to be waiting in the front room with this huge magnet, and she’d make me watch as she fried my phone and my laptop. Or she’d make me read only James Patterson until I left for college. Something really cruel like that. But she wasn’t even home! She’d left me a note—Hope you and Mark had a good night. I’ll say we did!”
He is happy for me. I remind myself that he is happy for me.
The first time something happened between us, I wasn’t expecting it. We were in his basement, playing some game that was half racing and half mortal combat. I was handing his ass to him, and he wasn’t taking it too well. The bloodshed on the screen started to spread into the room. I’d slam his vehicle into a ditch and he’d poke me in the ribs. I’d crash into his vehicle’s side and he would use his body to crash back into me. Finally, the fifth or sixth time this happened, I threw down my controller and attacked full on. Laughing and shoving, ducking and pushing and yelling out hyperbolic threats. Before I knew it, we were rolling on the floor, and he was on top of me, and we were still laughing, but there was also something serious in the way he was looking at me, and something serious in the way I was feeling that look. He had me pinned, and then he eased up a little, settled down a little. And now it was something else. I had wanted it for a long time but had never imagined I would get it. I kissed him first—I know I kissed him first—but it didn’t feel like I was kissing him first, because I was only confirming what I had already seen, what I suddenly knew. We kissed, and it was awkward afterwards, awkward when we were sitting up again, awkward when our minds had to give what we were doing a name. I thought it was the end of the world, but it wasn’t. I thought it was the start of the world, but it wasn’t. Instead it was an introduction to the halfway world where we’d spend the next two years.
And now … he’s so excited, he’s practically beaming that we didn’t get caught, and I don’t want him to be happy for me.
I want him to be happy with me.
But I don’t know how to get there. I’ve never known how to get there.
“I swear,” he goes on, “I had no idea how much fun that was going to be. Leave this place behind and try something else on for size. Or someone else, ha ha. You know how I am. More than anyone, you know how I am. So I’m sure you can appreciate it when I tell you that you have one hundred percent won me over.”
“To what?” I ask.
“To adventure! To the city! To pride, ha ha.”
I know I should be asking him more about his night. But the best I can do is, “So you told Taylor you were in college?”
“Nope. I told him the truth. How weird is that? And even weirder? He skipped kindergarten, so he’s only a year older than me. Not that he was looking for someone from high school. Honestly, I think he made his approach partly because he saw me with you and was sure you had to be in college to be on the bar like that. You wild man, you.”
He’s being playful, even appreciative. But it feels just as crummy as snarkiness would.
“You know what?” I tell him. “I almost forgot. I actually have to go to the library. For this report. About Sylvia Plath.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll have a Plathora of material for you,” he says. I get up, but he doesn’t do the same.
“You coming?” I ask. I still want to be with him. I just don’t want to be talking about his weekend right now.
“Nah,” he says, taking out his phone. “I’m going to stay here and chat a little with Taylor. He was texting me during first period, but Ms. Gold’s ruthless when it comes to phones in her class.”
I should leave him to it. It shouldn’t really matter. But
it matters. Some pride in me won’t allow me to pretend it doesn’t.
“So are you two, like, together now?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “Because we’re texting? Are you with Katie Cleary now because you went to a party together? It is what it is, and I don’t know what it is yet. I’m just trying to get to the point where I see if I can find out. ’Til then, it’s just flirting.”
“And what about us? Do we just stop?”
He looks at me, genuinely mystified, and says, “Stop what?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”
I walk away before I can say anything else. I wanted him to be the jealous one. But now I’m the jealous one. The jealous and confused one.
I head to the library because I can’t think of anywhere else to go. I wish I knew where Katie was. I wish there was a way I could text Ryan and have him be as excited by that text as he’d be by one from Taylor.
Dave Hughes, a guy from the team, sees me walk into the library and waves me over. I wonder if he’s going to ask me about the party and the mansion, but it ends up he’s just being friendly. He asks me how my weekend was. I tell him it was fine. He clears off some of his stuff so I can sit down. I put my head down and try to sleep.
“Good ol’ Monday morning,” Dave says.
I nod on the desk.
“It’s gonna get better,” he tells me. Because that’s what people say.
I am already mapping out the rest of the day. Usually lunch would be the next significant part, because that would be the next time I’d see Ryan. But now I’m not sure. I’m thinking I should skip it. I wish Katie had the same lunch period as me. But I’m going to have to wait until sixth period to see her.
I hope she’ll have better news than I do.
6
Kate
When we were little kids, Lehna and I painted a mural in my garage. It’s a fairy-tale scene, a little too Disney for my taste now. There are towers and dragons and a multitude of girls with long hair. There’s a prince, but I swear the prince is really a girl in disguise. I’ve never seen such a delicate boy. In the sky, hovering over a castle, is my name. On the other side, over one of the dragons, is Lehna’s. It’s that simple. No and, no friends forever. Just this: