You Say It First
Page 8
“Not the American Dream,” Meg protested, huffing a bit. “God, you make me sound like somebody’s crusty old grandma who’s like, Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, sonny. I’m just saying that of course I think it’s possible for things to get better—or for people to improve their circumstances, if they have the right resources and help.”
“And you’re going to help them?”
“I mean, I hope so, yes.”
“By writing letters to your congressman and spending the next four years at a college in the middle of nowhere full of people exactly like you because you’re too afraid to tell Emily you don’t want to go?”
Meg blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. “Wow,” she said, all four of her limbs gone hot and prickly. “Been sitting on that one for a while, have you?”
“I’m sorry,” Colby said immediately. “That was over the line.”
“A little bit.” Meg scrubbed a hand through her hair, feeling, stupidly, like she might be about to cry. Colby was still the only person who knew she’d gotten in to begin with—she’d been super vague every time Emily asked about it, which was basically every day, especially since other people had started to hear from schools the last couple of weeks—and she didn’t need him of all people throwing the whole thing in her face.
“I’m being an asshole,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Sure you did,” Meg said crisply. “You might as well admit it, Colby. I mean, you basically already did, so.”
“It’s just . . .” Colby sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re so smart, that’s all. And, I don’t know, you going to some expensive school you’re not even excited about just because that’s what everybody expects you to do and it’s easier than making things awkward is just . . .” He trailed off. “Like, if you actually do want to go change things, if you actually think you can, then shouldn’t you, like . . . go out there and change them?”
“You’re being extremely mansplainy right now, you realize.”
“I do, yeah.” Colby let out another sigh, deeper this time “I’m going to quit while I’m behind.” He was quiet for a moment. “Are you mad at me?”
“A little,” Meg said, squeezing her eyes shut and telling herself he had no idea what he was talking about. He was in a crap mood, that was all. He was being obnoxious.
She opened her eyes again, frustrated, her restless gaze skating over the friendly detritus of her cluttered bedroom: the framed photo of her and Emily at last year’s student council car wash, the BUILD BRIDGES NOT WALLS sign tacked to the bulletin board above her desk. She’d gotten it on her first real date with Mason, the two of them taking SEPTA into the city to go to an immigration protest down at Love Park. It had been a million degrees outside even though it was halfway through October, the midday sun beating down and her shoulders red and blistering. The back of Mason’s T-shirt had darkened with sweat. Meg kept waiting for him to complain, or suggest they take off, but he never did, not even when the all-female drum circle played for the better part of forty-five minutes. Instead, he’d gotten her a popsicle from a guy selling them out of a cooler, her hand still sticky with fruit juice when he’d taken it in the delicious air-conditioned chill of the train back home.
Mason would never question her decision to go to Cornell with Emily, she thought sulkily. Mason would never put her through the uncertainty of wondering if possibly he might have a point. She didn’t want to go to Cornell, not really. It was the path of the least resistance. But it wasn’t exactly like she had some other brilliant plan.
Finally, Colby cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, “what’s your email?”
Meg gave it to him, opening her laptop and clicking over to Gmail; a few moments later, a message from him popped up. “Click the link,” Colby instructed.
Meg frowned. “Is this, like, a virus that’s going to download a bunch of terrifying porn to my computer?”
“You think I would send you a terrifying porn virus?”
“No, but—”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry, sorry. Here I go.” She clicked it. It was a link to a streaming site that did admittedly look a little bit sketchy, featuring the very monster movie she’d wanted to see earlier tonight. He must have searched it while she was talking. Colby was actually really good at computer stuff—he’d taught himself how to use some complicated design software, and he’d just mentioned it like it was no big deal, but when she’d Googled it she’d realized it was what actual architects used. “This is totally against the law, isn’t it?”
“Oh my God.” Colby snorted. “Do you want to watch it or not?”
“Do you want to watch it with me?” she asked, and held her breath until he answered.
“Sure,” Colby said. “Why not?”
“Guess who got into Colgate!” Emily announced when Meg showed up in the senior lounge on Monday morning. She and Mason were sitting on one of the big couches, Adrienne perched on the arm with a giant iced coffee from Wawa in her hand. “Fancy Mason Lee, that’s who.”
“Mase!” Meg grinned. “Yeah, you did!” She hugged him before she could think better of it, both of them breaking apart a little awkwardly. Still, she was happy for him, she realized, in a way she probably wouldn’t have been able to muster up even a couple of weeks ago. “Seriously, that’s great.”
“You’re going to be right down the road from us,” Emily said, breaking a KIND bar in half and taking a delicate bite. “We can all meet up on the weekends, drive home together at Thanksgiving.” She leaned back and flicked at Adrienne’s coffee cup, the ice rattling. “Ade, you can come up from Skidmore all the time.”
“You realize I still haven’t heard from Cornell,” Meg lied, shifting her weight on the terrazzo. Even as she said it, she felt like a cowardly idiot—after all, she wasn’t exactly going to be able to kick this can down the road forever—but still she couldn’t make herself tell them the truth. “It’s entirely possible I won’t get in and you guys will have to go have your western New York state liberal arts adventures without me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Emily shook her curly head, all confidence. “You worry too much.” She nudged Mason in the shoulder. “Tell her she worries too much.”
“You worry too much,” Mason parroted obediently.
Meg huffed a laugh. “Thanks.” She had assumed it would make things weird in their friend group, her and Mason breaking up, but if anything, Emily and Mason seemed to be getting along better lately. Meg wasn’t actually sure if she was okay with that or not.
“So are you definitely going to go?” Adrienne asked Mason, boosting herself up off the arm of the sofa and tossing her cup into the recycling bin in the corner. Adrienne had transferred in from St. Catherine’s two years ago after all that creepy stuff had come out about their monsignor. She spoke three languages, wore her white-blond hair in an immaculate French braid every single day, and had the dirtiest sense of humor Meg had ever heard.
“I still have to hear from Fairfield,” Mason said, “but yeah, probably. Honestly, I’m just glad to be getting in anywhere. When Colgate first put me on the wait list, I started to get worried I’d get rejected from all the schools I applied to and have to, like, go work as a picker in one of those Amazon facilities where they don’t give you any breaks, so you have to pee in a soda bottle and leave it in a corner.”
Meg winced. She knew what Mason meant—of course she knew what Mason meant, even if in reality there had never been even the tiniest possibility of him not getting into college, on top of which his parents had the kind of money that pretty much guaranteed he was never going to have to work any job he didn’t like—but she couldn’t help thinking of Colby. What would he say if he heard that the most horrifying future Meg’s friends could imagine didn’t look that different from his? Not the peeing-in-a-bottle part—she hoped not, in any case—but still. “There are worse things than working in an Amazon warehouse,” she chided gently.
“Working in the Triangle S
hirtwaist Factory, for instance,” Emily joked. “Now, what are we going to do to celebrate?”
Meg tugged at her lip, wanting to contradict them. She thought she would have contradicted them, once upon a time: back before her parents split up, before fighting—of any kind, but especially the public variety—started to feel so deeply dangerous. She didn’t like this version of herself, the one who was too afraid to tell her friends when they were being sort of dickish for fear of starting an argument. The one who held a little bit of herself back all the time.
Except, of course, with Colby.
Who she couldn’t even properly defend.
“I’ve gotta go to my locker,” she said, slinging her backpack up over her shoulder and feeling like the worst kind of coward. “Congrats again, Mase.”
“Thanks, dude!” he called back, all boy-king smiles. Meg closed her eyes.
Her car was six weeks overdue for its inspection—her dad always used to take care of that stuff, back when her parents were together, and she and her mom weren’t great about remembering—and the following week Meg finally got her act together and dropped it off at the mechanic, which meant she had to walk home from school after seventh period. Normally, she would have gotten a ride with Emily, but Emily had a dentist appointment and had taken off early that afternoon, on top of which Meg had gotten an acceptance letter and scholarship offer from Temple the other day, which meant Emily had been on her all week to call Cornell and find out why she hadn’t heard from them yet. “How are you not freaking out about this?” she’d asked Meg today, over lunch at the hipster salad place. Meg had shoved a forkful of arugula into her mouth and mumbled something about rolling admissions.
The whole thing was ridiculous; it was beyond ridiculous, really.
But that didn’t mean Meg had any idea what to do about it.
She was only about half a block from school when a car pulled up beside her, its driver honking the horn a little obnoxiously. When she turned, she saw it was Mason in his bright orange Forester. “Hey,” he said, rolling down the passenger-side window. “You need a ride?”
Meg blinked at him for a second, remembering all at once why she’d fallen for him in the first place, with his messy black hair and his million different podcast subscriptions and his one crooked canine tooth because he hadn’t worn his retainer after he got his braces off. Still, as she stood there in the afternoon sunlight she was surprised to realize she could remember the not-so-good things now, too: how annoyingly competitive the two of them got about grades in the classes they shared with each other, and how he could be a little bit of a snob. Maybe Emily was right: maybe it hadn’t actually been a love connection to begin with. If given the choice, Meg thought for the first time since he’d broken up with her outside Cavelli’s, she didn’t actually think she’d want Mason back.
Still, it wasn’t exactly like she was looking forward to hoofing it all the way home, so she opened the door and settled herself in the passenger seat. “Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”
“So what’s up with you, hm?” Mason asked as he pulled out into traffic. The car smelled the same: like the inside of a Starbucks. On the stereo was Fleet Foxes, who they’d seen last year downtown. A half-eaten PowerBar she’d bought and forgotten about before spring break still nestled in the door niche on the passenger side. It was weird to think that PowerBar had outlasted their relationship. “I feel like we haven’t talked in a while.”
That’s kind of the point of breaking up with someone, right? Meg thought but didn’t say. “Just been busy, I guess.”
Mason nodded. “Avery keeps asking about you,” he confessed. Avery was Mason’s little sister, a viola player with a mouth full of braces who, improbably, had become one of the most popular girls in her grade by writing excessively overwrought fanfiction about a series of fantasy books that none of her classmates could get enough of.
“Aww,” Meg said. “Tell her I miss her, too.”
Outside her house the lawn was still winter scrubby, last fall’s dead leaves clogging up the gutters. One shutter on the upstairs window was coming loose. The garbage cans had blown over in the driveway, rolling back and forth a bit like a pair of athletes injured on the field. Meg glanced over at Mason, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.
“Yeah, no problem.” Mason took a deep breath, long fingers curling around the steering wheel like he was gathering his courage. “Listen, Meg,” he said, the words coming out in such a rush they nearly jumbled together. “You’re, like . . . good, right?”
Meg laughed a little, not entirely sure what he was getting at. “Yeah, Mase,” she promised. “I’m good.”
“I mean, you seem good,” he clarified quickly. “I don’t mean to imply—I mean, I didn’t think—I guess I just want to make sure you’re not, like . . .” He trailed off.
Meg raised her eyebrows. “Crying into my pillow over you every night?” she supplied.
“What? No!” Mason’s smooth cheeks turned pink. “Well . . .” He hesitated. “Sort of, I guess.”
Meg snorted; she couldn’t help it. “No, Mason,” she promised patiently. “I am not crying into my pillow over you every night.”
“Okay,” Mason said, nodding so hard in agreement Meg was surprised his head didn’t pop clean off. “I’m glad.”
There was no reason for her to think about Colby just then, the bluntness of his questions and the grumble of his voice in her ear. They were friends, that was all—and maybe they weren’t even that much. Not to mention the fact that they’d never actually met. And if he knew more about her than anyone else in her real life—if he was, possibly, a big part of why her relationship with Mason didn’t feel like such a giant loss anymore—well, then that was nobody’s business but her own.
“Thanks again, dude,” she said now, shaking her head to clear it. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
“See you,” Mason echoed. Meg tapped the window once with her fingernails before she turned and went inside.
Twelve
Meg
That night’s shift at WeCount was uneventful, mostly. Lillian brought cupcakes Maja had made: a pineapple situation topped with coconut buttercream. Rico’s ancient handset inexplicably started emitting a high-pitched, extraterrestrial-sounding squeal. Meg got three voters registered, though, which was a pretty good night, all told, and she was feeling sort of pleased with herself by the time she logged out of the system and headed downstairs.
Her car hadn’t been ready at the mechanic’s that afternoon, so her mom had dropped her off at work and promised to pick her up later, though she wasn’t waiting when Meg and Lillian got down to the quiet, empty street. “I can hang out until she gets here,” Lillian said, tucking her hands in the back pockets of the dark-wash men’s jeans she always wore. Intricate tattoos of vibrant plants and wildflowers snaked up both of her pale arms.
Meg shook her head. “You don’t have to do that,” she protested. She remembered this feeling from birthday parties when she was little: that faint anxiety that nobody was going to pick her up at all and she’d be stuck at Funtime Arcade for all eternity, forced to disinfect the ball pits to pay for room and board. “She’ll be here in a minute.”
“It’s cool, Meg,” Lillian said with a smile. “I don’t mind.”
“No, I know, I just don’t want you to have to—oh,” Meg said, catching sight of her mom’s Volvo jerking to a sudden stop at the red light on the corner. “See, there she is. Thanks, though.”
“Anytime,” Lillian said, holding her ring of keys up in a salute before turning in the direction of the tidy little Volkswagen she and Maja shared. “See you.”
Meg waved back, frowning a bit as the light turned green and her mom stepped hard on the gas, speeding halfway down the block before braking close enough to the curb in front of the designer home-goods shop that the front tire of the car scraped against the concrete. “Hey,” she said, opening the door and setting her bag on the floor of the passenger s
eat, then wrinkling her nose: the inside of the car smelled, not faintly, of booze.
“Are you drunk?” she blurted before she could stop herself. She’d never said the word out loud in this context before; it landed between them like a dead toad falling out of the sky.
“What?” Her mom whipped around to look at her, squinting across the interior of the car. “No! Of course not.”
“Really?” Meg raised her eyebrows, fingers curled tightly around the top of the door. “Are you sure?”
Her mom’s eyes narrowed. “You can keep the attitude, thank you. Come on, get in the car.”
Meg didn’t budge. “Mom, seriously,” she said. “How much did you drink before you came here?”
“I’m not—you’re not the parent here, Meg,” her mom informed her crisply. “I had a glass of wine at home, not that I have to justify it to you.”
“You’re lying.” Meg couldn’t believe her. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening, here on the street in front of WeCount and not in a movie on the Hallmark channel. “Mom, seriously? Give me the keys.”
“Okay, enough now.” Her mom waved both hands, like she was trying to swat away a sudden swarm of gnats. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Hey!” someone called behind them. When Meg turned around, Lillian was standing at her own car across the street in front of the real estate office, her giant key ring still dangling from one hand. “You guys okay?”
“We’re great,” Meg promised, pasting a wide, please don’t ask any more questions smile on her face. “Just headed out. See you next week, yeah?”
Lillian gazed at them for a moment longer. “You sure?” she asked, a little more quietly this time. Something about the way she said it made Meg think she probably could have told her the truth. Still, the specter of a public scene—the idea of her mom losing it in front of Lillian, or worse, at her, had Meg nodding frantically.
“Yep!” she insisted, still smiling like a maniac. “Have a good night!” She walked around to the other side of the Volvo, wrenching open the driver’s door. Her mom was a person she needed to protect herself from, she realized, and as soon as she had that thought, her eyes filled with tears. “Mom,” she said, low and urgent. “Come on.”