“It’s Eric,” she says.
I can’t believe Dylan has done this. It suddenly occurs to me to wonder why Dylan hangs around the basketball group.
“Someone told me you have . . . that you’re interested in Eric.”
Surprisingly, I’m very calm. “Who said?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Angie. “Is it true?”
“Yes,” I say. I feel embarrassed. Like I’m at an AA meeting and I’ve just stood up and said, “My name’s Ariel Marini and I have a crush on Eric Callahan.”
She nods her head slowly. “I just wanted to ask you. I wanted it out in the open between us.”
I laugh and it’s a little shaky around the edges but I manage to pull it off. “Doesn’t every girl at school have a crush on Eric Callahan?” I ask. “He is the most gorgeous guy in school.”
She lays a hand on my arm. “Are we okay?” she asks. “This is really awkward.”
“Are you crazy?” I pull a face. “Eric Callahan is your boyfriend. Yours. There’s no way I’d interfere with that. Besides, there’s someone else I’m into now. Your informer was a little behind in the news.”
Angie looks relieved and asks me who it is, but I shake my head and change the subject. She tells me she tried out for the school play and got the lead role.
“Hey, that’s great,” I say. “Is it a musical?”
Angie shakes her head. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“Fantastic.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done a real drama role before.”
“You’ll be great. What does Eric think?” Oh, good one. I’m trying to convince Angie that Eric isn’t on my mind and he’s the first thing I talk about.
Angie doesn’t seem to notice. She just shrugs.
“He thought it was a bit, you know, lame.”
“Lame?” I echo.
“Eric’s not really into the whole theater thing, if you know what I mean. It’s going to be taking up some of my Friday nights.”
“So?”
“So that’s our night. Eric needs me at the game. He says I keep him focused.”
“Focused,” I repeat. “But you’d be great.”
“I was in the Future Players Theater Company for a while. Did I mention that? I never got a part, but it was fun selling tickets at the door and helping backstage.”
“So why did you stop going?” I ask.
Angie just shrugs. She’s looking so lost I change the subject. I tell her that Mom and I are at least talking politely to each other, and what started out as an awkward moment turns into an okay afternoon.
Before Angie leaves for home, I stop her at the door and ask her casually how she and Eric got together.
“Dylan,” says Angie. “Dylan and I went out for a little while about a year ago. We were in the Future Players together. He used to paint the sets. He was really sweet.”
“Dylan?”
“But we weren’t really going-out material.”
“Then he introduced you to Eric,” I finish off.
Angie nods. When she leaves all I can think of is one thing.
Poor Dylan.
I nearly forgive him for telling Angie.
55.
Sometime, late, late on Sunday night, an idea gets into my head and won’t leave. I struggle to find the word, but it takes a midnight trip to the fridge to crank my gears.
Hypocrite.
I, Ariel Marini, am a hypocrite.
I have ranted at my best friend for having the secret hots for a boy I like. I have abused her and shunned her and had some awful thoughts. I even threw up in her mother’s perfectly manicured shrub. But I am doing exactly the same thing to my supposed friend Angie. Well, not exactly.
If there’s a movie for this, I don’t know it.
I bet Margot would, though.
56.
The next Wednesday I don’t go to my Leonard appointment. I feel bad, but I can’t bear to see him—not after the texting fiasco. I guess that he will probably tell Mom, but I don’t know what else to do.
On Friday night Mom drops me off at Angie’s, and Eric’s waiting there. Suddenly I’m conscious of the pink top that I’m wearing. I’ve resurrected it from my bottom drawer. I don’t know why I’ve worn it. I feel like I’m on the edge of knowing something but there’s a little way to go and it’s around a corner so I just have to keep traveling.
“Angie’s not coming,” Eric says as he opens the door.
“Is she sick?” I ask.
“I really need her there tonight.” Eric is frowning. “But she says she needs to rest.”
I find Angie in her bedroom, lying on her bed.
“Hey,” she says.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m a little worn out. I’m gonna take it easy tonight.”
“I’ll stay then,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed.
But I don’t want to stay. I want to spend the night watching Eric weave his magic on court. I want to sit across from him at the food court and watch the way he jokes with the guys and drinks his milkshake and pushes away the lock of hair that is always falling over his face.
Angie says she wants an early night. She insists I go to the game. All the time I’m thinking that it’s wrong to go, but then there’s a knock at the door and Eric and I leave to catch our ride.
Eric and I sit together in the back of Coop’s dad’s car. Coop is the tallest player on the team. On court he is like a graceful gazelle. Off court he’s a daddy longlegs spider, all arms and legs. And his face turns red whenever he talks to girls.
“Where’s Angie?” asks Coop.
“Sick,” says Eric. He sounds pissed, like Angie’s ruined his night on purpose.
Coop is folded up in the front seat but keeps turning around to talk to Eric. Eric leans forward, and he is taking up a lot of space. Every now and then he turns to include me in the conversation and I join in, but mostly I’m content to listen and feel his warmth down my left side.
Sometime during the conversation Eric mentions that the boys’ basketball team needs more court time and maybe I could take it to student council.
“Right,” I say. “Right.”
But the idea leaves an ice cube in my stomach.
Coop’s dad drops us off at the main entrance. Eric is helping me out of the backseat when Dylan appears out of nowhere.
“Where’s Angie?” he asks.
I stumble as I get out of the car, aware that he is watching me.
“Sick,” says Eric. “Again. Let’s go, Coop.”
Eric and Coop rush off to the locker room, which leaves Dylan and me staring awkwardly at each other.
“She’s tired,” I explain further. “Otherwise I would have stayed with her.”
Dylan nods curtly and moves off ahead of me. I feel like I’ve been judged again and a spike of anger makes my arm shoot out and grab Dylan’s shoulder to spin him around.
“She wanted me to come,” I snap.
“Sure, she did,” he says.
He is standing there looking so smug, looking so damn superior, that all I want to do is wipe that look off his face.
“I know,” I say to him.
“You know what?” asks Dylan.
He kind of looms over me, but I’m not scared. In fact I feel totally in control.
“I know about you and Angie. How you went out. How you introduced her to Eric. It kills you, doesn’t it? Kills you to see them together—”
Then suddenly I’m run over by a truck.
I’m slammed into a wall.
I’m crushed by an elephant.
What I’m trying to say is that Dylan kisses me. I think it is Dylan, I mean, it probably is, but my eyes are closed and I am thinking, “Do your eyes naturally close when someone kisses you, and can it be a real kiss if they don’t?”
And I am thinking, “I think he just drank some Coke.”
And I am thinking, “Is it possible that I have just melted into Dylan Shepherd and he has melted into
me so that we are just one person?”
And I am thinking, “Help, I’m running out of breath,” when finally he breaks away, and my lips are instantly feeling cold and lonely.
“You don’t know anything, Ariel Ariel,” is all he says.
But he says it lightly and he has that little lip curl thing happening and suddenly I am the most confused person in the world.
57.
I watch the game and Dylan doesn’t come near me. A group of us end up at a nearby ice-cream place afterward, and the players go through a play-by-play description of the game, as if none of us had just watched it. The lights are dim and we’re squeezed into vinyl bench seats.
Eric sits right next to me, but Dylan sits farther down the bench. My heart has been racing since our kiss and I think I may be in danger of having a heart attack. I don’t look at him because I’m too scared to see his face. Everyone’s excited because they won their game and are now set to play in the finals next week. There’s lots of table thumping and loud laughter and Eric grins at me continually. At one stage there’s a food fight and I end up with ice cream on my new pink top. Eric casually grabs a napkin and wipes away at the mess before I have a chance to do anything. He is busily talking to someone else, but I can feel Dylan’s stare and my heart thumps faster.
We finally get up to leave, but Dylan is nowhere to be seen. I wonder when he left, but as I’m stepping into the cool night, he comes up and says, “I hope you get everything you wish for, El.”
And he doesn’t say it in a mean way or sarcastically, but is kind of humble, very un-Dylan-like and I want to rewind to that kiss and start again from there.
But Dylan’s gone and the next thing I know I’m being pushed into Coop’s family’s car and Eric’s sitting beside me. Coop and his father are reliving the game in the front seat and I’m suddenly aware that Eric has his arm resting along the back of my seat. I give Coop’s father directions to my home, then I sit on the edge of the seat.
“Relax.” Eric pulls me back. “You look really nice tonight, El,” he says.
Then he kisses me.
There is no truck. There is no wall. There is no elephant crushing the wind out of me.
As he kisses me I think with amazement that this is my second kiss of the night.
Then I think that his lips are really wet and loose. When he tries to force his tongue into my mouth, I clamp my teeth shut and he has to be content with my lips.
I think, “Eric Callahan is kissing me,” but all I feel is disappointed.
I break away, push him back, and say, “What about Angie?”
He rests his forehead on mine and shakes his head a little. Then he moves around to my earlobe and starts to nibble on it. This sets up a whole chain reaction in my body that seems to have its own ideas.
“Angelique?” I repeat.
He stops nibbling, then pushes his hair away in that manner that I find so cute. “I know, I know,” he says, shaking his head.
Then he dives in for another kiss, and this time I’m annoyed.
“You know what?” I say.
“Angie.” He shakes his head. “She’s a really great girl, you know? But we just don’t . . . it’s just not working anymore. She’s so serious. And you’re so much fun.”
Then the car stops and I’m home. I thank everyone for the ride in a shaky voice and walk inside on rubbery legs.
My dream has just come true and it was not what I expected.
Not at all.
58.
I blame that stupid pink top.
59.
I spend the entire weekend like a lone shipwreck survivor. I’m breathing, I’m walking, I’m eating, but I’m wondering how I survive. The one thing that had kept me going for these past eighteen months, the one shining light in my life, was suddenly dull. In fact, it wasn’t so much dull as grimy. Eric had taken something pure and beautiful and turned it grimy.
Eric Callahan, my Eric Callahan, would never hit on his girlfriend’s friend. Especially when his girlfriend was sick in bed. My Eric Callahan would never badmouth his girlfriend while trying to nibble another girl’s ear. That’s when I figure out that my Eric Callahan doesn’t exist. My Eric Callahan was an idol that I had endowed with amazing qualities, none of them particularly real.
And I know it’s not his fault, I know it’s not fair, but I’m really very disappointed in him.
And what was with Dylan? Just when I think I’ve figured him out, he proves me wrong.
The world has turned crazy.
I sleep a lot. The world is crazy so I sleep. I think things might make sense when I wake up. But they don’t, so I sleep again.
I know Mom is worried, but I can’t go through it all with her. Bella is studying hard for her economics exam, so I don’t want to burden her.
Burden.
That’s what I was.
I was the extra luggage that you take on vacation when you’ve packed too many clothes. I was a burden.
I was trying out the idea when the doorbell rang on Sunday afternoon. I waited for Mom or Bella to answer it, but no one did and the bell kept ringing away.
“Is someone going to get that?” I yell out crossly, but there is no answer.
Finally I get off my bed. I shuffle to the door in my fluffy slippers, past Bella with her spread of books on the dining room table and earbuds in. As I turn the doorknob, I wonder if Eric is on the other side. I hope that it is Eric. There are a few things I’d like to say to him.
It turns out to be Cat Lady.
“You haven’t seen Bolt, Ariel?” she asks.
“No, Peggy, I haven’t,” I say.
Peggy looks like she might cry.
“He hasn’t been home since last night,” she says.
She lets out a strangled sob and I pat her shoulder awkwardly.
“Maybe he just wanted to party all night,” I say.
“He’s never stayed out all night before,” she says with a hiccup.
Somehow I find myself promising to help look for him. First, I change into some real clothes and put on some shoes, then Peggy and I go outside and look under hedges and shrubs and cars.
“What does he look like?” I ask.
“He’s black,” says the cat lady, “and he’s got little white paws and a white chest. And he’s wearing a collar. I think it’s red . . . now isn’t that silly, I can’t remember if it’s red or blue.”
“Bolt! Bolt,” I call, feeling a little stupid.
“Captain, Captain,” calls out my companion.
We’re halfway around the ground floor, when someone joins us. It’s a young guy with black hair.
“Has that cat gone missing again, Peggy?” he says.
“Oh, Tony. Captain Thunderbolt is such a naughty boy,” says Peggy.
I figure out that this is Angie’s brother. He has the same tall, dark looks of Angelique and the same serene aura. So I introduce myself, then the three of us wander around and look for the stupid cat. Twenty minutes later, Angie turns up and joins in the hunt. I don’t have time to feel awkward. Peggy’s starting to hyperventilate, and I’m worried that I’m going to have to call an ambulance if we don’t find the cat soon.
Angie is the one to find Bolt. She looks up a tree to find a petrified cat sitting out on a very slender limb.
“Hey, kitty, hey,” she coos.
Between Tony and me, we get the cat down and Peggy is scolding and patting the cat all at once. Somehow we all end up at my place and Mom appears from out of nowhere to put on the kettle and Bella clears the dining room table and we all sit down. It turns into an impromptu welcome-home party for Bolt, who is looking very regal and cool now that he is out of the tree.
Angie and I nudge each other as Bella and Tony strike up a conversation. I want to tell her about Friday night, but this isn’t the time to do it. In fact, I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to tell her.
“The boys have made the finals,” is all I say and she nods. “Are you feeling better?” I
ask her.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“What do you think of Dylan?” I ask. “I mean, I know you two went out . . .”
“He’s gorgeous,” she says. “Really nice. All tough guy on the outside but marshmallow on the inside. He really likes you.”
I push her. “Shut up,” I say.
“He does,” says Angie. “Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you? And he keeps turning up at basketball games. What’s that about? He never used to come to watch.”
“Was he the one that mentioned I had a crush on Eric?”
She looks confused for a moment. “What? No, it wasn’t Dylan.”
“Oh.” My world has just shifted again. “Then who?”
“That girl—Desiree.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to think. “About Dylan, do you know how he got his scar?”
“Scar? I didn’t realize he had one.”
Then Tony says he’s got some food upstairs and he’s going to cook us his famous pesto linguini. He opens the door to find Mr. Mendez about to push our doorbell.
“Papa,” he says.
Inside the apartment, our voices fall silent. Angie looks frightened, so I grab her hand and squeeze it hard.
“Anthony,” says Mr. Mendez gruffly, with a brief nod.
Tony brushes past without saying a word.
“Angie,” barks Mr. Mendez.
“Coming, Papa. Sorry . . . I need to . . . it was nice meeting you,” she says awkwardly to Peggy, giving the cat a final pat.
Mom is at the door trying to get Mr. Mendez to come in, but he stands firm and says he has to be somewhere else.
“Call me,” I whisper to Angie.
“An actress,” Angie whispers back, getting up to follow her father. “When I graduate I want to be an actress.”
And I realize Angie has answered my question from ages ago.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” says Peggy from out of nowhere, and Mom puts the kettle on again.
60.
Tony calls a little later to say sorry but he didn’t have some of the ingredients he needed for the pesto. Could he cook it another night? I say no problem. I also want to say a few other things like, Why don’t you and your dad make up? But then I realize I’m probably not the best person to push this. In the end, Mom whips up spaghetti and meatballs and Peggy stays for dinner. Peggy tells us stories about the old days and she makes Mom laugh a few times.
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