“Here,” he says, reaching for the strings on my hoodie.
I laugh. “What are you doing?”
He leans in close and ties the end of each string into a double and then a triple knot. His fingers brush the skin on my neck, and I can’t help but shiver.
“There,” Evan says. “Your knots are none of his business.”
His eyes meet mine, and we both smile. Lightning streaks across the sky and we start counting in unison—“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand”—all the way to five one thousand, when the building shakes around us with what feels like an explosion of thunder. Even though we knew it was coming, we both jump. He grabs for my hands at the same time that I grab for his, and we’re suddenly holding each other tight, and then we’re laughing at the ridiculousness of our own surprise.
His hands are warm around mine, and I don’t want to let go.
Stop it, Viviana, I think. Learn from your past mistakes.
I pull my hands out of his grip and scoot a few inches away.
“So, my dad has rules, too,” Evan says. I’m thankful that he’s the first to break the silence. “First one: No crying. My dad likes to say ‘CEOs don’t cry, son.’ Like he would know what a CEO does or doesn’t do. He’s low-level management at H&R Block.”
“You cry?” I ask.
“Not anymore. I used to. At sad movies and things like that. And certain songs.”
“Like what?”
“‘Eleanor Rigby,’” he says with a smile. “Every time.” He sings a few lines for me. He has a beautiful voice. I really wish he didn’t have such a beautiful voice.
“They have crying salons in Japan now,” I say. “Like you can pay to sit in a room that’s not your house so you can watch sad movies and cry.” I feel like I’m just saying words, trying to distract us from whatever it is that’s happening.
“I might actually love that. Except that they could just play Beatles songs and I’d be fine.”
“But you wouldn’t be allowed,” I say. “It’s women only.”
“Sexist bastards.”
“Yup.” I laugh.
Evan looks at me. “I’m sorry your dad is such a jerk.”
“Me, too. About yours, I mean.”
“I just know that when I’m a dad, I’m going to be completely different. My kids will get to follow their hearts, no strings attached.”
I smile. “That’s awesome.”
The sky fills up with lightning, and then, without pause, the close roaring of thunder, as though to punctuate this thought. The rumbling storm surrounds us, and I feel like we’re both trying not to reach out to each other. At least, I know I’m trying.
“Why were you such a jerk to Sammie?” I ask, partly to bring his attention back to Sammie, partly because I’m curious.
“What are you talking about?”
“The whole horoscope thing. It wasn’t very nice. Why were you antagonizing her like that?”
He looks shocked—and hurt. “Was I? Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a jerk.”
“Then why were you? What was that about?”
He smiles. “I guess I was trying to antagonize you.”
“Why would you try to do that?”
“I already told you. I like you. I liked the fact that you were finally talking to me. I was trying to get your attention.”
Great. I was trying bring thoughts of Sammie back into the room, and we end up here again.
Evan turns around and starts tracing circles on the foggy windows. He doesn’t say anything else for a good minute, and I’m not sure how to respond, where to even begin.
Finally, he looks at me. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
My heart leaps into my throat. “What do you mean?”
“Anne Boyd’s birthday party.” He bites his lip. “I think I was a freshman? You were in middle school, right?”
I don’t know what to say. What to admit. What would I say if Sammie were here? Where is she?
I stumble to check my phone.
It’s 6:55.
Nothing from Sammie.
“Do you remember me?”
I look up at him, totally and completely stumped for words.
“It took me a few days to place where I knew you from. But then, when I did, it all came back to me.” He smiles. “That was a really good kiss.”
My phone lights up.
“Viviana, didn’t you hear me?”
I look up. “What? Sorry. Text from Sammie.” I stand up and throw my phone in my bag. “Turns out she’s not going to make it. The storm has flooded the roads and they’re stuck on Western Avenue or something.”
Evan looks confused, but he doesn’t say it again; he doesn’t ask again. Instead, he gets up, too.
“And I didn’t realize how late it is. I’ve really got to get downstairs, or my mom’s going to kill me.” I look out the window. The storm is rolling away, but the sky is turning dark with the setting sun.
“Okay. Sure. Yeah.” Evan grabs his backpack and throws it over his shoulder.
After all that sharing and avoidance, the silence in the elevator isn’t just awkward; it’s painful.
I get off at my floor and say a quick good-bye.
Thankfully, Evan doesn’t say anything else. The doors close, and it’s over.
For now.
College Admissions Tip #6
Applying to college can be stressful! While going through the process, be sure to find a creative outlet, some kind of distraction, that will help you deal with the worries about your future.
I decide not to say anything to Sammie about what happened on the roof. After giving it some thought, I figure that because I didn’t respond to him, Evan got the message loud and clear that I’m not into him.
Or rather, the lie that I’m not into him.
Every time I think about our conversation, how nice it was to talk to him about my parents, to hear about his dad, to talk to someone who understands how hard it can be, I’m shaken. And then I think about what he said to me, about how pretty he thinks I am, about that stupidly amazing fifteen-second kiss that happened more than four years ago, and I know it’s a lie.
I’m lying to Sammie and I’m lying to myself.
I’m totally into him.
But denying it is my only choice. I mean, it’s the kind thing, right? I refuse to be the one to break Sammie’s heart. And there’s no point in getting in her way.
My mind is distracted by this new, stupid complication, and I have to do everything to breathe my way through the week, not to let any more Episodes happen. I get through finals, somehow. Grades won’t be posted until next week, but I get a real day off today, the kind that my mom has wanted for me since that day I fell off my bike. I do have to hang out with Mila, though. It’s Sunday, but my mom has a meeting with her lawyer about the separation stuff. Since I don’t have to work, Sammie and I decide to take Mila down to the pool. Except for my one panic-driven immersion, I haven’t really been in the water yet, not for, like, a relaxing, fun summer swim.
We arrive at noon, and the pool is swarming with families and their kids.
“It’s crazy busy again,” I say. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be like this the rest of the summer.”
“Not really,” Sammie says. “We’ll try to get mostly weekday shifts, when the kids are all at camp.”
We leave our stuff in the office locker and head to the water. Sammie’s wearing her very small bikini—so small, in fact, that even Mila is pointing and mouthing at me: I can see her butt. I ignore her.
Before we get in, Sammie asks me to take some photos of her for Instagram. She has me do this by the deep end, so that she’s in direct view of Evan, who’s on duty on the lifeguard chair.
“I want to look like this.” Before she hands me her phone, she flashes it in my face to show me a black-and-white photo of Marilyn Monroe sitting on the edge of an empty pool; her feet dangle in the water, and her arms stretch behind her, so that h
er breasts are perky and high.
“Well, don’t we all?”
“I mean, I’m going to sit like this, and I’m not going to look at the camera. I’m going to look up above your head, so that it looks like I’m flirting with someone, like she is. Just see if you can get the angle right.”
“Okay.” I take the phone from her and switch it to the camera mode. “I’ll try.” Sammie takes her pose, legs stretched, back arched, chin angled up. I crouch down and take a few shots. Mila’s leaning against my back, looking over my shoulder—right at Evan, of course—as I take the pics. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, though, so it’s hard to tell if he’s actually even looking at her.
“You look pretty, Sammie,” Mila says.
Sammie does look pretty—I mean she always looks pretty—and I know that whatever photo I take of her will be beautiful. A few kids, maybe middle schoolers, decide to have a cannonball contest right next to our photo shoot. It’s completely on purpose, and I can’t help but laugh. They’re about to jump in, when Sammie yells at them. “Hey, can you move your contest to the other side of the deck?”
They giggle at her mischievously, but they don’t argue.
Once they’re gone, I take a few more shots and then show her. “There are a bunch of kids in the background.”
She looks at the phone and then hands it back to me. “I don’t care about that. But can you, like, angle it so my double chin isn’t showing?”
I try not to groan, but I can’t help it. First of all, she doesn’t have a double chin. And I wish she wouldn’t say that stuff around Mila. The kid is completely confident and sure of herself, and I want her to stay that way. “It’s hot out here, Sammie,” I grumble. “I just want to go in the water.”
“Just a few more shots. Please?”
“Can I try?” Mila asks. “I have a really good eye for pictures. I watch TV, like, all day.”
“It’s sad but true,” I say. “Both that she watches TV all day and that she’s a much better photographer than me.” When I was Mila’s age, my parents were on me to spend all my extra time reading, but Mila gets to do whatever she wants in a way I never did.
“Sure,” Sammie says. “Go for it.”
I hand Mila the phone, and she gets this very adult look on her face. She’s focused and determined, full of intent. She chooses one angle, then shakes her head and tries another one. She takes about ten photos.
“Employing children now?” Evan yells from his perch. “Aren’t there laws against that?”
My stomach goes hollow with the sight of him, but thankfully he doesn’t look at me.
“Very funny,” Sammie says, and she flips her hair.
Mila hands Sammie her phone. “These should be good,” she says.
Sammie scrolls through the photos and laughs. “These are perfect, Mila. Thank you! I’m going to hire you as my official photographer.”
Mila’s beaming with the compliment.
“Can we go in now?” I ask.
“Yes, you can go in now,” Sammie says before she heads back to the office to put her phone away.
Mila and I jump in, finally. It feels perfect. Cold. Fresh. Mila swims over to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Give me a ride!” she yells.
I laugh and pretend to be a magical dolphin for her. She even makes me squeal.
This is exactly what I needed. To be laughing. To be submerged and silly and separated from the incessant reminders of the past six months, how everything’s changed. I’m here with Mila, and she hasn’t changed. Not yet. She still loves me as much as she did before I messed everything up.
I’m having so much fun, I’m able to wipe it all from my mind.
Mila jumps off my back and splashes me in the face. I splash her back.
“Hey, you guys, watch out!” Sammie has returned and is now planted on the edge of the pool again, this time closer to the lifeguard chair. There’s no camera, but she’s still mimicking Marilyn Monroe.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Mila asks.
“Maybe,” she says, and then she slides her hair over her shoulder. “In a little bit.”
She’s posing for Evan, trying to get his eyes back on her.
I turn to Mila. “Race?”
She nods and dashes out toward the shallow end. I leave Sammie to play her flirting game with Evan. I follow Mila, pretending to swim at full power, even though, of course, I’m going to let her win.
We get to the rope of the shallow end, and Mila announces her victory.
I laugh and hug her tight.
And then I can’t help it. I glance up at the chair. The pool is packed with kids—with school out, summer is finally in full swing—and Evan’s not paying attention to Sammie. Not at all.
He’s in work mode, scanning the pool back and forth to make sure everyone’s safe.
He stops and lifts his sunglasses. He looks straight at me. And he smiles.
I dive under the water and stay there as long as I can so that Sammie doesn’t see, before Mila pulls me up, only to splash water right in my face.
Tic-tac-toe.
Hit me high.
Hit me low.
Hit me three in a row.
Gonna get hit by a UFO!
Gonna get hit by a UFO!
Gonna get hit by a UFO!
Rock, paper, scissors.
I win, you lose.
Now you get a big bruise.
You win, fair and square.
Now I get to pull your hair.
“Wait, so whoever loses has to get punched, and whoever wins has to get their hair pulled? Where did you learn this awful game, Mila?” We just got out of the water after a good three hours, and we’re sitting on some lounge chairs near the office. Mila’s teaching Sammie and me these clapping games that are much darker than I ever remember.
“What happened to Miss Suzie and her steamboat?”
Sammie laughs. “That one was pretty dark, if I remember correctly. ‘Her steamboat went to hell, ding, ding’?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “And then didn’t Miss Suzie sit upon a piece of glass—”
Sammie continues: “And broke her little ass—”
“Ask me no more questions—”
“I’ll tell you no more lies.”
“The boys are in the bathroom, and they’re pulling up their flies—” We sing this in unison.
“Ew!” Mila screams. “That’s disgusting! At least mine’s not disgusting!”
“But yours is mean, Mila,” I say. “You and your friends hit each other?”
Mila nods. “On the back.”
“Hard?”
Mila nods again.
Sammie laughs. “Do it to me.”
“Okay.” Mila shrugs. “Turn around.” Sammie does, and then Mila whacks her smack in the middle of her back. Hard. Really hard.
“Ow!” Sammie yelps. “That really hurt!”
“Mila! Say you’re sorry!”
“I’m sorry,” Mila says. “But that’s how hard my friends and I do it to each other.” She’s not even remotely upset by the fact that I am. In fact, she’s proud of the abuse that she and her friends inflict upon one another.
“Now you get to pull my hair,” Mila says to Sammie, laughing.
“I’m not going to pull your hair,” Sammie says. “Friends aren’t supposed to hurt each other.”
Friends aren’t supposed to hurt each other.
“Okay, fine. I’ll pull my own hair,” Mila says, and then she does, really hard, and then she laughs. “That hurt.”
“You’re crazy, little girl,” Sammie says.
Evan comes over and sits on the chair next to Mila, right across from me. “What in God’s name are you doing to yourself?”
“It’s a game. Want to play? I promise I won’t pull your hair.”
“Are you going to hit me like you hit Sammie?”
“Maybe.” Mila laughs.
“No, thank you.” He looks at me. “Is she always this abusive?”
>
“She’s always this wild,” I say.
“Am not,” Mila says, scrunching up her face at me. “Can we go to the zoo now? I want to see the baby gorilla that was born last week.”
“Seriously? You want to go to the zoo now? Aren’t you exhausted?”
“I’m surprised you’re not totally passed out,” Sammie says. “You guys were in the water for, what, three hours?”
“Yeah.” Mila holds up her hands. “My fingers are like dried cranberries.”
“Dried cranberries?” Evan says. “How gourmet! Mine only turn into raisins.”
“Can we go back in the water?” Mila whines. “I want to swim more.”
“I need a break,” I say.
“What about you, Sammie?” Mila begs. “Come in with me?”
Sammie, who spent the entire three hours sunbathing on the side of the pool, shakes her head no.
“Why didn’t you get in, Sammie?” Mila asks.
“Yeah,” Evan says. “Why didn’t you get in, Sammie?” He’s teasing her, and though I’m sure she likes the attention, I can tell she’s embarrassed to give the real reason: She’s dressed for Evan, and if she were to swim, her hair and makeup would get messed up.
She shrugs. “Just didn’t feel like it.”
“So no one’s going to go back in with me?”
“Well, I just clocked out and was about to do my laps,” Evan says. “I can skip a few and swim with you. Want to play Marco Polo?”
“Yes!” Mila perks up.
Evan looks at me. “Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
And then he starts staring at me, at my eyes—like he won’t look away. “What?” I ask.
“You have extremely large pupils,” he says.
“Um, okay…,” I mumble, not knowing what else to say to such a bizarre statement.
“I mean, I don’t mean to stare, but scientifically speaking, it means that you are an attractive person.”
“What?” I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks from embarrassment.
“Men are attracted to large pupils,” he says. “It’s been studied. I learned about it in psych this year. From Professor Cox, of course. Women in Italy used to use a plant called belladonna to dilate their pupils to attract men. You wouldn’t even need it. You have this natural ability to do so.”
The Best Possible Answer Page 8