“What’s the matter?” Matt asked, but before I could answer, there was a stampede of people yelling, running, charging directly at us. It was a domino effect starting at the front of the house.
“Oh, what now!” Meg yelled. Shouts informed us that those outside groups who’d been talking, smoking, or puking were the first to see the cops pull up.
I didn’t even have the chance to panic. Cups were flying everywhere as people grabbed their belongings and tried to escape the house before they were caught. Like herds of animals, everyone ran toward the back door. Bodies pushed against bodies, yells and screams bounced throughout the room. I tried to see what was going on but every time I looked up, someone else rammed into me, knocking me to the side. One guy, easily twice my size, tried running through me as if I wasn’t there, my body just an obstacle in his way. He hit my side hard, and I dropped Matt’s hand. In the current of people, I lost my balance and started to fall. But before I was trampled, I felt an arm slide under my shoulders.
“You okay?” Matt yelled.
I nodded, in shock from the moment and how quickly it passed. Matt’s face was close, his body protecting me from the pandemonium. I felt my heart skip a beat as my face flushed. His eyes were fierce, determined.
With my left arm draped over his shoulder, I held on tight as we steadied ourselves. Meg still held my other hand, unaware of my near fall. Her phone was out, and she was reading a text.
“Upstairs,” she yelled.
Matt let his arm drop, moving in front of us to block our little group from those running past. His arms spread around us, creating a circle of protection. A tossed cup hit me in the head, and it took me a second to realize that beer was now dripping through my hair in streams. I was frozen in place. Thankfully, Meg jolted me back.
“Go upstairs,” she said again. Holding my hand tight, she pushed her way to the stairs. I grabbed Matt’s hand instinctively, and he squeezed it back.
“But what’s upstairs?” he shouted. I shook my head, wondering the same thing.
“Meg, what’s upstairs?” I repeated, the situation starting to scare me.
She continued to run, ignoring our questions. Just as we touched the stairs, light beams passed over us. The cops were inside the house. Not one person was twenty-one, and there was a lot of alcohol. Someone was definitely going to be in trouble. I thought of Barker and Jake, and pulled on Meg’s hand. Despite not liking the latter too much at the moment, we couldn’t just leave him behind.
“Meg, the guys,” I yelled as we climbed the stairs. We were the only ones going in a different direction. While the reprieve from the crowd was nice, I was worried about being alone. I trusted her, but what good could come from going upstairs? Were we supposed to hide under a bed?
“Don’t worry,” she answered, glancing at me in a way that said they’re fine.. Upstairs, it was empty. We followed her into Ross’s bedroom. It was a typical guy’s room, full of video games and leftovers. It was then that I heard the footsteps behind us, and my heart picked up the pace in fear.
“There you are. Thanks for the text.” It was Jake, sans lady friend. Relief hit me fast. We weren’t caught. He was okay. “Barker’s already gone; let’s go.”
I stayed back with Matt as Jake followed Meg to the window.
“I hate to point this out, but we can’t fly,” Matt said. Lines deepened on his forehead as he raised his eyebrows. Great introduction to our social scene, I thought.
“There’s a ladder,” Meg pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. I glanced at Matt and we ran over. We were still holding hands.
Jake opened the window and voices flew in, a cluster of screams, cheers, and cries. I looked out and finally understood. There was a long metal ladder that stretched down the side of the house, away from the back door, the cops, and the mass of people. It was secluded, a side of the house no one even thought to visit. Clearly, Ross snuck out quite often.
“Ladies first,” Jake said. Meg glared at him, but started her decline. I followed after.
“This is not how I expected tonight to go,” I whispered to Meg as we climbed down. She landed first, quietly, and then grabbed my arm, pulling me down beside her. The grass was wet from a recent downpour and squished where I landed.
“Keep moving,” Meg demanded. Pieces of hair were in her mouth from the wind that was still shaking the trees. I looked back and saw that Matt and Jake were down from the ladder and right behind us. We ran across the yard, keeping to the shadows, not wanting to attract attention. Thankfully, the yard was only a few feet long, so we made it to the fence in about two breaths.
“I’ll go first,” Jake whispered, taking the lead as usual. His hair was still disheveled, and even in the dark, I noticed the purple hickey mark on his neck. I wanted to slap him.
Jake easily reached the top of the wooden fence and hoisted himself over, landing with a rough thud.
“You guys next,” Matt whispered, meaning Meg and me. The fence was a little taller than my grip, so he grabbed my waist and, with a quick lift, helped me reach the top. The wood was wet under my grasp. I flung my legs over so Jake could grab me and support my landing.
“Gotcha,” Jake said, holding tightly so I wouldn’t fall.
I moved over for Meg, who landed next, and then Matt, who came down in one swift movement. We paused for a second, waiting to hear if we were caught, or lucky escapees. When no one came, I let out a deep breath and closed my eyes in relief.
“Hey, man,” Jake said, slapping Matt on the back. “Glad you came.”
“Hey, yeah, thanks,” Matt said back, pushing his hair out of his face. He then turned to me. “Okay?” he whispered, touching my back. His hand was still damp from the fence and tickled my skin. I nodded, looking back at him and adjusting my clothes, my hair. We were behind the house, standing on a sidewalk that snaked around the neighborhood. With the fence in front of us and forest behind us, our only option was walking to the left or right.
“What now?” I asked, heart still racing.
“This way, it’ll lead to the street,” Meg announced, and started walking to the left.
“And how do you know this?” Jake asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. Meg simply eyed him, obviously trying to lead him on. I knew the truth, though; all last semester she visited Ross once a week to tutor him in geometry. I assumed at one point during their sessions she’d learned about the ladder.
“What about your cars?” Matt asked.
“We’ll come back once everything dies down,” I reassured him, adrenaline still coursing through my body. “There are cars parked all up and down the street. They can’t, like, assume all of them are there for the one party. By the way, welcome to a Jefferson High party. They’re not all this exciting, unfortunately.”
“I don’t know. I think we hit my quota on near-police-bust-ups for the year.” He said nervously. He, too, looked like he wasn’t used to this much action at a party. His breathing was heavy, and he kept looking back; I assumed to make sure we weren’t being followed.
We stayed a few steps behind Meg and Jake, who were clearly being cordial only for our benefit. Like two parents fearful of telling their children they’re getting a divorce. We walked silently, too scared to talk, afraid it might bring on more trouble. We let the night air talk for us. The crickets chirped in unison, while the wind answered with a breeze. The forest to our right was dark, full of unknowns, much like our night ahead. I braced myself for what might be next.
“Finally,” Jake said when a streetlight emerged on the path, signifying a street.
“I told you,” Meg answered. “Where now? What’s within walking distance?”
“Wing King?” Jake asked with a smirk.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
NOW
9:00 P.M.
“Um, I kind of lied,” Matt says
as he pulls onto Alafaya Trail, a block away from Evan’s house. My head jerks up because this is not what I want to hear after leaving a party with him.
“About?”
“The song? I don’t have it in the car. I thought I did . . .” he says, then continues. “Okay, I knew I didn’t, but I just thought . . .”
“So you are trying to kidnap me,” I answer, because as much as I want to slap him for lying, I kind of get it. It was his way of pleading for me to come with him. But, honestly, I probably would have gone anyway, because I think I need to be here.
He laughs a little, but still looks worried; there are lines plaguing his forehead. Despite myself, I wonder what happened to him while he was away. If it was as bad as it was for me. If maybe it’s more than just being here that’s caused the worry lines.
“Only a little,” he says, and I nod.
“Well, just know I have backup ready and waiting,” I say.
“I’m sure you do,” he answers, and after a few seconds of silence adds, “So you’re picking up objects now?”
“Not often,” I lie. It’s still great writing inspiration, but mostly it reminds me of him. I might have gotten rid of every other reminder, but the physical act of picking up a piece of paper or picture off the floor keeps me thinking of him, despite not wanting to. It’s like I’m trying to find him in these objects. “Just when they’re good.”
“Like song lyrics.” He nods toward the sheet music still in my hand.
“Well, you never know when a guy will have the song in his car,” I answer, and he slightly smiles.
We stay quiet for the rest of the ride. He lowers the windows and lets the wind come in and surround us. We need the silence to acclimate us to each other again, to our sounds, smells, looks. It’s easier this way.
Wing King is all dark wood and bright lights. Booths and picnic tables give the place a southern backyard barbecue feel. Old tin signs hang on the walls, advertising oil, milk, and pig feed. It’s not the nicest of places, but at one time it was ours.
“Two, please,” he says to the hostess.
It was presumptuous of him to bring me here since the place holds so many memories for us; I can practically breathe them in. The waiters and waitresses saw every phase of our relationship, from early flirtations to final conversations. I pick at my nails as I follow him to a table—to our table, the secluded booth in the corner where we used to plan epic nights full of adventure and excitement. Just as he’s about to sit down, he stalls, fidgeting in contemplation.
“Um.” He pauses. “Is this okay?” He looks over at me, just barely meeting my eyes.
“Yeah, sure,” I answer, sitting down. It’s too late to go back now. Since leaving the party, my heart has calmed down, but the weirdness of the situation hasn’t dissolved. I’m still jittery, still trying to figure out how I feel about everything.
“I’ve missed this place,” he says, and I wonder what it means.
“I’m sure it missed you, too,” I say offhand, pulling on my bracelet. I look up quickly, realizing what I said, realizing what he might think it means.
“It’s been a while,” he adds, looking away.
“Yeah, it has,” I answer softly, but what I don’t add is the exact amount of time it’s been. That it’s been six months since he’s lived in the state. That it’s been a year since I first met him. I wonder if he remembers that, of all the times to show up, this would have marked our one-year anniversary. I wonder if he knows.
He looks down at his wrist, twisting his watch around and around like he always does when he’s nervous. I observe, cautiously, unsure of what to say next, but also kind of enjoying seeing him squirm. “Your hair,” he says, clearly grasping at straws himself. “Is it darker?”
I subconsciously grab a piece and twirl it around my finger. It’s been so long, I almost forgot Meg and I dyed it black earlier this year. It was yet another one of her attempts to help me move on. Change my hair, change into a new person, I suppose.
“Oh, yeah,” I answer. There’s so much to say but so little I feel comfortable revealing just yet. I look over and feel his eyes staring at me—no, not me, my hair. As if he’s trying to un-dye it with his mind, and bring it back to something more familiar.
I tap my fingers impatiently and breathe out. This is annoying because I want us to talk, but we can’t seem to find the rhythm we once had, the ability to talk for hours—in person and on the phone—without any bit of silence or discomfort. The ability to know what the other wanted to hear with just a look, a sound, or a nod. He knew I was hungry when I started sounding tense. I knew he was tired when his s’s started to lisp. That knowledge, though still so familiar, can’t be tapped into anymore. It’s another reminder of the barrier between us, separating the Us of now from the Us of then.
“What will you guys have?” a waitress asks, wearing the required uniform: a tight, low-cut red top, black short shorts, and a tiny red-and-white-striped apron. It looks ridiculous, but guys love it.
“Oh, um, Coke?” Matt says, more of a question than an answer.
“Same,” I say, and watch the waitress walk away.
“I forgot we actually had to order,” Matt says with a nervous glance.
“It’s usually what you do at restaurants,” I say dryly. I look down and see the engraving on the table that we used to always joke about. The misspelled insult, which is more ridiculous than insulting (who misspells an insult?), and the PG hearts TA. At one point two people engraved their initials because they, for a split moment, felt love could conquer all and withstand time. But did it? Are they still together? We always wondered what happened to them—if they’re still connected at the heart or if they, too, broke up. While I know the probability of them still being together is slim, for some reason I still hope for them. Looking at their hastily scratched initials, I find courage to continue the conversation. I can tell Matt’s bursting to talk but having a hard time, so I give him the chance. Put him out of his misery. “So, you’re back.”
“Yeah,” he says, a bit more animated. “It feels good to, you know, put my roots down somewhere, I guess, after moving around so much.” Matt’s dad works for the air force, fixing computers and other technological machines, so whenever one job is done, the family is off to a new city, state, or even, sometimes, country. He said the benefit of moving around so often was seeing the world and learning other languages. The downside was never really having a home.
“So you’ll be here for all four years?” I ask, not allowing myself to contemplate what that means.
“That’s the plan. Unless I do something completely stupid. Which, as it happens, I have a tendency to do,” he says, looking right at me, and this time I know he’s trying to tell me something. So I go along to see how far it’ll go.
“You do have a tendency to be stupid.”
“I know.” He pauses.
“So why here, out of all the schools?” I ask, starting my line of questioning. I’ll go in slow, hoping he’ll pick up. Hoping he’ll answer some without me even asking.
“Um, I don’t know,” he says, looking around and trying to find an acceptable reason. “Even though I wasn’t here long, this place felt . . . most like home to me. Which, as you know, doesn’t happen often.”
“Right,” I say, wondering what he means by “home.”
“What about you? What are you doing?”
I pause before answering. He doesn’t know I’m leaving. Do I tell him now? “Still going to major in writing,” I say instead, something comfortable, something easy to talk about. I don’t need to tell him that I want to get away and start over because I’m tired of here, and everything that’s happened. Not yet, at least.
“You were always really good at it,” he says, and I smile.
“Thanks. It took my parents some convincing that pre-law wasn’t for me. But they’re okay now.”
“I can’t see you as a lawyer.”
“Right? I’d be awful.” I chuckle, and I miss
how easy it used to be. “And you? Still want to open a recording studio?”
“I’d like to, yeah. I’m majoring in business and minoring in music. So, hopefully I’ll get experience in both fields.”
“How do you minor in music? Are requirements playing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?” I ask.
“Harder. ‘Hot Cross Buns.’” We laugh again, and this time we look at each other. The tension is still there, but . . . less so.
The waitress brings us our drinks and waits for our orders.
“An order of honey barbecue wings? To share?” This time he asks me, not her. It’s our usual order. I nod in agreement. “So . . . how’s Meg doing?”
The question makes it awkward again. Like Meg said, he’d know if he kept in touch. He shouldn’t have to ask how his friends are. But still, I reply. “She’s good; you know, as good as Meg ever is.”
“That sounds about right. Still crazy?” He smiles.
“Delightfully so.” I tentatively smile back.
“And . . . Jake?”
I knew this was coming. Jake didn’t take it well when Matt left. How could he; they were best friends. And he got no more of an explanation than I did. Jake wanted to kill him half the time, stalk him down the other half. Until he did actually track him down. He played like he didn’t care, but I could tell. We all could.
“He’s recording right now with Barker and . . . the new bassist,” I say, knowing it will sting. But he should know that after he left, they still had gigs lined up, so they had to grab a random guy to fill in. He’s nowhere as good as Matt, but they keep getting more shows, so he’s kind of stayed around.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I mean, of course they replaced me. I just . . . didn’t know. I’m glad they’re still going strong, though. God, Jake is so talented.”
“Yeah, it’s a major asset and major downfall.”
“How so?”
“He’s so talented, and he has so many great ideas, but practically no follow-through. It’s gotten worse this year.”
The Night We Said Yes Page 4