Sam’s grin is dubious, but I can tell he’s considering it. “I think you’ve finally lost it, Gretch.” But he’s coming closer. I’m coming closer, too—until we’re hovering, his features growing blurry. His lips part. I feel him let out a breath. I close my eyes.
And then I feel . . . a mouth.
And spit.
Sam’s spit and mouth.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring back at me. We hover, our gazes locked, each of us searching for confirmation, I think, from way way too close.
At once, we break apart. And now I can’t seem to stop shaking my head.
Sam hasn’t blinked yet. “That was . . .”
“Bad,” I say, the word like a tiny exhale.
“Honestly?” he says, still looking completely dazed. “I felt more chemistry when my great-aunt kissed me at Christmas.”
“I’ve had steamier nights at home with Ben and Jerry,” I say.
I watch as a little smile starts to pull at his lips, our breathing audible against the sudden quiet. I guess the CD ran out.
Abruptly, I start to snicker, prompting Sam to choke out a snort. The fit overtakes us almost instantly—peals of slaphappy, stomach-stitching laughter. Like some kind of giddy, deranged cleanse.
After a minute, we stretch out onto our backs on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.
“Holy shit, that just happened,” I say, actual tears now dripping down my face.
“Yep,” says Sam, still panting a little as he turns to me. “Although . . . no it didn’t.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say. “That never happened.”
“Never,” he says.
“Oh wow,” I say to the ceiling, muscles relaxing into the cool wood. My whole body floods with a strange sort of joy, and I erupt in one last weird little giggle. “I can’t believe how relieved I am. Are you relieved?”
“I’m relieved,” he says through an exhale, his hands on his ribs.
“We should have done this weeks ago,” I say. “It’s kind of funny, after all that. . . . Poor Ethan. I’m embarrassed to admit I . . . kind of talked his ear off about you.”
“You didn’t,” says Sam.
“Yep. About you and this other guy, Jeremy, from the club. But that was also a nonstarter. I guess it’s what happens when you open yourself up to romance. You overthink everything, waste a bunch of air, and in the end, nothing even comes of it.”
“You don’t really believe that,” says Sam. “For all your TV-yelling during rom-coms, I’ve caught you swooning just as often.”
“It’s true.” I sigh. “What can I say? I love love.”
“I can’t believe you talked to Ethan about me.”
I shrug. “He’s such a chill guy. I’m sure he didn’t really mind.”
“Okay, but . . . you realize he’s totally into you, right?”
I turn to him. “What?”
“He’s actually been a little funny around me lately,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Which I guess makes more sense now that I’m hearing this.”
“No . . .” I say, frowning. “You’re obviously wrong. Ethan doesn’t . . . He’s like everyone’s favorite person. And I’m a total grouch.”
Sam is clearly amused now. “I don’t think I’m wrong, Gretch. I’ve got a good sense for these things. And you’re not always a grouch. Anyway, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
I sit up. “Oh no . . .”
Sam sits up too, wincing slightly. “Not into him, huh? It’s the hair, right? Little mullet-y?”
“Shut up, I like his hair,” I say, laughing. “I like . . . a lot of things about Ethan. It’s just . . . shit! I’ve been blabbering about my boy problems to him for weeks.” I palm the top of my head, remembering. “Oh God . . . He was the first person I talked to after I kissed Jeremy!”
Sam seems impressed. “Look at you juggling boys.”
“Uh, I am an empowered modern woman,” I tell him.
“But you said it’s over with that guy, right? Was it another zero-chemistry situation?”
“Actually, no,” I say. “There was some . . . definite sizzle. But there was also, like, no there there, if that makes any sense. Plus, he’s a douchebag.” I shake my head, thoughts snapping back to Ethan. “Seriously, how did I miss this? Now I feel like a douchebag.”
“You’re not a douchebag,” says Sam. “You and Ethan are friends. And I think he enjoys being your friend. I just think he’d . . . also enjoy making out with you.”
I feel my cheeks go crimson.
“What’s this?” says Sam, grinning and gesturing to my face. “What am I seeing here?”
“I don’t know!” I say defensively. “I’m processing!”
He smiles, getting up. “Well, while you process, want to help me close?”
“Sure,” I say, heaving out a breath. I go over to a pile of yoga blankets in the corner, refolding the ones that weren’t done right. Sam straightens up a stack of bolsters on a shelf, then darts out to the front desk to shut down the computer.
“What are you going to do about Natalie?” I call out. “I feel I should warn you. She has pretty much given up. . . .”
“But she did like me?” he says hopefully, walking in again.
“She did,” I say, misting plants with a spray bottle, then popping out to the front to get the ones in the window. “And if you do win her back, you’ll be in the same city next year.”
“Right,” he says as I pass him in the studio again, stashing the Swiffer in the closet. “That could be good. Really good . . .”
“I can’t believe you aren’t going to live here anymore,” I say, turning around.
His shoulders slump. “Me neither. Will you visit?”
“Of course,” I say. “Though you may have to share me with Annika, since she crushed her Juilliard audition and is totally getting in. Maybe we can all meet up. We’ll get pizza.”
“And feel happy for each other,” he says, grinning. “I was just watching that Marnie James set the other day.” He pauses, noticing my face. “What?”
I laugh. “Just . . . we have a lot to catch up on.”
Twenty-One
Plan-Making Time | Set your targets. Commencing Mission Happily Ever After.
When I reach our lunch table today, Annika is—wait for it—poring over her sheet music. “Huh,” I say, sitting down across from her. “I always sort of assumed you’d mellow out when the audition was over.”
“I assumed that, too,” she says curiously, closing the folder. “I think this might just be my natural state of being.”
“When do you hear?”
She sighs. “Not for a little while.”
“Hey, Gretchen,” says someone walking by—the modern-dance kid I got a quote from at the Berwin game last week. I wave to him, right as one of the lacrosse girls gives a quick nod in passing.
I noticed it happening the day after the game, too, and this pattern of acknowledgment seems to be persisting. In fact, that gossipy model UN girl I met last week caught me in the bathroom this morning and basically talked at me the whole time I was washing my hands. I guess there’s some big beef now between Albania and Sierra Leone. Meanwhile, the musical theater guy I interviewed is actually in my art history class, and earlier today, as our teacher clicked through pasty boob-out ladies on the overhead projector, he turned around to invite me to an open dress rehearsal. So that’s on the calendar.
I don’t think I’ve made any new best friends yet, but I’ve already felt a change walking the halls between classes. I haven’t gone skin-crawly once today. And I’ve felt . . . lighter. Literally lighter when Pilsner saw me coming after second period and legitimately picked me up, twirled me around, and gently set me down, just because he felt like it.
Now, as I look around the cafeteria, I feel something like appreciation for this place, which I guess is strange for me. I actually feel excited to get back to work on the yearbook. I hope we can capture all the shades of Carlton High this time, all the quir
ks and characters that make it interesting.
As I unwrap my PB&J, Deb from the Mathletes walks by and waves. I wave back.
“Okay, what’s happening here?” says Annika, eyeing me skeptically. “Something’s different.”
“I guess I’m trying to get better at . . . people-ing?” I glance around at our backpack-barricaded table. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh no, that’s good. I wasn’t going to say anything, but I mean . . . I’m not going to be here forever.”
“You better not forget about me,” I say with a warning stare.
Annika breathes in through her teeth. “I don’t know. The oboe fame could go to my head.”
I laugh and look past her, suddenly catching eyes with Ethan from across the room. He smiles my way for a second, then turns as Grody says something on his other side.
I remember to exhale, rattled now. Somehow Ethan and I haven’t run into each other yet today, and all the waiting is making me weird. I still haven’t decided how I want to act around him, or what I should say. If Sam is right, and I’m just the dum-dum who didn’t see the guy who was right there all along, well, then, I’m . . . definitely flattered. In fact, stealing another glance at Ethan now, I feel my cheeks grow stupidly hot again.
But I don’t know. At the risk of sounding like Amber in one of her Instagram captions: I think I need a little me-time right now? There’s still so much clutter in my head. And I have things to work out—big things.
After I got back from Sam’s last night, I went up to Hen’s room, and caught her and Carmen up on the latest developments. They seemed to especially enjoy the story of our kiss that did not happen, both of them giggling like schoolgirls as I, okay, fine, kind of hammed up the details for their amusement. By the time we all went to bed, I was practically on a cloud. I started thinking about how good it feels to make people laugh, and how that rush is probably the closest I’ll ever get to a hit of hard-core drugs. As I began to drift, Sam’s words started rattling around in my head. It was like . . . there you were, the exact person I’m always wishing you’d let other people see. And for a second, I wanted to cry.
Why has it always been so hard to let people see?
What am I so fucking afraid of?
When I look back at Annika, she’s tumbled down into her music again, her free hand conducting, today’s avocado rolls nearly gone—wasabi wisely set off to the side.
I smile, remembering the future she painted that morning in the diner: the two of us as cool creatives living on the fringes, sharing tight quarters and pouring our hearts out into our work. The vision might be a bit glossy, but it’s a nice thought.
Maybe someday I’ll be brave like that.
I let out a long sigh. I’d rather not think about any of it—not that my brain cares what I want. The fact keeps cropping up whenever there’s a lull: the last night of the Comithon is this Wednesday. Three winners will be chosen, have their sets sent to Marnie James . . .
And I’ll be sitting at home.
“Hey, Gretch,” I hear from above.
I’m yanked from my thoughts as Sam takes a seat at the table. Annika looks up from her sheet music with alarm, but he grins and says, “Heard you killed it at your Juilliard audition.” She’s never seemed particularly impressed with Sam, but this clearly pleases her.
“What’s up?” I say.
“It’s Natalie,” he says miserably. “I tried to pull her aside earlier, but it’s like she’s icing me out.”
“Weird,” I say. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
“I mean, she’s doing it in a very Natalie way. She’s still being extremely nice, but there’s a wall now. Sort of like you said last night. It’s like suddenly there’s no . . . there there.”
“Oh, there’s a there there,” I say, laughing at the tongue twister. “But you have to remember how annoyingly fickle you were. Girls hate that. It might take a few tries.”
He nods. “I’ve been racking my brain for something romantic to do. Maybe we should watch one of your rom-coms after school?”
“Nah,” I say. “Just cut the cool-guy act, and talk to her. But, like, for real.” I think of Mom and smile. “Go be . . . Sam and Natalie.”
“Huh. So no public singing or impassioned speech?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I mean, no one actually does stuff like that. Right?”
When I arrive at HQ, Mr. O is standing in the middle of the room with his to-go mug, car keys already in hand. “I’m in a hurry, Gretchen, so if you could be efficient with today’s inane proposal, that would be great.”
I mime deep thought. “You know, I was going to suggest a scratch-’n’-sniff element, but I guess it can wait.”
He regards me a moment, dubious. “You seem . . . chipper.”
“I am not,” I say, and for some reason, I find myself looking anyplace but where Ethan is sitting.
Natalie looks up from the scanner as she presses an old yearbook page to the glass. “You really don’t have to do these check-ins every day, Mr. O. I’m telling you: this squad here is a well-oiled machine. And we’ve had no trouble locking up ourselves.”
“Yeah, Mr. O,” Ethan says into his laptop. “This way, you’re teaching us to take matters into our own hands.” He glances my way, and I brace myself for some kind of awkward shock. But actually, everything feels normal. So normal, in fact, that I may have to yell at Sam later. I think he got me all worked up for nothing.
“I like that interpretation, Ethan,” says Mr. O. “On that note, I’m leaving now. Make me proud!”
As he walks out, Natalie returns her attention to the scanner, still collecting images for our Randos of the Century collage. “So, for today, Gretch, could you type up those quotes? And after that, I’ve got my own stuff to do, but you and Ethan can pair up together to match them with the right team photos.”
“Uh . . . sure,” I say, dropping my bag on the carpet before pausing a moment. Is it just me, or has Natalie been conveniently pairing us up a lot lately? As if in answer, she glances playfully in Ethan’s direction, then back to me. And then I sort of frown-laugh through the queasy feeling in my gut.
Ethan seems to be in the zone now as I go for the beanbag across from him. He looks up, probably because I’m looming like a weirdo. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, sitting down and pulling out my laptop.
I open up the recording app on my phone to start scrolling through clips. For every title like “Rachel from field hockey,” or “Brandon from debate team,” there’s a random one, like, “Nacho’s internal monologue—surprisingly complex?” Looking back on these random bits feels a lot like going through old photos, the quick flashes like a time-lapse of my brain.
I put in my earbuds and hit play on a clip from a couple weeks ago, which I titled “Snow D-Day.” Like always, my voice sounds higher than I think it is:
“If I do that ‘Defective Mainer’ bit I was talking about with Ethan, I could segue into how New Englanders love complaining about snow. There’s a lot of pride to it. Like, snowstorms are our D-Day and surviving them proves some kind of rugged heroism on our part. . . . Maybe I could pitch it to the audience as a movie concept. Think Saving Private Ryan, only everyone’s just shoveling.”
I smile. That could have been good. I’ve missed this these last few days—the thinking, and planning, my mind feeling lit up, always scouring for little glimmers of humor or truth.
When I look over, Sam is in the doorway, appearing a bit nervous. I shoot him a smile that says, I know just what you’re thinking now, friend from forever. To which I add, You’ve got this. He nods my way, straightening up a bit. “Um, Natalie? Can we talk for a minute?”
She hesitates, then seems to soften. I watch Sam’s body sink with relief when she starts to walk, following him out into the hall.
The door shuts behind them, and I remember I have actual work to do. So I open my laptop and begin transcribing quotes, filling up several pages until I run out of clips.
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Looking up, I realize Sam and Natalie still aren’t back. That seems like a good sign. I remove my earbuds, extending my leg out to kick Ethan’s foot.
“Oh, hello,” he says. “All done?”
“Yep,” I say, quickly scanning his face for clues again. He doesn’t look lovesick. Or even remotely uncomfortable for that matter. I don’t how to feel about that.
“Hey, check this out,” he says.
I get up and he scoots over, leaving me half the beanbag chair.
Now I have to wonder: Smooth move or courteous friend gesture? It’s very hard to tell with Ethan. We’ve been close like this before—at Natalie’s birthday dinner, and the night of the Berwin game when he swept me away from those staring Mules parents, his arm around me.
Huh. Ethan had his arm around me. . . .
But this right now is different. There’s something. A small but very real current.
“Okay,” he says, clearing out a few tabs. “So I tried drawing up your Mad Lib idea. I took some old senior pictures and photoshopped them into silhouettes—as placeholders for whoever people choose to include on their own pages. I realized, you know how sometimes kids exchange school portraits? We can make the boxes the same size, so if people want, they can paste their own friends in, and then fill in the blanks for each caption. You know, with best butthole, et cetera.”
I laugh, amazed by how perfect this is. “This is exactly what I wanted, Ethan. This is exactly what I didn’t even know I wanted.” I freeze, hearing myself. But he doesn’t seem to infer much from the comment.
“Cool,” he says, clicking out of the page. On his screen, there are rows and rows of folders. One is marked Gretchen, from our headshot day, and for some reason, I feel my stomach tighten.
“Wait,” I say as he starts to shut the laptop. “Could I . . . look through these again?”
“Sure,” he says, handing the computer over. I sift through, frame after frame: me in my little buns, the makeup and glasses. There’s one series with hands on hips, another with arms crossed. Throughout, my eyes are smoldering. Then there are the occasional ones where I break, barely holding in a smile. You can feel how much fun we’re having. I speed through the rest, until I land on what I’m looking for, at the bottom of the folder—the very last shot. It’s me, back in my regular clothes in the café, looking straight at Ethan, mid laugh. I wouldn’t say I look like a badass, but I look strong. Happy. Open.
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