Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

  “Listen,” he says, looking at his hands. I look at them, too. His fingers are intertwined; I think about how my fingers would look tangled up with his.

  Stop it, Jolie.

  “I’m just gonna say it.” He looks up at me. “I broke up with Melody.”

  “What?” I feign surprise, but apparently I’m not as good an actor in real life as I was in the musical.

  “Evelyn already told you?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  I think that maybe, just maybe, we’re going to sidestep all of this and avoid talking about what’s been going on. Maybe we’re just going to ignore all of the electricity between us, the way the air practically crackles when we touch. But then, he just blurts it out.

  “I broke up with her because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I drop my can and we both watch the beer flow out onto Toby’s mom’s decorative walkway.

  “Did you hear me?” Derek asks.

  I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

  “Are you … going to say anything?”

  I don’t know what to do. Like, yeah, Right Now Jolie would love to grab Derek’s face and smash it into mine. Right Now Jolie would love to get rid of this gross beer taste by finding out what Derek’s mouth tastes like. Right Now Jolie would love to inhale his sweet laundry-and-sweat boy scent.

  But Future Jolie knows it’s a bad idea. Future Jolie knows that eventually, he’d come out of this temporary fog and figure out that he could date someone much hotter.

  I try to bite back the question that’s threatening to tumble out of my mouth, but finally I let it spill.

  “Do you only want me now that I’m going to be fixed?”

  I meet his eyes slowly, and he’s looking at me with nothing but confusion. “What?” he asks.

  I shrug dejectedly, my eyes back on the now empty beer can.

  “It wouldn’t work, Derek. Okay?” I say, tears in my eyes. “Look at you, and look at me. Doesn’t something seem off to you?”

  “What are you talking about, Jolie?” he asks, his brows knitted in confusion.

  “I mean … you’re, like, basically some Greek god. You’re all perfectly proportioned and your muscles aren’t too big or too small and your smile’s so shiny and your eyes are like museum paintings that I could stare at all day and still find new things in!” I throw my hands in the air.

  “I’m not sure I’m following you, but … thanks?”

  “I’ve looked like this my whole life.” I point at my face. “I’ve always known there’s something wrong with me. And you’ve known it, too, because you’ve looked at me, day in and day out. I know I’m not pretty. You know I’m not pretty. It’s common knowledge.”

  “Jolie,” he says softly. Just hearing his mouth say my name physically hurts me, because I’m starting to sense that this isn’t going to turn out well and I’m afraid I won’t ever hear it again.

  I pull my hands up inside my sweater’s sleeves. It’s getting chilly. “I don’t know why you suddenly think you like me, Derek, but this is a phase. Melody was, like, some Academic Challenge supermodel. That’s not me. And if you think you like me now because I’m going to be prettier after surgery … well, that kind of sucks.”

  Derek sits back. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times. Finally, he says something I haven’t been expecting.

  “What the hell, Jolie?”

  I open my eyes wide.

  “Do you get that you’re the only one who thinks these things about yourself? Like, you know that, right? That you complain about the way you look constantly, but there’s nothing wrong with you?”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with me. Thanks for the praise,” I snort.

  “What do you want me to say?” he almost yells. “That I think you’re beautiful? Would you even believe that?”

  I think about it for a second and then answer, my voice thick. “No.”

  “How many times have I told you how stupid your weird scrapbook is, or how great you are? And how many times have you listened to me?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “That’s what I thought. Look at how great you were in the musical, Jolie. Everyone loved you. You were the lead, for God’s sake. When are you going to understand that you’re the only one holding you back—”

  “You know what?” I turn to face him, suddenly full of anger. “Can you maybe not play armchair psychologist for a second? I don’t really need to hear a list of things that are wrong with me from someone who’s spent the last four years ignoring reality and hiding in a tiny, windowless room so he can talk to a bunch of people in Denmark instead of his real friends.”

  Derek doesn’t say anything. I hear a bottle break somewhere inside.

  “You think I’m ignoring reality?” he says slowly and quietly.

  “You used to have friends, Derek. Like, friends besides me and Evie, remember? And then your dad died,” I say, holding up my hands, “and I know no one’s allowed to talk about it, but you quit soccer and you stopped playing video games with all those guys. Now you only leave your house if it’s for school stuff, and you spend the rest of your time holed up in your closet or going down Wikipedia holes.”

  “Yeah,” he says forcefully. “I quit soccer, and I stopped hanging out with those guys. You know why? Because I didn’t care about soccer anymore. I didn’t care about those guys. They’re fine, but we never really had anything to talk about, and after my dad died I didn’t want to pretend I had any interest in Grand Theft Auto.”

  I chew on my lip, starting to feel like I’ve said some very wrong things.

  “And honestly, Jolie? I’m not ignoring reality. Reality is there every day, when I wake up and my dad’s not there. When I come home and he’s not there. When I see the twins and realize they’re never going to get to know him the way I did. That’s my reality. I don’t have to talk about it all the time for it to be real.”

  “Well, maybe you should talk about it sometimes instead of making everyone act like it didn’t happen,” I say.

  “I can handle it however I want!” he almost yells. “You can’t tell someone else how to deal with their dad dying!”

  “And you can’t tell someone else how to feel about her own face!” I shout.

  He rubs his hands over his face. “You want to know something ridiculous? I thought … I thought this conversation was going to go a whole lot differently. Because the whole reason I stopped hanging out with those guys is because after Dad died, I didn’t want to spend one single second of my life doing things I didn’t want to do. And all I ever wanted to do was spend time with you. I’ve liked you since we were kids, Jolie, okay? Since that playground kiss, I’ve wanted you to be my girlfriend.”

  All the air leaves my chest. Wait, what? Derek hasn’t liked me since we were kids. “That isn’t true,” I whisper.

  He ignores me. “And I never pushed it because you never seemed like you were into it, but lately we’ve been having these conversations and you keep, like, staring meaningfully at me, so I thought maybe there was a chance…”

  He looks at me and I don’t say anything.

  “But I must’ve been imagining that, huh?” he says. “All those things I thought were moments were just … nothing?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. What am I supposed to say? Maybe I do like you, Derek, but our friendship is one of the only things I can count on, and also I can’t—like, mentally can’t—even envision a reality in which the things you’re saying are true?

  I can’t say that, so instead I look at the ground and say, “This is all a mistake, okay? You’ll figure it out, and we’ll go back to the way things have always been, and it will be fine.”

  He laughs bitterly as he stands up. “Yeah, sure. I don’t think that’s going to happen. Have a great night.”

  He walks off, presumably toward his car, and I’m left alone on the steps. I look behind me to see if anyone on the porch noticed us, but they’re all drawn into their own conversa
tions. The Invisible Girl strikes again.

  That’s it. I need another beer.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I stomp up the steps and into the party. “Toby!” I bellow.

  “Yo!” he shouts.

  “Beer me!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he says, handing me a can. I drink it as fast as I can, the noxious liquid sliding down my throat. And then, when I’m done, I have another.

  I lose track of how much time passes, but eventually I find myself in the kitchen, eating handfuls of potato chips. That whole thing with Derek did not go how I wanted it to, I think as I lick salt off my fingertips. I can’t stop his words from tumbling through my mind, over and over. He’s liked me since we were kids? That can’t be true. I shove another potato chip in my mouth.

  “Jolie.”

  I spin around and see Evelyn, arms crossed, looking angrier than she did when we were in elementary school and her mom wouldn’t let her go to New York to see the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met.

  “What?” I snap, then take a swig of my beer.

  “What are you doing?” Evelyn asks. “Are you drinking? Who gave you that?”

  “What’s this, twenty-five questions?” I roll my eyes.

  “It’s twenty-one,” Evelyn says flatly. “And you can just answer one: Who?”

  “Toby.”

  “Don’t drink something a guy gave you, let alone Toby.” Evelyn widens her eyes in alarm.

  “Toby’s not dangerous,” I say, finishing my drink and throwing the can on the floor. “He’s just an idiot.”

  “Hey.” Toby comes up behind me with two beers in his hands. I grab one of them. “That’s not very nice.”

  His face does look the slightest bit wounded, but I don’t really care.

  He sees Evelyn and gestures toward her with the other beer. “You want this?”

  “I’m not drinking Natty Light.” Evelyn says this as if someone just asked her to wear yoga pants in public.

  Toby shrugs, and I grab the other can from him as I drain mine. “Fine. More for me,” I say.

  “I heard about what you—” Evelyn stops and looks at Toby. “I’m sorry, could you let us talk privately?”

  “Hey.” I throw an arm around Toby. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Toby.”

  Toby, for his part, doesn’t seem at all surprised by my sudden loyalty. He looks at Evelyn expectantly.

  “Fine.” She sighs, then looks straight at me, avoiding Toby. “I ran into Derek as he was leaving.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I lift my chin.

  “Is Derek your boyfriend?” Toby asks.

  “No!” I shout.

  “Yeah, that much is clear,” Evelyn huffs. “What the hell, Jolie? Why did you treat him like that?”

  “What are you talking about?” I take another swig. It’s starting to taste better.

  “I don’t care who you like, or who you date, or who you make out with, but you couldn’t at least let him down easy? He’s crushed.”

  A tiny shard of panic and remorse is poking through my drunken haze, so I do my best to push it back down.

  “This isn’t you, Jolie,” Evelyn says, her words swirling toward me. “You’re nicer than this.”

  I crush the beer can in my hand.

  “Whoa,” Toby says.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m tired of being the nice one,” I say. “Maybe I want to be the fun one, or the weird one, or the slutty one!”

  Toby backs away from me.

  “What is it, Toby?” I yell. “There’s nothing wrong with being slutty! Stop being such a slut shamer!”

  Toby shakes his head and whispers, “I don’t care how slutty you want to be, dude, it’s just that everyone’s staring.”

  He’s right, but I can’t stop. I don’t even care that everyone’s looking at me, because I’m confused and I’m scared and I’m starting to think that drinking I-don’t-know-how-many beers was a bad idea.

  “Maybe I’m just trying to grab life by the ovaries, Evelyn!” I shout, throwing my can on the floor and then grabbing a bottle from a dude walking by.

  “Hey!” he says, making a grab for it.

  “Do not mess with me right now, hat boy!” I snarl. He touches his hat self-consciously and backs off.

  Toby picks my crushed can up off the floor. “You’re not being very chill right now.”

  “Maybe your face isn’t being very chill,” I mutter to Toby. I can feel myself losing steam.

  “Come on.” He puts an arm around me again. “Let’s go sit down somewhere and get you some water. You’re gonna fall and hit your head on my mom’s glassware collection, and then we’re gonna have to call an ambulance and she’s gonna be mad and it’s gonna be a whole thing.”

  “I’m watching you!” Evelyn calls out as Toby asks two girls to move off the sofa (“There are pigs in a blanket in the kitchen and I swear to God they’re so dope,” he says). I flop onto it and Toby sits down beside me. We’re surrounded by people, but they all seem to be pretty caught up in their own conversations. I catch tiny fragments of what everyone’s saying and see some guy still wearing his pig costume, but I’m feeling too queasy to focus on anything.

  “Here.” Toby hands me a plate with some pigs in a blanket and potato chips. “When’s the last time you ate something? You’re gonna feel hella nauseated soon.”

  I look up at him, impressed. “You’re right. It’s nauseated. Not nauseous. Everyone says nauseous.”

  “Yeah.” Toby looks frustrated. “Just because I like to have a good time, everyone thinks I’m not smart. Like, you can call people ‘bro’ and still be in the top ten percent of your class. It’s not inconceivable.”

  He shrugs, then burps.

  “Truer words,” I say, toasting him with my bottled water.

  “So, are you okay?” he asks, leaning back on the floral sofa.

  I’m suddenly touched by how kind he’s being, and how good these pigs in a blanket are. “Toby,” I say with my mouth full. “I’m sorry I misjudged you. I shouldn’t have said you were a shallow bro child.”

  He furrows his brow. “When did you say that?”

  I keep going. “I just want to be honest, Toby. For once in my life, you know? To have a real conversation.”

  Toby nods enthusiastically.

  “It’s just … I know Derek likes me. But we’re friends, you know? Friends don’t make out! Do you make out with your friends?”

  Toby nibbles on a pretzel. “Not usually.”

  “Exactly!” I spread my arms, vindicated. “That’s all I’m saying! Like, is Derek hot? Yes. Do I want to make out with him? Maybe. Should I? Probably not.”

  Toby looks at me skeptically. “It kind of sounds like you like Derek.”

  I shake my head, my hair flying back and forth. “Nope. Nope. Nope.”

  Toby shrugs. “Okay.”

  I sigh heavily. “How are you always so happy all the time, Tobes? Can I call you Tobes?”

  “I guess.” Toby takes a sip from his water bottle. “I’m not, though. Happy all the time, I mean.”

  I snort. “What are you talking about? We’re having a party right now at your amazing house…”

  “Yeah, but … I know I should be happy that my parents are out of town because it meant I could have everyone over, but, like … isn’t it kind of weird that they skipped town on the one weekend I was starring in the musical?”

  “You’re not the star,” I remind him.

  “One of the stars. Still. It’s hella uncool.”

  I pat him on the arm. “I’m sorry, Toby. That’s not very nice. But if it’s any consolation, your parents might suck but everyone else loves you. Just look at everyone who’s in your house right now.”

  To prove my point, I shout, “Hey! Let’s hear it for our man TOBY!”

  Everyone around us cheers.

  Toby gives a little laugh and starts to look more like regular Toby, not this strange, sad, phantom Toby I’ve been getting to kno
w.

  Toby sighs as we watch someone shove an empty beer can into a potted plant. “This is gonna suck to clean up.”

  As bad as I feel for Toby and the eventual cleanup he’ll have to do, I’ve got other things on my mind. “Do you know where Noah is?”

  Toby shrugs. “He went outside for some air a little bit ago.”

  “Okay.” I stand up. “I’m gonna go kiss him.”

  Toby narrows his eyes. “Wait, are you guys, like … a thing?”

  “Not necessarily,” I say.

  “Because he hasn’t mentioned anything,” Toby says, still skeptical.

  “Okay, well,” I say, starting to lose my nerve. “I’m going to kiss him anyway, okay? Stop trying to hold me back!”

  “I’m not trying—”

  “I get it,” I snarl. “You don’t think I’m pretty enough or perfect enough. You don’t think I could get someone like Noah Freakin’ Reed to kiss me.”

  “Do you want some more water?” Toby asks. “I think you might be dehydrated.”

  “I’m not dehydrated!” I shout, even though I’m pretty sure Toby’s right. I’m getting a combo head/jaw ache from talking, singing, and yelling so much all night, and I’m pretty sure all the alcohol I just drank isn’t helping. But I don’t have time to focus on hydration right now because I know what I need to do. I turn around and stomp through the party, bumping into some guys still in their black stage crew shirts (all of them impressively solid) and one girl still in her pig makeup.

  “Have you seen Noah?” I ask a kid wearing a space helmet and no shirt. He points toward the front door.

  I know I’m walking, but I don’t even feel like I’m lifting my feet. All I know is that I have to do this now, while I have the nerve. Time’s running out. Derek probably hates me, Evelyn’s mad at me, I think I might’ve offended Toby, but who cares? If I really, seriously die on the operating table, do I want to die without having my first real non-playground, unscripted kiss? This is what I wanted, I mean want, and I’m going to get it.

  I push through the door and onto Toby’s porch. I see Noah on the lawn, staring off into the trees that line the property. He’s alone.

  “Hey,” I try to say intriguingly, but it comes out as a shout. My volume control button seems to be broken, or maybe just drowned.