by Kristin Rae
“Right where?” This playing dumb thing is the opposite of endearing.
“It’s right in front of you!” I resist reaching across the table to smack the top of his head. “Please tell me you’re not as stupid as I think you might actually be.”
He presses his lips together and glances at the passing students carrying their trays to the trash. “I can’t.”
I fold my arms over my lunch box, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I know who you’re talking about, and of course I’ve thought about it.” He adjusts the collar on his blue polo shirt. “But I’ve known her my whole life.”
“And that’s bad, why?”
“I don’t know how to make the switch. She’s always just been Jesse’s little sister, and all of the sudden I’m supposed to make out with her. Won’t it be weird?”
Now I’m looking around to see who’s within earshot. Thankfully the room is nearly cleared out. “It won’t be weird if you like her.”
“I do, I just . . .” He shakes his head and stands, gathering his trash and turning to leave. “Jesse would beat the crap out of me.”
“He would not. Look, all I’m saying is . . . my best friend deserves to know the guy she likes actually cares about her.”
“Maddie.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I appreciate you trying to help me here”—he throws an arm casually over my shoulders —“but don’t you think maybe you should work at repairing your own broken relationship before you start playing cupid? I mean, I know Valentine’s Day is coming up and all, but—”
“I don’t know why I even bother.” I smack him on top of the head and leave him alone by the trash cans.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It’s never really bothered me that my birthday’s on Valentine’s Day. It’s like a double party—double the gifts, double the cards, and double the candy. And I’ve never cared that I didn’t have a valentine.
But this year, no amount of conversation hearts can sweeten my mood. I had my valentine all lined up, and I couldn’t even hang on to him for more than a month. Whatever. The varsity baseball team is out of town, so I wouldn’t have gotten to see Jesse today anyway. Though a “Happy Birthday” text would have been nice. Unless he forgot.
And now I’m just depressed. I hurt him. I was the problem. Me. Anything I say to him now to try to get him back will just sound like a load. No. I need to figure me out first. Me first, boys second.
At least my family still loves me, even after the attitude I gave them throughout most of Ma’s pregnancy. Rider’s missing—he called, though, which was nice—but Christopher is home and getting stronger every day, and it’s good to have the family at home to celebrate with me. Dad whipped up his famous lasagna—the only thing he knows how to make—and Ma taught herself how to make cake balls—a miniature kitchen disaster, but still tasty. Presents include a one hundred dollar gas card, a sterling-silver star charm on a dainty chain necklace, and an authentic vintage poster of Desk Set, one of my favorite Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy films.
“Birthday girl.” Dad sticks one of the gift bows to the top of my head as he clears the table and throws the wrapping paper into the trash. “One more year and you’ll be an adult!”
“Oh, no,” Ma says, reaching for another cake ball. “We’re not talking about that.”
There’s a knock on the door, so soft I almost don’t hear it.
Ma perks up in her chair. “Well, I wonder who that could be,” she says, as if she somehow knows exactly who it could be.
My heart swells with hope that Jesse is standing on my porch, arms full of flowers and a sign that says I’M AN IDIOT. I’M SORRY. I LOVE YOU. BE MINE.
I scramble from the table and dash for the door, hiding my disappointment from Angela that her brother is nowhere to be seen. Hello. He’s playing baseball.
And I’m working on me.
“Happy birthday, beautiful!” Angela exclaims, tossing a handful of paper confetti high into the air over our heads. “And look.” She points next to her left eye to a glittery red star outlined in black. “We match!”
“Love it!” I brush confetti off my shoulders and take the bow out of my hair. “Do you want to come in? We were just gorging ourselves on cake-ball experiments.”
“Nope,” she says, rising to her toes in excitement. “I’ve come to take you out.”
“Out? Where?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’ll ruin the surprise,” she pouts. “But we need to go, like, now. They’re waiting.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “I’ve said too much already! Get your purse, and let’s go!”
“Well . . .” I glance back at my parents in the dining room, smiling and chatting with each other. “I was sort of hanging out with my family. Let me ask if they mind—” I pause at the devious smile that creeps across her face. “They already know?”
She hops down the steps and heads toward her bright yellow Beetle. “Your chariot awaits!”
“The playhouse?”
We pull into a reserved front-row spot in an otherwise full parking lot.
“What’s going on here tonight?” I ask, getting out of the car and straightening my sweater. A few stray circles of confetti fall to the ground. “I’ve worked here every day after school this week, and I never heard one peep about a Valentine’s Day event.”
She holds the front door of the playhouse open for me. “Valentine’s shmalentines.”
“Happy birthday, Maddie!” shout the combined voices of Tiffany, Sarah, Ryan, and Brian, all with stars on their cheeks.
“You guys are so cute!” I hug each of them, refusing to let my eyes water, because that would be silly. I don’t need Jesse here. I have the best friends in the world, and I’m going to be fine.
“Maddie!” Elise bounds between Tiffany and Sarah, a hot-pink feather boa in her hands. “It’s your birthday so you have to wear this!”
“Aww, I would love to!” I bend down for her to wrap it around my neck.
“Now you’re ready,” Elise says, grabbing my hand.
“For?”
The boys open the main double doors to the theatre, and the place is packed. I recognize a few kids from school on the aisle, but there are a lot of adults, mostly couples, I notice. The smell of fresh popcorn hits my nose and makes my mouth water. Brian hands me a red-and-white-striped bag, popcorn still warm inside.
“What’s going on?”
Angela bends down to Elise. “Run and go sit with Mom.”
Elise hugs my legs before she scampers off, and Angela points to the stage, leading our group down the aisle to our row in the middle of the middle, my favorite seat anywhere. In front of the curtain, the giant white pull-down screen used to project announcements before a show displays a graphic with shimmery stars and pink curly font that says Happy 17th Birthday, Maddie!
I gape at the full house and whisper, “Surely all these people aren’t here for me. I don’t know most of them!”
“Think of it as a little private viewing party,” Tiffany says, pouring a bag of M&M’s over her popcorn. “Some Valentine’s Day fun for some of our friends, and maybe their friends, and maybe their parents and some of their parents’ friends,” she adds with a laugh.
“But if it weren’t also your birthday, this wouldn’t be happening.” Angela reaches across me for the box of Milk Duds that Sarah’s holding hostage.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I say through an exhale, staring up at my name on the gigantic screen. “What happens next?”
The house lights dim, and there’s a frantic shuffling throughout the theatre as people open their candy wrappers and shift in their seats, preparing to be entertained. The graphic on the screen disappears, replaced by MGM’s roaring lion logo, and as a very familiar string melody plays through the speakers all around me, my heart sprouts wings. The screen changes. Three black umbrellas hide three figures in rain slickers. One by one, names appear in yellow overtop the umbrellas: Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor, Debbie Rey
nolds.
They pivot, and they sing. In the rain.
I can’t hold in the tears this time. I’m sitting in the middle of a packed theatre, watching one of my favorite movies of all time on a huge screen, with surround sound. And popcorn.
I sense Angela staring at me just before she nudges me in the arm. “You said it was tragic you’d never get to see any of your favorite movies on the big screen.”
This thought runs through my head every day, but I don’t remember telling her in those words. But I did tell—
“I have a confession to make,” she whispers close to my ear as the opening number continues. “As much as I’d like to take credit for all of this, it wasn’t my idea. It was Jesse’s.”
My eyes flood, throat tight. “Why would he do all of this for me?” I swipe my cheek with the back of my hand. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” she says, giving my arm a reassuring pat. “He’s just a baby sometimes. He’s under a lot of pressure, and I don’t think he knows how to handle it.”
“Clearly,” I bite through a trembling bottom lip.
“Just give him time.” She slips her hand into mine and squeezes. “I think you both just need to take some time. Know what I mean?”
I nod, thinking about how time changes things. How it’s changed me since I got here, barely six months ago. I’ve grown to love our small cozy house, and I’ve gained a new brother who I would already do anything for. I’m closer to my parents and somehow closer to my big brother, even being several hours away. I’ve finally found the set of friends I believe I was always meant to find. The kind of friends who would paint stars on their faces and organize a private Valentine’s-birthday viewing of Singin’ in the Rain.
I may be a little confused about my future, but I’ve got time to figure it out. Time. I just need to give it time.
“Yes,” I say, clenching her hand in return before reaching into my bag of popcorn. “I know what you mean.”
As the movie plays on, I find myself watching the audience just as much as the screen, relishing their reactions, their expressions that prove they’re invested in the story, in the characters. They laugh at all the right places, and even some places I didn’t realize were funny. Sharing this movie with them, it’s like I’m seeing everything in a new perspective. So many people seem turned off by the idea of older movies, so much so they don’t even give them a chance, but I always knew the heart and the comedy of the classics could translate, and I’m seeing it in this audience. Right here, right now. I’ve never had a better birthday present.
The screen goes black, the crowd applauds, and I sit in awe of it all and do the one thing I’ve been thinking about doing all night. I pull my phone out of my pocket and open a new text message to Jesse.
Me: Thank you. So much.
Angela pulls into my driveway at half past eleven and I’m happy to see my parents remembered to leave on the porch light. As much as I like our actual house now, it still freaks me out being outside in the woods in the middle of the night.
“Thanks for tonight, Angela,” I say, grabbing my purse from the floor and pulling my coat tighter around me. “Best night of my life. Seriously. Gene on the big screen. I can’t believe it.”
And I can’t believe it was Jesse’s idea. I’m still so excited, I might not sleep tonight.
“Yay!” She claps a couple times, and I can see her face beam in the glow from the dashboard. “I’m so happy you were surprised!”
“Totally surprised.” I lean in to hug her. “Sets the bar pretty high for your birthday this summer, but I’m sure Tiffany and I can come up with something stellar.”
“Oh, we can just do a pool party or something easy. I have, like, zero hobbies to pull inspiration from.”
“Pshhh,” I hiss. “We’ll just have to see.”
We air-kiss our good-byes and I sprint to the porch and up the steps. I hear Angela’s tires meet the gravel of their driveway across the street as I approach the door with the key, and my foot knocks something over. A box.
A box of yellow cake mix. And next to it, a tub of chocolate icing.
My eyebrows pull together as my mouth flips into a smile. I pick them up, and my heart races when I find messy writing on the front of the box in thick black marker:
Maddie, I don’t know how to bake, but I know you like yellow cake.
I didn’t mean for that to rhyme. Happy birthday. From, Jesse
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Part of me hoped things would go back to the way they were between Jesse and me. I don’t think it’s unreasonable, considering the movie night he set up for my birthday and the cake mix he left at my door with the note. I thought maybe if I gave it time, like Angela suggested, it would make him ache for me the way I’m aching for him. But over the following couple of weeks, nothing’s different. We’re cordial, and he still smiles and occasionally jokes around like we’re old pals, but it’s like he’s deep in thought all the time.
I am too. Wondering what I could have done differently, could have said. But I only ever said what I was feeling. I never lied about anything.
It’s like Jesse’s permanently infiltrated my brain, and I’m forever doomed to be reminded of him everywhere I look. A hunting sticker of a deer head on the back window of someone’s vehicle reminds me of the baby deer he was so sweet to show me that morning. Any old-fashioned truck, no matter the color or condition, brings me back to our carpool days and all the wasted opportunities to get to know him on a deeper level. Kids zipping down the street on four-wheelers remind me of our adventures through the woods, which of course make me think of sparklers and midnight and kissing.
His stupid amazing kissing.
Makes it hard to focus on getting me straightened out when all I can think about is how much I miss us.
But today’s practice for the talent competition is too important for me to be distracted by Jesse’s ghost. It’s our first rehearsal in costume and our last before the performance tonight. I have to be on top of my game along with everyone else, though Brian’s also a bit scattered because Kristi’s driving in from Dallas to watch.
We’re performing a few scenes from the Marilyn Monroe movie Some Like It Hot, about two musicians in 1929 who witness a massacre, then dress in drag and join an all-women’s jazz band to escape mobsters who want to kill them. Sarah masterfully arranged highlights from the first few scenes where the guys pretend to be girls, board the train with the band to head to Florida for a gig, and get to know Marilyn’s character, the band’s singer, Sugar Kane—the character I get to play. Sarah’s directing us and playing the small role of Sweet Sue, the bandleader. Ryan plays the more serious guy, Tony Curtis’s character, Joe or “Josephine,” and Brian naturally gets to play Jack Lemmon’s hysterical character, Jerry, who’s supposed to go by “Geraldine” but changes it to “Daphne” at the last minute.
The boys are in my bedroom helping each other fasten and stuff their bras—they refuse to accept help—and Sarah and I are waiting in the living room, fully dressed in short blond wigs and black dresses with fringe. Instead of the standard star near my eye, today I’ve drawn a mole on my chin to better channel Marilyn. I may or may not have also stuffed my bra.
“Okay. We need to talk,” Sarah says, setting her clipboard of notes on the coffee table. “I can’t handle the moping anymore.”
I strum the ukulele we borrowed from the playhouse’s prop closet. “What’s that from?”
“It’s not a quote, it’s from me. About you. What’s going on? Are you still hung up on Jesse?”
I stuff the ukulele in its case and shift on the couch, careful not to tangle any of the fringe on my dress. “I didn’t realize I was moping . . .” Outwardly.
“Well, you’re not your normal chipper self. It just doesn’t seem like you to hang on to it for so long. Look at all that stuff that happened with Rica that you let bounce off you. You’re tough.”
I reach for my glass an
d take a sip of water, stalling for time as I try to figure out what to say. “It’s not him exactly. It’s more some of the things he said. Some of it stuck with me. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” I run a finger along the rim of my cup. “I didn’t mean for it to show.”
“What did he say?” she asks, carefully scratching the side of her head through her wig.
“That he’ll never be what I want him to be.” I take a deep breath. “That he knows what I want, and he’s not him.”
“Yikes.” Her eyes widen. “What does that even mean?”
“He was upset I was pushing him to be what he used to be.” I return my cup to the side table. “A dancer.”
Sarah makes a contemplative noise.
“I wanted him to embrace all of his interests, to be proud of all of them, and he called me out for only liking half of him.” My throat burns with the threat of emotional overflow, but I swallow it away.
“Is that legit? Do you think you only liked half of him?”
I’m too afraid to answer, because that’s probably exactly what I did. And that sounds horrible and selfish and stupid.
“Well, you don’t want to dance anymore, right?” She pauses and I nod. “So why is it so hard for you to get that Jesse doesn’t want to either?”
Gee, she’s really twisting the knife. But I deserve it. “I get that he says he doesn’t want to pursue it. I just had a hard time accepting it because of his skill level. He’s incredible.”
“Well, you might be some crazy-good volleyball player, but because you’re not interested in it, you don’t play.”
This stumps me. I’ve never given a second thought to volleyball. I’ve never even played. I assume that because I don’t care about it, I wouldn’t be any good, but what she says makes sense. I could be awesome at it, at anything I’ve never tried. Anyone could.
A memory pops to mind . . . something Jesse said before we were together. “Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean that it’s what you should be doing.”